Beatrice pulled the lacy curtains aside once more and leaned towards the glass. Soon the tourists would be up and about. Their cars, burdened with bike racks, lined Port Willow’s waterfront end to end. Last night she’d watched their attempts at parking and turning around on the single lane road between the cottages and the sea wall. There was often no room for turning at the top of the village and many cars had to reverse the length of the street, repeatedly aborting their efforts when met with a car coming the other way. The manoeuvring was a logistical wonder and a source of fascination for her, less so for the tutting locals who had the good sense to leave their vehicles at the station carpark.
Sipping her coffee, she tried to imagine the village in a time before cars, when it was a quiet bay of fishermen’s cottages and families, willow weavers and – Atholl had told her –artists of all kinds who came for the light and the Highland vistas.
Beatrice couldn’t quite understand how she hadn’t appreciated the views on Saturday. Her memories of arriving by train were hazy at best. But she was feeling the fog that had clouded her thinking for the last few months lifting a little each day here, and she was actually looking forward to the day ahead. She had a job to do. She had a plan. And best of all, she had a co-conspirator in Atholl.
He too had emerged out of the mists, coming into increasingly sharper focus as her time in Port Willow progressed and she smiled over her memories of his quiet presence and calm direction yesterday as they weaved rustic willow wreaths over their sweet, sunny picnic.
He had been as enthusiastic about the matchmaking scheme as she was, if a little less convinced of its chances of success. She wouldn’t let his reservations worry her. If anything, she wanted to prove to Atholl that a little lovecouldfix up his brother and she wanted to prove to herself that love could follow on from heartbreak at least once.
Dressing for breakfast in cropped jeans and a loose white cotton top, she wondered at how hungry she was – and how excited she was for her day ahead – telling herself it had nothing to do with Atholl and all to do with the spot of matchmaking she’d devised, and if she didn’t hurry she wouldn’t get it all sorted out before this evening.
Atholl had told Beatrice that Kitty was staying in one of the back bedrooms at the inn and she had shoved the note under her door where she was sure it would be seen. It read:
Dear Kitty,
I meant to say last night that I want to thank you properly for rescuing me from the beach on Sunday and for knowing when a woman needs chips and gin. It was lovely talking with you and I’d really like a chance to repay your kindness. Are you free tonight? Come to the jetty and wear something fancy, or don’t, if that sounds weird, but be prepared for a lovely evening!
Lots of Love,
Beatrice x
Beatrice had shovelled copious amounts of bacon and toast into her mouth and even managed half a slice of the fried haggis before telling herself it was an acquired taste and she’d brave it again tomorrow morning. As she gulped her coffee she heard, but couldn’t see, Atholl, his musical voice drifting through from the inn’s kitchens.
‘Have ye a minute, Gene?’
The lull in the kitchen clattering told her Gene was listening.
‘There’s an inn guest arriving tonight by boat. They mentioned they’d need help with their luggage. Can ye meet them from the jetty at eight, please? I’ll be doing the evening meals or else I’d do it myself.’
Beatrice picked up the grunt of what she hoped was agreement over the sizzling sound of fresh bacon hitting a hot pan.
‘And can you wear something smart.’
‘Smart? Is it the queen comin’?’
‘Well she’s long overdue a visit, is she no’?’ Atholl replied good-naturedly and, to Beatrice’s ears, evasively. ‘They sounded well-to-do on the phone and they’re expecting a welcome so please put your suit on? Like Dad used to in the old days when some of the guests arrived by water.’
But Gene said nothing. Had he agreed? She knew she’d have to wait until later to find out because she’d spotted Atholl leaving the inn through the back door and passing the breakfast room window. The fluttering sensation in her stomach surprised her. Had she wanted him to look in at her and smile? Well, he hadn’t. She heard him out on the street calling for Echo and the sound of obedient, scurrying feet pattering down the stairs above her, the two of them heading off to complete the next task on Beatrice’s list.
‘Morning, Bea, pet!’ Cheryl and Jillian pulled up chairs at Beatrice’s table in a cloud of hairspray and perfume and leaned in conspiratorially.
She’d been caught staring after Atholl Fergusson again, thought Beatrice, but the women were too focused on the task at hand to tease her.
‘We’ve everything we need, now are you sure about this?’ Jillian asked, her gold hoop earrings swinging as she whispered, throwing a glance at the kitchen door.
‘IthinkGene has taken the bait,’ Beatrice replied in a low voice.
‘Well, he’s had that messy mop fixed so we may as well do the whole shebang!’ Cheryl said, excitement crackling her voice.
‘So, it’s manicure, facial, manscaping those brows and taming that chest wig that’s escaping his shirt?’ Beatrice whispered.
Cheryl laughed. ‘Eee, I thought it was going to jump out and run up someone’s trouser leg when I first caught sight of that fuzz.’
‘It is a bit Burt Reynolds,’ Beatrice laughed, before biting her lip when she was met by the blank looks of the two younger women. ‘Never mind, before your time. Just make sure he’s got his collar done up and he’s looking presentable and don’t, whatever you do, let on that he’s actually going on a date. He’ll run a mile.’
Jillian nodded sharply like a private taking orders, thoroughly enjoying the secret mission. ‘Yes ma’am. Eight o’clock?’
‘Eight o’clock. And I’ll pay you later, when I get some cash.’ Beatrice wondered where on earth the nearest cash machine might be. In her haste to catch the train on Saturday she hadn’t thought to stock up on real money and now that she was beginning to run out she didn’t fancy catching the train to Lochalsh to get some more.
