Page 5 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“That is intentional,” Isla says. “It is an inhabitable folly.”
“Ah.” I know about follies. Victorians are fond of them. Or rich Victorians are, because you need money to build them and space to showcase them. A folly is a miniature version of some grand—and usually exotic—structure like a Greek temple or Egyptian pyramid. Most are purely for show, but some are large enough to inhabit.
I’d love to roll my eyes and mock the ridiculousness—and extravagance—of building a miniature colosseum in your yard, but I have to admit, follies are kind of cool.
“You said it’s a hunting lodge?” I ask. “Please don’t tell me Archie Cranston is hunting those tiny deer.”
“Then I will not tell you,” McCreadie says. “You may close your eyes and pretend he is hunting man-eating tigers.”
“Mmm, not sure that’s much better. I’m kinda on the man-eating tigers’ side. They get hungry, and people are right there, slow and defenseless.” I keep watching the estate as it comes into better view. “Did Mr. Cranston inherit it?”
“If I recall,” Isla says, “and correct me if I am wrong, Hugh, but I believe the lodge is a fairly recent construction. By the same man who designed Balmoral Castle, in fact.” She turns to McCreadie. “Did Archie buy the land?”
Her use of the familiar address tells me she knows Cranston as more than the groom of McCreadie’s little sister. Since all four men seem to be about the same age, and refer to each other by both first and last names, I’m going to guess they went to school together. McCreadie and Gray didn’t attend the same college, so that would make it high school. Yes, it’s actually called high school—the Royal High School, to be exact—a term Americans will later adopt.
“The previous owner bought the land and built the lodge,” McCreadie says. “But it is still recent and, as I understand, a point of some contention.”
“The sale?” I say.
“No, the original build. There were people living on the land, who were turned out of their homes to make way for pleasure hunting.”
“Ouch.”
“Hmm. I understand there is some animosity locally. If you see anyone on your rambles, I would suggest you tell them you are staying at an inn.”
“Taking that further,” Gray says, “I would ask that, given the state of affairs, no one goes for rambles alone.”
“It’s that bad?” I say.
“I fear it is.”
Well, this is shaping up to be quite the holiday.
As we approached the estate house, I itched to get inside and see it. Once we’re there, though, everything passes in a blur of chaos. Two other coaches arrived just before us, and everyone needs their baggage unloaded and taken to their rooms. That becomes the priority. No one has time to show us around—they just want to get us inside and parceled out to our assigned rooms.
A maid whisks us up one flight of stairs, where she is met by the housekeeper, who has just finished escorting other guests to their chambers. She tells the maid to show Gray and McCreadie to their quarters, and she will take “the ladies.”
I struggle to understand the housekeeper, Mrs. Hall. The Victorian Scottish accent is not exactly the same as the one I knew from holidays with my grandmother. There are also levels of strength, just like there are now, and the more “country” one is, the stronger the accent—and the more of the Scots language used. All that means the speech takes a little longer to run through my mental translator.
As for myself, being in Catriona’s body means I have her voice and also—less explicably but very conveniently—her accent. It’s the Scots that I’ve needed to learn, and by nowdinnaeandayeandkencome naturally, though in my head, I still hear “did not,” “yes,” and “know.”
“Mrs. Ballantyne will stay in the small balcony room.” She opens a door. “The young ladies will be two flights up.”
I quickly calculate what I’d seen from the outside.
Isla beats me to it. “The attic?”
“Yes, all the maids will be up there.”
Isla glances at me. “Miss Mitchell is my companion, not a maid. I hoped she would stay with me, and Alice would be happy to find a place in my—”
“There is no room. As I said, you are in the small balcony chamber.”
Ah, housekeepers. They are an imperious bunch, rulers of their domain. Even guests are intrusions, disrupting the clockwork flow of the household.
Isla meets the woman’s gaze with the equally imperious stare of a fellow female professional. “Then Miss Mitchell and I will share the bed.”
“The attic is fine,” I cut in. I catch Isla’s eye and jerk my chin toward Alice. Our young parlormaid won’t know anyone here, and she’ll already feel out of place.
