The Vintage Girl (11 page)

“But she was American,” I said. “Didn’t she want to go home?”

“No! No, she
loved
this place. She was more Scottish than he was by the end,” said Sheila. “She was buried with him out on the grouse moor with her shotgun and her saddle, like one of those Saxon queens.”

“That’s what Duncan wants,” added Ingrid. “I’ve told him no. I fully intend to be cremated back in Wimbledon. I’m not spending my twilight years watching telly by candlelight under four blankets, just so we can be buried in a field together, like a pair of dead family pets.”

I didn’t point out that McAndrew family pets were more likely to be stuffed and kept in a spare room.

“Fraser said on the way up that your grandmother was a lady’s maid,” I said to Sheila instead. “Did she tell you stories or was she terribly discreet?”

“Oh, she had a tale or two, after a glass of sherry. But it was common knowledge how much Violet loved this place. How much she loved Ranald too.” Sheila’s comfortable face softened and she looked almost girlish. “It was the big fairy tale when we were wee girls, like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. We all wanted to be swept off our feet like Violet McAndrew.”

I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “What, romantically?”

“No, literally,” said Ingrid. “Ranald ran her over on his bicycle in Regent’s Park, playing bicycle polo with his cavalry division. Something about—oh, go on, Sheila, you tell this better than me.”

“Och, no …” Sheila pretended to be polite for a second, in a way Janet Learmont hadn’t, and then launched into the story with relish.

“
Well
, Violet had sailed over from New York with her sister Lilianne to do the season and to find a nice titled Englishman to marry,” she began. “She was very, very rich—her Papa had made a lot of money on the railroads and wanted to set his girls up properly, like a lot of wealthy Americans did then. And the story goes—Violet told my granny this, and everyone else, actually—that she was strolling in the park with Lilianne and their chaperone when suddenly something knocks her flying. When she gathers herself together, there’s a brown-eyed gentleman holding his hankie to her forehead, and when she sees how handsome he is and how lovely his Scottish accent is, being a practical sort of girl, she promptly invites him to a ball she’s throwing in Park Lane.”

“That is romantic,” I breathed. “And practical!”

“Luckily for her, he turned out to have a castle and a title, and was as mad about her as she was about him. They got married six months later. Ranald brought her up here, all the staff lined up outside in their uniforms, and she fell in love all over again, this time with Kettlesheer.”

“I can see why,” I said. “It must have seemed like something out of a storybook.”

“Well, in those days, it was,” sighed Sheila. “They had a household of about fifty, and her daddy built a railway extension from Berwick straight to the house, so guests could travel direct from London. All overgrown now, of course. And they did everything together, Violet and Ranald, which was really unusual then. She rode out hunting with him, went fishing on the Tweed with him, handled a shotgun like a lad … And of course, she loved reeling.
Loved
the Kettlesheer ball.”

“Have you been up to the ballroom yet?” asked Ingrid. She’d pushed back her chair while Sheila was regaling me with Violet’s life story, and was moving around the kitchen, stirring something on the Aga and slicing fresh bread.

I shook my head. “I’ve barely even ‘done’ the main drawing room.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” said Ingrid with a knowing nod.

“It’s in some architectural study,” said Sheila. “Violet spent a fortune remodeling it; then she invited the Prince of Wales—big shooting friend of Ranald’s—to the first ball there. He led her into the Reel of Luck, and he
never
danced at these things. If you look at the carvings, there are violets entwined with the McAndrew thistles in the paneling, and the heraldic feathers of the Prince of Wales and American eagles. There’ll be a photograph somewhere, won’t there, Ingrid? Of the royal party?”

Ingrid waved a bewildered hand in the general direction of the house. “Somewhere.”

How could it be
somewhere
? I thought wildly. I’d have had it on display! I made a mental note to find it, to take it down to the lodge where it belonged.

“So it was a real love match?” I said. “Not just a financial arrangement?”

“God, no! I mean, it helped that Violet had so much money, but they were devoted to each other. They were known for it—the only couple round here that insisted on
not
being separated at country-house parties.” Sheila laughed. “My granny used to get all sorts of teasing from the other staff at those. No breakfast tray scandal for Violet and Ranald!”

“Were they married a long time?” I asked, trying to remember the dates on the family tree.

Real sadness crossed Sheila’s kind face, and I felt an instinctive panic for the young lovers.

“Ah, now, that’s the sad part,” she said, and I put down my glass, already braced for the worst.

“What happened?” I asked. “Was it the war? Did something happen then?”

“Not directly, but everything changed, one way or another. Two of Ranald’s younger brothers were killed at Ypres in the First World War, and half the estate lads were killed together at Passchendaele. They’d volunteered together, you see—Violet turned the house over to be a hospital for the Border Regiment. And then before the Second World War, her family money ran out. Not that we were meant to know,” Sheila added. “From what my granny heard, Violet’s father lost every cent he had in the Depression. Shot himself, poor man. And Daddy was paying the bills.”

Sheila looked anxiously over at Ingrid. “It’s never been a rich estate, not many farms, and Ranald was no businessman. His youngest brother got into trouble in London, needed to be bailed out—that took most of his inheritance. Then when he was only fifty, Ranald had a heart attack while out fishing and died there, on the bank. Poor Violet—she was devastated, and with the house and death duties and five children to look after. All on her own.”

“When was that?” Coldness crept over me, thinking of a love like that, a gilded, easy life, suddenly snatched away. And to be alone in a strange country, surrounded by everything she’d loved, but with her heart broken forever. Even I felt cheated, and I was just
hearing
the story.

“Ooh, nineteen thirty-something? But you know what? She got herself through it.” Sheila tapped the table for emphasis. “She spent three days in bed, refusing food, company, everything. Then, the day after the funeral, lawyers came round with an offer from a family in Edinburgh. Always liked the house, apparently, wanted to take it off her hands. Granny didn’t want to let them in, but Violet swept downstairs and told them, in front of everyone, that she might have lost her beloved Ran, but while she was still in his house, part of him was still alive in her. And that she’d never sell.”

Sheila’s eyes were glistening. Mine were too. Ingrid had stopped stirring. “God knows how she did it, with next to no money,” Sheila finished, “but she managed to keep the big house going,
and
nearly all the staff who worked here,
and
the tenant farmers.”

“Were a lot of stately houses sold off?” I asked.

“Och, yes. Who had the money to run them? Ollerslaw, that castle by the main road?” Sheila jerked a thumb toward the window. “That was sold to a hotel chain to pay death duties. And Edderburn,
beautiful
castle, been in the Dean family for centuries, that was turned into a reform school, then an old folks’ home, and now it’s executive apartments and a spa.”

“Nigel Learmont was the developer on that,” Ingrid added. “They’ve done a lovely job, bought some fishing and shooting rights too. Catriona runs a lot of outdoor functions there.”

She put a plate of thick Scotch broth in front of me. “Sorry it’s just soup,” she said. “I’m on a diet. Sheila’s altering a ballgown for me, and there are only so many pairs of Spanx a girl can wear at once. It’s tiny. Vintage clothes always are, though, aren’t they? Malnutrition.”

She sounded almost envious.

“Is it one of Violet’s?”

“I should think so.” Sheila moved the board and ivory counters to one side. “Made by Worth. Beautiful frock, lace like spiderwebs. You’ll look stunning, Ingrid.”

“So long as it passes the Janet test.”

Sheila made a disparaging noise.

I sipped the Scotch broth. It was very good: homemade and thick with barley. “Did Violet remarry?” I asked, picturing the lovely young girl downstairs; it was hard to imagine her shrouded in widow’s weeds. “Surely she must have had offers, if she was so popular and beautiful?”

“Oh, plenty!” Sheila shrugged. “But she didn’t want to. There was only ever Ranald for her. She stayed here on her own until she finally managed to get that big idiot Carlisle married off to a girl with some money, and she was well into her sixties by then.”

“She could have reeled in some rich old toad and just stowed him in the attic,” said Ingrid. “There’s enough room. They had soldiers invalided here during both wars—bet they barely noticed.”

“But she was too devoted to notice another man,” I breathed.

“Well.”
Sheila winked. “As Granny used to say, it’s one thing saying you don’t want to remarry, but that doesn’t stop you hosting the Kettlesheer Ball looking like Grace Kelly in your diamonds and letting all the old fellas hope. She always kept the last dance marked for Ranald on her dance card.”

“That is so sweet!” I said. Well, mouthed. I was a bit choked up.

“Can you move the placement thing so I can put the bread down? Carefully, mind—I cannot face the idea of starting again with that,” Ingrid said.

“What is it?” I asked as Sheila lifted the board with great delicacy so the ivory buttons didn’t move.

“A placement arranger. For the dinner we host before the ball. You assign each guest a little token and then shuffle them round until you get a table plan that works. That one was made especially for the table upstairs,” said Ingrid. “What it doesn’t come with is instructions for how the bloody hell you’re meant to seat sixty people, all of whom have some pressing reason not to sit next to or opposite anyone else, which of course I have to
guess
, because there’s no way you could
know
Innes Stout once said something unforgivable to Janet Learmont’s mother at the Edinburgh Tattoo in 1976.”

She gasped crossly, running out of breath, and put the bread down.

“This is a small place,” said Sheila, buttering a roll serenely. “We have to make our own entertainment. People get married and divorced a lot, and get up to all sorts of shenanigans out hunting at bridge.”

But I was picturing a long table, dressed for dinner and glowing with soft candlelight and silver candelabra, glittering with reflected diamonds and tinkling laughter. Everyone around it in elegant evening gowns and starched shirtfronts, batting witty conversation and gossip back and forth just like in a Merchant Ivory film.

“Will Alice be dining here?” I asked. I bit my tongue on the
the lucky cow
part.

Ingrid nodded. “Sheila’s party’s joining us. Fraser and Alice, Douglas and Kirstie, Sheila and Kenneth.”

“Robert was saying you arrange dance cards over dinner.” I hesitated, not sure how much to hint without landing Alice in it. “Alice will be next to some nice people, won’t she? Experienced dancers?”

“I’ve put her between Robert and Douglas,” said Ingrid. “And opposite Sheila’s Kenneth. She should be fine. Don’t you worry. We’ll look after her!”

Oh, life was so unfair. While Alice was penciling in her dance card with Scotland’s most eligible and polite men at her side, I’d be going home to a Marks and Spencer Dine In for a £10 dinner, all to myself. And I had three vintage ballgowns just sitting in my wardrobe!

“I’ll nudge Douglas and Robert,” said Sheila. “Men don’t always appreciate how important a full dance card is, especially when you’re not saving the last reel for your late husband!”

I paused with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Does Robert know about Violet’s story? I mean, does he understand there’s a family reason why Duncan’s so reluctant to sell? He seems to see it in very …” I struggled for the diplomatic word. “… black-and-white terms.”

“Ah, it’ll be different when he’s got the right girl and wants to put his own roots down,” said Sheila confidently. “He’s always dashing about the place, being his own man. That’s natural.”

“But I thought he’d met the right girl.” I looked between the pair of them. “Are he and Catriona not … ?”

“Catriona would be a marvelous wife for Robert, running this place,” said Ingrid. “She’s grown up with it. In fact, she’s always giving me little hints about how to deal with drafts. And tradesmen. And Duncan.”

“Just waiting for a certain someone to stop dashing about and put a ring on her finger,” said Sheila. She tapped her nose. “Which might be why someone else’s so keen to get this Reel of Luck nailed at the weekend? Hmm?”

“How long have they been … ?” I trailed off.

“I’m never really sure with Robert,” said Ingrid doubtfully. “He doesn’t really confide in me. But she’s always been round and about, you know, with Janet. They’ve been going out for years.”

“McAndrew men are pretty good at avoiding marriage,” said Sheila, only half-joking. “They’ve had mothers firing fiancées at them from all sides since this ridiculous tradition began.”

“Right.” I nodded and smiled, but I didn’t think it sounded very romantic for a twenty-first-century heir. Between Catriona’s family money and her way with a draft excluder, she sounded more of a marriage of convenience than Violet and her millions had done.

“And call me a mother hen,” Sheila went on with a conspiratorial wink, “but might there be another certain someone who’s hoping for some extra luck at the ball?”

“Who? Oh! You mean, Alice?” I hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe that was why Fraser hadn’t proposed at Christmas—he was waiting for the ball.

“It’s such a romantic evening,” sighed Ingrid.

“It is indeed. Even men get a bit giddy after a Hamilton House or two,” said Sheila. “Kenneth proposed over breakfast. He said it was a combination of my pas de basques and the best bacon sandwich of his life that did it.”

Why did the thought of Fraser down on one knee in front of Alice make me feel so …
curdled
inside? Was it because it was
my
private daydream, Fraser in formal evening dress, acting like a gentleman? My heart prickled, and I reached for another roll from the basket. At least I didn’t have to worry about fitting into a ballgown.

“So, did Violet’s sister marry a duke, or an earl?” I started, but Ingrid didn’t answer. She raised her hand, and in the silence we heard footsteps approaching down the flagged corridor outside.

“Brace yourselves,” she warned us. “Duncan threatened to bring some samples back with him.”

There was a brisk knock on the door, but it wasn’t Duncan’s frizzy red head that popped round. It was Robert, bundled up against the cold in a big ski jacket and beanie hat.

“All right if I join you?” he asked, unwrapping the scarf from his throat. “I seem to be out of milk at the lodge.”

“Really?” said Sheila. “Didn’t I see a Tesco delivery van at—”

“Forgot to order milk,” said Robert as Ingrid leaped to her feet.

“Of course it’s all right!” She planted a kiss on his cheek. “I thought you were working this evening. Didn’t you have a conference call?”

“Got canceled.” He glanced over at me, and I smiled back, with just a flutter of unease at what he might have heard, had he walked across from the lodge a little faster. “Hello, Evie, Sheila. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“I was just going to tell Evie about your great-grandmother and her magnificent war effort,” said Sheila. “How she dug up the rose gardens and planted carrots.”

“I’m sure she got someone to plant the carrots for her,” said Robert.

I noticed the defensiveness return, but Sheila calmly ignored it.

“No, she did it herself, with my mother,” said Sheila. “Most of the usual carrot planters were too busy being shot at in France.”

“She sounds like a fascinating woman,” I said. “Imagine if she had a diary!” My eyes widened. “Do you think she had a diary?”

“She probably didn’t have time,” said Robert.

“Did you get your white tie from the cleaners?” Ingrid put a bowl of soup down in front of him. It was twice the size of ours.

“I did. Janet was kind enough to bring it round this afternoon.” Robert picked up his spoon and stirred. “Along with a selection of cummerbunds so I match whichever of the three dresses Catriona’s choosing from. The kilt issue’s still not dead. Despite my stamping on it.”

He caught my eye, and I had to suppress a grin at the quick boggle of horror.

“Oh, do rethink the kilt, darling,” said Ingrid. “Your father’s wearing one.”

“God help us all,” said Robert. “Nice soup, Mum, did you make it?”

Ingrid launched into the story about the vegetable garden she’d started, and Robert made the right noises about her organic turnips. I let my gaze linger.

Robert wasn’t handsome-handsome like Fraser—his nose was quite pointy, and he was lanky, not solid—but there was something about his wide, mobile mouth that made me feel odd inside. Like being in a car when the road’s icy, and feeling the wheels move without you steering. Unbalanced. I barely knew him, yet I had the unsettling sense that he knew me.

And his eyes—dark and clever, watchful like an owl’s. As I watched him sip his soup, I felt an echo of the butterflies that had filled my chest when he’d caught my hands outside and—

“Evie? More broth?” Sheila was looking at me, and I fumbled with my plate in an attempt to cover up my confusion.

Between Sheila’s chattiness and Ingrid’s eagerness to hear more about previous years’ balls and gossip about the house, the evening passed quickly. Even though the subject matter must have wound him up, Robert let his mother and Sheila tell him off for working too hard and not understanding Scottish accents, only casting the occasional wry look in my direction.

We finished the soup and another bottle of wine, and were on coffee and shortbread, when Ingrid suddenly raised her hand and stopped Sheila mid-scandalous-tale of Pauline Pipe’s tasty young gardener who’d run off with her Renoir.

“What was that?”

We froze, coffee halfway to our lips. The crashing came nearer. Then it too stopped, readjusted itself, and continued toward the kitchen.

“I think that’s the master of Kettlesheer back from his home-brew evening,” said Sheila.

She was right: the kitchen door was flung wide, and there was Duncan, his tartan trews accessorized with a chilled nose and a beatific smile. Something clanked in his Barbour jacket.

“Good evening, one and all!” he bellowed, wiping his nose with a hankie. He missed his nose, but made a good job of wiping his ear. “Do you know, do you, what a splendid vegetable the celeriac is? Can you believe that it makes a delicious aperefic—aperitif?”

He brought out a coffee jar full of straw-colored liquid and placed it on the table. “Kettlesheer Gold, I thought we could call it.” He beamed at Robert. “We could sell it! Give the protifs—profits to the local church fund.”