Coming Home to the Highlands, page 5
The squashy burgundy velour sofas were still either side of the fireplace and two comfy chairs formed the bottom of the U-shaped arrangement, with a rosewood coffee table in the middle. A huge glass chandelier hung in the centre of the ceiling from a carved rose. Despite the size of the room, it felt cosy and warm, inviting and welcoming, even. Olivia poured herself a glass of single malt from a decanter on the William Trotter sideboard and wandered across to look at the family photographs that adorned the top of the grand piano at the other end of the vast room. Another trip down Memory Lane.
Ornate framed photographs of her grandparents and great-grandparents sat amongst photos of Kerr and Olivia as children. Her brother’s mop of unruly red hair stood out so vividly, as did his wide boyish grin. She wondered when he had changed and became so bitter. There was a photograph of her mum and dad on their wedding day as they stood under an arch of flowers outside the chapel by the lake; they both looked so in love and deliriously happy. For a brief moment, she envied their relationship. It was something she aspired to have for herself one day. But up to now, the L word had completely eluded her. She’d had relationships, flings, dalliances but nothing that ever got to the point where she could see a future and that made her a little sad.
Her most recent relationship had been with a New Yorker named Darius. He was ridiculously handsome, swarthy and always smelled amazing. She met him at the bar he was working in when they were on a staff night out. He wanted to be a model and it turned out he had only asked her out because he thought she might be able to help him get a job modelling for Nina. As Harper later said, ‘If something or someone appears too good to be true, it’s probably because, in reality, they’re a lying piece of shit.’ How right she was and how clear hindsight was too.
The final straw had come when she had discovered Darius in her bathroom having a conversation on his cell phone in a stupid pseudo-sexy voice, whilst staring at his reflection. He gave what she guessed he thought was a cute chuckle. ‘So yeah, babe, I’m thinking of saying something like, “So, gorgeous, how about you hook me up with your lady Nina Piccolo, huh?” What? Well, I have to sweeten her up somehow, baby. But yes, you’re my one and only boo. Do you think I’m sexy enough to be a male model, huh, baby?’ Another sickly chuckle. ‘You do, huh? Well, let’s hope she goes for it. Your man could soon be a Nina Piccolo model.’ She watched through a crack in the door as he licked his lips and blew a kiss at himself, then bit his lip and chucked his chin. My god did he love himself.
It was embarrassing to watch, and Olivia couldn’t help herself, she flung open the door and he almost jumped out of his skin, dropped his phone in the toilet and stood there, staring at her in shock. The cogs were clearly turning as he tried to concoct an explanation, but she wasn’t stupid, and she wouldn’t fall for his bull crap any longer.
She folded her arms across her chest and said, as snidely as possible, ‘It’s Picarro actually. I think you’ll find a Piccolo is a small instrument, rather like what you keep in your excruciatingly tight trousers. Seriously, they are obscene. And Nina wouldn’t touch you or your fake tan with a barge pole. Now I suggest you get dressed and get out of my apartment.’
She had watched as he proceeded to reach into the toilet to retrieve his phone, open and close his mouth several times as she simply glared at him, and eventually he had mumbled something about her being an ugly ass bitch anyway, gathered his clothes and stormed out of her flat.
At twenty-eight, she was still relatively young, but having someone to hold her at night would have been wonderful since her mother had passed away. Night-time was always the worst part of her day. Her mind would wander and tell her things that deep down she knew were wrong, like she should have come home more often, or in fact she never should have left at all.
Shuddering at the memories, she made her way to sit by the fire and sipped at her drink. Marley stirred and relocated himself to lie on her feet. She wasn’t a whisky drinker usually, but the smell reminded her of her dad. The heat as she swallowed the drink warmed her from the inside and she smiled. She remembered the first time she had tried it. It had been New Year’s Eve when she was seventeen and her parents were hosting a charity ball at the castle.
The ball was held in the long gallery, her father’s favourite room in the house. It had been a Georgian addition and was long and vast. At the centre of the plaster-moulded ceiling was a glazed, domed cupola that bounced natural daylight down into the room without shining directly onto the paintings, for their protection. The gallery spread across the back section of the castle and housed her parents’ most treasured pieces of artwork, and the family heirloom pieces. It was opulent and beautiful, with sparse seating affording plenty of space for dancing. There was a humongous marble fireplace to one side and a large floor-to-ceiling window to the opposite side that had spectacular views over the grounds, down to the loch and the chapel. It really was the perfect space for parties but on most years prior to this one, Olivia had been sent to bed early and had missed most of the festivities.
On this particular occasion, however, Olivia was allowed to attend the whole shebang and she had worn a navy-blue velvet ball gown with a MacBain tartan sash; she had felt very grown up. Twenty-two-year-old Kerr was already quite drunk and flirting with several of the catering staff who had been brought in for the event. He had to be escorted to his room eventually as he was embarrassing them, himself and Dad. Dad was drinking single malt from a cut crystal glass and chuntering about Kerr’s behaviour when Olivia joined him and linked her arm through his.
‘I don’t think I’m ever going to get drunk,’ she had told her father.
He had laughed and shook his head. ‘Oh, I’ve heard that before, Lolly. And I’m afraid I won’t be holding my breath on the matter.’
Olivia had gasped in horror. ‘No, Dad, I really and truly mean it. I don’t like the idea of acting silly and not remembering what I’ve said to people. It’s so embarrassing. I like a glass of wine with dinner, of course, but nothing else.’
With a glint in his eye, her father had handed her his glass. ‘Here, see what you make of this. It’s a wonderful 1984 Glenfarclas. Very smooth. It has hints of chestnut and pear.’
She had tentatively taken the glass and inhaled the aroma first. She couldn’t smell pear, but she could smell very strong alcohol. With a turned-up nose, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, swallowed and immediately coughed as it burned the back of her throat. ‘Eeeuw, Dad! That’s disgusting! It’s like drinking petrol or something.’
Her dad had thrown his head back and laughed. ‘Whisky is wonderful, take it from a man who knows, especially this one, it’s one of the best! But maybe for you it’s an acquired taste, eh?’ He had nudged her playfully and she had made a very unladylike noise as she shivered.
‘Bleurgh! Not a taste I’ll be purposefully acquiring, thank you very much!’
Funnily enough, the following Christmas she had drunk the same spirit with her father again as they watched the Queen’s Speech and she had rather enjoyed it with a splash of water.
This room was so central to Christmas; the tree was always taken from the grounds and each year one was planted in its place. The pines from the Drumblair grounds had the freshest scent; the fragrance that was the epitome of the festive season as far as Olivia was concerned. It was always traditionally decked in rich red and gold decorations, as well as plenty of the family tartan which was, fortunately, red and green with a hint of white.
Christmas was the one time they all seemed to get on, even her and Kerr. He had bought her some very thoughtful gifts over the years, her favourite being a sterling silver thistle pendant that she had worn for many years. She had so many wonderful memories of her mother sitting at the piano as the rest of the family stood and sang carols. Her mother had had a delightful singing voice and Olivia had loved to listen to her. In fact, she’d often found herself leaning on the piano and just watching her mother play, candlelight glinting in her eyes and a huge smile on her face.
What she would give to see that again.
She left her glass and the drawing room. Thinking about the New Year ball had sparked a need to see the long gallery again, so, along with her companion, she meandered to the back of the castle and pushed through the doors. She flicked on the wall sconces and peered around the once vibrant space. The furniture in here was now covered with dust sheets and the large expanse felt cold. It had clearly been unused for a long while. She struggled to remember the last time there had been a party in here and that saddened her. It had always been such fun to see the place come alive with the splendour and pageantry of the glamorous gowns and the kilts in every clan tartan she could name.
There were still paintings on the walls, although there were gaps where some of the more valuable paintings used to be, and some of the pieces of furniture she had been used to seeing were no longer there; another remnant of her mother’s attempts to bail out her brother. A wave of anger washed over her, and she gritted her teeth as she walked out of the room. Her father would have been heartbroken to see the place now. It was as if the heart had been ripped out of it. And all for someone who was ungrateful, greedy and narcissistic.
3
On the morning of the funeral, a mist hung low over the estate grounds that matched Olivia’s mood. She stood at her bedroom window as she had done on many occasions before, looking out and watching the deer foraging in the expansive grounds. For most of the year, they stuck to single-sex groups, with the does taking the parenting role over the fawns; however, her favourite time of year was rutting season. Between September and November, there was something ethereal about seeing the fully grown, handsome, majestic stags with antlers poised aloft like strong branches and noses to the breeze as they acted as sentries for the weaker of their herd, or put on displays of bravery to attract the females. This view from her window was a sight she had always loved, but here, on a cold March day, the melancholy it brought, knowing she couldn’t share it with her mother, almost made her want to turn away.
When she was a teenager, Olivia and her mum had often sat drinking their first cup of tea of the day on the small balcony outside Olivia’s room, watching the young fawns gambolling around in the wooded copse that edged the south of the land, as the sun rose, casting a golden glow over the fields. ‘You really do have the best view of the deer, don’t you, darling?’ her mother had often said. Now, these precious memories were a double-edged sword.
Being back in Scotland under these circumstances wasn’t at all what Olivia had wanted. She had anticipated the next time she would visit would be for her birthday in April when the castle grounds would be a sea of bright, cheery yellow daffodils and dusky purple hyacinths, the scent heady and the spring sunshine bringing everything to life once again after the deep winter sleep. She always came home around her birthday and her mother would make a huge fuss of her, much to her jealous brother’s chagrin. This year’s birthday would be so very different.
She showered and dressed in her black Nina Picarro Peter Pan-collared shift dress with the black diamante rose on the left collar that had been added in memory of Lady Freya MacBain. Nina had gifted it to her for the funeral, insisting it was one less thing for her to worry about. She stood before her full-length mirror and smoothed down the fabric over the curve of her hips. She was no longer a scrawny, gangly teen, that was for sure. Her brown hair, now highlighted with blonde, was neatly tied in a chignon to the right side of her neck and her make-up was, of course, minimal. She didn’t much feel like wearing make-up, but she was determined to look smart and presentable and to cover the dark circles that had become a feature of her face lately.
There was a knock at her bedroom door, and she called for them to enter.
‘Hello, my love,’ Mirren said. ‘Harper is here. I brought her straight up; I hope that’s okay.’
Olivia turned to face Mirren and smiled warmly. ‘Of course. Thank you. Oh, and what’s happening with Marley while we’re at the funeral?’
‘Don’t worry, he’s staying here in the kitchen in his favourite spot. I didn’t think it was wise having him wandering around, knowing how much he sheds, bless him.’
Olivia had the urge to hug the dog tight, bury her face in his fur and forget that today was the day she would say a final goodbye to her wonderful mum. ‘Right, yes, fair point.’
Mirren nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it. And… you look beautiful. You’re the image of your mother,’ she said with a distinct wobble of emotion to her voice.
Olivia choked back tears and simply nodded her thanks before reaching for her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.
Mirren left and Harper walked in and right up to Olivia, enveloping her in an embrace and allowing Olivia to cry.
When her tears had subsided, Olivia pulled back and fixed her focus on her best friend. ‘Thank you so much for coming. It means so much for me to have such a wonderful friend in my life.’
Harper dabbed at her own eyes. ‘No thanks needed. We’re sisters from another mister, remember? You’d do the same for me. And Mirren was right, you do look beautiful. And you do look just like Lady Freya. I’ve never noticed how much until now.’
Olivia looked back at her reflection and for the first time she saw the similarities too. She touched her face and smiled. ‘I always saw myself as so very plain.’
Harper placed a hand on each shoulder and leaned her chin on Olivia’s shoulder as she too addressed their reflections. ‘Absolutely not. You’re a true beauty. Both inside and out. That’s why I love you, anyway… The inside part. You have such a kind spirit and I know you get that from both your parents, but when I look at you now, I see your mom’s eyes and smile.’
Olivia took great comfort from Harper’s words and the two friends sat on the bed for a while to catch up.
Later, standing at the graveside, Harper squeezed Olivia’s hand reassuringly as they took their places before the other mourners; some other family members, staff and friends. There were not as many people there as there could have been, but Freya had insisted her funeral be an intimate affair, just for those she was close to. Innes stood to the other side of Olivia and rested his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Bella and Skye standing together, arms linked, before turning her focus back on the gaping hole in the soil that matched the one in her heart. The vicar’s solemn words didn’t really register in Olivia’s brain as she watched her mother’s coffin being lowered into the cold, hard ground. The one saving grace for her was that her parents were now reunited in the family plot at the Drumblair estate cemetery, and in the beyond, wherever that might be.
The chapel’s location on the periphery of the grounds of the castle, by the lake, made for a peaceful and tranquil setting. Members of the MacBain family had been wed, baptised and laid to rest there since the castle’s construction in the fifteenth century. Remembering Kerr’s insinuation that the chapel would make a great conversion to residential use made Olivia baulk. She hoped he would soon realise he could do no such thing when their own parents were laid to rest there.
These days, the grounds of both the castle and the chapel were carefully maintained by the long-serving head gardener Dougie, and his intrepid team, well, before Kerr saw fit to sack most of them, anyway. It was a strange thing to comprehend but the cemetery really was beautiful, and the team of committed workers, the majority of whom were thankfully in attendance despite her brother’s protestations, were the sole reason for that. Mirren stood just behind her, with Dougie, relentless tears streaming down her face.
The small stone-built chapel was where Olivia’s parents had been blessed in an intimate service after their larger, more formal wedding ceremony at Inverness Cathedral. The photos from the picturesque chapel had always made Olivia think of a fairy-tale wedding and she couldn’t understand why it didn’t have the same effect on her brother. He clearly had a swinging pound sign where his heart should be.
Although not particularly large in stature, the chapel structure was imposing with its large square turrets at each corner and the clock tower at one end, whose clock hadn’t worked since before she was born. Olivia’s favourite thing was the arched stained-glass window that caught the sun’s rays no matter the season and cast coloured shards of light across the stone floor; something she remembered being distracted by as a child when they attended services for Easter, harvest festival and Christmas.
Kerr was, of course, accompanied to the funeral service by Adaira. Their relationship confused Olivia. Now that their mother had passed away and Kerr was to inherit, he no longer needed her money. This made her wonder if Adaira was, in fact, the hanger on. Perhaps she was after Kerr’s money. It would certainly be a first. Despite their lack of nuptials, the glamorous woman with her perfectly coiffed platinum-blonde, Marilyn-esque hair and ruby red lips played the part of a dutiful wife, linking her arm through his, passing him handkerchiefs and rubbing his arm whilst gazing up at him with an almost patronising, piteous stare.
Regardless of his attempts to hide it, the little silver hip flask that had once belonged to their father glinted every time Kerr removed it from the inside pocket of his long black overcoat to take a sip. Evidently noticing Olivia’s disapproving glances, Adaira had whispered to her that he needed the Dutch courage to face the horrific truth that his mother was being laid to rest. Everything that woman said was beginning to grate on Olivia and she couldn’t help wondering if Kerr’s tears were more self-pity than grief, but she berated herself silently for such cruel thoughts. They had both just lost their mother, after all. It wasn’t a grief that belonged to Olivia alone. And even though Kerr had a tendency to emanate a hard, cold, selfish and unfeeling façade, surely he couldn’t deny a deep sense of regret, pain and grief? Even if he was only admitting it to himself.
