laird, that’s what’s expected of him. It might look easy to you, but it’s a very heavy responsibility on his shoulders,” she added crossly. “Sometimes I think you forget that.”
“Are you going, Pa?” Scarlett turned to her father once her mother had disappeared in search of the place cards. Evidently dinner tonight was going to be another social hoopla, not the quiet night in with shepherds’ pie and TV that Scarlett desperately longed for.
“Going? To Buckie?” Still glued to his newspaper, Hugo gave a little shudder. “Good God no. Not my cup of tea at all.”
“Cup of tea, Mrs. McIntyre?”
Scarlett smiled sweetly at the crotchety old woman who’d made her life such a misery as her primary-school teacher. She was older and leatherier than Scarlett remembered her, but beyond that wasn’t much changed. Then again, nothing in Buckie ever changed much.
The pre-Christmas raffle was being held in the same draughty old church hall that had housed every village event since before Scarlett was born and that still smelled of the pungent combination of disinfectant and incense that she remembered so well from her childhood. Standing here, pouring tea for Mrs. McIntyre and all the other old biddies, her life in London felt like a dream. It was hard to believe that this time two days ago she’d been sipping a soy latte behind the counter at Bijoux, negotiating the sale of a forty-five-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet.
“Is it free?”
The old woman’s whiny, nails-on-blackboard voice brought her back to earth with a jolt.
“I’m sorry?”
“The tea, Scarlett, the
tea
.” She pronounced it “tay.” “Are you selling or giving it away?”
“Oh, sorry, yes, it’s free.” Scarlett blushed, feeling like a naughty ten-year-old again. “But if you’d like to make a donation, there’s a box at the end of the counter there.”
Taking a steaming cup and a hefty handful of custard cream biscuits, Mrs. McIntyre shuffled off, shamelessly ignoring the donation box.
Mean old cow
, thought Scarlett.
Just then Caroline wandered over, arm in arm with a paunchy, middle-aged man Scarlett vaguely thought she recognized.
“Darling, you remember Hamish Sainsbury? You used to ride together on the beach at Elgin all those years ago.”
Hamish Sainsbury! Good God! They’d never been great friends, but she did remember him and his brother leading the pack on those long, dreary riding-school trips. He could only be three or four years older than she, but he’d aged dreadfully. With his pasty, puffy face and red, watery eyes, he looked to be in his midforties at least and couldn’t have done a shred of exercise in the last decade. She supposed that was what staying in Banffshire did for you and thanked her lucky stars once again that she’d escaped.
“Well, you weren’t exaggerating, Caroline,” said Hamish, staring with gummy admiration at Scarlett’s tight green cashmere polo neck where it clung to her breasts. His voice was even more ludicrously plummy than she remembered it. “She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. I’d never have thought it possible.” To Scarlett’s horror, he picked up her hand and planted a wet-lipped kiss on the inside of her wrist.
“Hello, Hamish,” she said as politely as she could, snatching back her hand and wiping off the revolting snail’s trail of saliva on the back of her jeans. Cliff Richard’s “Mistletoe and Wine” began blaring out over the ancient speaker system, and she said a little prayer that Reverend Tim might call the raffle soon so they could all go home. “Can I get you some tea and biscuits?”
“Not for me, thanks,” he said, patting his spreading tummy fondly. “Got to watch the old figure.”
“Oh Hamish, what nonsense. You’ve got a fine, trim figure,” lied Caroline.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he mumbled, turning back to Scarlett. “But in any case, your mother’s been kind enough to invite me over for
“Are you going, Pa?” Scarlett turned to her father once her mother had disappeared in search of the place cards. Evidently dinner tonight was going to be another social hoopla, not the quiet night in with shepherds’ pie and TV that Scarlett desperately longed for.
“Going? To Buckie?” Still glued to his newspaper, Hugo gave a little shudder. “Good God no. Not my cup of tea at all.”
“Cup of tea, Mrs. McIntyre?”
Scarlett smiled sweetly at the crotchety old woman who’d made her life such a misery as her primary-school teacher. She was older and leatherier than Scarlett remembered her, but beyond that wasn’t much changed. Then again, nothing in Buckie ever changed much.
The pre-Christmas raffle was being held in the same draughty old church hall that had housed every village event since before Scarlett was born and that still smelled of the pungent combination of disinfectant and incense that she remembered so well from her childhood. Standing here, pouring tea for Mrs. McIntyre and all the other old biddies, her life in London felt like a dream. It was hard to believe that this time two days ago she’d been sipping a soy latte behind the counter at Bijoux, negotiating the sale of a forty-five-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet.
“Is it free?”
The old woman’s whiny, nails-on-blackboard voice brought her back to earth with a jolt.
“I’m sorry?”
“The tea, Scarlett, the
tea
.” She pronounced it “tay.” “Are you selling or giving it away?”
“Oh, sorry, yes, it’s free.” Scarlett blushed, feeling like a naughty ten-year-old again. “But if you’d like to make a donation, there’s a box at the end of the counter there.”
Taking a steaming cup and a hefty handful of custard cream biscuits, Mrs. McIntyre shuffled off, shamelessly ignoring the donation box.
Mean old cow
, thought Scarlett.
Just then Caroline wandered over, arm in arm with a paunchy, middle-aged man Scarlett vaguely thought she recognized.
“Darling, you remember Hamish Sainsbury? You used to ride together on the beach at Elgin all those years ago.”
Hamish Sainsbury! Good God! They’d never been great friends, but she did remember him and his brother leading the pack on those long, dreary riding-school trips. He could only be three or four years older than she, but he’d aged dreadfully. With his pasty, puffy face and red, watery eyes, he looked to be in his midforties at least and couldn’t have done a shred of exercise in the last decade. She supposed that was what staying in Banffshire did for you and thanked her lucky stars once again that she’d escaped.
“Well, you weren’t exaggerating, Caroline,” said Hamish, staring with gummy admiration at Scarlett’s tight green cashmere polo neck where it clung to her breasts. His voice was even more ludicrously plummy than she remembered it. “She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. I’d never have thought it possible.” To Scarlett’s horror, he picked up her hand and planted a wet-lipped kiss on the inside of her wrist.
“Hello, Hamish,” she said as politely as she could, snatching back her hand and wiping off the revolting snail’s trail of saliva on the back of her jeans. Cliff Richard’s “Mistletoe and Wine” began blaring out over the ancient speaker system, and she said a little prayer that Reverend Tim might call the raffle soon so they could all go home. “Can I get you some tea and biscuits?”
“Not for me, thanks,” he said, patting his spreading tummy fondly. “Got to watch the old figure.”
“Oh Hamish, what nonsense. You’ve got a fine, trim figure,” lied Caroline.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he mumbled, turning back to Scarlett. “But in any case, your mother’s been kind enough to invite me over for
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