twenty minutes doing off-the-cuff valuations. Pottery spaniels followed a silver snuffbox; then came a carved elephant with a missing tusk, about which I managed to get quite emotional after its owner explained it had belonged to his twin sister who died in the Second World War.
At a quarter to seven exactly, I was in the middle of pronouncing on a Spode teapot when I became aware of a marked thinning-out of the guests. It was as if a plug had been pulled out of a bath, and they were all circling toward the door, half against their will.
In the hall I could see a dour woman in a plain black dress, evidently wielding some kind of invisible social tractor beam. She was handing people their coats from a portable rack that had also materialized, and they were dazedly bundling up in fur hats, scarves, and lots of Barbour jackets.
“Mhairi’s a wonder. Her family has looked after the house for years, her father was the last butler,” murmured Ingrid, appearing at my elbow with a full tray of unfinished drinks. “Do you know, everyone round here leaves parties when they’re supposed to? And they arrive on time, not an hour late!”
We both gazed at Mhairi. Something about her didn’t encourage dawdling.
“Do you have a lot of staff?” I asked, envisioning rows of black-and-white-clad parlormaids in starched caps, lining up by the stairs.
“Just Mhairi. I don’t know how I’d cope without her.” She looked down at her full tray. “Actually, it was Mhairi’s idea to let Duncan serve his carrot schnapps instead of sherry. She doesn’t like parties to go on after half seven.”
“This is carrot … schnapps?” I asked.
“Home brew,” said Ingrid. “Duncan’s very … keen. Anyway, I should go and …” She made a vague gesture toward the door, as if she were still getting the hang of her own house.
“Oh, yes, absolutely. I’m fine here,” I said. Actually, I was eager to go poke around the silver wedding photos on the piano, for a start.
Once Ingrid had fluttered out, I stood back and tried to take it all in. McAndrews through the ages glowered back at me from the burgundy wallpaper: the floppy hats, wigs, and tiaras varied, but the strong nose and shrewd Scottish eyes stayed exactly the same. The young Regency buck posing against a tree stump had the same brooding good looks, if not the same breeches, as Robert McAndrew.
It must be incredible, I thought enviously, to
see
that you were part of such a long chain of people. We had one album of family photos. You’d think the whole Nicholson family fell out of the sky fully formed in 1974, the year my parents got married. I’d have been happy for a snap of a relative in a bowler hat, let alone a suit of armor.
One blond head stood out in the crowd of swarthy swaggerers: a full-length portrait of a young woman hanging by the bay window. Something about the mischief in her pretty face made me sleepwalk over for a closer look, trailing my hands across velvet sofas and threadbare cushions as I went.
She was younger than me—about twenty—but she had a grown-up sophistication about her half-smile and knowing blue eyes. I didn’t recognize the artist, but I could tell he was good: he’d captured the pre-party sparkle of anticipation that glowed around her and the golden softness of her swept-up curls, the luminescence of the pearls in her delicate ears. Going by the nipped waist and floaty off-the-shoulder neckline of her gown, I estimated it must have been painted sometime before the First World War. The last hurrah for languid society beauties and their untroubled lives of house parties and never-ending afternoon teas.
Ooh, I thought suddenly. Was this the heiress? Was I gazing into the eyes of the American buccaneer who’d steamed across the Atlantic to save this ancient castle from financial ruin?
“Jolly well done, Evie,” said Duncan, appearing next to me with a side order of cold air still hanging around him. “Who knew Jock Laing’s
At a quarter to seven exactly, I was in the middle of pronouncing on a Spode teapot when I became aware of a marked thinning-out of the guests. It was as if a plug had been pulled out of a bath, and they were all circling toward the door, half against their will.
In the hall I could see a dour woman in a plain black dress, evidently wielding some kind of invisible social tractor beam. She was handing people their coats from a portable rack that had also materialized, and they were dazedly bundling up in fur hats, scarves, and lots of Barbour jackets.
“Mhairi’s a wonder. Her family has looked after the house for years, her father was the last butler,” murmured Ingrid, appearing at my elbow with a full tray of unfinished drinks. “Do you know, everyone round here leaves parties when they’re supposed to? And they arrive on time, not an hour late!”
We both gazed at Mhairi. Something about her didn’t encourage dawdling.
“Do you have a lot of staff?” I asked, envisioning rows of black-and-white-clad parlormaids in starched caps, lining up by the stairs.
“Just Mhairi. I don’t know how I’d cope without her.” She looked down at her full tray. “Actually, it was Mhairi’s idea to let Duncan serve his carrot schnapps instead of sherry. She doesn’t like parties to go on after half seven.”
“This is carrot … schnapps?” I asked.
“Home brew,” said Ingrid. “Duncan’s very … keen. Anyway, I should go and …” She made a vague gesture toward the door, as if she were still getting the hang of her own house.
“Oh, yes, absolutely. I’m fine here,” I said. Actually, I was eager to go poke around the silver wedding photos on the piano, for a start.
Once Ingrid had fluttered out, I stood back and tried to take it all in. McAndrews through the ages glowered back at me from the burgundy wallpaper: the floppy hats, wigs, and tiaras varied, but the strong nose and shrewd Scottish eyes stayed exactly the same. The young Regency buck posing against a tree stump had the same brooding good looks, if not the same breeches, as Robert McAndrew.
It must be incredible, I thought enviously, to
see
that you were part of such a long chain of people. We had one album of family photos. You’d think the whole Nicholson family fell out of the sky fully formed in 1974, the year my parents got married. I’d have been happy for a snap of a relative in a bowler hat, let alone a suit of armor.
One blond head stood out in the crowd of swarthy swaggerers: a full-length portrait of a young woman hanging by the bay window. Something about the mischief in her pretty face made me sleepwalk over for a closer look, trailing my hands across velvet sofas and threadbare cushions as I went.
She was younger than me—about twenty—but she had a grown-up sophistication about her half-smile and knowing blue eyes. I didn’t recognize the artist, but I could tell he was good: he’d captured the pre-party sparkle of anticipation that glowed around her and the golden softness of her swept-up curls, the luminescence of the pearls in her delicate ears. Going by the nipped waist and floaty off-the-shoulder neckline of her gown, I estimated it must have been painted sometime before the First World War. The last hurrah for languid society beauties and their untroubled lives of house parties and never-ending afternoon teas.
Ooh, I thought suddenly. Was this the heiress? Was I gazing into the eyes of the American buccaneer who’d steamed across the Atlantic to save this ancient castle from financial ruin?
“Jolly well done, Evie,” said Duncan, appearing next to me with a side order of cold air still hanging around him. “Who knew Jock Laing’s
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