No Ordinary Gentleman

Pushing back my chair, I stand and slip on my jacket and slide my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket. I’ve got to push past this ennui. Maybe a change of scenery would help. Tuscany is always nice this time of year. Or maybe I should do something radical, like propose to Portia. She’d place no demands on my time or my life and help run the estates. Given that we’re no longer fucking, it might just be the next logical step.

14

Holly

Holy moly. It’s cold in here.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, or rather, I stare at the dark circles under my eyes. It had taken me forever to drift off to sleep last night thanks to the unfamiliar bed and the eery quiet of my surroundings. It’s odd to think I’d have trouble sleeping when my previous bed literally rattled every time a bus trundled past my bedroom window. Hooting owls and random creaks shouldn’t have been such an issue. But it might’ve started with the bath after I’d discovered what an immersion heater is: it’s something that’s complete crap. The faucet (why are there two?) had barely spluttered out four inches of water before running cold.

Most uncomfortable bath ever!

Bad enough that there isn’t a shower—which will make hair washing fun—without rationing the hot water. And the daylight hasn’t improved my accommodation, either. Not only does the heating seem to be on the fritz, but the place hasn’t seen a lick of paint since the 1980s. Chintz I can cope with—I just need some heat!

After pulling on more layers than a late spring morning should need, I inhale a breakfast of coffee and toast, making a note to thank whoever provided enough groceries to get me through the next few days. Then I pull a chunky knit sweater over my tank, T-shirt, and black jeans, before slipping on my pristine white Kate Spade sneakers. Casual but stylish, I decide. Whatever the dress code usually is, I’m sure this will do for now. It’s a little after 10.30 in the morning when I venture outside, figuring I should maybe find Lady Isla, seeing as no one has called yet to take me to her.

Pulling the blue (paint-peeled) door closed behind me, I lock it. I’d found the key on the coffee table last night, resting in a leaf shaped out of glass. Sliding it and my phone into my back pockets, I set off at a purposeful pace because decisive is a good look, even on someone who has no idea where they’re going.

Gravel crunches underfoot as I make my way past the row of cottages, each of them a little tidier and homier than mine. Pots sit on windowsills brimming with blooms, mats in front of doors that bid guests a warm welcome. At the end of the row, I slip under an archway. A sign points back the way I came that reads NO ENTRY.

Out in the open, the hills in the distance are the kind of vibrant green that has to be seen to be believed. From a distance, they look like they’re coated with a deep green velvet, though darker in the valleys and almost the colour of a Shiraz. A grey lacy blanket of cloud enveloping their summits.

I startle as crows caw as I pass a set of honest-to-goodness stocks—the contraption that thieves were kept in. A hole for a head and wrists, like ye olde handcuffs. I’m sure this is a modern-day addition to the castle, built to look the part, but the murder of crows sitting along its edges seems pretty authentic.

If not a little ominous.

Unless they’re on the payroll, too.

I push on, following the path as it widens and skirts around the edge of the castle walls heading towards well, I’m not sure what it is, but it looks kind of commercial. I quicken my step as it starts to rain, cursing the fact that I didn’t think to bring my jacket as the weather changes in an instant from starting to rain to really going for it.

“Heckin’ hell,” I mutter, almost bursting through the first door I come to, adding, “Oh, hi!” when I realise I’m not alone.

“I was just about to come for ye,” Chrissy says, looking up from the cell phone in her hand. “Lady Isla is running a wee bit behind, so she thought I could give you a tour of the castle. I know you won’t be working here exactly, but it’ll be good for ye to have a sense of your surroundings.”

“That sounds great. I’d love a tour.” Who doesn’t love snooping around other people’s houses?

“And it’ll save you the twelve pounds entrance fee,” she adds, her eyes sparkling.

“I’m all for saving money. And staying out of the rain.”

“Och, that’s no’ rain,” she says dismissively. “It’s just a wee shower.”