‘Of course,’ Flora smiled, wielding the breadknife once more.
She turned, hearing another set of footsteps approaching, hoping it might be Alec. But the smile faded from her face as Diana Kingsley-Scott swept into the kitchen.
‘We’re out of hot water. I wonder whether your girl might fill this and bring it back to the dining room.’ She addressed Lady Helen, but handed the silver teapot she was carrying to Flora, scarcely acknowledging her.
‘Certainly, Diana. I’m sorry you had to come through yourself. Would you mind, Flora dear?’
Flora shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Diana’s hands were bare of rings as she took the teapot from her. What on earth had happened? Wasn’t she supposed to have had her wedding at the family estate in the autumn? Where was her husband? And – more to the point – why hadn’t Alec mentioned that Diana would be coming to stay for the weekend?
She refilled the pot from the kettle simmering on the stove and followed the two women through the green baize door. The hallway, which had seemed so oppressive when she’d been there at Hogmanay, closed around her again, heavy and forbidding. She squared her shoulders as she pushed open the door to the dining room.
There was no sign of Alec, but Diana was seated to the right of Sir Charles, who was digging into a plate of bacon and eggs with gusto as he regaled his houseguests with tales of previous shoots. He glanced up at the sight of Flora.
‘Ah, the estimable Miss Gordon. How good of you to have graced us with your presence this morning.’ Flora knew his bonhomie was false, an act for the sake of his audience. ‘Tell your father that Miss Kingsley-Scott is going to require the Beretta, would you?’ He turned towards Diana. ‘As it’s your first time out, we’ll start you off with something a little lighter, my dear.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I wonder where Alec’s got to . . . although after that jolly good dinner last night, it’s not surprising he’s having a bit of a slow start this morning, what?’
Flora’s hands shook as she set the teapot on its stand on the sideboard, fully aware that Sir Charles was making a point for her benefit. She left the dining room with as much dignity as she could muster. In the hall, she almost collided with Alec as he hurried down the stairs. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, intent on fastening the buttons of his tweed shooting jacket.
‘Flora!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here this morning.’
‘No, but here I am. Your father asked me to come. You know I’m always happy to help your mother out when she has so many guests staying.’
He moved towards her as if to give her a kiss, but she ducked her head and turned away.
‘I’d better get back to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘And you’d better get in there.’ She pointed towards the dining room as a gust of laughter escaped from behind the closed door.
He reached for her hand. ‘Flora, wait, I . . .’
But whatever Alec had been about to say was cut short by the appearance of Diana.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she teased him. ‘It’s a good thing you’re up. Your papa’s just sent me to knock on your bedroom door and tell you to get a move on if you want any breakfast before we get going.’
Flora spun on her heel and hurried back to the kitchen, her cheeks burning. She was furious that Sir Charles had managed to remind her, yet again, of the difference between her world and Alec’s. And she was angry at herself for being manipulated in that way. She tore off her apron and let herself out through the back door.
‘Whoa there, what’s the great hurry, lass?’ her father said, steadying her as she collided with him on the path.
She shook her head by way of reply, breathless with anger and humiliation. Then, swallowing, said, ‘They’re almost ready for you. The picnic’s in the boot room. And you’re to fetch the Beretta for Miss Kingsley-Scott.’
And as she strode along the path back to Keeper’s Cottage, she dashed furious tears away with the back of her hand, not sure who she was angriest at: Sir Charles, or Alec, or herself for ever thinking she might one day fit into Alec’s world.
Lexie, 1978
It’s a wild, wet day. The tail end of an Atlantic storm