Elise immediately sits up, holds her book, smiles.
Lennox doesn’t notice. He’s looking at me. “Did you see William at breakfast?”
I half-smile. I know my brother too well. “No. I was down early. I saw Isaac though.”
He shrugs. “I’d hoped you had chance to speak to him.” He glances at Elise and I can see he wants to speak to me without her being there, probably about William and some grand plan he has.
“Isaac’s influential on William. What do you think of him?”
Nothing. I think nothing about Isaac because if I do it would be dangerous.
“He’s intelligent and secretive. Like most good politicians.”
He nods, joins me at the window, ignores Elise who’s watching us. I feel for her, because at this moment she’s as much of an outsider as the lone tree on the small island in the loch.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” His voice is low and we’re conspirators, just like when we were teenagers or children and it was the two of us, because nobody else understood.
“I was going to go for a ride. Make the most of being free.” Tomorrow I was down to visit a school and give a speech on female empowerment. Murray had offered me the services of a writer for the occasion, but as he was male, I declined.
“Can I join you?”
“Always.”
And my big brother is there in front of me, smiles and dimples and hair that’s too long, half a foot taller than I am but still he is just my brother.
Elise coughs. We both look at her and she smiles.
“It’ll be a gorgeous day for a ride.” Her eyes are on Lennox.
“It will. Leave in half an hour?” He looks at me.
“Sure.”
He gives me a half hug and leaves, in a rush as always. Full of energy.
Les Miserablesis dumped on the floor and Elise looks up at me with brown eyes that are as miserable as the book.
“I’m sorry.” I know she wanted him to ask her to go with us.
She stands. “I know you are. I know you can’t be anything fucking else, Blair, because you’re royalty and you can’t – and won’t – let anyone else in. You’ll both die fucking lonely.” She walks out, the book abandoned. Its French words unread.
I should follow her, offer some reassurance, but the Elise who would’ve listened to those words is not there anymore. Instead it’s someone I don’t know.
* * *
We were caught in the rain on our way back, ending up galloping along paths that were full of deep puddles and going across a stream that had swollen with the rain. Lennox was running late to leave to head to Glasgow, so I take both horses back to the stables, the rain starting again. I’ve just finished, full of mud and the countryside, debating whether or not to traipse back through the castle and risk the wrath of my mother and our housekeeper – who’s arguably scarier – by dirtying the floors.
There’s a shower block for the stable hands and trainers, usually loaded with fresh but thin towels. No one cares; this is a place for the horse hearted, so politics and Egyptian cotton are left indoors.
Only one stall is being used so I have my pick, choosing the one at the end where I know the water pressure is good. I discard my jodhpurs and t-shirt which is soaked, finding spare joggers and a hoodie to pull on once I’ve rinsed off. My title is just a word on the wind out here. You need hooves to be a king.
Hard water bounces off my skin, in my face, dripping through my hair, down my back and over my breasts. It’s a relief, this feeling of water, heat. Just to feel something simple.
I turn off the shower, wrap myself in towels and hear the sounds of the other person in the cubicle next door, a low groan, familiar noises.
Ben.
Ben’s probably four metres from me. Ben with his broad back and thick legs. Ben whose hands I remember too well from when we were younger, little more than kids. I lean back against the tiles and listen, imagining what he’s doing, touching himself, and what he’s thinking about.
