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Authors: Hester Browne
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enough tepid water into the cavernous rolltop bath.
Still, it gave me time to admire the magnificent brass taps, and the curly iron rack for holding your book and wine while you soaked. And the paintings of artfully draped ladies, and the stuffed pike, caught in the estate lake in June 1909.
Just before half seven, I left my room looking smart but feeling frozen. I’d opted for a silk wrap dress and heels that I hoped would be grand enough. Two steps down the staircase, though, and—mentally, at least—I was in a whispering silk crinoline and heavy tartan sash.
One didn’t just walk down these stairs, I thought, my pace slowing the better to savor each step, one
descended
. As if someone were waiting for you in the hall, with tragic/urgent news from London, maybe even toting one of Innes Stout’s dueling pistols.
“Why, my lord!” I murmured in my head. Well, more or less in my head. “The bagpipes? I simply
adore
them!”
There was no one around, so I tilted my head to show off my swanlike neck to an imaginary admirer, trailing a hand along the banister, worn smooth by generations of hands. Big, claymore-wielding hands, and delicate embroidering ones, resting where my fingers were now.
“Lord Dunmore, the Dunmore of Dunmore? For dinner? How unexpected!” I paused at the corner of one flight, and pictured the hall beneath thronging with ladies in diamonds and men in wing collars, waiting as their cloaks were taken before the ball. I imagined the tarnished gas lamps polished up and blazing, and the empty grate filled with logs, the air heavy with gossip and flirtation and woodsmoke.
This was exactly why I loved antiques: Kettlesheer was crammed with proof that those Regency romances had once been everyday life. I paused, and smiled down into the dim hall, imagining everyone gazing up at my arrival, the mysterious chestnut-haired beauty from London. My hand lifted, and I found myself giving a small royal wave.
And Fraser Graham, the handsome eldest son from the neighboring house, was waiting to take my hand and lead me into the—
Alice’s
hand. Waiting to take
Alice’s
hand.
Guiltily I rejigged my vision.
I could almost see Fraser Graham, the handsome young heir from the neighboring house, and his
unattached brother Douglas
—
There was a discreet cough from the stairwell.
I jumped so hard, my foot slipped on the worn carpet and I had to grab the banister to stop myself from falling. Luckily it was made of sturdy stuff.
Robert McAndrew was standing just round the corner by a wall-mounted sword, his arms crossed over his gray hoodie. He hadn’t bothered to change for dinner, I noticed. He hadn’t even changed out of his
jeans
.
“Are you all right?” he inquired.
“I’m fine, I didn’t see you there,” I stammered, cursing the stupid shadows and the lack of modern lighting. At least he couldn’t make out my red cheeks as I scuttled down the remaining stairs.
“You don’t have a camera crew with you?” he went on.
“No!”
“It’s just that you seemed to be making an entrance.” He paused, and gave me an inscrutable look. “And you were talking to yourself.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, concentrating on not slipping. That never happened in
Jane Eyre
, Jane skidding down the stairs on her bustle. “I was examining a painting. Am I late for dinner? Were you sent to find me? I’m sorry—it took a while to run the bath.”
“A bath? I’m surprised you’re not still up there—it’s quicker to fill a moat.” Robert gestured down the corridor. “Don’t worry about it. I’m late too. We can be late together. After you,” he said, and I stepped forward.
“Chop-chop,” he added. “Uncle Carlisle set up those Scrooge lights that go off before you’ve had time to see where you’re going. We’ve got thirty seconds to get down the east wing.”
“It’s a wonderful house,” I said, dragging myself past a cabinet full of Roman fragments. “Everywhere I look, I want to
Still, it gave me time to admire the magnificent brass taps, and the curly iron rack for holding your book and wine while you soaked. And the paintings of artfully draped ladies, and the stuffed pike, caught in the estate lake in June 1909.
Just before half seven, I left my room looking smart but feeling frozen. I’d opted for a silk wrap dress and heels that I hoped would be grand enough. Two steps down the staircase, though, and—mentally, at least—I was in a whispering silk crinoline and heavy tartan sash.
One didn’t just walk down these stairs, I thought, my pace slowing the better to savor each step, one
descended
. As if someone were waiting for you in the hall, with tragic/urgent news from London, maybe even toting one of Innes Stout’s dueling pistols.
“Why, my lord!” I murmured in my head. Well, more or less in my head. “The bagpipes? I simply
adore
them!”
There was no one around, so I tilted my head to show off my swanlike neck to an imaginary admirer, trailing a hand along the banister, worn smooth by generations of hands. Big, claymore-wielding hands, and delicate embroidering ones, resting where my fingers were now.
“Lord Dunmore, the Dunmore of Dunmore? For dinner? How unexpected!” I paused at the corner of one flight, and pictured the hall beneath thronging with ladies in diamonds and men in wing collars, waiting as their cloaks were taken before the ball. I imagined the tarnished gas lamps polished up and blazing, and the empty grate filled with logs, the air heavy with gossip and flirtation and woodsmoke.
This was exactly why I loved antiques: Kettlesheer was crammed with proof that those Regency romances had once been everyday life. I paused, and smiled down into the dim hall, imagining everyone gazing up at my arrival, the mysterious chestnut-haired beauty from London. My hand lifted, and I found myself giving a small royal wave.
And Fraser Graham, the handsome eldest son from the neighboring house, was waiting to take my hand and lead me into the—
Alice’s
hand. Waiting to take
Alice’s
hand.
Guiltily I rejigged my vision.
I could almost see Fraser Graham, the handsome young heir from the neighboring house, and his
unattached brother Douglas
—
There was a discreet cough from the stairwell.
I jumped so hard, my foot slipped on the worn carpet and I had to grab the banister to stop myself from falling. Luckily it was made of sturdy stuff.
Robert McAndrew was standing just round the corner by a wall-mounted sword, his arms crossed over his gray hoodie. He hadn’t bothered to change for dinner, I noticed. He hadn’t even changed out of his
jeans
.
“Are you all right?” he inquired.
“I’m fine, I didn’t see you there,” I stammered, cursing the stupid shadows and the lack of modern lighting. At least he couldn’t make out my red cheeks as I scuttled down the remaining stairs.
“You don’t have a camera crew with you?” he went on.
“No!”
“It’s just that you seemed to be making an entrance.” He paused, and gave me an inscrutable look. “And you were talking to yourself.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, concentrating on not slipping. That never happened in
Jane Eyre
, Jane skidding down the stairs on her bustle. “I was examining a painting. Am I late for dinner? Were you sent to find me? I’m sorry—it took a while to run the bath.”
“A bath? I’m surprised you’re not still up there—it’s quicker to fill a moat.” Robert gestured down the corridor. “Don’t worry about it. I’m late too. We can be late together. After you,” he said, and I stepped forward.
“Chop-chop,” he added. “Uncle Carlisle set up those Scrooge lights that go off before you’ve had time to see where you’re going. We’ve got thirty seconds to get down the east wing.”
“It’s a wonderful house,” I said, dragging myself past a cabinet full of Roman fragments. “Everywhere I look, I want to
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