Maybe he’ll let me stay on as caretaker even then?
That was a good thought, but did she want to stay as housekeeper/caretaker at Duncairn for the rest of her life?
‘Yes,’ she said out loud, so savagely that the sheep nearest her window leaped back with alarm.
‘No,’ she corrected herself, but maybe that was the wrong answer, too. That was the dangerous part of her talking. That was the part of her that had chafed against being part of Rory’s family business, doing the books, cleaning the fish shop, aching to get off the island and do something exciting.
Well, she had done something exciting, she told herself bitterly. She’d met and married Alan and she’d had all the excitement a girl could want and more.
‘So it’s back in your box to you, Jeanie McBride,’ she told herself and thought briefly about her name. Jeanie McBride. She was that. She was Alan’s widow.
She was Alasdair’s wife.
‘At the end of the year I’m going back to being Jeanie Lochlan,’ she told the last sheep as it finally ambled off the road. ‘Meanwhile I’m going back to being housekeeper at Duncairn, chief cook and bottle washer for a year. I’m going back to taking no risks. The only thing that’s changed for the next twelve months is that the house has one permanent guest. That guest is Alasdair McBride but any trouble from him and he’s out on his ear.’
And you’ll kick him out how?
‘I won’t need to,’ she told the sheep. ‘I hold all the cards.
‘For a year,’ she reminded herself, wishing the sheep could talk back. ‘And for a year...well, Alasdair McBride might be the Earl of Duncairn but he’s in no position to lord it over me. For the next year I know my place, and he’d better know his.’
ALASDAIR WOKE AT DAWN to find the dogs had deserted him. That had to be a good sign, he told himself, but he hadn’t heard Jeanie return.
His room was on the ocean side of the castle. The massive stone walls would mean the sound of a car approaching from the land side wouldn’t have woken him.
That didn’t mean she was here, though.
He wanted—badly—to find out. The future of Duncairn rested on the outcome of the next few minutes but for some reason he couldn’t bear to know.
He opened his laptop. He didn’t even know if she’d returned but it paid a man to be prepared.
It paid a man to hope?
By eight o’clock he’d formed a plan of action. He’d made a couple of phone calls. He’d done some solid work, but the silence in the castle was starting to do his head in. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He dressed and headed down the great staircase, listening for noise—listening for Jeanie?
He pushed open the door to the dining room and was met by...normal. Normal?
He’d been in this room often but this morning it was as if he were seeing it for the first time. Maybe it was because last night he’d almost lost it—or maybe it was because this morning it was the setting for Jeanie. Or he hoped it was.
Regardless, it was some setting. The castle after Eileen’s amazing restoration was truly luxurious, but Eileen—and Jeanie, her right-hand assistant—had never lost sight of the heart of the place. That heart was displayed right here. The massive stone fireplace took half a wall. A fire blazed in the hearth, a small fire by castle standards but the weather was warm and the flame was there mostly to form a heart—and maybe to form a setting for the dogs, who lay sprawled in front of it. Huge wooden beams soared above. The vast rug on the floor was an ancient design, muted yet glorious, and matching the worn floorboards to perfection.
There were guests at four of the small tables, the guests he’d given whisky to last night. They gave him polite smiles and went back to their breakfast.
Porridge, he thought, checking the tables at a glance. Black pudding. Omelettes!
Jeanie must be home.
And almost as he thought it, there she was, bustling in from the kitchen, apron over her jeans, her curls tied into a bouncy ponytail, her face fixed into a hostess-like beam of welcome.
‘Good morning, My Lord. Your table is the one by the window. It has a fine view but the morning papers are beside it if you prefer a broader outlook. Can I fetch you coffee while you decide what you’d like for your breakfast?’
So this was the way it would be. Guest and hostess. Even the dogs hadn’t stirred in welcome. Jeanie was home. They had no need of him.
Things were back to normal?
‘I just need toast.’
‘Surely not. We have eggs and bacon, sausages, porridge, black pudding, omelettes, pancakes, griddle cakes...whatever you want, My Lord, I can supply it. Within reason, of course.’ And she pressed a menu into his hands and retreated to the kitchen.
* * *
He ate porridge. No lumps. Excellent.
He felt...extraneous. Would he be served like this for the entire year? He’d go nuts.
But he sat and read his paper until all the guests had departed, off to tramp the moors or climb the crags or whatever it was that guests did during their stay. The American couple departed for good, for which he was thankful. The rest were staying at least another night. Jeanie was obviously supplying picnic baskets and seeing each guest off on their day’s adventures. He waited a few moments after the last farewell to give her time to catch her breath, and then headed to the kitchen to find her.
She was elbow deep in suds in front of the sink. Washed pots and pans were stacked up to one side. He took a dishcloth and started to dry.
‘There’s no need to be doing that.’ She must have heard him come in but she didn’t turn to look at him. ‘Put the dishcloth down. This is my territory.’
‘This year’s a mutual business deal. We work together.’
‘You’ve got your company’s work to be doing. There’s a spare room beyond the ones you’re using—your grandmother set it up as a small, private library for her own use. It has a fine view of the sea. We’ll need to see if the Internet reaches there—if not you can get a router in town. Hamish McEwan runs the electrical store in Duncairn. He’ll come out if I call him.’
Business. Her voice was clipped and efficient.
She still hadn’t looked at him.
‘We need to organise more than my office,’ he told her. ‘For a start, we need a cleaning lady.’
‘We do not!’ She sounded offended. ‘What could be wrong with my cleaning?’
‘How many days a year do you take guests?’
‘Three-sixty-five.’
