Set Me Free (10 page)

“And the other half in the stables,” Inary intervened.

“Exactly. So, Lara, if you want to come and explore the library, you are very welcome.”

“That would be amazing,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“I can't wait to show you the ballroom!” said Inary, taking Lara by the arm.

“Ballroom?” I said, swooning already. I was dying to see it – images of mirrors and gilded ceilings and frescoes on the walls and a mosaicked floor rushed through my mind. I wasn't disappointed.

Torcuil opened a double wooden door and led us into a grand hall. It was even more beautiful than I'd imagined, its ceiling painted blue and dotted with silver stars, and baby angels sitting on clouds and playing musical instruments. At each corner, a group of them was singing. I couldn't take my eyes off the ceiling, and I wandered around for a while, looking up.

“The fresco is incredible, isn't it? My grandfather had it restored, so it's in good condition. You can't say that about much else at Ramsay Hall.”

“I'm trying to imagine how it must have looked like long ago . . . The music, the dancing, candles shimmering all over . . .” said Lara dreamily.

“The last time wasn't that long ago, actually. My grandparents still had receptions here. I remember attending one when I was about seven . . . They sent me back upstairs very quickly, though!”

“I remember. I was here with Logan. Our sister Emily was too young. He was eleven or so . . . he was made to wear a kilt and he danced with Lady Diana, remember? She was nice to him,” said Inary.

“Oh, yes,” Torcuil laughed.

“I used to go to my parish discos in the chapel hall. Sister Maria gave us Smarties out of a jar and we danced to eighties power ballads,” I said.

“Mine were mostly like that too! Not like the landed gentry here . . .” Inary teased.

Torcuil put his hands up. “The landed gentry here used to sleep with a woollen jumper on because it was so cold in this house, so really—”

Inary made a sympathetic face. “Aw, Oliver Twist!”

“I wish . . .” Lara began, and we all looked at her. She stopped abruptly.

“What do you wish, Lara?” said Torcuil gently.

“I could go to a ball here,” she said softly, and gazed out of the window at the surrounding trees. And then, “Oh!”

I stepped beside her. “What is it?”

“Look!” she said, and her face was all lit up. I followed her gaze out of one of the windows to the little copse. At first I couldn't see what she was pointing at, and then, entwined with one of the oaks, I saw a tiny wooden house nestled on a cradle made of branches, and connected by a small rope bridge to another, smaller house on the oak tree just beside it. “That,” she breathed, “is
amazing
.”

“Oh, that's our tree house. It's still in one piece, and safe to use. My nephews played in it just a few weeks ago.”

“We used to play there all the time,” said Inary.

“Yes. I remember falling off it and on you, once.”

“I remember that too. It's burnt into my memory, Torcuil,” Inary laughed.

“It's the perfect place to read in, Lara. You're very welcome to use it.”

Lara beamed. I think words were failing her. She looked at me and I read her eyes –
please take this job
.

Inary intercepted the look that Lara was giving me. “So, Margherita, what do you say?”

“Feel free to say no . . .” Torcuil hastened to add. “I mean, I know it's not really your line of work—”

“Yes,” I said.

“—and I know it all looks a bit . . .
dusty
. . . and it's quite isolated . . . but it's not like you'd have to do anything heavy . . . Did you just say
yes
?”

“I'd love to do it.” I smiled.

“Oh. Oh. That's great. That's really, really great. Oh, wow . . .” He looked at Inary and opened his arms as if to say,
So that worked out
.

Lara and I exchanged a glance. She looked so happy. I knew then that I'd made the right decision.

“I'd love to show you the grounds and the stables, but I need to go back to Edinburgh tonight,” Torcuil said, shooting a glance at his watch. “If it's okay with you, you can start this week.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“So, it's all sorted. What shall I call you? Do your friends call you Maggie?”

“Nobody who holds their life dear calls me Maggie.”

“Oh. Oh. Sorry. Margherita, then?”

“Yes.” I liked the way he said my name. He rolled the
r
a bit, ever so subtly, and made it sound like something not quite Italian but at the same time not English. It made it sound like a Scottish name. Like he skimmed all the consonants and melted them into something softer.

“Aha!” Lara exclaimed, picking up something tiny from the floor.

“What?”

“A red sequin. Somebody has been dancing in here very recently,” she said.

Torcuil and Inary looked at each other. “Mrs Gordon!” they said at the same time.

We left Inary at Ramsay Hall and walked home by ourselves in the late morning. The day had brightened up and a soft, golden sunshine made the loch shimmer. Lara was so excited she was nearly skipping.

“Do you think he has a wife in the attic? A Mrs Rochester?” she asked.

“What?”

“Well, it would make sense.”

“How would it make any sense? It only makes sense in your crazy imagination,” I said, tapping my head in jest. “I don't think he has a wife in the attic, no.”

“How do you know?” she said dramatically.

“Lara.”

“Yes?”

“You read too much.”

Torcuil

Memo to self: under no circumstances shorten her name. Do not, I repeat
do not
, call her Maggie. Once you remember that, you'll be fine.

She really has the biggest eyes I've ever seen. I'd caught a glimpse of them that night, but the light of the lamp post was so dim I couldn't see her face properly. They are so dark they're nearly black. She looks Italian, but then when she opens her mouth a London accent comes out. She has small hands, and a wedding band on her middle finger. Inary said she and her husband are separated. Not that I have any ideas about her, obviously, no interest in her at all. This kind of thing doesn't tend to work out with me anyway, not since Izzy, so there's no point even thinking about it, really.

God, those eyes.

She is yet another reason why I can't wait to get back to Glen Avich next week – but I shouldn't be thinking that, of course. In fact, I didn't just think that at all; it was just a ripple of the mind and I've already forgotten it.

“So that's you sorted. For the summer, at least,” Inary says as I pack my bag to go back to Edinburgh.

“Yeah. Funny how papers that fitted my bag on the way here don't fit any more on the way back . . .”

“You like her,” Inary says abruptly.

“Shut up. She's married.”

“Separated. And you are quite a catch, Torcuil.”

“I'm every woman's dream,” I say. It's meant as a joke, but there's an edge of bitterness to it. These last few years have been . . . how can I put it? I don't want to say
lonely
and sound whiny. They have been
cold
. Yes, cold is the word.

Bone-chilling, to be honest. But I just don't seem to be able to feel anything for anyone else. A vague goodwill, or physical attraction, or fondness. But love, no. Not love, never again.

There was someone, long ago. Eleven years ago, to be precise. It's a short story: I loved her and she loved me, but clearly not as much, because she left me for someone else.

In those eleven years there have been other women of course, but they never really worked out. To be precise, it was
me
who didn't work out. I suppose you would say I'm wary of letting my guard down, after having been so badly betrayed – but I have another theory: that I just didn't care enough for any of them. I mean, I
cared
for them, but I didn't love them. Not the love I'd felt for my fiancée, which had been so much more than friendship, so much more than a crush, so much more than attraction or being compatible or having a laugh together, and all other parameters of what love should be. My love for her was about my soul reaching for hers and wanting to be with her and never be apart again.

Maybe it had something to do with her having been hurt in the past, I don't know – this desperate need I had to house her within me, to be her home and place of peace.

Nobody else could compare.

“Want a lift back?” I ask my cousin as we make our way to the car.

“No thanks. It's a lovely afternoon, I'll walk. See you soon.”

Since she moved back to Glen Avich when Emily died, Inary and I have become very close. Considering the non-existent relationship I have with my sister and the fact that I hardly ever see my brother, though he only lives down the road, this is good news to me. To be fair, my brother Angus and I
are
close; it's that with Isabel's health getting worse and his job taking him all over the world, it's hard for him to get away. Sometimes it feels like I am quite alone.

I am now thirty-six years old and on my own. I am drifting.

I am drifting and I think that the only thing that's keeping me from getting lost at sea is this house, Ramsay Hall. My sister often says that this place is an albatross around our necks, but she's so wrong. To me, Ramsay Hall is a buoy. It's what saves me from drowning. I have this overwhelming feeling that if I save Ramsay Hall I will, somehow, save myself.

Lara

Dear Kitty,

The tree house sold it to me. The library was awesome, and the ballroom was a dream! But the tree house was just the best. Forget the wandering and reading at home, I want to spend a good chunk of my summer up there with a book.

Thankfully my mum accepted the job. She'll take things in hand, of course, sort the guy AND the house. Lord Ramsay (I know he said not to call him Lord Ramsay, but I like the way it sounds, like he's out of a novel) is nice. Really nice, and not bad-looking at all, for his age. He won't know what's hit him when my mum gets stuck in. She's going to revolutionise the place, bring it all back to order.

I wonder if I should tell Dad about all that we're doing here. Since we arrived I've phoned him twice from our bathroom but sometimes it felt awkward to be talking to him. He asked me questions about Mum. I think he should ask
her
stuff, not me. But they haven't spoken since we arrived. He never mentioned wanting us back, or missing us. To be fair, I never told him I miss him. As I write this I realise how sad it sounds.

Anyway, on to Inary. She is awesome. When I'm her age I want to be like her: have books published, a boyfriend and a home and her
hair
. I want red hair. It's not really red, though, it's somewhere between red and brown, like autumn leaves. She invited me for lunch at her house next week. I can't wait. In fact, I made a little calendar and I score every day that passes. Five days to go now.

I've been looking out for the boy in the tweed cap every time I pass the bridge, but he's never been there. Then, on the way back from Ramsay Hall, I thought I caught a glimpse of him across the loch. He was far away, but I'm nearly sure it was him: he had the same clothes, and I recognised the way he stood. I wanted to wave at him, but then I thought what if I'm wrong? So I didn't. Now I feel bad about it, because I think he saw me and we sort of looked at each other across the water, but I didn't call to him or make a gesture or anything. Neither did he, though. He just stood there, looking exhausted. And sad. Maybe he was fishing or something, because he looked covered in mud; I could see that even from far away. Also, my mum was with me, and I didn't want her to get all friendly with him and “oh hello, so you are a new friend of Lara, and what school do you go to, what do your parents do, where do you live etc etc”, you know the way she gets. I wanted to keep this to myself.

Looking back, though, it was funny the way he just stood there in the mist, not moving. Like he wasn't sure where he was. He looked lonely.

I hope to see him again soon.

Margherita

The fire was glowing, the fairy lights around the fireplace were on, and from the window I could see twilight slowly turning into night. Everything was so serene, so beautiful. Lara was across at my mum's helping to bake for La Piazza, so I had the cottage to myself and I was free to reflect on all that had happened. I lay on my bed beside Leo, stroking his hair until he fell asleep suddenly and deeply, tired as he was after a long day of exploring Glen Avich with Nonna and me. He was adorable in his blue PJs with the little helicopters on, clutching Pingu.

The job at Ramsay Hall was a new beginning for me, and I couldn't wait to get started. But I was hurting from Ash's silence. My absence –
our
absence – was not devastating him. Where his longing for us should have been, there was only silence. I knew Lara had phoned him a few times. She'd simply told me that he was fine and he was happy that we were fine too. Just like that, like an exchange you'd have with a stranger –
How are you? Fine, you? I'm fine too
. He'd never asked to speak to Leo.

But after that text in the middle of the night to tell him we'd arrived, I hadn't contacted him either. I could have picked up the phone, after all, instead of waiting for him to do it. But every time I thought about calling him, every time I tried to force myself to press the green button on my mobile, my stomach churned. The simple thought of hearing his voice was enough to make my head throb with stress, and still there was a void in my mind from the absence of him. Because in all these years we've been together, all these years we've been married, we've never gone without talking in some form or another for more than a few days, even if sometimes it was just harsh words, just arguments. It was like having been chopped in half, and although the half I'd lost had hurt me so much, I still missed it.

It was all new, and frightening, and immensely sad, especially because Ash didn't seem to want to speak to Leo. The chasm between them was deeper than I had realised, I thought as I tucked the duvet around him protectively and rested my arm across his sleeping form. Our noses were touching. He smelled sweet and warm; he smelled like love itself. My baby boy. I would do anything to keep him from pain.

Leo didn't seem that fazed by his father's absence. He had only mentioned him once, when Michael made a roast for us and he said that was his daddy's favourite dish. That was it. But how could I know what the long-term consequences of this would be? And since we'd arrived in Glen Avich, Leo had just looked so happy. His nonna and Michael spoiled him rotten. They took him around the village like a trophy, holding one of his hands each, and he basked in the attention.

Night had now fallen over the hills. Venus was shining bright in the black, black sky, and it occurred to me that for some reason, down in London there had been never time to look at the sky. Here in Glen Avich time seemed to have stretched and slowed, expanding until it seemed there was heaps of it. Maybe because I wasn't in a hurry any more, I did a lot less and observed a lot more. Days seemed so slow and peaceful, in comparison with the breakneck speed at which I'd been living my life – and what was I doing anyway? Rushing around on a million little errands that I'd set up to fill the emptiness I felt. My whole being began loosening up, bit by bit. It seemed impossible that after such upheaval, after the silences and arguments back in London, such an easy rhythm could come naturally to us; it seemed impossible that when everything in my life was up in the air, and things had changed so deeply, my mind was calmer than before.

From the cottage I could see right inside my mum's kitchen. Lara was stirring a bowl and my mum was taking a tray out of the oven, laden with something I couldn't quite make out. I moved Leo to his own bed, careful not to wake him up, and wrapped myself in the creamy mohair cardigan my mum had loaned me. I grabbed Nonna Ghita's notebook from my bedside table and made my way through the fresh, breezy Scottish summer evening and inside the kitchen. The baby monitor was on, so I could leave Leo on his own. The scent of baking was mouth-watering, and now I could see what my mum had been taking out of the oven – croissants.

“Is he asleep?” my mum asked me, slipping another tray of croissants into the oven.

“Yes. I've come to give you a hand,” I said. “What do you say we try something from here?” I waved the notebook.

“Yes, why not? You choose . . .”

“You're on.” I took off the cardigan, rolled up my sleeves and slipped an apron over my clothes in a ritual I'd known since I was little. “What about
brutti ma buoni
?”
Brutti ma buoni
literally means “ugly but tasty”, and they live up to the promise. They're gnarly little biscuits that lack beauty but have a heavenly nutty, sweet flavour.

“If we have all the ingredients, yes, sure,” my mum agreed.

It was such easy, earthy happiness to be in the kitchen with my mum and Lara and to bake together; a bit like when I was a little girl and my mum, Anna, Laura and I spent so much time in the kitchen. And now Lara was there too. It wasn't just about food; it was about companionship. For Italian women the kitchen is so much more than a place to rustle up quick meals – it's the most important room of the house, where we chat and bond and laugh and rest our souls. I seemed to have forgotten that, but it was all coming back to me, like the scent of my Nonna Ghita's cakes.

After an hour of work and fun and laughter, my mum had finished and the
brutti ma buoni
were ready too.

“Oh, Mum, why did you not make these before?” Lara said as she tasted a still-warm, knobbly little biscuit.

“Honestly? I don't know,” I said, and I allowed myself one short moment of dismay as I had a quick look at my mobile – still no missed calls, no texts.

It looked like Ash was letting me go.