What a terrible impression I must be making.
My cheeks are still burning as I slide into the passenger seat, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the whiff of wet dog. The driver’s door clunks closed, seatbelts click, then the engine rumbles to life.
“Inverness looks pretty,” I say, staring up at the tall Edwardian-looking buildings and the myriad of shop fronts we pass. Butcher. Baker. No candlestick maker. But it seems more like a town than a city. Also, sadly, there isn’t a kilt or a Janie Fraser lookalike in sight.
“Aye, it’s no’ bad for the capital of the Highlands, though it’s no’ so big for a capital city, I suppose. Still, it’s big enough to keep me out of the place.” Turning his head, he shoots me a friendly wink.
“You’re not a fan of the bright lights, big cities?” Though there isn’t much evidence of either; Inverness seems a little sleepy and quaint. At least, from the viewpoint of a moving car window. But then we pass a couple of bars and people sitting at tables outside. I find myself suppressing a shiver; it is so not alfresco dining weather.
“That I am not.”
I know from google that the journey to the castle should take about ninety minutes. And that’s ninety minutes spent taking in the striking landscape and the local points of interest Cameron points out as we travel. And ninety minutes wondering what to expect from a castle which has its own website and Wikipedia page, and the family who own it, of course. An aristocratic family that has the kind of internet footprint that lists their failures and triumphs, their marriages and deaths going back thirteen generations. The debauching dukes of Dalforth, I read mention of more than once. It seems like they’re a line of rakes, thieves, and bad boys that kind of boggles the mind. Me, Holly Harper working for a duke. Even if not directly because I guess I’ll be the modern-day equivalent of one of the serfs. Way below the butler, but a little above the chambermaid. Do they even have those, these days? I guess they probably went the way of the chamber pot at the advent of indoor plumbing.
But I probably won’t even need to set foot in the castle as I’ll be running the education centre, focussing on the younger generation of visitors to Kilblair Castle.
I’m Holly Harper, let’s make history fun!
“You’re coming at just the right time now that business has started to pick up.” Cameron’s voice interrupts my wandering thoughts.
“I did read that the castle closes down over the winter.” I’m not sure what that will mean for me, even if I’ve taken this job telling myself that I’ll be moving on to pastures new before this time next year. Pastures warmer, I think, wrapping my jacket a little tighter around me.
“Aye, but not until the week before Christmas. The silly season is a busy one for Kilblair, though it’s a wee bit quieter for my team.”
“What is it you do at the castle?”
“I’m the head gardener.”
I’d also read about the extensive gardens on the website, available to view at a separate entrance fee.
“Do you live on-site?”
“No, not me. Though a number of us do. I hear you will be, too.”
There’s something in his tone that seems a little too amused.
“What am I missing here?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out yourself soon enough.”
“Because that didn’t sound ominous.” I find myself frowning out at the road as it snakes ahead, the scenery becoming more rural and, if I’m honest, a little bleak.
“It’s nothing to warrant a look as dark as yon clouds.” His words are delivered in a rough sounding chuckle. “It’s just that your job and wee cottage were promised to someone else.”
My head whips around as my stomach twists, my answer a little shrill. “Promised?”
“Well, maybe no’ so much promised as expected. But it’s not your fault Mari’s got herself in high doh. What’s coming fir ye will no pass ye by, y’ken?”
“Who’s Mari? For that matter, who’s Ken.” And what the fluff did he just say?
Cameron bursts out laughing, taking both Gertie and me my surprise, judging by her woof and my splutter.
“Great. Just great. I haven’t even gotten there, and I’m already making friends. And you know what? I have no idea what you just said.”
“It’s no’ so bad as all that.” His guffaws switch down a few gears to a chuckle, his gaze sliding from the road ahead to meet mine. “Mari is your assistant. High doh is like . . . her knickers are twisted,” he adds with a totally cute roll of the r. “She’s riled, y’ken?”
I find myself shaking my head. The gist I get, kind of like understanding a song without knowing all the words. But that rolling r—knickerrrrs—that was something else.