And yet how different the pair were. What one brother had sacrificed in breadth and beauty, making up for in sheer towering height, this younger one had clearly gained, and yet both men shared fine high-boned cheeks, eyes the colour of the sea in summer and square set jaws.
‘I’m Atholl Fergusson, and this is Eugene. And you are?’
Thrown by the stiff formality of his words spoken in a clipped, heavily accented West Highland burr she could manage only a few words. ‘Umm, Beatrice, just Beatrice.’
Atholl Fergusson’s mouth set again in a straight line. Unlike his unfortunate brother, Atholl evidently adjusted his Scottish diction for the benefit of his English guests and his features were framed with thick waves of darkest red hair that skimmed the collar of his muted red and brown checked shirt.
‘Right then. Good,’ he muttered under his voice as he whipped the key from Gene’s hand and scooped up the suitcase. ‘Follow me, Beatrice,’ he said as he made briskly for the stairs.
‘Actually, I wasn’t sure if I was staying.’ She watched him, still rooted to the spot, thinning tartan underfoot.
Atholl paused, one boot on the bottom step. For a moment she watched his back heave as he let out a sharp sigh. Turning back, he transferred his gaze from Beatrice’s dark-circled, defiant eyes to Gene still clutching his pot of keys. He didn’t even attempt to hide the second great huff of exasperation that stretched his broad chest.
‘You’ll have tae forgive my brother, it’s been twenty years but he’s yet to understand he works in the hospitality trade. Eugene, will ye please send up some tea and shortbread for our guest. I’ll see she’s settled in.’
With that Atholl directed a sharp nod at Beatrice, and made his way up the wide, creaking stairs.
She watched Atholl climb before glancing back at Gene, who was attempting to avoid any further interaction with her by banging at the side of the computer monitor with a soft fist as though it would somehow fix the bookings glitch.
Letting her eyes roll, she clutched at the handbag straps over her shoulder. What was the use in protesting? How long would it take for a taxi to get here from the nearest town anyway? Hours, maybe? And she was too tired to repeat again her plans for a retreat back to England. She really was stranded here until morning. And besides, the only innkeeper who seemed to have his wits about him enough to help her escape Port Willow had climbed the stairs and left her alone. And hadn’t he totally disregarded everything she’d said about wanting to leave, anyway? That was plain rude.
In spite of everything, she found that most of her reservations about spending the night at The Princess and the Pea were temporarily outweighed by the thought of the tea and shortbread Atholl had mentioned. With a resigned shrug, she followed him up the stairs.
The door swung open and Atholl stood aside, letting her enter the low bedroom.
‘Oh,’ was all she could manage under the circumstances.
She took in the single bed, the small window framed with yellowing lace and a sense of the sea wall and the sand and shingle of low tide beyond, the small fireplace with its grate piled with dusty pinecones, the curious copper bath in the corner under the low eaves, and the painting of a mighty stag in muddy colours on the wall by the door.
‘Is it no’ to your liking?’ Atholl asked, his eyes passing around the room, scanning for the invisible thing that displeased his English visitor.
‘It’s fine. I’m not staying long anyway.’
Atholl received this information in silence, a pinched line forming between his brows which Beatrice didn’t see, preoccupied as she was wondering how she’d fit into the little bath without her knees touching her ears.
‘You don’t have anything a bit bigger, do you?’
‘No. We’re full. Not unless you want the princess room, but that’ll cost ye double what you’ve already paid, and it doesn’t get many takers these days.’
Money wasn’t too much of an issue, yet. She didn’t have much of anything else, but a little money she had. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said, sending a prayer of gratitude to her mum who had, long ago, advised her to set up a secret bank account all of her own. During a whispered conversation in the kitchen at Beatrice and Rich’s engagement party, she’d said, ‘Remember, you mustn’t tell anyone about it, least of all Richard. A woman should have enough money saved to buy her independence if she needs it.’ The idea had seemed positively Victorian to Beatrice a decade ago but as the last of her redundancy money had run out she saw with crystal clarity what her mum had in mind.
Huddled there whispering over the party snacks while Rich blasted out a karaoke rendition of ‘Poker Face’ in the living room to much laughter from his work mates, it hadn’t quite filtered through to her that a similarly secret bank account must have been the reason her mum had been able to get her and her baby sister out of the house and away to safety from the volatile, shouting father she could barely recall and had never wanted to know better.
If only she’d asked her mum more questions when she’d had the chance. What had it been like, packing bags and getting in that taxi to the refuge? Where had her father been that night? Exactly how much had she squirrelled away that she could afford the rent on their little house in Warwick which had become a happy childhood home, the only one she and Angela could remember? There was nobody left who could answer those questions.
The forced sigh that roused her from her thoughts told her Atholl found her bothersome, but she could put up with that if it meant getting a better room.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she added impetuously.
Atholl’s neck stiffened and he hissed a breath through gritted teeth as he turned for the stairs.
She’d come all this way, seen the inside of three stuffy train station waiting rooms and cried in one revolting Pendolino lavatory; she wasn’t going to sleep in a tiny cramped room after taking a tiny cramped bath if there was even the chance of something more luxurious. It was the least she deserved, and, given her impression of the inn so far, it would still be far less than she’d been led to expect from the inn’s fancy website. She hadn’t seen mention of any princess room on there either. It sounded far more suitable than the gloomy, wood-panelled cell her new red-headed acquaintance had just shown her.
She heard the creaking of the stairs beneath Atholl’s feet and strained her ears to listen in to the exchange between the brothers as he reached the reception area below her.
‘Where’s the princess room key?’
This was followed by the sounds of rummaging in Tupperware once more.
