“I guess I’d have to call myself an Americot, mainly because the alternative sounds like a spinal complaint.” Scomerican? Sometimes I say, “sounds like a haemorrhoid cream”, but I’d judged this crowd a little more sophisticated than that gag.
Queue a round of husky chuckles and rasping giggles from the participants of Grey Nomad Tours. Well, it is Wednesday, and Wednesday at Kilblair Castle is our senior specials day. As well as hump day, but that usually comes after the castle has closed for the day to visitors. Because the Duke and Duchess of Dalforth are nothing if not conventional.
My ass.
Anyway, I like Wednesdays because I get to hang with this crowd.
“And do we address you as your grace or your ladyship?” asks another of the crowd.
“Just Holly will do.” Anything else sounds a little ridiculous, quite honestly. Technically, I’m Her Grace, the Duchess of Dalforth. Because almost a year ago, as I’d stood in my bedroom with Alexander’s phone in my hand, I truly debated how I’d felt like that leaf. Tossed about in the wind, shaken in more ways than I thought I could deal with. I’d imagined myself as that tiny piece of foliage being swept from problem to problem, from catastrophe to catastrophe. And then I thought of where I’d landed. Of where I belonged. And Alexander was right. I belong in his arms.
Leonie left. Without money and without a reason to come back. Before Alexander’s foot had reached the bottom step of the grand staircase, I’d pressed the little button to send the Instagram post live. I’d outed our relationship to the world in a monumental fashion, just as he’d planned.
Meet the future Duchess of Dalforth
was all the post read. Just that and our smiling faces. It wasn’t quite a wedding announcement in The Times, as is the usual way. And it caused an internet sensation, making the front page of most of the European newspapers. A couple of US ones, too.
It turned out that Leonie had become involved with a high-powered criminal, and the attention a divorce would draw was not to his liking. So, she’d faked her death to slink off with him. But when the relationship soured, she needed money to escape.
If you ask me, I think she has a few screws loose in her head.
But she left knowing full well her sordid tales would never provide her with money from the Dalforth estate because Alexander had reached the point when he no longer cared if the truth of his past came out. He’d laid it to rest that morning as he’d held me in his arms, trusting me to do the right thing for us both. If she wanted to throw stones that resulted in her incarceration, well, all the better. Pseudocide is a very serious offence. I understand Griffin stepped into his own at that moment, and the brothers have begun to take steps to mend what’s between them. Which can only be a good thing, I think. Because he was right about us being stronger together. The concept doesn’t just relate to us.
But we are stronger together, Alexander and me. And we’re stronger as individuals because of the support and love we show each other.
“And here we have the castle’s pride and joy,” I say as my little band of grandparent types gather around the painting in a small semi-circle. “A landscape scene by the 17th-century painter Paul Peter Rubens. I mean, Peter Paul Rubens.” Ack! I always get his name the wrong way around.
“I read on the website that there is some contention regarding the providence of this piece,” says an elderly man in a green turtleneck and houndstooth jacket.
In my head, I do this whole shocked, grabbing my pearls thing. Are you contradicting the Duchess of Dalforth! Off with your . . . turtleneck. It’s July, for gosh sakes! But Her Grace is gracious. So I don’t.
“Scholars have been debating this for more years than I’ve been around, and I’m sure they’ll be debating it for many years more. But whether Ruben or an Antwerp contemporary of the man himself painted this piece, I think we can agree, it’s beautiful.” Eh. It’s not my favourite.
Let me put it this way—I wouldn’t give it wall space in my bedroom. In fact, none of the paintings along this hallway are my favourite. My favourite piece is only for private viewing.
“And here we have something a little more contemporary . . .”
We move along the hallway to another painting, and I do a little two-handed flourish like a flight attendant doing the pre-flight safety demonstration. Actually, I sometimes like to pretend I am a flight attendant.
In the event our airliner becomes a cruise liner, you may use your seat cushion as a floatation device. Lights on the floor will illuminate to guide you to the exit. Or you could just follow me because you’re not getting off this thing first.