Swept off Her Feet Read online

  Dining table, Thos Chippendale, circa 1760, see original letter of commission from Kirkland McAndrew, enc.

  I looked at the table, then looked at the notebook again. My heart gave an unhealthy lurch in my chest.

  It couldn’t be. Surely?

  Practically no undiscovered furniture made by Thomas Chippendale himself still existed—if this provenance was accurate and not some family hearsay, it was worth a fortune. Even if it had been made by a craftsman, based on a design from Chippendale’s book of patterns, it was still worth a lot of money.

  But if it was original, Max would hyperventilate. Commission would run into the tens of thousands. He’d actually fainted over Geraldine Hardwick’s Fabergé egg, and I didn’t think that was entirely for her benefit.

  I spread my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the texture of the wood vibrate under my touch. I loved dining tables: they absorbed the happiest memories. How many Christmases, marriages, homecomings from battle and from the Empire, had been celebrated here?

  The cobwebby fireplace faded from view as I pictured a dinner-jacketed Ranald at the head of his table, soft candlelight glowing in the polished wood as he stole a glance at his energetic young wife. Violet at the opposite end, her white throat blazing with Tiffany diamonds, drawing out a shy neighbor’s conversation about the day’s fishing on the—

  My daydream broke with an imaginary needle-off-the-record scratch. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t feel anything in the table: all the warmth was in my head.

  This table, which must have had hundreds of hands touch it since it was delivered, was completely still. It looked right: the chair held me in a way that was comfortable but straight-backed, and the legs and inlay of the table seemed authentic. But I couldn’t feel anything.

  Maybe it was just out of my league. I’d never seen anything as valuable as this before.

  I slid off the chair and crouched underneath, trying to make out what I could of the underside, where any bodging would be more obvious. That was another of Max’s dubious tips: “Get on your knees and have a look at the bottom.”

  The light in the room wasn’t good, but I noted the lighter wood, the neat joinery, the right marks. All present and correct. The wood was old. The shapes were right. And yet …

  Max would know, I thought, taking photos as best I could. He was pretty good at telling repro from the real thing. He’d seen everything in his time, and in places you wouldn’t expect. But I wanted him to say it was the precious real thing. I wanted this to be Duncan’s lifeline to keeping Violet’s home in the family.

  “Please,” I muttered, praying to the auction gods. “I won’t buy another photo frame for a year if you can just make this real.”

  “Are you okay under there? Dropped a contact lens?” asked a solicitous voice.

  I jumped and banged my head, then slumped to one side in my haste to get out, banging my head again against the gateleg holding up one of the substantial extenders.

  “Whoa, careful!”

  “Ow!” I put a tentative hand to my forehead. A bump was already forming above my right eye. Lovely. I backed out, knowing I looked like a double-decker bus reversing out of a garage.

  When I stood up and saw it was Fraser who’d witnessed my undignified exit, the blood rushed to my face. Why could he never happen upon me doing something . . . elegant? Or dynamic? There were plenty of times he could have come across me staring thoughtfully out of a window.

  “Just wondered if you fancied some lunch?” he asked. “Duncan’s run out of storage space upstairs. Trouble is, they move everything up there each year and never get round to moving most of it back down again. It’s silting up.”

  “Not silting,” I said, struggling for the right word. “Just . . .”

  “Well, now, there’s another suit of armor and two fire screens on top. Sounds like you’ve been busy,” said Fraser. “Any exciting finds?”

  Guiltily I swept the notebook into my bag with what I hoped was a devil-may-care yet professional swagger. “Lots.”

  That would have been quite elegant if the bag hadn’t then spilled three pens, my change purse, a timetable, and my keys out of the side, but at least it distracted from my lump.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Alice, have you?” he asked casually as we strolled down the paneled hall toward the kitchens.

  “I spoke to her this morning,” I said. “Was she supposed to call you?”

  “Oh no. No. Well, yes, actually. She usually calls me a couple of times a day, just to check that I’m okay.” He paused. “That I’ve had a protein shake. That I’ve read whatever it is we’re supposed to be reading for our book club. That I’m not sick. You know what she’s like.”

  I did. Dad was the same. If I didn’t call him every two days, he assumed I was being eaten by next-door’s cats. He wasn’t a control freak, but he did have insurance for kidnappings and terrorist attacks.

  “And she hasn’t called?”

  He shook his head, like a large dog that’s been given the wrong food. Not exactly unhappy, just . . . perplexed. I was perplexed too. Why would she call me and not Fraser?

  “Well, the reception here is awful,” I suggested. “I can’t get a signal in the house. Have you been here long?”

  “About half an hour? She hasn’t even texted. Not that I mind,” he added quickly. “It’s just a bit out of character. I thought something might have happened to her.”

  We shared a knowing look. Only a very long tunnel or death could come between Alice and her micromanaging phone habit.

  “Well, I’m just heading down to Robert’s house to send some e-mails,” I said. “I’ll give her a call and tell her to ring you. She’s probably in a shop, narrowing down her outfit options. Have you told her the colors of your kilt?”

  “Red and green,” he said with a hearty grin. “Plus the full frilly shirt and velvet jacket. As my dad always told us, it takes a real man to wear a skirt and knee-high white socks.”

  I glanced down. Fraser had good, sturdy legs, the sort usually seen on portraits of Henry VIII or prewar rugby players. Magnificent for gallantry in any period.

  “I think you could carry it off,” I squeaked.

  “And, of course, the obligatory tartan undies underneath! Or not!”

  I indulged in a miniswoon; then something occurred to me. “Um, Fraser? Alice and Robert . . . they do get on, don’t they?”

  Fraser’s guileless face beamed. “Oh, absolutely! Two of a kind, those two! Both a bit opinionated, and I must admit sparks occasionally fly over dinner, but I knew when I met Alice at Rob’s thirtieth that if he liked her, she was a good sort.”

  “Childhood friends, eh?”

  He nodded. “We had some good summers up here. Rob used to love this place. Bit sad it’s not quite the draw it once was for him. But that’s growing up, I guess.”

  “I guess,” I said. And I wasn’t sure why I felt so sad.

  After more Scotch broth in the kitchen, I felt justified in heading down to Robert’s, armed with my exciting table news for Max and my secret mission for Violet.

  It had turned even chillier, and I swung my arms as I strode down the crackling path, trying to imprint it all on my brain—the crisp, green-smelling air and the masses of skittering rabbits shooting off into the tangled undergrowth as I clomped past.

  My mind played idly with a new vision of myself in tweed and a big hat, strolling with Fraser along the hillside, with a couple of spaniels—

  No, Labradors. One chocolate, one yellow, trotting obediently by our sides as we—

  No, a spaniel and a Labrador.

  I was still trying to decide on the dogs, and contemplating a horse, when I reached Robert’s house and knocked almost without thinking on the door.

  “Hello?”

  My head spun round. It wasn’t Robert at the door, it was Catriona.

  She was dressed in a sheepskin vest and snug jeans, her black hair in a tight plait over one shoulder. Countrysid
e Angelina Jolie, give or take some children. She smiled, but in that polite Don’t come in way that people use to freeze out political canvassers.

  “Um, hello,” I stammered. “Robert said I could send some e-mails? There’s no broadband up at the house?”

  Her expression changed—slightly. “Oh, I know, it’s a nightmare. Like living in the Dark Ages! Robert’s not here, though. He’s in Berwick all day and I’m using his computer.” She pulled a face. “Papers all over the table. Can it . . . wait?”

  “It’s about the house,” I said, feeling an unexpected obstinacy dig in. “Furniture from the house. It is quite urgent.”

  “Oh, well, in that case I suppose you’d better come in.” She stood aside to let me through.

  I went ahead of her into the kitchen. Robert’s table was indeed covered in very neat piles of paper, annotated with different-colored Post-its, as well as several glossy catalogues and a tape measure.

  “I’m planning the new kitchen for Kettlesheer,” she explained before I could even ask. “It’s simply impossible to run proper events like the ball there—it should all be in a museum! The caterers I’ve got in for the ball were horrified when they saw what they had to work with, so I just said to Robert, I know it’s jumping the gun a little, but let me get some builders in, and get things moving in time for next year.”

  “Next year?”

  “Well, the next ball. I’m taking over from Mummy. And . . .” She bit her lip coyly. “Well, fingers crossed on something else too!”

  “What are you planning to do?” I asked, thinking of Ingrid’s cozy basement kitchen with its handy nooks and crannies and its painted china cupboards. And its big teapots, and old range, and tables that I could see plump cooks making plum pudding at.

  Catriona widened her eyes. “Rip it all out! Start again. It’s the only way. It’s like I said to Robert when I did this place, you’ve got to rip everything out, deep-clean, salt-blast, and then go for modern design.” She waved a hand around the kitchen. “This was a trial run, and I think it worked pretty well, don’t you?”

  That was my cue to nod. I managed a small nod. I felt like running over to her plans and ripping them up.

  “I mean, this place was worse,” Catriona went on. “It took my guys days just to empty it. You know those blancmange molds you get in junk shops? The ones with those lumps that get full of dust?”

  “Oh, yes! I’ve got seven of those!” I said. “Mostly rabbits, but some pretty heart-shaped Edwardian ones that—”

  Catriona looked me in the eye. “Have you ever tried to clean one?”

  “I’ve never actually used them,” I confessed. “But those must have come from Violet’s own cook, don’t you think? Maybe she brought them all the way from America! Can you imagine the puddings they must have had at the—”

  “They all went, all thirty-three of them,” she said, making a spit-spot Mary Poppins gesture with her hands. “I’m going through this place room by room when I’ve got time off from work.”

  “Are you?” Violet’s stuff! Was that going to get spit-spotted too? “You must be very busy,” I angled, trying to work out how long I had to convince Robert to go through those rooms. “With the ball. And work.”

  “I am rushed off my feet,” she said happily. “Cup of tea? Herbal okay?”

  I nodded. What I really wanted was a coffee, but I didn’t think that was on offer.

  “I’m scaling back, though. I want to concentrate my energy and expertise here. There’s an awful lot to take on with Kettlesheer. It’s a big house, but it’s got a lot of potential.”

  “It’s a magical place,” I agreed. “You can feel so much in all the rooms!”

  “Yes, damp!” Catriona had an irritating laugh. “And spiders and old people! But it’s got good proportions. It can support bold interior-design choices. I’m seeing something very much like the lodge, but on a grander scale. Accent walls. Modern art.”

  I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out sounding as if it had a horrified question mark at the end of it, so I just smiled and nodded.

  The kettle boiled, and she passed me a cup of hot water with a foul-smelling bag in it.

  “You know, I’ve remodeled loads of houses, but Kettlesheer’s different. I can plan it as a professional, but with my own wow factor in mind.” Catriona pursed her lips confidentially over her own mug. “I’ve even planned where the nursery will go! Right next to my office and the home gym.”

  It was hard to look at Catriona in quite the same way after what Ingrid and Sheila had said yesterday about how suitable she was. Suitable for Kettlesheer, not Robert. But were the two one and the same for her? They weren’t for him.

  “Is that . . . an imminent decoration project?” I asked hesitantly.

  “God, no!” Again the irritating laugh. “I’m thinking in a year to eighteen months, aiming for a September birth. Give me time to finish the decoration. But don’t tell Rob that,” she added, with a girls-together wink. “Best if men don’t know the gory details, eh?”

  I swallowed. That wasn’t jumping the gun. That was bringing your own gun and then getting the other person to jump it.

  I felt a sudden waft of sadness in the room, like a draft snaking in under the pantry door. It was cold, and sad, and not unpleasant. Sort of . . . foresty.

  “Can I plug in my laptop?” I asked, suddenly not wanting to hear any more. “I need to catch my boss before lunch.”

  “Sure.” Catriona put down her mug and started to move some papers—for three nanoseconds, before she gave a little huff of faux-apology. “Is it very bad of me to ask if you wouldn’t mind working over on the counter, there? It’s just that all this is in order. . . .”

  I looked at the tiny area of expensive marble she was proposing, between the espresso machine and a state-of-the-art toaster that looked more like a missile launcher.

  “No problem,” I said. I didn’t fancy hanging around anyway.

  Fourteen

  I woke before my alarm in the morning, aware that there was something odd about the bedroom. Well, odder than a stuffed Labrador.

  I pushed the bed hanging aside with a sleepy hand, and my eyes adjusted to the layers of darkness beyond my cocoon. A sliver of silver light was cutting into the room. It was making Lord Bertold’s glass eyes sparkle in a demonic fashion and giving everything else an unearthly glow.

  I hauled myself out of bed and went over to the window, pulling the curtain right back.

  The view was so magical I forgot to breathe. A gleaming blanket of snow had fallen across the gardens like a fat layer of royal icing on a Christmas cake. It rolled out over the stone edges of the terrace, topping each peak with a white hat of frost, and went on as far as the eye could see, untouched and pristine and dazzling.

  I’d never seen anything so glorious in my life. A bird had hopped along the windowsill, leaving crisp star-shaped prints behind. It never snowed in London like this—even a heavy snow was grimy and pigeon-pocked before I ever got my boots on.

  I dressed quickly now that I was awake, and was downstairs in the kitchen before I even noticed it was just gone seven o’clock.

  I wasn’t expecting to find anyone, but Mhairi was already there, stirring a pan of porridge and boiling a kettle on the Aga while the local radio station babbled in the background. Roads were closed, schools were closed, rescue teams were being scrambled, but she carried on stirring impassively. I had no idea how she’d got there. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she slept in a cupboard.

  “Morning, Mhairi!” I said cheerily. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  The kitchen was cozy and smelled of toast and the linen drying on an ancient rack suspended above the Aga. Messy and friendly, like a kitchen should be. How had I thought it was chilly on my first night? Maybe I’d acclimatized.

  “Aye, snow,” she replied, without taking her eyes off the pan. “Not good if you’re driving. The roads’ll be shut round Rennick. Will you have tea?”

  “
Um, yes,” I said. I hadn’t thought about the roads. Would it be gone in time for the ball? “Thank you.”

  “It’s in the pot.” She nodded at the huge brown pot on the table.

  I poured myself a cup and looked round at the dark wood dresser running nearly the length of one wall, filled with blue everyday china. I loved the rows of spoon-dimpled brass pans hanging from the rafters, the hooks for hams and herbs. It was a proper old kitchen, down to the stone flags worn from generations of cooks’ feet. It made me almost panicky to imagine Catriona ripping it out and replacing everything with marble work surfaces shipped in from Wandsworth.

  I stared at Mhairi’s impassive but not unfriendly back, and wondered if she was on the list of fittings to be removed. Even on our short acquaintance, I reckoned she’d be harder for Catriona’s men to chuck out than the ancient old range, and twice as disastrous a loss. The last real remaining connection to Violet’s once-bustling staff of fifty.

  Time to get down to the lodge with my secret weapons of mass conservation, I thought. There was no time to lose.

  Robert looked the type to be at his desk before most people were awake, I thought as I strode through the unbroken snow on the drive in a pair of Ingrid’s spare wellies. I could see him running before work. Or swimming—he had the single-minded look of a morning swimmer—long arms, muscled shoulders, solitary lengths down a deserted pool—

  Whoa.

  I checked myself. This was turning into a crush, and I didn’t want that. I was prone to instant crushes—actors, films, Art Deco powder compacts—and developing one on Robert was a terrible idea.

  My crush on Fraser was bad enough, but there was something about Robert that wasn’t quite so . . . comfortable. He was impossible to pop into my ready-made fantasy sequences—too spiky and unreadable. And he had a girlfriend, and responsibilities, and not one single framed family photograph in his sitting room or interesting curio in his loo.

  Apart from that old telephone like yours.

  Apart from the old telephone, I conceded. But that was probably only there until he got a new one.