“Aye, he makes a good cake,” Chrissy agrees, having eaten hers already.
“It’s very nice.” I put down my fork carefully. “Maybe I should go.” My eyes dart back and forth between the two, Chrissy seeming to agree, judging by the subtle but appreciative tilt of her head.
“No.” Isla takes a gulp of tea the colour of red brickwork before putting her mug back down again. “I think I might need your help.”
I feel myself frowning, then silently curse myself as words tumble out of my mouth. “But I’ve only just gotten here?”
“I read the references from your previous employer. Wonderful, really. We’re lucky to have you here at Kilblair.”
“That’s very nice of you to say so, but—”
“Please, let me finish.” She smiles tightly, balling her hands in her lap. “What you just heard, I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.” And without the protection of a signed NDA. I would never air another woman’s dirty laundry in public.
“Thank you.” She swallows, her words bright but brittle. “I have left my husband today. In some haste after finding him in bed with our nanny.” A frown ripples across her expression. “I found them in our bed, as a matter of fact.”
“That sleekit coward,” Chrissy bursts out, her first interjection to the most awkward of conversations. “I knew he was nay good the first time I laid my eyes on him.” Her accent thickens as she folds her arms under her chest. “The first time he shook ma’ hand, something told me I should count ma’ fingers afterwards!”
“I wish I’d had your foresight,” Isla offers noncommittally. “Then it wouldn’t just be my fingers I’d need to check at this point.”
Ack! This poor woman.
“Love makes fools of us all, hen. But I’ll give him fingers,” Chrissy mutters malevolently. “Right around his scrawny wee neck.”
“Holly.” Isla draws her shoulders higher, struggling against tears, striving for dignity. “I’ll come to the point. I find I no longer need my husband. I do, however, need a nanny. Need one quite desperately at this point. I was hoping we could come to some arrangement.”
Oh. Well.
15
Holly
I pull back the heavy drapes and stare over the expanse of rolling lawns. It’s a lovely view but one distorted by the old-fashioned glass windowpanes. Much of the landscape around the castle is mountainous, the beauty of the land darkly foreboding and very much in line with a fortress. By land or by sea, it’d be difficult to storm this place. I press my elbow to the windowsill and my chin to my fist. I guess the gardens were a later addition, for who had time for pleasure walks when your enemies were at your door? Or sailing boats along your coast.
“Those poor gardeners must spend most of their summer mowing the dang grass,” I murmur to myself, my breath fogging the cool glass. “It’s just like home.” Because it’s raining. Again. Just for a change. Very much like the weather in Mookatill, Oregon, the weather forecast in this part of Scotland is surely a variation on a theme.
Rain.
Mist.
Drizzle.
Mizzle. That one is a Scot’s word, not Oregonian.
The only variance this week has been the colour of the clouds, which has been a veritable rainbow assortment. Thundery grey, secretive silver, ominous black, promising blue, and every colour in between. Okay, maybe not every colour, but yesterday we were blessed with some spectacular sunset-dyed pink clouds. It was a beautiful way to end the day.
I sigh again.
Rain, rain, drip-in and a drop-in, I keep hope-in you’ll be stop-in.
But I mainly hope in vain.
But at least inside is warm. Not only warm but sumptuous now that I’m an actual inhabitant of Kilblair Castle, and I have been for three weeks. As the new (sometime) nanny of the duke’s nephews, I’ve been given a room that’s at least as big as my last apartment, complete with not only an adjoining bathroom but a small sitting room. What’s more, I’m getting paid a full-time salary for part-time hours, and that’s in addition to what I’m paid for running the castle’s education centre.
To recap, I might not like the weather, but I’m liking being here!
“Holly!” A little fist pounds against the door to my room. “Holly, it’s Archie. Please let me in.”
Isla’s kids, Archie and Hugh, are six and eight respectively, and more well-behaved boys I have yet to meet. They’re polite and respectful and have such beautiful manners. For instance, I’ve never had a six-year-old open a door for me before, never mind one that insists, ladies first. Looking after these gentlemen in short form is a dream. They could teach grown men a thing or two, for sure.
“What’s up, Arch?” I ask, swinging the door open.
“You have to come quick!” Reaching for my hand, he begins to tug.
“Friend, I still have my pyjamas on.” With my other hand, I indicate said pyjamas with a flourish.