Tidings of Great Boys (16 page)

I
NEED HELP.” My voice echoed in the gallery, magnifying my idiocy to stentorian proportions. “You’re the only one I can talk
to.”

“I don’t know about that.” Carly closed the distance between us and sank onto a settee under a portrait of a hunt in full
chase. Must be one of Mummy’s. Dad’s family seemed to keep the pictures of blood sports to a minimum.

“You’ve managed to hang onto Brett Loyola for nearly a year. That makes you the expert.”

“It’s got nothing to do with hanging on.” She made herself more comfortable, slipping off her flats and tucking her feet under
her. “He cares about me. I care about him. Simple as that.”

“Mmphm.”
Don’t be smug.
“But what about in the beginning? You didn’t just walk up to one another and say, ‘Hey, let’s go out.’ If you did, I’m leaving
right now.”

“Of course not. I spent the first six months being completely invisible. Then, when a miracle happened and he talked to me,
you came along and suddenly wallpaper was more interesting than me. So I thought, at least.”

“And then all the drama over David Nelson happened.”

“Right. And there was Brett, in it up to his neck. Up until the point where he actually kissed me, I thought he was just being
polite.”

“Yes, politeness is the first thing about Brett that jumps out at you.”
Sarcastic much?

“No, the first thing is the fact that he’s drop-dead gorgeous.” Carly twinkled at me.

That, I had to admit, was true. “But how did you get him to notice you? Especially if you thought he liked m—er, someone else?”

“Lending him my chem notes helped.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any of those handy,” I said. “Though if I thought they’d work, I’d find a white lab coat, stat.”

Outside the mullioned windows, fat snowflakes began to drift to the ground.

“You’re crushing on Alasdair, aren’t you?”

A person just didn’t lie to a girl with eyes like that. Carly and I were beyond lies and little self-protections, anyway.
I owed her honesty, and a lot more besides.

“Yes. As if the whole house can’t tell.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone else knows. I thought he might like Lissa, though. And when you mentioned someone else, I figured
I was right.”

“Fortunately, you’re not. He told me himself it was over. But
un
fortunately, I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t think so.”

I made a jerky gesture toward the back stairs. “You didn’t see me making a fool of myself a few minutes ago. Now he thinks
I can’t stand him. Or that I want to be like a sister to him.”

“Then you need to fix it.”

“But how?” I pulled one of the cushions out from behind my back and wrapped my arms round it. “I can’t just walk up to an
older man and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want a snog?’”

Carly giggled. “I bet you could.”

“I could, yeah. And have done. But this is different.”

Carly blinked at me. “What makes it different?”

I gave the cushion a squeeze. “When he got out of the car yesterday, something about him just… He doesn’t have a very happy
family. And because of it there’s something hurting inside him.”

“And you think you can make it better?”

I shook my head. “I’m no good at that kind of thing. Strategy, yes. Plans and goals, yes. But people? I’m notoriously bad
at that.”

“I remember the first time I met you. I didn’t know whether to throw something at you or slam the door and run.”

“Exactly.” I sighed, and the dust from the cushion went up my nose and made me sneeze. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be horrid—well,
sometimes I do—but I didn’t then. I was just so far from home and all I could think to do was brazen it out.”

“That came in handy, though. It put Vanessa Talbot in her place.”

I shook my head. “That girl. She’s either very insecure or insufferably arrogant. I can never tell which. Is it true the romance
with the prince is cooling off?”

“Brett told me she was in Italy for Christmas, and Rashid flew home to Yasir. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“If Rashid had any sense, he’d dump her. She’s being all sweetness and light to him because she’s hoping to climb back on
top of the social heap.”

Carly shrugged. “Whatever. But we were talking about Alasdair.”

So much for directing the conversation away from my pathetic self. “It’s a hopeless subject.”

“No, it’s not. All you need is a little help. That’s what friends are for.”

“But how?”

“Leave it to us,” Carly said with a slow smile. “We’ll have Alasdair in the palm of your hand by Hogmanay.”

	Princess Shh!	From: SeelieGirl
Is she bragging, or confessing?	Views: 124,468
00:30:26
Date posted: 12/25/09
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SIX DAYS LEFT until Hogmanay. The amount of work to do in such a short time would have frightened me if I’d slowed down enough
to think about it. Thank goodness I wasn’t on my own. Not for nothing did we have two of the greatest organizational minds
on the planet under our very roof. Between Patricia Sutter, who organized galas and benefits for the under- as well as the
over-privileged, and my mother, who could pick up the phone and have everyone short of the Queen herself on the guest list
at a moment’s notice, the party of the decade was a given.

Each morning over breakfast, we girls took on our assigned tasks for the day. I’d have had a hard time helping Mrs. Gillie
polish and clean endless acres of carved wood and items of silver, but Carly and Gillian went at it as though they were getting
grades for it. Lissa spent most of the day with her mobile glued to one ear, making arrangements for food and tracking down
a band that wasn’t already booked.

Mummy and Patricia divided and conquered the guest list, the wine cellar, and my father.

On Sunday, the day after Boxing Day, the girls trekked off to the service in the village church as though it were an adventure.
When Dad got home, he told me they’d been invited to lunch by Mrs. Gillie’s daughter, who was married to the minister. Fine.
I guess they deserved a day off, though I wasn’t taking one. I had things to do. Sitting in church and then making polite
conversation for an hour would have only frustrated me.

I unearthed my rusty calligraphy skills and hid in the morning room to address invitation after invitation on creamy paper
with the earl’s crest (my personal friends got theirs on eVite, which dropped the level of cramping in my hand by quite a
bit). The door to the library stood open, which meant I heard my parents find each other, and every word thereafter.

Even the ones I wished I hadn’t.

“Graham.” My mother sounded surprised. She must have come in through the other door that led into the kitchen corridor and
the back of the house. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“No, of course not. I was just looking for Granddad’s book on land management. Gabriel is fascinated by everything from repairing
the roof to grafting the apples. I think he means to use it in a movie somehow.”

“After
The Middle Window
and that pirate film, I shouldn’t think he’d ever have to make another one. Didn’t
Window
just pass the hundred million mark?”

“I can’t imagine him not working. He’s a very creative sort. How are you and Patricia managing?”

“We’ll get it done, and no one will miss the bits we’ve left out. I can’t think how Lindsay meant to do it all herself.”

“She’s a determined lass.” I warmed with the pride in Dad’s voice.

“But what are you two doing wittering about land management when you’re meant to be outside helping Mr. Gillie tidy up the
drive and the front gardens?”

“That’s how it came up. We got into a heated discussion about solar panels, which became environmental something-or-other,
which became land management in general. Then I told him Granddad had written a book on the subject, and I came in here to
find it.”

I heard Mummy blow a breath through her wispy, precisely cut bangs, and could practically feel her plead with the ceiling
for patience. “I see.”

“Do you? Land management has never interested you very much.”

“At any other time, I’d have agreed with you. But as a matter of fact, it’s been on my mind quite a lot lately.”

“And why would that be?”

“Graham, I—” Her voice choked off, and she had to begin again. “I’m not going to be able to make the payment to Strathcairn
in the New Year.”

Silence.

More silence. I put down the pen and realized I was holding my breath.

“And why is that?” Dad asked quietly.

“Because the portfolio didn’t pay the dividends we were expecting this year. With the price of petrol and the economy in the
UK and America, I’m lucky to be able to send Lindsay back to St. Cecelia’s to finish out her final year. Her going to Spencer
is out of the question, even if they would have allowed a third exchange term.”

I let out a breath. I hadn’t expected to go back. But at the same time, I’d hoped…

“And her expenses?”

“We’ve had a talk. I expect I’ll have another one when it sinks in a little.”

“And this Hogmanay extravaganza?”

“It’s taking the last of this year’s dividend. We won’t be penniless, of course, but we certainly won’t be going to Paris
in March for our dresses. Lindsay will have to settle for London. As will I.”

“A sacrifice, indeed,” Dad said gravely.

“As I said, we’re not penniless.”

“We’re not married, either. So Strathcairn’s welfare naturally falls lower on the list than… dresses.”

“There’s no need to be cruel.”

“Simply making an observation.”

“Patricia has made a number of observations.” From the tension in her voice, Mummy was holding back what she really wanted
to say for the greater good. “I think we should listen to them.”

“And what does our American guest have to say?” he inquired in a very un-Dad-like tone. As though an American couldn’t possibly
know anything. For the first time, I saw the depth of my father’s pain over losing our home. And for the first time, I realized
losing it might actually happen.

I pulled the cardie Grannie had knitted for me for Christmas last year closer, and listened with all my might.

“Apparently,” my mother began slowly, “there is an organization called the Society for Self Sustaining Estates. With grants
and help, places like ours—like Strathcairn—can be turned into paying properties again.”

“As what? Bed and breakfasts?”

“No.” This must mean an awful lot to Mummy. She was hanging on to her temper in a way I’d rarely seen before. “As first-class
boutique hotels.”

“Out of the question.” Something heavy slid off a shelf and Dad grunted. Granddad’s book on land management, no doubt.

“Graham, listen. Look at places like Crathorne Hall. It’s smaller than Strathcairn, and it’s on the Hand Picked Hotel list.
The Duke of Roxburghe loans out Floors Castle for shooting parties and charges by the bird, for heaven’s sake. We need to
capitalize on the exposure the place is getting from
The Middle Window
. Get a few articles in travel magazines. Patricia says that once you’re on the American lists, companies fly their employees
here for corporate retreats and pay top dollar to do it.”