Flawless (6 page)

For the next several minutes, a series of O’Donnell workers, most of whom had asked to be allowed to remain anonymous, told their stories via an interpreter. In flat, dispassionate voices, they recounted their symptoms—all hauntingly similar—the shortness of breath, coughing spells, chest pains so acute they found themselves suddenly unable to stand, never mind work. They described a world in which lung cancer was merely a final insult, set against a lifetime of subsistence-level pay—miners in the former Soviet Union were some of the worst paid in an industry notorious for exploiting its workers, far worse off in real terms than their South African counterparts—abysmal mine safety records, a total lack of health care, education, even basic sanitation facilities in their living quarters. It was heartbreaking.

“How can they be so bloody stoic about it?” said Scarlett furiously, swerving into the fast lane in her fury and only narrowly missing a Box truck, whose driver beeped loudly and shook his fist as she passed.

“They’re used to it,” said Cameron blithely. “It’s a lot better than it used to be under the commies, and what’s their alternative? Planting turnips in the permafrost?”

“Their
alternative
is to have greedy bloody employers like O’Donnell forced to comply with basic pay and safety regulations,” spluttered Scarlett, “as they would have to in any other industry. It’s a bloody disgrace! People wouldn’t buy those diamonds if they knew what was going on.”

“Oh, come on,” Cameron laughed. He looked smugger than ever in his bespoke tweed jacket, an incipient double chin quivering beneath his silk Turnbull & Asser cravat. “Even you can’t be so naive as to believe that.”

“Those mines are causing cancer,” said Scarlett, ignoring him. “It’s O’Donnell Mining Corp’s fault those men are dying.”

“That’s pure supposition,” said Cameron firmly. “I’ll bet you they all smoke, every last one of them.”

But Scarlett shushed him and turned up the volume. Amazingly, Brogan O’Donnell himself was giving an interview. Famed for his hostility toward the media, he almost
never
spoke to the press. But suddenly the car was filled with his voice, a surprisingly gentle, measured baritone and not at all the strident, belligerent American drawl Scarlett had expected.

“I’m not saying life in those mines isn’t tough,” he was telling the BBC reporter calmly. “Life in former Soviet Russia is tough for most people, and Yakutia is a place of incredible physical and environmental extremes. What I am saying is that O’Donnell Mining Corp provides far better working conditions than existed there previously. And that we are continuing to improve those conditions as best we can, introducing social programs, and yes, education and health provision are both areas we need to focus on. But you’re talking about a region with almost no existing infrastructure. It isn’t simply a case of throwing money at the problem.”

“Bullshit!” Scarlett exploded, so loudly that poor Boxford woke with a start from a very pleasant dream he was having about chasing pheasants and started barking plaintively, unsure where he was or what on earth was going on. “Don’t make it sound complicated, you asshole. Pay those poor men enough to feed their families!”

But even she had to admit Brogan sounded worryingly plausible, the fair-minded capitalist doing his best for his workers under extraordinary and challenging conditions.

“The diamond business is good for Russia, and for this part of the country it’s a genuine lifeline. There is no evidence whatsoever to link isolated lung cancer cases to our mines. It’s not as if we’re digging for asbestos.”

“Exactly,” nodded Cameron.

“Most of the campaigners trying to shut us down have never even been to Yakutia,” continued Brogan. “They have no idea what a vacuum would be left if businesses like mine pulled out or were priced out of the market here by the unworkable labor laws and health insurance premiums they’re proposing.”

“The guy sounds like a smart cookie,” said Cameron, knowing how much it would annoy his sister. “It’s easier to get all holier-than-thou about it, but the fact is these Russkies need him.”

“Yes, they do,” Scarlett shot back, livid. “And Brogan O’Donnell exploits that need. Criminally, in my opinion. Those poor men are dying like flies, and listen to him. He doesn’t give a damn.”

“Yes, well, that makes two of us,” yawned Cameron. Turning up the heat on Scarlett’s horrible Scandinavian car, he tipped his seat back and soon fell into a contented, dreamless sleep.

Rising from the surrounding pine forest and sea mist like a vast, gray ship breaching a wave, Drumfernly was widely considered to be one of the most beautiful estates in northeast Scotland. Ten miles inland south of Inverness, the castle was a turreted granite masterpiece. Once used as a hiding place for Bonnie Prince Charlie, it had been in Drummond Murray hands since it was built in 1520, and a watertight entailment ensured that it would remain so for many generations to come. If Cameron had no sons, the estate would pass to his nearest male relative, however distant such a person proved to be. Once identified, he would have to agree to revert to the surname Drummond Murray and
to have his children do the same. He would also be obliged to spend a minimum of six months of the year “in residence” at Drumfernly. If he balked at either of these conditions, the inheritance would pass to the next male in line, and so on and so on until a willing taker was found.

So far, no one had balked, and it wasn’t hard to see why. With its long, winding drive lined with fir trees, interspersed with crumbling bridges spanning the crystal-clear waters of its salmon stream, its Rapunzel towers, and its three-foot-thick medieval wooden doors, Drumfernly was like the fairy-tale castle from a Brothers Grimm story. Every time she came home, Scarlett was struck again by its beauty and for a moment would wonder how on earth she could have so dreaded coming back here.

But only for a moment.

“Darlings!” Caroline Drummond Murray, dressed in a nightie, dressing gown, parka, and Wellington boots, crunched her way across the gravel to greet her children. It was nearly midnight, but the moon was full and bright and the stars out in full, so she had no need for the flashlight wedged like a baton in her coat pocket. “At last!”

Ignoring Scarlett, she opened the passenger door and helped Cameron, who moments ago had been slumped back against the headrest, snoring loudly, out into the chill night air. “Poor thing, you must be shattered,” she said solicitously.

“I am, actually.” He yawned, kissing her on both cheeks and allowing her to lead him into the warmth of the house. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of some late dinner, is there?”

“Er, excuse me?” Having opened the back door for Boxford, who was now running around the lawn ecstatically, peeing like a garden sprinkler, Scarlett was busy heaving presents and suitcases out of the trunk. “Some help would be nice.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” said Caroline brusquely. “Cameron’s exhausted. Bring in what you need for tonight, and I’ll send Duncan out to help with the rest first thing in the morning.”

Too tired to argue, Scarlett did as she was told, and after a brief but delicious kitchen supper of spiced lentils and rice—good old Mrs. Cullen had excelled herself again—collapsed on to her childhood bed fully clothed. Her bedroom was just as it had always been, as unchanging in reality as in her memory: a small, turreted octagon at the top of the east wing of the castle, with thick stone walls that felt cold to the touch even in hot summer and a high, wooden bed piled even higher with linen sheets and ancient, rough woolen blankets against the winter chill. A few dog-eared photographs of former family pets or long-since-sold ponies remained stubbornly tacked around the mullioned window, next to the smattering of Pony Club ribbons that had once been Scarlett’s greatest source of pride.

What a long time ago that was
, thought Scarlett. Before she knew it, she was deeply asleep.

By the time she woke the next morning, bright winter sun was burning its way through the cracks in the shutters. Getting woozily to her feet, still wrapped in the scratchy woolen blanket—Christ, it was cold in here—she hopped gingerly across the floor and opened them fully, flooding the room with sunshine so dazzling it made her sneeze. Pulling on her discarded clothes from last night—faded blue jeans, Ugg boots, and a Gap wool sweater with a giant snowflake on the front—she headed straight downstairs for breakfast.

“Hello, poppet.” Her father, Hugo, absorbed in the
Sunday Telegraph
sports section and a plate of congealing fried egg, kissed her absently on the cheek as she sat down. Short, fat, and bald, with a kindly, ruddy-cheeked face and a permanently bewildered expression, Hugo Drummond Murray looked absolutely nothing like his beautiful daughter—although he was responsible for both Scarlett and Cameron’s unique hazel eyes. Dressed permanently in an old pair of corduroy trousers and a hunting jacket so threadbare that it was now more darn than tweed, he looked to Scarlett like a cross between Tweedledum and Friar Tuck, with perhaps a hint of Prince Charles thrown in for good measure.
How he had ever come to marry a pushy socialite like her mother was a mystery not just to her but to most of Scotland.

“Hello, Pa.” She smiled. “Any bacon left?”

“Not sure,” said Hugo vaguely. He was immersed in a double-page spread on fly-fishing in Slovenia. “I think your brother may have finished it earlier. There are plenty of eggs though. Shall I ring for Mrs. Cullen?”

“No, don’t be silly,” said Scarlett. “I think I can manage to scramble myself a few eggs.”

After a satisfying breakfast of eggs on toast, washed down with two pint-sized mugs of hot, fresh coffee, she was starting to feel a bit more human. But the peace wasn’t destined to last long.

“Ah, Scarlett dear, you’re up at last.” Caroline, looking immaculate and whip-thin as ever in a navy-blue Country Casuals twinset to match her eyes, swept regally into the kitchen. Once a beautiful woman, she was now what would most easily be described as handsome. Blessed with the same high cheekbones and clear complexion she had passed on to her daughter, she would have looked younger than her fifty-two years if it weren’t for her permanently erect posture and penchant for formal, tailored clothes, even when relaxing at home. Noticing Scarlett’s dirty jeans and unwashed hair, she wrinkled her perfect little snub nose disapprovingly. “Really, darling, you might have changed. You look like something the cat’s dragged in. Have you even washed?”

“No,” said Scarlett patiently. “The water was arctic in my room, as usual, and there were no towels. As for changing, all my stuff’s still in the car. Cameron was too ‘shattered’ to help me unpack last night, remember?”

“Do stop frowning like that, darling, it’s terribly aging,” said Caroline. She loved her daughter, contrary to what Scarlett might believe, but had never understood her, even as a toddler, which had inevitably made for a distant, combative relationship. Cameron was more like her: uncomplicatedly ambitious and a
natural social snob. She favored him because he made it so easy for her to do so, while Scarlett…well, Scarlett had always been the cuckoo in the nest at Drumfernly. Her childhood compassion for injured birds or animals had morphed, during her teenage years, into a worldview that seemed positively communist to Caroline: not wanting to marry appropriately, if at all, fraternizing constantly with blacks and mine-workers and God knew who else, running off to London, dressing like an impoverished hippie.

“Duncan’s bringing your cases in now,” she said brightly. “You can help me look at these place settings for tonight’s dinner, then run up and wash your hair before we go into Buckie. All right?”

“Buckie?” Scarlett groaned. “What for? I don’t want to go into Buckie, Mummy. I want to stay here and relax.”

“I daresay you do.” Caroline looked suitably disapproving. “But you can’t leave me and Cameron to do
all
the work. It’s the pre-Christmas raffle at the church this afternoon. I’ve put you down to do the teas.”

Scarlett sighed. It was terribly strange coming from London, where she ran her own successful business and was respected as a leader and decision maker, to Drumfernly where everybody treated her as though she were still a willful six-year-old.

“What’s Cameron going to be doing,” she asked suspiciously, unable to keep the resentment entirely out of her voice, “apart from drinking Reverend Timothy’s sherry?”

“Your brother will be mingling,” said Caroline stiffly. “As the future laird, that’s what’s expected of him. It might look easy to you, but it’s a very heavy responsibility on his shoulders,” she added crossly. “Sometimes I think you forget that.”

“Are you going, Pa?” Scarlett turned to her father once her mother had disappeared in search of the place cards. Evidently dinner tonight was going to be another social hoopla, not the quiet night in with shepherds’ pie and TV that Scarlett desperately longed for.

“Going? To Buckie?” Still glued to his newspaper, Hugo gave a little shudder. “Good God no. Not my cup of tea at all.”