Chapter One
Ezzie Wynter, manager of Rothach Hall, had the best job in the world at one of the most beautiful spots on the Isle of Skye.
Through the tall, elegant windows of her panelled office, lawns and gardens glittered with November frost. Beyond that lay the parkland, the silvery waters of the Sound of Sleat and then the mainland’s green and purple mountains, already dusted with snow. But what kept drawing Ezzie’s attention from checking over the Christmas decorations for the hall’s public rooms was a tall man in his sixties huddled into a shapeless, dated black overcoat and woollen hat. He stood where the drive broadened before the semi-circular steps, his hesitant gaze on the big double doors like a child unsure of his welcome at a party.
Skye didn’t draw as many winter tourists as it did from spring to autumn, so Rothach Hall was staffed sparingly at present. Orla from reception was off for a few days, andthe new assistant manager wouldn’t arrive until February, so today Ezz had been the one to put out the sign sayingPublic rooms open. Now pride in the hall prompted her to offer further encouragement to their lone winter visitor to enjoy the public rooms’ polished wood and pink-streaked Skye marble. She put down a box of red baubles on tartan ribbon, grabbed her long, tailored coat from its hook and tip-tapped over the tiles of the lofty reception area past the mahogany reception desk. Opening the doors, she stepped out into the bitingly cold air with a bright, professional smile. ‘Good morning. Were you hoping to come in? We’re open.’
The man looked startled, and he was either given to old-fashioned gestures or hot flushes because he removed his hat to show a closely shaved head. As he gazed up at her, at the top of the steps, his lips formed a slow half-smile. ‘Thanks. Are you a guide?’
Skye attracted visitors from around the world, so she was unsurprised that his accent placed him somewhere in the middle of England, though further west than Suffolk, where she’d grown up. ‘I’m the manager, Esmerelda Wynter. I’m afraid the public rooms aren’t big enough to warrant guides. There are interesting information cards, though, prepared by a historian.’ She hoped he didn’t have a reading issue like her sister, Thea, because there was no aural alternative. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair blew annoyingly across her face, silky, yet poker-straight, and she pushed it back.
Finally, he began to tread slowly up the steps. But he didn’t gaze into the panelled lobby, where the dogleg staircase soared up to the next floor, instead pausing to give her a shy smile. ‘Have you been manager long? It looks a lovely place to work.’
‘I’ve worked here for over nine years, but as assistant manager till a few months ago. The public rooms are to the left and also up these stairs.’ She indicated the way to the first tall, gracious room at the rear of the lobby and then the imposing wooden staircase. A large glossy white door to their right was marked with an uncompromisingPrivate, because it accessed the Larsson family’s own quarters. They owned Rothach Hall and were due to visit for Christmas this year. Previously, their visits had fallen in spring or summer, so one of Ezz’s current preoccupations was waking the hall from its customary winter semi-hibernation. Hoping to encourage him indoors so she could return to her desk, she added, ‘The public room furniture predates the hall’s restoration and there are framed examples of the fabric and wallpaper of the historical décor. There are also fine, traditional Skye marble fire surrounds and mirrored overmantels.’
‘Thanks.’ He continued to smile.
He didn’t set off her ‘unwanted attentions’ radar, but it seemed good sense to make it clear that she wasn’t alone, although it sometimes seemed as if she staffed the entire place by herself in winter. ‘Both the gardeners are here today if you have any questions about the grounds. Enjoy yourself. I’m afraid I’m expected on a video call.’
With a nod and a last smile, he ambled across the lobby towards the public rooms with their faded tartan upholstery and watercolour paintings.
Back in her office, she hung up her coat and switched her attention from investigating the Christmas decorations for the upcoming decking of Rothach Hall to the computer on the antique walnut desk. Earlier, she’d been searching for the standard operating procedure files. Unfortunately, her predecessor in this lovely office, TavishMacBetha, having departed on bad terms, had provided no job description or handover notes. Ezz frequently had to formulate files and records from scratch because he’d apparently deleted random items as a you-can-kiss-my-sweet-backside-goodbye gesture.
The management of the building and staff was no problem in view of her years as assistant manager, but so far as her interaction with the Larsson family went, she was feeling her way. Tavish had dealt with the family himself wherever possible and given the impression of possessing special skills. From what Ezz had been able to glean whenever watching him in action, he not only did just whatever Erik, Grete and family required, but he also did it unobtrusively and obsequiously. He’d hinted at holding vital qualifications in five-star hospitality and having experience in a ‘private household’. As he’d passed on none of his knowledge, since taking over as manager in July she’d paid for online tuition. This placed great emphasis on ‘high-level service’ and ‘an impeccable say-yes attitude’, which recommended phrases such as ‘you need only tell me what you’d like’ rather than bombarding employers with direct questions.
Clearly, the polite-and-helpful manner that had served her as assistant manager required adjustment now she was manager – or ‘estate manager’, which, apparently, she should have been calling herself. Her dark suit remained the same, but colourful manicures had been replaced by clear polish, and her at-work make-up was discreet – which was a shame when she had bright blue eyes to make the most of.
The course termed owners of ‘substantial private households’ as ‘globe-trotting elite’, and she acknowledged that the Larssons fell into that category. Their fishprocessing plants in Sweden and Norway might not be glamorous but generated the money to restore Rothach Hall as the family’s retreat and a visitor attraction on an island off the west coast of Scotland. The hall provided salaries not just for Ezz but also for her sister Thea and the rest of the full-time staff, and seasonal staff from May to October. Despite all this, Erik and Grete had genial, down-to-earth manners – if you didn’t cross their boundaries on matters such as how other members of staff were treated – as Tavish had discovered to his cost. Ezz was more wary of their children and grandchildren, who’d been born into wealth and private education.
Now, it was Grete who’d be video-calling her, probably to give instructions regarding festive celebrations. Ezz ran her eyes over the notepad where she’d made notes about things like Christmas trees and menus, then checked her suit and hair before joining the call, professional smile at the ready.
The screen flickered, then an image formed of a smart, older woman, silver-framed glasses matching her silver hair. Ezzie’s smile widened. Grete was a powerhouse despite her seventy-or-so years. Her management style consisted of telling people what she wanted with a twinkling smile and expecting it to be done. Now, her eyes crinkled to slits and her soft Norwegian accent emanated from the machine. ‘Ezzie! How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ Ezzie answered. ‘And you?’
‘Good, good. We must speak of Christmas.’ Grete’s English was good, much better than her Swedish husband Erik’s. Their children – Mats, Jonas and Maja – spoke fluent English in what sounded to Ezzie like a lightly American accent, perhaps from attending international school. She’d investigated the term and found it meantmultinational students, multilingual instruction and global perspective, which sounded like a privileged start in life.
‘Of course. You only need to tell me what you’d like.’ Ezzie poised her pen over her pad.
But instead of providing details about the family visit, Grete asked, ‘How far are you with plans to make a Christmas attraction at Rothach?’
Ezzie did a mental swerve to meet the unexpected question. ‘The lantern walk around the grounds and gardens will be easy to create, and Dilly at the Nature Garden Café has agreed to extend café opening hours for events, with a Christmas snack menu. I’ve been working on the programme starting next winter,’ she added cautiously, hoping she hadn’t got something horribly wrong and was supposed to be ready with a full winter wonderland already.
Grete propped herself comfortably on her elbows. ‘We did say next year. But I have wondered whether we can do anything this winter.’
Ezzie sought a positive way of saying that there was no time to advertise, and that interest would take a while to build. She licked her lips. ‘Of course. I’ll work on where best to find our customers.’
Grete’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ezzie, I know you cannot produce a few hundred visitors to Skye in December when it is already November 7th. But I have the idea that we should talk to the island’s bigger hotels and offer a short event for their guests. Many hotels advertise winter breaks with Christmas menus. A small-scale event would test the market.’
Relief at this eminently practical plan made Ezzie brightly enthusiastic as she scribbled notes. Her online course hadadvocated developing the memory of an elephant rather than writing things down, but that sounded risky. ‘I can certainly look into that for you.’
Grete nodded. ‘I will work with you on making Rothach a Christmas attraction. It will be a new project for me. I plan to arrive at Rothach in two days and stay until Christmas to enjoy Skye. I’m leaving Erik with the fish,’ she added wryly.
Ezz smiled at the small joke and hoped that nothing in her expression gave away her astonishment that instead of arriving around three weeks before Christmas as previously planned, Grete was arrivingsoonand apparently intended to spend a couple of months on Skye. She focused on logistics. ‘I’ll make Gwen aware, so she has your suite ready.’ Maintaining her anything-is-possible air she asked, ‘Will you want the family areas decorating for Christmas, for when you arrive? The public rooms will be decorated soon.’
‘But for the family rooms, not until December.’ Grete propped her chin on her fist. ‘For the first evening, perhaps Gwen will prepare my favourite Scottish meal – haggis with … Tell me again the name.’ Her smile became anticipatory.
‘With tatties and neeps – which is potatoes and swede,’ Ezzie supplied promptly.
