‘Ahhh, young love.’ Xanthe beamed at the couple. ‘I was only eighteen when I married Izzy’s father. Unfortunately, he died when I was twenty-three but he was the love of my life.’
‘Mmm,’ said Izzy, ducking her head and reading some of her notes. He died at twenty-three because he was still a child, racing tractors, for God’s sake. From what her nan had said, Izzy doubted the two of them would have stayed together. Her mother was still, in many ways, a toddler – constantly seeking instant self-gratification. In comparison, Jim and Jeanette seemed quite a steady pair and clearly devoted to one another.
‘So?’ asked Xanthe, an arch look on her face as she nudged Izzy with a sharp elbow.
Izzy sighed. She didn’t like being backed into a corner but given the volume of work that was needed between now and Christmas, two extra pairs of hands would be a real bonus.
‘I can’t afford to pay you very much.’
‘That’s fine. How about free board and lodging in exchange for working in the house?’ suggested Jim.
Izzy gnawed at her lip. That sounded a bit too good to be true and also, her conscience pointed out, taking advantage. The two of them would never gain any independence if they didn’t start earning any money.
‘And a reference,’ said Jeanette. ‘That way, with an address as well, we can get another job.’
‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘See, it works for everyone.’
‘How about we do a week’s trial?’ suggested Izzy. ‘To see if it will work. And I’ll pay you a small amount.’
‘Done,’ said Jim, raising his coffee mug as if in a toast. ‘You won’t regret it, we promise.’
Izzy hoped not, she seemed to be gathering occupants of the house at an alarming speed.
Chapter Seven
Deliveries for I McBride,’ said the woman standing on the doorstep with a large, well taped box and a couple of parcels a week and a half later. ‘Someone’s been busy online shopping. You need to sign for that one. Is that you? Do you want me to bring them in? I’m Mrs McPherson from the post office, by the way. There’s been a lot of these boxes of late.’
Had there? Izzy hadn’t realised, probably because Xanthe was very good at intercepting the post.
‘Hello,’ said Izzy. ‘I’m “I McBride” – but please call me Izzy.’
‘Ah, the new owner!’ She gave Izzy a quick, appraising look. ‘I heard you were young.’ She sounded as if she hadn’t believed it. ‘You’re turning the place into a hotel, I believe.’ She peered behind Izzy into the hallway of the castle. ‘Paint, is it?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, grinning at this blatant curiosity. ‘My mother’s ordered it. I don’t even know what colour she decided upon.’
‘Shall I bring it in for you? Farrow and Ball. That’s the posh stuff. I’ve always favoured Dulux myself.’
‘Yes, please. That’s very kind of you.’ Amused, Izzy stepped aside and let her in.
‘It’s no bother.’ She walked in and stopped, taking a good look around at the hallway. ‘Where do you want it? Shall I take it through to the kitchen?’
‘Er … yes,’ she replied, surprised, but the woman had already begun walking in the right direction.
‘It’s all right, I often used to stop awhile and have a wee cup of tea with Bill when he was alive.’
She elbowed her way through the door into the warm kitchen, currently filled with the homely smell of fresh bread, and set the box down on the table, looking around the room with an approving nod. ‘You’ve not made any changes in here then. Something smells good. You been baking? It’s been a wee while since breakfast.’
‘No, not yet,’ agreed Izzy. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She glanced at the clock. Duncan, a creature of habit, would be up for his morning brew any minute.
‘Aye, lass.’ She gave an approving smile. ‘I thought you’d never ask. And perhaps a piece of toast. That bread looks good, did you make it yourself?’
‘I did.’ She was rather proud of today’s batch as it had been an experiment. The course in Ireland had touched on some of the science behind bread making and how different flours reacted, which had fascinated her and made her desperate to try new recipes. She shot a quick fond glance at the small Kilner jar on the side, which contained her sourdough starter that she’d brought home with her, and went by the name of ‘Wee McBride’. ‘I’m planning to try some others.’
‘They sell good flour in the farm shop from the local mill over the hill. You should try it. Have you been there yet?’
‘No I haven’t. I must.’ She’d been a bit lazy and had relied on a big shop at the nearest supermarket in Fort William, which went against all she’d learned in Ireland about sourcing and using local food, but she just hadn’t had time. As she put the kettle on to boil and sliced the fresh loaf, she was aware of Mrs Macpherson’s subtle interrogation into her plans for the castle and wondered if the whole village would be updated by the end of the day.
‘So the paint … where you painting it?’ she asked with blatant nosiness.
