The blackbird was the first to celebrate the end of the night, followed by the melancholy falling notes of the willow warbler, then the unmistakable rippling song of the cheeky robin who often perched on the back of the wooden chair and peered into the bothy, hoping for a crumb of bread.
Giselle was seated in that very chair, wrapped in the thick woollen throw that she’d taken off her bed, her hands cupped around a mug of fragrant chamomile and lavender tea. She was staring into the distance, oblivious to the beauty around her. Her thoughts were turned inwards to her grief and to Mhairi. She doubted whether Cal had slept either, considering the funeral was today. He’d been even closer to the old lady than Giselle, and she knew what he must be going through. She’d lost her grandmother seven years ago, so she was no stranger to grief, and even though Cal and Mhairi weren’t related, they’d shared a close bond.
As well as her guilt, it was the suddenness of Mhairi’s passing that Giselle found hard to take. There’d been no indication the old lady was ill – or none that was common knowledge. If Mhairi had been unwell, she’d not shared it with anyone. Not even Cal.
The post-mortem stated that it had been a heart attack, so sudden that hopefully Mhairi hadn’t been aware of it. And she’d died at home, in the castle, the place she’d poured her heart and soul into, and without a long lingering illness. But Giselle still couldn’t get those wasted ten minutes out of her mind.
Guilt and remorse were eating her up, and the uncertainty about the castle’s future wasn’t helping. The happy family community feel of Coorie Castle had been replaced with sadness and worry, and everyone was tense. No matter how irrational she was being, Giselle couldn’t help believing it was all her fault.
Cal had been close-mouthed about his dealings with the solicitor, skirting around the subject whenever anyone asked him about it, so speculation was rife. All he would say was that Mhairi’s solicitor was handling everything, including the funeral arrangements.
Poor Cal. He looked so frazzled that Giselle’s heart went out to him. He’d confided that he was under strict instructions not to change anything, and so the castle and the craft centre had carried on as normal. Apart from today, because today was Mhairi’s funeral and everyone wanted to pay their respects,includingthe new owner, apparently, who’d been due to arrive last night.
With a sad sigh, Giselle got to her feet, pulling the throw tighter around her slender shoulders. Although she wasn’t hungry, she knew she should have something. The day would be difficult enough as it was without her feeling faint because she hadn’t eaten.
Her house was small, but it suited her needs. A stable door led straight into the one main room (aside from the bathroom), with a compact kitchen area to the right that opened up into the living–dining area with its stone walls, wood-burning stove and fantastic views over the loch. The bedroom was crammed into the eaves above the kitchen and bathroom, and was accessed by a wooden ladder.
The dress she’d borrowed hung from the ironwork balustrade around the mezzanine bedroom floor, and she gazed at it with distaste. Not because it was a horrid dress (it was actually very smart – one that Avril sometimes wore to work), but because it wasn’t her. Giselle didn’t do smart black dresses. Aside from a pair of old trainers, she didn’t own anything black. It wasn’t her colour, not suiting her pale complexion and silver hair. And why wear a non-colour when there were so many glorious hues in the world?
Still staring at it thoughtfully, Giselle wished she had the courage to wear something bright and to braid her hair with flowers. Mhairi had once told her that black was such a dreary colour and Giselle had agreed wholeheartedly. But although Giselle could be brave when it really mattered, today wasn’t one of those times. Not when Mhairi’s heir would be putting in an appearance. She didn’t want to make a wrong first impression, so with a heavy heart she wriggled into the formal dress, disliking how constricting it felt, and slipped her feet into a pair of leather sandals. Hopefully, no one would notice how incongruous they looked, and she’d be sitting towards the back of the kirk anyway, so her feet would be hidden.
She did braid her hair, though, but left out the flowers she’d picked yesterday evening. They reminded her of Mhairi, who had always been partial to wildflowers. The tweed and pearls she’d favoured had hidden a freer soul. Giselle guessed that was the reason the old lady used to enjoy examining her finds from the seashore.
Och, she’d miss their chats. They all would; Giselle hadn’t been the only crafter invited to share her mid-morning coffee. But Giselle was the only one who’d been late…
With the thick braid hanging heavily over her left shoulder and a knitted shawl in muted dove, heather and white draped over her arm (even though it was early summer, the inside of the church might be chilly), Giselle set off with a heavy heart.
The bedroom was impressive: a large wooden bed that looked as though it had been in vogue a couple of centuries ago, a fireplace with an ornate mantelpiece, a polished dark-wood wardrobe, a nightstand, a chest of drawers and a table. None of the furniture matched, and every piece was as old as the hills.
Rocco knew nothing about antiques, but he knew class when he saw it, and from what he’d seen of the castle so far, it was seriously classy. Old world, old money kind of classy. Then there were the modern touches: the deep, luxurious mattress and the high-thread-count sheets and pillowcases, for instance, along with the power shower, the coffee machine and the hairdryer, amongst other things. He hoped he would be as impressed with the rest of the castle. No doubt he’d find out later.
Having flown into Inverness airport yesterday evening, he’d hired a car, then had driven the three hours plus to Duncoorie to arrive late last night. It had been dark, he’d been tired and irritable and all he’d wanted to do was to have something to eat and go to bed.
The estate manager, a man by the name of Calan Fraser, had met him at the door and shown him to his room. The chef (who was apparently referred to as Cook – or was that the woman’s name?) had left a deli selection for him, which he’d eaten, then he’d had a shower and had fallen into bed, grumbling to himself that it would have been quicker and far less hassle to travel the three and a half thousand miles from London to New York than it had been to get to this bloody castle. The inconvenience factor alone was reason enough to sell the place!
He’d informed Fraser that he’d take breakfast in his room this morning. Having been out of action for a big part of yesterday, he had work to catch up on, and then there was the funeral to be got through, followed by a wake here at the castle, which he intended to avoid. He wanted to get his bearings first before being introduced to a bunch of strangers.
Anyway, he’d be better off spending that time dealing with client issues than making nice with people he didn’t know and would probably never meet again. It was harsh, but true. As Beverly kept reminding him, time was money, and his time was too valuable to waste. While the locals were enjoying free food and drink at the castle’s expense, he’d do some more work, then Fraser could show him around the estate. Afterwards he’d hightail it back to London to think how best to market it with a view to selling – once it had been valued, of course.
His Rolex Submariner told him it was six twenty. He’d slept well and deeply in the comfortable bed, but he needed to get up. He was usually on his way to the office (via the gym) by now, so this late start was an indulgence. Grumpily, he decided he’d better skip the idea of going for a run. He’d brought trainers and a pair of shorts with him in the hope he could fit one in, but today was out of the question. Maybe he’d go tomorrow, before the long journey back.
Naked, he padded to the window and twitched a drape aside. A single glimpse had him opening the curtains wide.
What a view!
His room looked out over the loch, and he drank it in greedily. The images he’d seen online hadn’t done it justice. The water was shades of navy, grey, green and turquoise, glittering in the early morning sun, and was backdropped by low mountains.
Rocco mentally added a few more pound signs to his first impression of the castle. People would pay good money to own a view like that. He just hoped the rest of the estate was as good.
Too curious now to remain in his room, he decided to take his breakfast in the dining room, so he phoned reception to inform them of his change of plan, and when he went downstairs half an hour later, he wasn’t surprised to find the estate manager hovering in the hall.
As Rocco walked over to him, arm outstretched for a perfunctory handshake, he glanced at the receptionist behind the desk, who was watching him curiously.
Calan Fraser said in his soft Scottish burr, ‘She doesn’t know who you are, but since you’re the only guest in the hotel just now, she can probably guess.’
Rocco had asked that his name not be mentioned prior to his arrival. He’d wanted to keep things as low key as possible, but now he was here, he supposed the cat was out of the bag.
‘I’m about to have breakfast. Join me,’ he instructed.
