sister’s voice at that. ‘He did. He’s wonderful. But I’m fine. I’ll feed Lord Hamish Douglas and give him a bed tonight and then I’ll leave him to his own devices.’ The smile died from her words. ‘Oh, but, Kirsty, to see him sell the castle…I don’t see how I can bear it.’
The castle was stunning.
While Susie finished her gardening Hamish took the opportunity to explore. And he was stunned.
It was an amazing, over-the-top mixture of grandeur and kitsch. The old earl hadn’t stinted when it came to building a castle as a castle ought to be built—to last five hundred years or more. But into his grand building he’d put furnishings that were anything but grand. Hamish had an Aunt Molly who’d love this stuff. He thought of Molly as he winced at the truly horrible plastic chandeliers hung along the passageways, at the plastic plants in plastic urns, at the cheap gilt Louis XIV tables and chairs, and at the settees with bright gold crocodile legs. It was so awful it was brilliant.
Then he opened the bathroom door and Queen Victoria gazed down at him in blatant disapproval from behind an aspidistra. He burst out laughing but he closed the door fast. A man couldn’t do what a man had to do under that gaze. He’d have to find another bathroom or head to the pub.
More exploring.
He found another bathroom, this one fitted with a chandelier so large it almost edged out the door. The portrait here was of Henry the Eighth. OK. He could live with Henry. He found five empty bedrooms and chose one with a vast four-poster bed and a view of the ocean that took his breath away.
He decided staying here was possible.
Susie was still digging in the garden below. He watched her for a minute—and went back to thinking. Staying here was fraught with difficulties.
What had she said? She’d fallen in love with a castle, a compost bin, the worms she was digging out of the mud right now.
She’d cried.
The set look of her shoulders said she might still be crying.
He didn’t do tears.
The smile he’d had on his face since he’d met Queen Victoria faded. He put Susie’s emotion carefully away from him.
He sorted his gear, hanging shirts neatly, jackets neatly, lining up shoes. He had enough clothes to last him a week. Otherwise he’d have to find a laundry.
Marcia called him a control freak. Marcia was right.
Almost involuntarily, he crossed to the window again. Susie was digging with almost ferocious intensity, taking out her pain on the mud. He saw her pause and wipe her overalled arm across her eyes.
She was crying.
He should stay at the pub. Darts or not.
That was dumb. Fleeing emotion? What sort of laird did that make him?
He owned this pile. He was Lord Hamish Douglas. Ridiculous! If his mother knew what was happening she’d cry, too, he thought, and then winced.
Too many tears!
For the first part of his life tears had been all he’d known. When he’d been three his father had suicided. That was his first memory. Too many women, too many tears, endless sobbing…
The tears hadn’t stopped. His mother had held her husband’s death to her heart—over his head—for the rest of her life. She held it still.
Her voice came back to him in all its pathos.
‘Wash your knees, Hamish. Your father would hate it if he saw his son with grubby knees. Oh, I can’t bear it that he can’t be here to see.’
Tears.
‘Do your homework, Hamish. Oh, if you fail…’
Tears.
Or, as he’d shown no signs of failing, ‘Your father would be so proud…’ And the sobbing would continue. Endlessly. His mother, her friends, his aunts.
There’d been tears every day of his life until he’d broken away, fiercely, among floods of recriminations—and more tears—and made his own life. He’d taken a job in Manhattan, far away from his Californian home. Far from the tears.
He hated the crying—the endless emotion. Hated it! His job now was an oasis of calm, where emotions were the last thing he needed. Marcia was cool, calm and self-contained. Nary a tear. That was his life.
He shouldn’t have come, he thought. This title thing was ridiculous. He’d never use it. Marcia thought it was great and if she wanted to use the ‘Lady’ bit then that was fine by him.
Marcia would never cry.
He’d call her, he decided, retrieving his cell phone. Manhattan was sixteen hours behind here. Four in the afternoon here made it midnight back home. Marcia would be in bed, reading the long-winded legal briefs she read as avidly as some read crime novels.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Hamish. Fabulous. You’re there, then. Should I address you as Lord Douglas?’
‘Cut it out, Marcia,’ he said uncomfortably, and she backed off in an instant. That was the great thing about Marcia. She never intruded on his personal space.
‘I’m sorry. Did you have a good journey?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
There was a moment’s pause. Marcia was expecting him to say something else, he knew, but he was still watching Susie under his window. Susie was digging as if her life depended on it.
‘What’s it like?’ Marcia said eventually, all patience. ‘The castle?’
‘Crazy. Queen Victoria’s in my bathroom.’
‘Who?’
‘Queen Vic. It’s OK. I’ve changed to one with Henry the Eighth.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Portraits in the bathroom. The place is full of kitsch. Queen Victoria is a trifle…distracting.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hamish, just take it down.’
That’d be sensible, he thought. He’d take all the portraits down. He’d send them to his Aunty Molly. As soon as Susie left.
‘Was there anyone there to meet you?’
‘Rory Douglas’s widow. The lawyer told us about Rory Douglas.’
‘He did,’ she said, and he could hear her leafing through documents till she found what she wanted. ‘I’ve got the letter here. He was murdered by his brother, which is why you inherited. What’s she like?’
‘Emotional.’
‘A lachrymose widow,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘My poor Hamish, how awful. Will she be hard to move?’
