‘Is this your mongrel?’ The torch beam swung away from her eyes, landing instead on a familiar doggy shape bouncing up and down.
‘He’s a cockapoo, not a mongrel, but yes, he’s mine.’ Jess took a step closer. ‘I’m sorry – he ran off when I let him out for a pee.’
‘Cockapoo you say?’ The man trained his torch on Jess. ‘Well, whatever he is, I think your wee lad has a breathing problem.’
‘You’re not wrong about that.’ It was strange to be agreeing on her aunt’s dog’s shortcomings with a total stranger – a man she hadn’t even set eyes on, hidden as he was behind the glare of his torch.
A swirl of fog brought the man closer, and he introduced himself.
‘I’m Robbie,’ he said, hand extended for Jess to shake. ‘Gamekeeper for the earl. The new earl, I suppose I should say. Are you here for the funeral?’ He looked confused as he said it, his gaze raking her non-funeral-appropriate clothing for further clues as she reached out a hand. She feared for the survival of her fingers as he took them in a surprisingly fierce grip.
‘Not for the funeral. I’m the temporary housekeeper. Jess Wight.’
‘Aye. Yes, I suppose they would be needing a new one.’ With nothing further in the way of explanation, Robbie nodded towards Digby. ‘You’ll be taking him back to the castle, then?’
That was the plan, but with new, spaniel-shaped friends to be sniffed at through the bars of the kennels, Digby wasn’t coming quietly. He jinked and swerved away from Jess each time she made a grab for his collar.
‘Bloody dog,’ she muttered, then turned at the sound of laughter. That was all she needed, the estate’s gamekeeper thinking she had no control over her own dog. It might be the truth, but it was still an embarrassment she could do without.
‘He’s got some spirit, hasn’t he?’ Robbie said.
Now Jess’s eyes had adjusted to the half-light created by the glow from the cottage and the strong beam from the torch, she could make out his features a bit better. He was laughing, but his gaze was fixed on Digby; it seemed he was amused by the dog’s antics, not her ineptitude. The pronounced laughter lines at the edges of crinkled eyes gave away that the gamekeeper wasn’t young – probably no longer clinging to his thirties if the salt and pepper quality to his hair was any measure – but as he glanced at her and smiled, his features lit up.
And when he shifted forward, a confident stride towards Digby, she noticed his broad shoulders and the athletic way he moved. Instead of being rough with Digby, as she’d imagined a gamekeeper might be, he dropped onto his haunches and flattered her dog with all sorts of compliments, pulling something from a pocket as he gained the dog’s attention.
‘Aren’t you a naughty wee man?’ he said in a sing-song voice, proffering something held in his fingers and glancing in Jess’s direction. ‘Is he all right with carrot?’
‘He’ll eat almost anything,’ she replied, pleased that she’d ignored her aunt Vivi’s instruction not to give Digby treats when she earned herself a broad flash of Robbie’s smile.
‘My boys love carrot and I think you will, too.’ His words were aimed at the dog, as he snapped the carrot baton in two, popped one piece into his mouth and began to chew. Digby lost interest in the spaniels, his focus now on the possibility of snacks. ‘Come on, then,’ Robbie said, holding out the rest of the carrot.
With his fingers around Digby’s collar, and the little dog crunching happily, Robbie gestured for the lead still in Jess’s hand, and clipped it into place, handing responsibility back to her as he straightened.
‘Thank you,’ Jess said. ‘I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘No worries. It’s just me and a glass of single malt tonight, so you’ve not disturbed anything important.’
‘Well, thanks again.’ Jess fumbled with her mobile, switching on the torch app and heading for the gate, Digby in tow. ‘I’d better be getting back.’
‘See you again,’ he said, lost just as quickly in the swirl of fog as Jess left his garden and realised that heading in this direction everything would be far easier to navigate – she could see the lights she’d left on in the castle’s kitchen and scullery, and the vastness of the building’s outline was visible even through the fog.
Back in the castle, and with the door firmly closed, Jess kicked off her muddy shoes and unclipped Digby’s lead. With his tea already in his bowl, Jess hoped he would have the good grace to eat that and then settle down on his mat.
Someone had brought the tea trays back to the kitchen while she was out, so she checked the time, then began to stack the dishwasher while deciding how long it would take the Aga to cook the quiche she had planned for supper.
Dee should have stayed in her room, should have ignored the raps on the door and Olivia’s cajoling voice calling her for supper. Should have ignored the compulsion to put on a brave face and head to the dining room where the new girl had laid one end of the dining table with a bizarre selection of cutlery and mats.
She didn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls of the quiche.
They’d buried her husband today. Henry was dead. He was gone. And if Dee wasn’t able to decide what she wanted to do, to be autonomous on today of all days, then when?
Henry had been twenty years her senior, an imposing, confident forty-year-old when they’d met. His arrival, his sheer presence, in that ballroom had been noted by everyone, either because they already knew who he was, or because they wanted to find out. Dee remembered, even now, how the whispers had circled. He was the Earl of Kirkshield, no less. Freshly divorced from a terrible first wife, poor man. Child-free – courtesy of the terrible wife, Dee supposed. Ten thousand acres of the Scottish Highlands and a castle to his name. Owned most of the village, too. Rolling in money. Wasn’t he distinguished, as well as being oh so handsome …
The catch of the decade.
So, when his gaze had grazed its way over the partygoers, swept past before returning and settling on her, Dee had allowed her quickening pulse and the way her stomach knotted when he smiled at her to govern the rest of that evening. And, as it turned out, had allowed him to monopolise her for the next thirty years, too.
It was a shame, then, that it turned out the favour wasn’t to be returned.
