Flawless by Tilly Bagshawe Page B

crops in his fields to save his life.
    Scarlett sighed. She should know better by now than to try to get into a debate with the likes of Hamish, men who considered a year in London to be “seeing the world.” What on earth would he make of Africa? she wondered. His life, like her parents’, was so sheltered and parochial, she couldn’t possibly expect him to understand hers.
    But Hamish, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff than she gave him credit for. Undeterred by her complete lack of interest so far, he decided to make another ill-fated journey into the conversational fray.
    “You’ve heard about our Hogmanay celebrations over at Kinlochry this year?” he said brightly to the table at large. “The reels’ll be spectacular. I do hope you’ll all be there.”
    “Of course we’ll be there,” said Caroline, returning his enthusiastic smile with a beamer of her own. Really, it wouldn’t kill Scarlett to show a little more interest. “The whole county’s abuzz about it.”
    “In that case, I wonder if I might be so bold”—Hamish turned back to Scarlett—“as to reserve the first dance of the Dashing White Sergeant for you, Miss Drummond Murray?”
    “Oh, that’s very kind,” said Scarlet, crossing her legs as the only means of removing them from his insistently pressing thigh, “but I’m afraid I won’t be in Scotland for New Year’s. I’m going to New York with a girlfriend.”
    “You never mentioned New York to me,” said Cameron, sounding put out. “We spent twenty minutes talking about our New Year’s plans on the drive up yesterday, and you never said a thing.”
    “
You
spent twenty minutes talking about
your
plans,” said Scarlett pointedly. “I never got a word in edgewise.”
    “Well, I must say, I think you might have told
me
,” said Caroline, who for politeness’s sake was trying not to show how livid she was. “Naturally I assumed you’d be here, with the family.”
    “But Mummy, we only talked about Christmas,” said Scarlett plaintively.
    “Well, who is this girlfriend?” asked Caroline. “You’re going to tell me it’s that dreadful American child from St. Clement’s, aren’t you?”
    For unexplained reasons, Caroline had always disapproved of Nancy. Scarlett could only imagine it was because she was the only American girl at the school. The fact that her ancestors had come over on the Mayflower or that her parents owned half of Park Avenue meant little in Scotland, where the right tartan and regiment were everything.
    “Nancy isn’t dreadful; she’s lovely,” she said wearily. “She’s been hugely helpful to me in trying to spread Trade Fair’s message in the States.”
    “Trade Fair is my sister’s other little hobby,” Cameron explained scathingly to Hamish. “Or rather, her hobby horse. It’s all about saving the Sambos in the diamond mines from the evil British white-slavers. Isn’t that right, Scarlett?”
    “Look, I’m sorry Mummy, I really thought you knew about New York,” said Scarlett, ignoring him. “But I’ve been looking forward to it for ages, and I can’t let Nancy down.”
    “Hmm,” sniffed Caroline, “of course not. It’s only your poor
family
you feel able to let down.”
    “Trade Fair,” said Hamish, who’d clearly been spending the last two minutes trying to think of something devastatingly witty and amusing to say to impress Scarlett. “What a terribly appropriate name, for one as
fair
as you to have chosen for your campaign. Do you get it?” he smiled, evidently pleased with himself. “
Fair?
”
    Even Caroline forgot Hamish’s estates and seven-figure yearly income at that point and glared at him witheringly.

     
    Later that night, in bed, Scarlett remembered the Trade Fair comment and started to giggle. Poor old Hamish. It wasn’t hisfault his family was so inbred he’d been left with the IQ of a cowpat. Still, she was sure there were plenty of well-to-do Scottish girls who’d be delighted to marry him