Swept off Her Feet Read online

  To give him his due, he only rolled his eyes, and didn’t bite my head off. “You’ve probably noticed, there’s a lot of McAndrews to get my head round.”

  “Poor Violet, though,” I said with sympathy. “Being pushed out of that wonderful house! After she’d lived her whole married life there!”

  “Well, that’s the way it goes. Son inherits, mum’s booted out. She seems to have brought most of its contents with her, anyway. I’ve got three livable rooms.” He gestured toward the open-plan sitting room, cream-colored and empty apart from two low sofas and some Art. “Kitchen, the sitting room, and a bedroom. The others are packed—and I mean packed—with boxes. Carlisle never let anyone in to sort it out after she died, and I’ve never had time. Someone really needs to go through all that stuff.”

  “Ooh!” I couldn’t help it. My imagination rippled at the tantalizing prospect of a whole life in boxes. “What sort of stuff?”

  Robert saw my eyes gleam and raised a hand in warning. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “Just stuff, okay? Clutter. Photographs. Clothes. Old newspapers. No mysterious cases containing priceless diamond tiaras—anything valuable stayed up in the big house.”

  I would have fallen on anything belonging to any member of my family pre-1960. Fallen like a ravenous beast.

  “But that is the really valuable stuff!” I protested. “Especially since you don’t know anything about her. You’re not curious to get to know your great-grandmother, see if she left any letters, any secrets about her own family? You’ve got a whole other side of the family in America, haven’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Robert sighed. “I’m not into all that research-your-ancestors stuff. All I really care about is what I do now, not what someone else did a hundred years ago. I find it quite tedious.”

  His eyes had gone guarded, his mouth a tight line. But seeing my face fall, he batted the question back to me. “Don’t tell me—you’ve researched your whole family back to Merlin the wizard.”

  “I wish,” I said ruefully. “I started, but we peter out mysteriously in Pickering just after the Boer War. Dad reckons there must have been some name-changing shenanigans, refused to let me research any further in case we were career criminals and it got out round the bowls club.”

  “But what’s so interesting about other people’s marriages and lives and divorces?” Robert looked at me, genuinely bemused. “It’s like Kettlesheer, full of other people’s stuff. Wouldn’t you rather have your own things?”

  “No! I love holding little bits of other people’s lives. It’s almost as if they haven’t died if their locket or their tea set’s still being touched and used.” I closed my mouth, surprised by the way that thought had just popped into my head out of nowhere.

  “Well, I find it absolutely suffocating,” he admitted. “Can’t get that through to Dad in the right way—it’s not a criticism, it’s just the way I’ve lived my life, doing my own thing.” Robert paused, as if he were actually considering what I’d said. “But I can see what you’re saying. It’s a nice sentiment.”

  I wanted to say something witty, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop looking at his extraordinary brown eyes. They were huge, and they seemed to look right inside my mind.

  Luckily, Robert pulled a face and ruined the moment. “Good job for me that there’s money to be made from people’s inability to have a good clear-out.”

  At that, my breath rushed out in an embarrassing half-gasp, half-laugh. I hadn’t been aware that I was holding it.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I nodded and pretended to cough.

  Robert’s old phone rang in the hall—it sounded weird in the modern kitchen, like history calling to reprimand him for what he’d just said.

  “That’ll be the original owner of the phone,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. “Calling to check up on me.”

  “And that was . . . Violet?” I shivered.

  Robert nodded. Then frowned and shook his head. “I mean, no. That’s either someone from work, or Janet Lear-mont. Again. Would you excuse me?”

  As he left the room, my own phone rang: Max, calling back, I hoped, with a comprehensive list of cocktail party gossip about the McAndrews and their valuables, plus his considered opinion on the photos of the George III console table I’d just e-mailed to him.

  I grabbed my pen and notebook, keen to get my brain back into professional gear. My hands, I noticed, were shaking.

  “Hello?”

  “Good work on the table,” said Max. It was incredible how quickly he could drop the louche act when money was involved. “That’s the bobby. Worth about ten, twelve grand on a good day. I know a lady in Altrincham very keen for a table like that. Was there a second one?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Check for a pair. Bumps up the price.” He paused. “Table? Found it?”

  “Which one? There are about a million!” I said. “I don’t know where to start. Give me a clue.”

  I heard the click of a lighter and a tense exhalation at the other end. My stomach clenched. Max only smoked when coffee wasn’t getting his heart rate high enough.

  “I’m not in the mood for games. I’ve just had that penny-pinching weasel Daniel Finch round.”

  My heart sank. Daniel Finch was Max’s accountant. They had the sort of love/hate/fear relationship normally found in Meat Loaf duets.

  “What did he want?” I asked warily.

  “Blood,” groaned Max. “My liver. My firstborn son. I mean, he’s welcome to Jasper. Please. It would get me out of paying for his driving lessons—”

  “What did Daniel want?” I repeated.

  “Let’s just say that we seem to have slipped behind with our rent, as well as some other payments on account, and friend Daniel seems to think that an assistant is one of life’s luxuries I should be casting by the wayside, along with decent wine and soft loo paper.”

  I grimaced and looked for something to crush, silently. This was a worrying echo of last year, right down to the buck-passing syntax.

  When Max’s business was failing, it was “we,” up to the point where “Daniel” insisted that Max sack me. He’d spared me at the last moment, thanks to Alice getting him into some old dowagers’ bridge club in Chelsea; but last year Max’s turnover had been three times what it was so far this year, and I owed him money. Times were hard, and I didn’t doubt Max would cut me loose without much of a backward glance, especially if I couldn’t pull in a big deal from a house apparently full of saleable items.

  “Fine, I get it,” I said. “How much would we pay for a herd of escritoires? Because that’s all Duncan’s steered me toward so far.”

  Max made a rather fruity comment about the escritoires. “Find this bloody mystery table! It can’t be that hard, even for you. Have you tried the dining room? It could be a dining set—ow!”

  “What?” I stopped writing.

  “My head,” said Max in his pathetic “hurt bear” voice. “Daniel has induced a migraine. Where’ve you put those super-strength headache tablets your most obliging sister acquired for us?”

  “They’re in the tea caddy in the kitchen. Don’t take more than one at a time—they’re illegal in the EU.”

  I could hear Robert talking on the phone in the hall. His voice was rising, and I strained my ears to hear what he was saying over the sound of Max’s whining.

  “And that’s another thing, when are you planning to come back?” Max demanded. “I’ve got a shop full of your tatty flotsam and jetsam staring me in the face, and I honestly cannot bring myself to sell it. I have a reputation to consider. I do not want to be seen flogging grotesque wedding photos like some antimarriage counselor.”

  “I’ll be back by Friday,” I said, hearing the old-fashioned jingle of Robert hanging up the receiver. “If you’re really not feeling well, see a doctor. And don’t forget it’s Valentine’s Day on Saturday.”

  “You sound like my ex-wife.”

  “I am nothing li
ke your ex-wife, Max,” I replied, then turned round just in time to see Robert standing at the door. One eyebrow shot up, and it occurred to me that it might sound a bit wrong, out of context. “Put all the teddies out, throw some confetti over them, and I’ll see you on Friday,” I added, and hung up.

  “Trouble at home?” Robert asked as I slammed my notebook shut before he could see my despairing asides about his family furniture.

  “No, no, just my boss. He needs his hand held sometimes.”

  “What . . .” Robert left a meaningful pause. “Literally?”

  “Oh, no! God, no! No!” I shook my head, hard. “He wears a leather coat. No.”

  “Ah, it’s that maidenly blush again,” Robert observed. “That’s not blushing, that’s . . . the cold.”

  Robert checked his watch. “I don’t mean to hurry you out, but is there anything else you need to know about the Wi-Fi, or the house? That was Cat—I’ve got ten minutes before she and her mother appear to make their last plea on behalf of skirts for men. You’re welcome to stay and finish what you’re doing, but there won’t be much peace and quiet.”

  “Is it an extension of the committee meeting?”

  He sighed. “There’s an agenda, yes.”

  Then it was a meeting I didn’t want to be at, eager though I was for more ball detail.

  “I’d better leave you to it. But I suppose they just want it to be perfect,” I said, packing up my laptop. “Don’t you feel like the leading man? The Kettlesheer heir surrounded by the most beautiful girls in the Borders?”

  “More like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said, then added, as I opened my mouth to protest, “I know you think castles and reels and tartans—ooh, romantic!” Robert mimicked my breathiness so perfectly, I winced. “But keeping places like this running was never romantic. It was more about political strategizing and mergers. Cold-eyed business.”

  “Maybe in the very old days—” I began.

  “Oh, come on.” He looked at me as if I was being hopelessly naïve. “It wasn’t that long ago that Ranald McAndrew needed a strategic overseas investor to refloat his expensive castle, was it?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t like that,” I protested, not wanting to think of the vivacious girl in the drawing room steaming across the Atlantic as some sort of . . . human checkbook. “And if it is just business, surely you’re more qualified than anyone to take over? Because you don’t love it?”

  “Ouch.” Robert’s face softened, and we regarded each other frankly, neither wanting to concede the other had a point.

  “It can’t be all misery,” I said. “You’re hosting a white-tie-and-champagne ball at the weekend. Please. Humor me here.”

  Robert leaned on the kitchen table, dropping his eyes, then raised them to mine. His face was open and honest, and a bit weary.

  “I’ll tell you what it’s like,” he said. “It’s like being given a job you didn’t realize you’d interviewed for. And then being told you’ve got to judge Miss McWorld on top of that, while everyone points at the family tree in the hall and gossips about your sex life because you haven’t got married yet. And then introduces you to their daughter. And you’re, like . . .”

  Robert illustrated it with a manic grin, and for a moment the storage-focused businessman fell away and he looked like any of the other panicky blokes herded in my direction at the singles dinners Alice and my mum dragged me to.

  In a flash, I felt sorry for him. Sorry, in fact, for all the other male McAndrews who’d been frog-marched to face a selection of capable local girls they didn’t fancy as much as their fathers fancied the land the girls came with.

  “I still think it’s amazing to belong to a house like Kettlesheer,” I said.

  “But that’s just it. I belong to the house, not the other way round.” Robert raked his hand through his already tousled hair, and frowned at his cold tea. “What I want doesn’t seem to come into it.” He glanced up. “Sorry. I know, boo-hoo for me. You don’t need to hear all this.”

  “Why not? I’ll be off on Friday. Looong before you have to staple your party face on for the Reel of Luck.”

  Robert laughed. “You should stay for the ball. See for yourself.”

  “Thanks, but I hear you have to have exact numbers,” I said ruefully. “I don’t want to spoil Janet’s battle plans.”

  “I know the organizers,” said Robert, with a jokey tap of the nose. “I can get you in.”

  I sighed, because my entire body was screaming Show me the dance cards! “I wish. But since we’re talking business, I’ve just had fair warning from my boss that if I don’t get back to London on Friday with a selection of priceless gems for your father to sell through us, I might as well not bother coming back at all.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “So if you know where the collection of Fabergé egg spoons has been hidden, now is the time to tip me the wink.”

  “I wish I did,” said Robert. “Even if I think it’s a waste of time to sell them, I’d hate us to be the reason you lost your job. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

  He looked directly over the table, and again the shrewd brown eyes stalled my brain. Something fluttered in the air between us for a moment, and then it was gone.

  “I should get back up to the house.” I hoisted my laptop bag onto my shoulder.

  Robert pushed his bench back and got up to escort me to the door. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. And if you need the Internet, text me.”

  “I haven’t got your number,” I pointed out.

  “Hang on, I’ll get my phone—I’ll ring you.”

  I lingered in the cool hall passage as Robert turned back to get his phone from the kitchen table, and my attention was drawn to a tarnished brass door handle.

  My imagination gave a little fizz, picturing the housemaids in starched white headbands who must once have polished that, dreaming of the underbutler at the big house. Was this the old drawing room? Full of Violet’s stuff? It was a bit nosy, maybe, but a quick peek wouldn’t hurt. …

  I pushed the door open as quietly as possible, and my heart skipped: the room was jammed with trunks, tables, standard lamps, some storage boxes, photographs stacked in silver piles, all smelling of lavender and leather and another time.

  Violet’s life, from New York childhood to Kettlesheer widow, all waiting for someone to explore.

  Ten

  Without thinking, I began to inch into the room, heading for the tempting packing crates like a sniffer dog, my mind full of Violet and her gilded life.

  These rooms must have felt tiny after the airiness of Kettlesheer—after whatever splendid New York townhouse she had left. I spotted a photograph of Ranald, darkly dashing in cricket whites, the brooding McAndrew eyes burning over a luxuriant mustache; and an old gramophone, a lady’s sewing box with a beautiful tapestry lid, and a rocking horse with a dappled mane and faded ribbons.

  Against the far wall was a painting of a dimpled blonde in tennis whites, a white band crushed against her curls and a racquet over one shoulder. Older than the portrait in the drawing room, a woman in her thirties now, but still the same mischievous glint in her smile. I got a familiar shiver of something exciting, and valuable. I wanted to know her. I felt like she was inviting me to explore her life.

  I picked up a beaded evening handbag sticking out of an old banana box. It glittered with jet beads and gold links—

  “I know. Where to start, eh?” said a voice from behind me.

  I dropped the bag and jumped back.

  Robert was standing a few paces away, holding his phone. He sounded more amused than annoyed.

  “You’re welcome to have a look,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to sort it out for months.”

  “Really? You don’t mind?” I asked. I was already edging back inside, running my gaze over the various boxes and crates with the quick “junk or gem” scan I used at auctions. Obviously, what I was really craving were photo albums. Photo albums were peopl
e. Parties. Weddings. Moments in real lives, like mine. What were Violet’s?

  “Be my guest,” said Robert. “Phone number?”

  I rattled off my mobile number almost without thinking as I opened the nearest box. It looked like the contents of a lady’s desk: notebooks and letters in faded ink, stiff wedding invitations, calling cards belonging to Lady Violet McAndrew.

  Reverentially, I lifted the top card—an engraved order of service from Ranald and Violet’s wedding in London.

  “Oh, they were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square!” I exclaimed.

  “And?”

  “It’s where all the smart society weddings were held. Look, they had the most beautiful hymns. . . .” Images swam in front of my eyes from other society photographs I’d pored over, the French lace veil, the gold-buttoned guard of honor outside, the masses of crisp white blossom—

  There was a knock at the front door. The sort of firm knock designed to travel through ancient hallways without doorbells. The knock of a horsewoman.

  “Oh, God,” said Robert, “they’re here.”

  “Who’re here?” I asked, still entranced with bridal Violet, now boarding the steam train to Berwick in my mind’s eye, the station platform at King’s Cross piled with her Louis Vuitton trousseau.

  “Catriona and Janet. Listen, take that box if you want, and I’ll have a look through here later, see if there’s anything that might help you.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped back into the hall. I could see two bold shapes through the door glass. “You should . . .”

  “Right, yes.” Robert marched forward and opened the door to reveal Janet and Catriona on the step, now in matching quilted jackets and fur-trapper hats, each with a clipboard under her arm.

  “Good afternoon!” barked Janet, her breath pluming in the cold air.

  Catriona didn’t look thrilled. “Oh, hello, Evie.”

  “Evie was just going,” said Robert, ushering me safely past them. “Ring me if you need . . . help.” He made a phone sign, his finger and thumb held up to his ear. It seemed a very London gesture, set against the backdrop of snowdrops and stone walls outside.