‘I,umm, I’ve come to issue an invitation, actually. To Skye, with me, if you’d like? I guessed you might have had your fill o’ weaving and Kitty told me the other day you hadnae pressed her for any Gaelic lessons so… I have one of Seth’s boats for the day… and a picnic.’
She caught Atholl’s look of hope and then embarrassment. Now he was taking an interest in the door jamb, absentmindedly fingering the hinges. She couldn’t help smiling, even though it was accompanied by a creeping sense of defeat.
‘You want to spend the day with me?’
‘Aye, why would I no’?’
Despite everything within her telling her to retreat and that it was time to leave, she found herself agreeing to go. Skye sounded intriguing and she could avoid talking about herself for a few hours if it meant going to one of the places that her mum had always wanted to see but never had the chance, and, of course, it would be nice to spend a little more time in the presence of Atholl Fergusson with all his kindness and those blue eyes she never seemed to tire of seeing.
‘Really?’ When he smiled back, his lips pursed closed over his teeth and his cheeks flushed.
‘You did say I should see more of the place and everyone else seems to think I should stay and have a proper holiday. One more day can’t hurt?’ This came out as a genuine question but she doubted Atholl could understand her reservations.
‘Well, then. I’ll see to the last of the arrangements and meet ye by the jetty after you’ve had your breakfast. Come prepared for all weathers,’ he said, turning to go.
‘Actually, I’ll follow you down.’ Beatrice grabbed her keys and made after Atholl. ‘Have you spoken with Gene since last night? How did it go?’ she asked as they reached the turn in the staircase, the kitchen sounds and the low murmur of the diners’ chatter growing louder… and was that someone singing?
‘See for yourself,’ Atholl threw her another smile as he turned for the back door of the inn, pointing Beatrice’s way into the breakfast room before disappearing out of sight into the morning sunshine, Echo joining him with delighted bounds.
Sure enough, a woman with a beautiful voice was quietly singing and mixed in with her sweet melody was a low, booming hum. Beatrice sneaked a peek in the kitchen door and there, side by side in matching white aprons, were Kitty and Gene.
‘Green grow the rushes-o.’Kitty trilled, as Gene scraped butter over a triangle of toast before offering it to Kitty who smilingly took a bite before he too bit into it, all the while gazing at each other’s faces.
So, thought Beatrice, Atholl isn’t the only Fergusson brother whose pale cheeks are prone to flushing pink.
Two other crafters, older ladies who Beatrice recognised as some of the wool dyers who had also arrived on Saturday and who were taking lessons at the tartan mill in the next village, bustled past tutting and shaking their heads as they left. Their table was still pristinely set with fresh linen, their cutlery untouched and napkins still folded. Had they been served at all? Their grumbling as they left told her Gene hadn’t even emerged from the kitchen to take their orders.
‘If you’re hoping for breakfast, you’ll be lucky,’ a voice piped up from the corner of the breakfast room. Turning round, Beatrice was delighted to see Cheryl and Jillian sitting with empty, sauce-streaked plates in front of them. ‘We’ve been waiting for more toast and coffee for twenty minutes but those two love birds are still working their way through the entire Robert Burns songbook,’ said Cheryl.
‘So, it worked then!’ Beatrice was already pulling up a chair at their table.
‘According to Seth, Gene walked Kitty through the bar last night, taking a bottle of bubbly from the fridge before disappearing to her room, so draw your own conclusions about that,’ said Jillian, not even bothering to whisper; there was no way they’d hear her over the singing.
‘Amazing what a difference a makeover and a bit of encouragement can make,’ Beatrice grinned, giving Jillian’s hand an excited squeeze. ‘I think we’ve done well there.’
‘I’d say so,’ she smiled back. ‘I’ll be expecting an invite to their wedding at this rate. We’d better get going anyway, we’re moving on from oils to watercolours today, and we’ve got no chance of getting another brew here, have we?’
The singers had fallen markedly quiet all of a sudden. Cheryl leaned backwards on her chair and peered around the kitchen door before adding, knowingly, ‘Nowthatkind of behaviour is definitelynotgoing to get your sausages cooked.’
The three women tiptoed from the breakfast room together, only stopping to silently close the kitchen door on the couple who were wrapped in each other’s arms, Kitty raised up on her tiptoes, kissing Eugene tenderly while the haggis slices burned in the pan.
Chapter Fifteen
The Skye Boat
It didn’t matter that Beatrice was hungry, in fact she was glad to give the fried food a miss this morning as she realised her stomach was churning not because it was empty but because it was full of nerves – even though she most definitelywasn’tgoing on a date.
No. Categorically this wasn’t a date. On dates, you have to talk about yourself and answer awkward questions and she had no intention of doing that. This was just two people celebrating a bit of successful matchmaking with some sightseeing and tomorrow she was going back to Warwickshire to help Angela and Vic with their wedding plans and to see what her house looked like now the removal men had been and done Rich’s dirty work.
She was going to Skye with Atholl to be nice and to prove she wasn’t a moody cow, and maybe also because he was pleasant to be with. But that was all.
Back in her room she grabbed her bag, stuffed in her umbrella, sun lotion and shades, before stopping in front of her mirror to smooth her hair and brush on some mascara. Then, thinking again, she rushed back to the bathroom to brush her teeth for a second time that morning and slick on pale lipstick and dab perfume at her wrists.
Holding onto the sink she fixed a hard stare in the mirror. ‘Get a grip, Bea. He’s just another person who’s taken pity on you. This is nothing more than a day’s sightseeing on Skye, never mind it’s with Atholl.’ The words faltered and she shook her head in exasperation.
Was this how she was going to greet Atholl outside the inn, red-faced and flustered? ‘Ridiculous!’ She gripped her bag and headed downstairs. Ready or not, she’d agreed to go and no amount of awkwardness and inconvenient tummy butterflies was going to hold her back now.
He was waiting by the jetty, just as he’d said, a wicker picnic basket by his walking-booted feet. He was in black outdoorsy trousers and the same brown and orange checked shirt she’d seen him in the first time they’d met. Today it was worn open over a grey t-shirt like some Celtic model in a Barbour advert.
