No Ordinary Gentleman

“The scenery is beautiful,” I say, gazing out through the glass doors at the brooding hills.”

“Aye. It’s bonny, no matter the time of year.”

I’m not sure about bonny, but it’s certainly striking. “The hills look so purple. Surely that can’t just be heather?” It seems far too vivid a colour.

“Aye, the colour comes from heather growing in the glens. It seems to enjoy the weather more than most,” she adds, her tone droll. “Come along, then. This way.”

I follow Chrissy down a stone-flagged hall as she points out the estate offices, storage areas, and the security room. “At the other end of the castle is the entrance for paying visitors, the car park and such like.”

“The castle and gardens have been open since April, right?” And the private residence is nowhere I imagine I’ll need to know about.

“That’s right. The castle and the gardens open at the beginning of April. We get a fair number of visits during the week, but more during the weekend. And school holidays can be very busy.” She points out an oil painting of the current duke’s father halfway up a very grand (and original, I’m reliably told) staircase.

“Does the duke’s family live nearby?” I imagine a ducal family has a lot of real estate to choose from. I can’t imagine he’d live here, not with common folk wandering around having paid to gawk. I’m sure his ancestors would stroke out at the thought. Or maybe that would be suffer an apoplexy.

“No. Sandy, that is, his grace, the duke,” she says with a slight tint to her cheeks, “lives in London mostly. Though he does a lot of business in America and Europe, so I understand. Lady Isla lives no’ so far away with her wee family. She has offices in the castle, so we see a fair bit of her. That’s not to say his grace is never here. He’s no absentee landlord, y’ken. We do see him during the season, though more so when the house is closed to the public over the winter.”

I can imagine. Rich or not, I wouldn’t like to watch people tramping through my house. “I didn’t realise the duke and duchess were divorced.”

“Och, they’re not divorced,” she says with a chuckle. “They’re siblings. Twins, in fact. And a nicer pair you couldn’t wish to meet. This is them.”

We stop at a painting that’s at least one and a half times my height, the frame gilt and ornate. It depicts a pair of fair-headed children, the images as vibrant and as real as any photograph. The pair are aged around eight or nine, the girl sitting on a high-backed chair with a book on her lap and an overweight Labrador lying at her feet. To her left stands her brother in profile, the twist of his lips almost familiar. I guess it must be the look of a sibling about to annoy that I recognise.

“It’s lovely.” It’s hard to guess at the pair’s current ages by the painting alone. They might be anywhere between thirty and sixty, given their clothing. A pretty blue dress with smocking and Mary Janes for the girl. Long pants and a white shirt for the boy.

“Aye,” she replies with a sigh. “I hope Lady Isla’s wee ones turn out to be as devoted to each other as these two.”

Ah, so wee boys mean the pair are on the younger side. Young enough to have kids, at least.

“Does the duke have children?”

“No.” Chrissy angles her glance away. “That is, he’s widowed. He and his wife, God rest her soul, weren’t blessed with children.”

“Oh, how sad.” I turn back to the boy in the painting, my heart aching a little for the suffering he would’ve grown to endure. “Did it happen long ago?”

“Eight years it’ll be now.” She turns back to me, all business then. “The family’s private residence is that way.” She gives a vague wave of her hand. “And there has been a Dalforth in Kilblair castle since 1502.”

“A Dalforth?” I repeat uncertainly.

“That’s the family name,” she answers as though obvious. “Also the name of the dukedom and the land hereabouts. The current duke is the 13th Duke of Dalforth.” Bully for him, I guess. “Though the family's fortunes might’ve risen and fallen over the centuries, and one or two of them might’ve lost their heads, literally mind, the family still owns the castle. There aren’t many aristocratic families who can say the same in this day and age.”

“I guess not,” I agree, feeling the need, if not the sentiment.

“You know, there’s a castle over in Morar where the heir to the Baronial seat—the future baron—sells tickets in the ticketing booth. I’ve seen him myself with a broom in his hand,” she adds in a scandalised tone.

“Some might call that progress.” Some being me, maybe. The British royal family seems quaint and all, and they’re good for tourism in the capital city, but I just don’t buy into the idea of a noble elite just because some ancestor fought for this king or that. Or whored out his wife because the current king took a liking to her.