putting out her hand to James. “You must be Mr. Stuart.”
“Yes. James, please. And this is my friend Calum McKay.”
“Delighted,” replied Caroline Rothes. “This way — I’ll show you to your rooms.” She led them up a curving stairway to the next floor. “If you’re anything like me,” she said, pushing open the doors, one next to the other, “you’ll be wanting to refresh yourself after a long day’s journey. Please, come down for a drink as soon you’re settled. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
The rooms were spacious and comfortable. James put his bag on the floor beside the bed, sat down on the edge and bounced up and down a couple times to test the hardness of the mattress, and then went into the blue-tiled bathroom to try out the plumbing.
“I expect you’re famished,” Lady Rothes said, when they rejoined her downstairs a few minutes later. She led them across the foyer and through a set of wide mahogany doors. “There are drinks and nibbles waiting for you in the living room; they’ll tide you over until dinner.”
This room was larger than the entire ground floor of Glen Slugain Lodge, and James marveled at the extravagance of space. Two deeply upholstered chairs of dark red leather had been pulled up on either side of a low table that supported a drinks tray and bowls of various sizes containing crisps and crackers and salted nuts. The chairs faced a very large television.
“The news is on shortly,” their hostess told them, crossing directly to the TV. She switched it on. “I thought that, what with all that’s happened lately, you might like to watch. If not, just chuck a brick at the screen.” She beckoned her guests to the chairs. “Come along and make yourselves at home. I have a thing or two to do in the kitchen, but I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
She swept from the room, leaving Cal and James to fend for themselves. Cal pulled off the top of a bottle of Ruddles County ale, and poured it into two glasses. “Cheers!” he said, handing one to James. His gaze drifted around the room as he drank. “Some place.”
“Just like home,” James said. He offered the comment as a mildly ironic quip, but Cal’s suddenly knowing expression rocked him back on his heels.
“I can see you here,” he mused seriously. “I really can.”
“I’m not even sure we can afford dinner, to say nothing of staying the night,” James replied, trying to lighten the mood again.
“You worry too much, Jimmy. You should be more like me.”
“Have a nibble, Cal, and shut up,” said James, shoving the bowl of nuts at him.
The news came on and they sat down to watch. It was BBC anchorman Jonathan Trent, looking grave and serious. “Good evening. Tonight’s broadcast has been expanded,” he informed his audience soberly, “so that we may bring you extended coverage of the National Tragedy, the Death of King Edward.” A small golden crown appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen; beneath the crown was the royal monogram and above it a black-draped cloth.
“Oh, for the love of God,” muttered Cal. “They’ve given it a logo, for cryin’ out loud.”
“As promised on our midday report, we have a live update from Kevin Clark in Madeira, but before joining Kevin on location, we take you to the House of Commons for a repeat of this afternoon’s announcement in Parliament by Prime Minister Thomas Waring.”
Trent, ever the professional presenter, hesitated meaningfully, turned to his on-desk monitor, and intoned, “This was the scene in Parliament this afternoon.”
Five
They watched as the television screen flashed up an image of an absolutely packed House of Commons chamber. Every seat on every green leather bench was full, as were the members’, press, and strangers’ galleries. The aisles were jammed with those without places. Looking both suave and severe, a sober-faced PM rose from the front bench, holding a black portfolio. He nodded to the
“Yes. James, please. And this is my friend Calum McKay.”
“Delighted,” replied Caroline Rothes. “This way — I’ll show you to your rooms.” She led them up a curving stairway to the next floor. “If you’re anything like me,” she said, pushing open the doors, one next to the other, “you’ll be wanting to refresh yourself after a long day’s journey. Please, come down for a drink as soon you’re settled. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
The rooms were spacious and comfortable. James put his bag on the floor beside the bed, sat down on the edge and bounced up and down a couple times to test the hardness of the mattress, and then went into the blue-tiled bathroom to try out the plumbing.
“I expect you’re famished,” Lady Rothes said, when they rejoined her downstairs a few minutes later. She led them across the foyer and through a set of wide mahogany doors. “There are drinks and nibbles waiting for you in the living room; they’ll tide you over until dinner.”
This room was larger than the entire ground floor of Glen Slugain Lodge, and James marveled at the extravagance of space. Two deeply upholstered chairs of dark red leather had been pulled up on either side of a low table that supported a drinks tray and bowls of various sizes containing crisps and crackers and salted nuts. The chairs faced a very large television.
“The news is on shortly,” their hostess told them, crossing directly to the TV. She switched it on. “I thought that, what with all that’s happened lately, you might like to watch. If not, just chuck a brick at the screen.” She beckoned her guests to the chairs. “Come along and make yourselves at home. I have a thing or two to do in the kitchen, but I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
She swept from the room, leaving Cal and James to fend for themselves. Cal pulled off the top of a bottle of Ruddles County ale, and poured it into two glasses. “Cheers!” he said, handing one to James. His gaze drifted around the room as he drank. “Some place.”
“Just like home,” James said. He offered the comment as a mildly ironic quip, but Cal’s suddenly knowing expression rocked him back on his heels.
“I can see you here,” he mused seriously. “I really can.”
“I’m not even sure we can afford dinner, to say nothing of staying the night,” James replied, trying to lighten the mood again.
“You worry too much, Jimmy. You should be more like me.”
“Have a nibble, Cal, and shut up,” said James, shoving the bowl of nuts at him.
The news came on and they sat down to watch. It was BBC anchorman Jonathan Trent, looking grave and serious. “Good evening. Tonight’s broadcast has been expanded,” he informed his audience soberly, “so that we may bring you extended coverage of the National Tragedy, the Death of King Edward.” A small golden crown appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen; beneath the crown was the royal monogram and above it a black-draped cloth.
“Oh, for the love of God,” muttered Cal. “They’ve given it a logo, for cryin’ out loud.”
“As promised on our midday report, we have a live update from Kevin Clark in Madeira, but before joining Kevin on location, we take you to the House of Commons for a repeat of this afternoon’s announcement in Parliament by Prime Minister Thomas Waring.”
Trent, ever the professional presenter, hesitated meaningfully, turned to his on-desk monitor, and intoned, “This was the scene in Parliament this afternoon.”
Five
They watched as the television screen flashed up an image of an absolutely packed House of Commons chamber. Every seat on every green leather bench was full, as were the members’, press, and strangers’ galleries. The aisles were jammed with those without places. Looking both suave and severe, a sober-faced PM rose from the front bench, holding a black portfolio. He nodded to the
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