Highland Fling (24 page)

She had splashed her face with cold water and was drying it on the roller towel, when she heard the washroom door open behind her. ‘I’m so sorry, Kirsty. I have so fu– messed this up! I couldn’t have done more to get this mill closed down if I’d set fire to it. I am so, so sorry.’

Kirsty’s hands on her shoulders felt surprisingly strong. It was only when she had turned round and her
nose was buried in a very fine lawn shirt that she realised that the arms around her were not Kirsty’s. It was too late to pull away – she tried, but her efforts had no effect on the iron bands that held her. She stopped fighting, she resisted the temptation to kick his shins; there was no point. The battle was lost.

She let herself stay there for a few moments, to allow his strength to seep into her, pretending he was the man she’d thought he was. The moment she raised her head from his chest and looked up at him, the spell would be over, she would be back with reality and her crushing failure.

She had failed the mill. If only she had come clean about Philip. M. R. Grant-Dempsey would never forgive that, which would mean he wouldn’t give their carefully thought out plans a second glance. He would just foreclose and move into Dalmain House, throwing Lady Dalmain and Felicity out into the snow. Perhaps Henry would help her find them somewhere else to go.

I’ve been a fool before, she thought, her last ill-starred job in mind, but never such a big one as this. She wiped her nose on his shirt and stepped back. His arms fell away, setting her free.

‘You’ll probably want me out of here right away,’ she said, her voice croaky. ‘And, of course, I’ll leave – today. But I would just like to tell you –’

His finger came firmly down on her lips. ‘I don’t want you to tell me what you think of me. I know that already. And I don’t want you to leave. I just want you to stay and clear up the bloody mess. And if your half-cocked ideas have any chance of working, you’d better get your arse into gear and do something.’

She removed his hand and shook her hair out of her
eyes and stared up at him. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to say thank you.’

‘I’d die of shock if you did –’

‘And I expect you want us to turn the whole mill round in about a fortnight.’

His eyes glittered. He was more angry than she’d quite realised. ‘I was thinking a month. Let’s split the difference and say three weeks.’

‘Bastard!’

‘I’ve got to be out of the country for that long. You’d better have something concrete for me to see when I come back. And I shall be finding myself a new virtual assistant.’

‘And I shall be charging you for every second of overtime I do, and if you don’t pay me, I shall make sure there isn’t a virtual assistant in Europe who’ll work for you. You haven’t heard the –’

‘Oh shut the fuck up.’ To make sure she did, he kissed her, long, hard and intently, concentrating on every square millimetre of her mouth, using his lips and tongue and teeth.

By the time her brain was working again, she was staring at the door he’d slammed behind him.

Jenny didn’t go back into the office. She needed time to get herself together, to face Kirsty, to make a plan. She went down into the car park to walk along the river. If it hadn’t been so cold and so shallow she might have considered throwing herself into it. Visualising her body splatting onto the rocks restored her sense of humour sufficiently to give her the courage to go back to find out just how much harm she’d done. The feeling of betrayal would never leave her, but she wouldn’t let anyone see. Her anger would boost her
pride and keep her head, if not high, at least level. She watched his Land Rover drive away and felt as if her heart was driving away with it.

‘That man is such a bastard!’ she announced, as she swept into Kirsty’s office, a good healthy anger keeping her tears at bay.

Kirsty raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought he was quite reasonable, in the circumstances. He’s told me exactly what we have to do, which I admit, is going to be difficult. But knowing what is required is helpful.’

‘So, what do we have to do?’

‘Find markets for all our new ideas, the felt, the fabric, in fact, everything. If we don’t have named customers, projected figures, he’ll pull the plug.’

‘He can’t expect us to do all that in three weeks!’

‘We’ve to do our best. Oh, and we do have to find Philip, though,’ she added.

‘And how the fu– hell does he expect us to do that? I’m not a private detective!’

Kirsty shrugged. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

Jenny sighed deeply, rubbed her forehead and bit her lip. ‘Look, do you mind if I go back to Dalmain House? I’ve got the most God-awful headache and something might come to me on the journey. I’d better see Felicity too. As I’ve more or less told that vile man that she’s the best designer since Stella McCartney, I’d better find out what she can do. If you never hear from me, or see me again, you know she’s only up for doing antimacassars.’

Dalmain House seemed blissfully empty. Henry’s car wasn’t parked in front of it, and the dogs were all quiet and happy.

Jenny met Felicity in the kitchen. She was making a cup of tea.

‘Hi!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Want one?’

This offer was both welcome and surprising. Felicity usually offered whisky whatever time of day it was. ‘Yes, please. Where is everyone?’

‘Henry’s taken Mama off for the day. He’s so good with her. He can talk about her miniatures, and antiquarian books. Just like Philip used to do.’

Felicity hummed softly as she inspected mugs for cleanliness, rejecting one or two as she did so.

‘So why are you so cheerful? Lachlan?’

Felicity gave the kind of ecstatic sigh Jenny would once have given if she had heard from Ross. ‘I rang him and he was so lovely …’

‘He is lovely,’ said Jenny briskly, so jealous of Lachlan’s wonderful straightforwardness it was a physical pain. ‘I should think that tea is about ready to pour now.’

‘Oh, is it? I like it quite strong.’

‘But you don’t like it stewed. Or at least, I don’t. You haven’t got an aspirin or something tucked away anywhere? Or shall I pop upstairs?’

‘I’ve got some ibuprofen. Headache?’

‘Mm.’

‘Well, take a couple of those and you’ll be fine by the time Henry comes home. He is nice, isn’t he?’

It took Jenny a few moments to remember what Henry was like. Her memory had been blasted clean by someone so much more powerful. It was like trying to remember a small hillock when you’ve just climbed Everest. ‘Yes, yes he is nice.’

Felicity handed Jenny a mug. ‘You don’t sound – I mean, are you and he not …?’

‘Confidentially, Felicity, I’m not in love with him any more, but I haven’t got time to tell him, just now. I was going to go home and do it, then he turned up here.’ Jenny sipped her tea, taking time to wonder at the contrast between the kitchen mugs, thick, chipped and grimy, and the drawing-room china, absurdly delicate and antique.

‘It seems a shame. He seems so nice. Good-looking, good family …’

And what was Ross like, apart from the biggest rat of the century? Good-looking? Probably not – far too rugged, in spite of the beautiful suit he had been wearing. Good family? Practically no family. Rich? Probably, but that was against him. How had he got rich? Off the backs of innocent workers. This was no good. She’d have to get him out of her mind. ‘There’s really nothing wrong with him, Felicity; ifs just the chemistry’s not right any more. And you know how important that is, with Lachlan.’

‘Mm.’

Felicity’s expression bordered on the ecstatic. Although happy for her, Jenny couldn’t bear to let her indulge in such happiness just at the moment. ‘Felicity, one of the reasons I’m home early is that there’s been a meeting at the mill. I really need you as a designer. Could you bear to show me what you’ve done?’ Then, because she felt so mean, she added, ‘And I’ll give you a lift to Lachlan’s soon, I promise.’

‘Will you? That would be wonderful.’ She sighed deeply, and then, to Jenny’s relief, pulled herself together. ‘Well, if you’d do that for me, I’ll do some
designs for you. Let’s take our tea upstairs to my workroom.’

The designs were impressive. Felicity had used a huge range of lovely colours – in fact, all the colours in the box of pastels Jenny had had sent after her first visit to the turret workroom. The shapes were flattering and interesting too.

‘They are fab, Fliss. What I don’t know is how well they’ll translate to the sort of production we’ll be doing.’

‘Meggie will be able to help you there. And although they look complicated, all the garments are made up of simple shapes.’

‘They certainly look lovely. I haven’t met the felt woman yet, but I’m hoping nuno is as versatile as it looked on the website.’ Jenny took a sip of tea. ‘Well done, Felicity. You’ve done a brilliant job. Now I really must go and catch up on some emails. We’ll talk later.’

‘And you’ll give me a hand with supper? Cooking is so much more fun when you’re not doing it on your own.’

‘Of course.’ I can do that, thought Jenny, fighting bitterness, jealousy and resentment, emotions she was not accustomed to. I’ve only got to be a private detective, find markets for previously unknown products, and create a catwalk collection out of mashed up wool and llama hair. Knocking up a meal for four will be easy.

Chapter Fifteen

‘So, did you all have a good day?’ Jenny, caught in the hall as Henry and Lady Dalmain got home, made a pre-emptive strike.

‘Lovely!’ said Lady Dalmain. ‘Henry’s been so kind! He drove me to Lochnavan to see the Malcolms. Do you remember? They were at the Highland games. We called in for drinks and it was really quite pleasant. They were very pleased to see Henry again, but I suppose with all those daughters, they must be very keen to get them off their hands. You modern young women have no idea how to keep a man. If you don’t pay him a bit more attention, my dear, you’ll find him snatched from under your nose.’

‘I have been busy –’

‘Oh yes. At the mill.’ Lady Dalmain dismissed her source of income as too boring to talk about. ‘Jock lent me a charming little book about Scottish standing stones. Only a third edition, of course, but I might see if I can get a better one to add to my collection. I haven’t had a chance to show you my books yet, Henry, have I?’

‘No, Lady Dalmain, but I do hope there’ll be an opportunity.’

‘Why not now? Come into my study. I’m sure Felicity will bring us some tea. Or perhaps Jenny.’

Jenny received the kind of smile Lady Dalmain might have given to a servant she was faintly fond of. Jenny smiled back, and said behind her teeth, ‘Why don’t you ring a bell and summon the domestic?’

Henry, who heard her, gave her a horrified glance, and Jenny retreated to the kitchen, not because she was anxious to do Lady Dalmain’s bidding, but because she’d suddenly had an idea. Philip had given his mother a book that first evening. She remembered a bookmark with the name of the shop sticking out of the top. If she could find the bookmark, she could ring the shop. It was a very long shot, but if Philip collected books too, he might have ordered something. And if he had, they would know his address.

While she found cups and saucers and made tea, Jenny wondered if she should tell Lady Dalmain of her idea. She decided, when she finally got the tray together, that she would play it by ear. It wasn’t so much that she cared how Lady Dalmain felt, but that if it went wrong there would be so much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and she didn’t have time for it.

She set the tray down where Lady Dalmain indicated, knowing that she longed either to ask Jenny to pour the tea, or to dismiss her, as she would have Felicity. But Jenny crossed the room determinedly, having spotted the book Philip had bought in a pile on a table.

‘I just want to have a look at something,’ she said, looking, before Lady Dalmain could protest. ‘Thanks, that’s fine.’

Then she left them to it and went straight up to Lady Dalmain’s bedroom to use the telephone. As she entered the room she realised that a day or two ago,
she wouldn’t have dreamt of just barging into someone’s private space. But since this morning, she had changed.

Her first call was to Directory Enquiries. She could, of course, have taken the bookmark, but that would have involved a lot of explanation, and the name of the shop, Toshak and Fiske, was memorable enough.

Before she dialled the number Directory Enquiries had given her, she made sure the door was firmly closed. Then she took a deep breath, and put on an accent heavily based on Miss Jean Brodie. She was sure it wouldn’t have fooled anyone.

‘Halloo? Is that Toshak and Fiske? Guid afternoon. I was wondering if you cuid help me.’ Aware her accent was wandering from Morningside to Morayshire and back, she tamed it. ‘I’m phoning on behalf of my boss, Mr Philip Dalmain?’

‘Ah yes, Mr Dalmain.’ The voice sounded reassuringly unfazed by her music-hall brogue.

‘Well, he asked me if I would ring and check you have the correct address for him. He’s not residing at Dalmain House at present.’

‘Er no –’

‘I think you have a book on order for him, and he wanted me to check it would go to the right place. Can you tell me the address you have for him?’