Swept off Her Feet

  As per Max’s tuition, I got down on my hands and knees to examine the underside, making sure it all matched up. While I was down there, I must admit I got a bit distracted by tapping along the edges, in search of hidden drawers, and it was only when I saw feet approaching at the other end of the room that I realized I was no longer alone.

  The drawing room was so big that it was partially divided by couches and occasional tables. Underneath the console table, I was still hidden behind several rows of other furniture, and as the feet marched across to the couches, I weighed up whether I could inch my way out without looking ridiculous.

  It didn’t help that they were already talking and, as a result, I was already eavesdropping.

  “. . . can’t tell people where they have to stand, Janet! What are you going to do? Put up sheep pens?”

  I recognized that amused voice: Sheila Graham, Fraser’s mum.

  “Sheila, I have to disagree, dear. It’s perfectly possible for a skilled set of reelers to complete the reel and finish beneath the trothing ball.” A quick slap of a clipboard against a palm. “Ingrid merely needs to see the possible collision zones and pad accordingly!”

  I shuddered. I recognized those nasal tones too: Janet Lear-mont.

  “I’m still not one hundred percent reassured about the fireplace,” said a querulous man’s voice. “It’s a potential fatality.”

  “Gordon, no one in the two hundred years this ball has been taking place has had a problem with the fireplace,” said Sheila impatiently. “Unless you count the time Janet’s brother-in-law managed to get his—”

  “That was a reaction to his medication,” snapped Janet.

  I peered round the side of the table, and saw the Ball Committee arranging themselves on couches around a large tray of coffee and biscuits.

  Sheila Graham was on one side, her firm jaw set as if she’d had it wired shut, and facing her was Janet Learmont. Between the flared nostrils and bared teeth, she was giving off a very Dragon-y vibe. Catriona perched on the sofa arm behind her, clutching her little dog. They were like clones, only Catriona had her long braid draped over one shoulder and Janet had an Hermès scarf patterned with bridles. Both wore natty tartan trousers and sheepskin vests.

  Sitting nervously to one side was a tall, thin man with white hair holding a file marked Health and Safety, and in the middle was Ingrid McAndrew, who virtually had Tense Nervous Headache? stamped across her forehead.

  Janet, and Catriona, and Catriona’s evil-looking terrier.

  No, I thought resignedly. I am definitely trapped beneath this table now.

  Eight

  The Ball Committee wasted no time on pleasantries and got straight down to the main business, which, it seemed, was the Reel of Luck, starring as it did two actual committee members.

  “Now, while we’re on the topic of the first reel . . .” Janet’s voice trailed away, leaving a long pause. Then, when no one took her bait, she added, “What do we think?”

  I held my breath as Janet stared pointedly at Sheila and Ingrid; Catriona was stroking her braid and pretending they weren’t talking about her, and Gordon was jabbing at his calculator. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t his problem.

  “I suppose what I’m saying since no one else will,” sighed Janet, “is . . . are they up to it?”

  “Don’t worry, Mummy,” said Catriona. “Robbie’ll make an effort on the night. He knows how important it is.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Robert, darling. I mean, he really ought to have dragged himself along to those practices, but I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. If you’ll forgive me, Sheila, I was meaning Fraser and this new girlfriend of his. Alex, is it?”

  “Alice,” said Sheila.

  The skin on my arms went goose-bumpy.

  “It’s the highlight of the evening, and all eyes will be on them,” she went on in her clipped accent. “Sir Hamish and Lady Morag obviously have years of experience. You and Duncan should be fine, Ingrid, and if you’re not, then I only have myself to blame, a-ha-ha.” The tinkly laughter stopped. “But it’s a great deal of pressure for a newcomer.”

  At that point, I had to stop myself from jumping up and telling the miserable old cow that Alice would, in fact, be the best dancer she’d ever had the pleasure of having her shins raked by; but that would mean giving away my hiding place, and possibly some insider info—and Alice clearly needed that more than ever. So I clamped my lips shut.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Sheila Graham, to my relief. “Fraser’s organized a run-through at our house on Thursday.”

  Janet glanced toward the end of the room, and I thought she’d seen me, but her gaze traveled to the door opposite where I was sitting. She seemed satisfied that no one had come in, because she raised her voice to a normal level.

  “Does she know what a responsibility it is, though? Being part of the Reel of Luck? I mean”—pause for modest effect—“I’m the last person to be superstitious, but it would be such a shame if no proposals happen because a poor wee girl misses her cue, through no fault of her own. Apart from total inexperience, of course.”

  I blanched. The scene was already unfolding in my mind’s eye. The hush. The shocked faces. The awkward arrival of the First Aid stretcher …

  “Och, Janet, you’re making problems where there are none,” insisted Sheila. “I’ve met Alice, she’s a fine strong girl, and Fraser’s been reeling since he could walk. And for heaven’s sake!” She snorted. “If no one got married because someone muffed the first reel, then we’d be wall-to-wall spinsters. Have you seen how much wine gets put back before the horn sounds?”

  “Well, far be it from me, but I’ve spoken to my Laura, and she wouldn’t mind stepping in.”

  “Laura hasn’t wanted to dance with Fraser since they were at school,” said Sheila firmly. “And that was fifteen years ago.”

  Janet smiled, but without showing her teeth, which were presumably grinding. “Well, we’d all like the reel to be particularly lucky this year. Even if there is someone English in the eight!”

  “Och, dear,” mumbled Gordon. “English in the eight. Dilution!”

  I dropped my head into my hands. Well, that was that for Alice! Inexperienced, not Laura Learmont, and now . . . English.

  Through the gaps between the furniture, I could see Ingrid had been fiddling with her pen and Post-it notes, but now she could contain herself no longer. “I’m English,” she squeaked. “And Robert’s half-English! And Duncan might as well be English—he grew up in Manchester!”

  “You’re Scots now, dear,” said Janet, patting her hand. “And the heir to Kettlesheer’s a Scotsman through and through, regardless of where he grew up.”

  I wasn’t sure that was the point Ingrid was making.

  The Ball Committee agenda moved on to matters pertaining to the dress code, and—now firmly trapped under the table until they left for lunch—I listened, so entranced by the details that I barely noticed my leg going to sleep. Okay, not by the Portaloo dilemma so much, but by the serving of breakfast at three in the morning, and who would divide up the dancers into sets, making sure no crashes occurred.

  Even the lack of Internet was quite romantic, I told myself. It was nice not to be checking my phone every other minute. This castle was like a lost time bubble of Edwardiana, and I was getting to live in it for a few days.

  There was a gentle tapping on the window behind me. I ignored it. The wooden frame of my four-poster bed had tapped and cracked all night because of the cold; the first few taps had made me sit bolt upright in terror, but it had gone on all night and I’d gradually tuned it out.

  “Now, after last year’s entirely avoidable contretemps with Katie MacDonald, I am proposing a dress inspection team at the door,” said Janet. “In my experience, spaghetti straps and a vigorous Duke of Perth reel are not a family-friendly combination.”

  The tapping continued.

  I glanced behind me, and jumped. Robert was standing outside the window. He m
ust have been in the flowerbed, because his eyes were just visible over the windowsill. He was wearing a thick peacoat and a woolly hat—not the usual Barbour jacket and flat cap beloved by Fraser—and he still looked frozen.

  He mouthed something at me, and waggled his fingers. He was wearing red-and-blue stripy wrist-warmers.

  What? I mouthed as Janet began to list the types of dresses to which she would refuse entry: inadequately anchored strapless, above ankle level, anything in animal print, anything in potentially flammable material (Gordon’s suggestion) …

  Robert waggled his fingers again, then got out his iPhone, showed it to me, and mimed typing on it.

  I still had no idea what he was on about. I raised my hands apologetically, and he boggled in mock despair at my slowness, making the corners of his dark eyes crinkle.

  I turned to a new page in my notebook and scribbled, Can’t talk—the Ball Committee is in the middle of a meeting. I held it up toward the window.

  Robert mimed horror, then jabbed away at his phone and held it up. He had one of those fancy scrolling apps that sent the message large across the screen.

  That’s why I’m out here. Dad says you need the Internet? I have broadband in the lodge.

  I gave him a thumbs-up sign, then grabbed my pen again and wrote, Thanks! I’ll be right out.

  Robert’s head disappeared from view, and I focused my mind on how I was going to sneak out now without being detected. There was a fair distance between me and the nearest door, and it wasn’t open.

  “Fraser will be coming on Thursday, with a hundred cases of champagne to start chilling—he’s arranged for the flutes to be delivered at the same time, and some special ice sculptures, which sounds fancy.” Sheila looked up from her notes. “Now, Gordon—what’s happening with the piper?”

  “I’ve sent off for special high-visibility bands for the ends of his pipes to prevent any accidents in the dim lighting,” Gordon began, and went into a health-and-safety spiel about “having people’s eyes out” but I tuned that out, enchanted by the romantic image unfolding.

  Champagne! And a piper! I leaned forward instinctively to hear more, and in doing so managed to dislodge something on top of the console table. I could hear it rolling, then, frozen with horror, watched it drop in front of me.

  It was the bloody cricket ball, no longer balanced on the presentation square of turf.

  It crashed to the floor with a resounding crack, and rolled some way down the carpet toward the couches. My armpits prickled as the whole Ball Committee leaped out of their seats as one, looking round for the source of the noise.

  “Ohmigod! What was that?” Catriona gasped as her Jack Russell was catapulted onto the sofa. She made a grab for him as he started barking right at me. “Stay! Stay, Nipper!”

  “Is that the ghost?” Ingrid squeaked. “Duncan keeps talking about a ghost!”

  “There is no ghost, Ingrid,” said Sheila.

  “Now, that is what I mean, ladies!” insisted Gordon. “We need to cover this place quite literally in plastic wrap or else face the consequences of loose antiques!”

  The dog’s neck had gone all bristly and it was growling. Oh, God. Any minute now it was going to launch itself at me.

  I was about to come crawling out with my hands up, but Sheila’s voice cut through the twittering. “Calm down. It’s probably just old Carlisle turning in his grave at the thought of Janet making the lassies wear cardigans. Now, if no one else is going to eat it, I’m going to have the chocolate biscuit. . . .”

  Any genteel shock about ghosts was instantly forgotten as the committee members squabbled over the two good foil-wrapped biscuits in the selection, and I grabbed the opportunity to slide out from under the table and scuttle toward the door.

  Outside, the air had taken an even chillier turn, and I hugged Alice’s coat tight around me as I gazed at the wuthering landscape around me. The sky was a washed-out gray-blue and even the box hedges seemed pinched. Robert was on the phone, several windows down from the committee meeting. He was deep in conversation, and I hung back, not wanting to interrupt.

  “No, I can’t get back till Monday earliest,” he was saying. “I’m sorry, but it’s a family commitment. And I’m on holiday, all right? I don’t need to say where. . . .”

  He turned round and saw me. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “E-mail me the details and I’ll try to look at them tonight. Okay, cheers.”

  I walked self-consciously down the steps, trying not to slip on the moss clinging to the ancient stone. Under different circumstances, I’d have indulged in an imaginary jaunty cloche and an imaginary Daimler waiting for me at the bottom, but Robert’s expression nipped any flights of fancy in the bud.

  “Why didn’t you just come in?” I asked. “You don’t need to lurk around in your own flowerbeds, surely?”

  “What were you doing under a table?”

  Touché.

  “I was inspecting the dovetail joints.” I could feel myself turning red.

  He glanced at me, amused. “I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t come in because I don’t have a spare hour to talk about kilts, and to be honest, I don’t like Catriona’s dog.” He pointed across the gravel drive toward a path into the woodlands around the castle. “And Nipper doesn’t like me.”

  “Probably senses the competition,” I said as we set off down the drive at a brisk march. Robert had long legs, but then again so did I.

  “There is no competition. Catriona’s made it clear to both of us that we’re equals in her affection. I might even be slightly behind. You have a dog?”

  “No,” I admitted. “We had a cat, Cleo. Mum never forgave her for shedding. Fish only after that.”

  Robert laughed. “Round here, if you don’t have a dog, you might as well have a tattoo saying, ‘I’m disreputable.’

  “Has Janet tried to bully Major Muirhead into checking that the men in kilts have come adequately underdressed? There’s always one Young Farmer who slips through her net.”

  “Do you mean—oh!” I squinted, unsure if he was teasing me, and not wanting to look stupid. “I thought that whole. . . . no pants thing was just a rumor put about by the English.”

  Robert lifted his eyebrow. “Alas, no. Janet was all for getting one of those mirrors on a pole, like the bomb squad used to use for checking under cars, but Mum drew the line.”

  My mouth dropped open with genuine shock.

  “Joke,” said Robert. “You really will believe anything, won’t you?”

  “Can you blame me?” I protested, flustered. “My social life rarely extends to dress codes beyond ‘No sneakers, please.’ Anyway, we didn’t get to the men,” I went on, picking up my pace. “She was more concerned about the ladies.”

  “Any new rules I should know about?”

  “Cardigans. She’ll be applying cardigans to girls who turn up with exposed clavicles and visible tattoos. Your mother has been deputed to scour Rennick’s charity shops for appropriate cover-ups.”

  “Janet would like to go back to the old days when girls were only allowed to wear black or white and tiaras,” said Robert.

  “Why not?” I said. That sounded gorgeous, a ballroom full of monochrome and sparkle. “I don’t get to wear my tiara enough as it is. You’ll be in your kilt, I assume? I mean, I know you’re putting up a fight, but it is a kilt occasion.”

  Robert made an Ugh noise, and motioned me off the main drive and onto the footpath that led down into the woodlands. “I’ll be wearing a pained bloody expression.”

  “Is that that knife you stick down your sock?” I asked innocently.

  “No, it’s—” He stopped, then tilted his head to check if I was serious.

  “Joke,” I said. “Duh.”

  Robert let out a little huff of acknowledgment. “The only thing I’ll be sticking down my sock is a tiny flask of brandy,” he said. “And that’s because the local shop’s out of cyanide capsules.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I said. “It’s a bal
l! With champagne and a piper! What’s not to love? It’s like time travel!”

  “Right, now I get it.” He paused to wag his head cynically at me. “You’re one of those weirdos who go around saying, ‘What would Jane Austen do?’ and picturing every man you meet in a wet blouse.”

  “No!” My eyes boggled with the effort of denying it.

  If I were being honest, modern life’s lack of breeches was a constant disappointment for me. There were too few opportunities for men to display the little touches of gallantry I lived for. Could you blame me for wanting to superimpose top hats and carriages on the limp, BlackBerry-twiddling specimens I met at the speed dating Alice ushered me to?

  “You are,” he said heavily. “Oh, God.”

  “No! It’s just that . . . I’ve never been to a ball,” I went on. “I’m imagining candles, and white gloves, everyone bowing to each other. . . . But what’s a modern one like?”

  “Exactly like that,” said Robert. “Give or take the odd tattoo. The men have to get trussed up in either formal dress—kilts with dress coats—or white tie and tails, if they’re English. Or red hunting jackets, if they ride with the local hunt.”

  “Really?” I tried to suppress the flutter of excitement. “That’s so . . .”

  I didn’t want to say amazing or romantic or any of the other words that bubbled to the forefront of my mind; there was nothing wrong with a romantic soul, but Robert clearly had me down as a deluded bonnet-junkie already. And yet I just couldn’t stop picturing myself in an Empire-line gown, curtsying modestly in front of the gold rococo mirror in the hall.

  In my imagination, of course, my bosoms were not spilling out inappropriately, and I’d somehow acquired ringlets and balance.

  “So . . . ?” Robert’s prompt cut through my shimmering vision, and I scrabbled for a word befitting a London antiques expert.

  “So . . . historical. And”—I couldn’t stop myself—“magical.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. The committee does its best to take any actual magic out of it. Is Gordon still bellyaching about the potential stab hazards of the pencils on the dance cards?”