Set Me Free Read online

  Bone-chilling, to be honest. But I just don’t seem to be able to feel anything for anyone else. A vague goodwill, or physical attraction, or fondness. But love, no. Not love, never again.

  There was someone, long ago. Eleven years ago, to be precise. It’s a short story: I loved her and she loved me, but clearly not as much, because she left me for someone else.

  In those eleven years there have been other women of course, but they never really worked out. To be precise, it was me who didn’t work out. I suppose you would say I’m wary of letting my guard down, after having been so badly betrayed – but I have another theory: that I just didn’t care enough for any of them. I mean, I cared for them, but I didn’t love them. Not the love I’d felt for my fiancée, which had been so much more than friendship, so much more than a crush, so much more than attraction or being compatible or having a laugh together, and all other parameters of what love should be. My love for her was about my soul reaching for hers and wanting to be with her and never be apart again.

  Maybe it had something to do with her having been hurt in the past, I don’t know – this desperate need I had to house her within me, to be her home and place of peace.

  Nobody else could compare.

  “Want a lift back?” I ask my cousin as we make our way to the car.

  “No thanks. It’s a lovely afternoon, I’ll walk. See you soon.”

  Since she moved back to Glen Avich when Emily died, Inary and I have become very close. Considering the non-existent relationship I have with my sister and the fact that I hardly ever see my brother, though he only lives down the road, this is good news to me. To be fair, my brother Angus and I are close; it’s that with Isabel’s health getting worse and his job taking him all over the world, it’s hard for him to get away. Sometimes it feels like I am quite alone.

  I am now thirty-six years old and on my own. I am drifting.

  I am drifting and I think that the only thing that’s keeping me from getting lost at sea is this house, Ramsay Hall. My sister often says that this place is an albatross around our necks, but she’s so wrong. To me, Ramsay Hall is a buoy. It’s what saves me from drowning. I have this overwhelming feeling that if I save Ramsay Hall I will, somehow, save myself.

  13

  He stood there in the mist

  Lara

  Dear Kitty,

  The tree house sold it to me. The library was awesome, and the ballroom was a dream! But the tree house was just the best. Forget the wandering and reading at home, I want to spend a good chunk of my summer up there with a book.

  Thankfully my mum accepted the job. She’ll take things in hand, of course, sort the guy AND the house. Lord Ramsay (I know he said not to call him Lord Ramsay, but I like the way it sounds, like he’s out of a novel) is nice. Really nice, and not bad-looking at all, for his age. He won’t know what’s hit him when my mum gets stuck in. She’s going to revolutionise the place, bring it all back to order.

  I wonder if I should tell Dad about all that we’re doing here. Since we arrived I’ve phoned him twice from our bathroom but sometimes it felt awkward to be talking to him. He asked me questions about Mum. I think he should ask her stuff, not me. But they haven’t spoken since we arrived. He never mentioned wanting us back, or missing us. To be fair, I never told him I miss him. As I write this I realise how sad it sounds.

  Anyway, on to Inary. She is awesome. When I’m her age I want to be like her: have books published, a boyfriend and a home and her hair. I want red hair. It’s not really red, though, it’s somewhere between red and brown, like autumn leaves. She invited me for lunch at her house next week. I can’t wait. In fact, I made a little calendar and I score every day that passes. Five days to go now.

  I’ve been looking out for the boy in the tweed cap every time I pass the bridge, but he’s never been there. Then, on the way back from Ramsay Hall, I thought I caught a glimpse of him across the loch. He was far away, but I’m nearly sure it was him: he had the same clothes, and I recognised the way he stood. I wanted to wave at him, but then I thought what if I’m wrong? So I didn’t. Now I feel bad about it, because I think he saw me and we sort of looked at each other across the water, but I didn’t call to him or make a gesture or anything. Neither did he, though. He just stood there, looking exhausted. And sad. Maybe he was fishing or something, because he looked covered in mud; I could see that even from far away. Also, my mum was with me, and I didn’t want her to get all friendly with him and “oh hello, so you are a new friend of Lara, and what school do you go to, what do your parents do, where do you live etc etc”, you know the way she gets. I wanted to keep this to myself.

  Looking back, though, it was funny the way he just stood there in the mist, not moving. Like he wasn’t sure where he was. He looked lonely.

  I hope to see him again soon.

  14

  Butterfly summer

  Margherita

  The fire was glowing, the fairy lights around the fireplace were on, and from the window I could see twilight slowly turning into night. Everything was so serene, so beautiful. Lara was across at my mum’s helping to bake for La Piazza, so I had the cottage to myself and I was free to reflect on all that had happened. I lay on my bed beside Leo, stroking his hair until he fell asleep suddenly and deeply, tired as he was after a long day of exploring Glen Avich with Nonna and me. He was adorable in his blue PJs with the little helicopters on, clutching Pingu.

  The job at Ramsay Hall was a new beginning for me, and I couldn’t wait to get started. But I was hurting from Ash’s silence. My absence – our absence – was not devastating him. Where his longing for us should have been, there was only silence. I knew Lara had phoned him a few times. She’d simply told me that he was fine and he was happy that we were fine too. Just like that, like an exchange you’d have with a stranger – How are you? Fine, you? I’m fine too. He’d never asked to speak to Leo.

  But after that text in the middle of the night to tell him we’d arrived, I hadn’t contacted him either. I could have picked up the phone, after all, instead of waiting for him to do it. But every time I thought about calling him, every time I tried to force myself to press the green button on my mobile, my stomach churned. The simple thought of hearing his voice was enough to make my head throb with stress, and still there was a void in my mind from the absence of him. Because in all these years we’ve been together, all these years we’ve been married, we’ve never gone without talking in some form or another for more than a few days, even if sometimes it was just harsh words, just arguments. It was like having been chopped in half, and although the half I’d lost had hurt me so much, I still missed it.

  It was all new, and frightening, and immensely sad, especially because Ash didn’t seem to want to speak to Leo. The chasm between them was deeper than I had realised, I thought as I tucked the duvet around him protectively and rested my arm across his sleeping form. Our noses were touching. He smelled sweet and warm; he smelled like love itself. My baby boy. I would do anything to keep him from pain.

  Leo didn’t seem that fazed by his father’s absence. He had only mentioned him once, when Michael made a roast for us and he said that was his daddy’s favourite dish. That was it. But how could I know what the long-term consequences of this would be? And since we’d arrived in Glen Avich, Leo had just looked so happy. His nonna and Michael spoiled him rotten. They took him around the village like a trophy, holding one of his hands each, and he basked in the attention.

  Night had now fallen over the hills. Venus was shining bright in the black, black sky, and it occurred to me that for some reason, down in London there had been never time to look at the sky. Here in Glen Avich time seemed to have stretched and slowed, expanding until it seemed there was heaps of it. Maybe because I wasn’t in a hurry any more, I did a lot less and observed a lot more. Days seemed so slow and peaceful, in comparison with the breakneck speed at which I’d been living my life – and what was I doing anyway? Rushing around on a million little errands tha
t I’d set up to fill the emptiness I felt. My whole being began loosening up, bit by bit. It seemed impossible that after such upheaval, after the silences and arguments back in London, such an easy rhythm could come naturally to us; it seemed impossible that when everything in my life was up in the air, and things had changed so deeply, my mind was calmer than before.

  From the cottage I could see right inside my mum’s kitchen. Lara was stirring a bowl and my mum was taking a tray out of the oven, laden with something I couldn’t quite make out. I moved Leo to his own bed, careful not to wake him up, and wrapped myself in the creamy mohair cardigan my mum had loaned me. I grabbed Nonna Ghita’s notebook from my bedside table and made my way through the fresh, breezy Scottish summer evening and inside the kitchen. The baby monitor was on, so I could leave Leo on his own. The scent of baking was mouth-watering, and now I could see what my mum had been taking out of the oven – croissants.

  “Is he asleep?” my mum asked me, slipping another tray of croissants into the oven.

  “Yes. I’ve come to give you a hand,” I said. “What do you say we try something from here?” I waved the notebook.

  “Yes, why not? You choose . . .”

  “You’re on.” I took off the cardigan, rolled up my sleeves and slipped an apron over my clothes in a ritual I’d known since I was little. “What about brutti ma buoni?” Brutti ma buoni literally means “ugly but tasty”, and they live up to the promise. They’re gnarly little biscuits that lack beauty but have a heavenly nutty, sweet flavour.

  “If we have all the ingredients, yes, sure,” my mum agreed.

  It was such easy, earthy happiness to be in the kitchen with my mum and Lara and to bake together; a bit like when I was a little girl and my mum, Anna, Laura and I spent so much time in the kitchen. And now Lara was there too. It wasn’t just about food; it was about companionship. For Italian women the kitchen is so much more than a place to rustle up quick meals – it’s the most important room of the house, where we chat and bond and laugh and rest our souls. I seemed to have forgotten that, but it was all coming back to me, like the scent of my Nonna Ghita’s cakes.

  After an hour of work and fun and laughter, my mum had finished and the brutti ma buoni were ready too.

  “Oh, Mum, why did you not make these before?” Lara said as she tasted a still-warm, knobbly little biscuit.

  “Honestly? I don’t know,” I said, and I allowed myself one short moment of dismay as I had a quick look at my mobile – still no missed calls, no texts.

  It looked like Ash was letting me go.

  15

  Little love (1)

  Margherita

  I made my way along the loch shore early on a misty, chilly morning, towards Ramsay Hall. The silence was so complete that I could hear every little noise: the wind in the trees, little creatures scurrying in the bushes, the crackling of gravel under my feet. It felt like there was just me for miles around, approaching this enormous house.

  Then, all of a sudden, I heard someone call my name and I jumped. I brought a hand to my chest to try to quieten my heart, as I turned around and saw a woman approaching. She was in her fifties, with short blonde hair, a weather-beaten complexion and mud-covered boots.

  “Margherita?”

  “Yes, hello,” I called, walking towards her.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Fiona.” She crushed my hand, and I had to hide a wince. “I work at the stables, as you probably guessed. Sorry, just making sure you were really you! I mean, Torcuil told me you were coming up today so I was keeping an eye out.”

  “Yes, it’s me. Not a burglar or anything.”

  She laughed a warm, roaring laugh. “Have you seen the stables?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, if you have a minute, I’ll show you.”

  “I’d love to, thank you,” I said and followed her down a small path towards the stone outbuildings. Unlike the house itself, the stables were immaculate and perfectly kept. The smell of horse hit me at once – strangely pleasant in an earthy way. There were five horses peeking from their stalls, their huge brown eyes looking at me. I’ve never been into horses much – they’ve always looked a bit scary to me – but the last one of them made me do a double take. Fiona saw me staring.

  “That’s Stoirin, Torcuil’s horse.”

  “Story?”

  “Sto-reen. It means little love in Gaelic.”

  “Not so little!” I smiled. It seemed huge to me, with a warm, chestnutty coat and a blonde mane.

  “You should have seen her when she was a foal. She was tiny, and so cute. That’s why Torcuil named her Stoirin.”

  “So she’s a mare?”

  “Oh yes. And very girly too. Look at her eyes.”

  Stoirin and I looked at each other in the eye for a moment. Fiona was right, I could see it now – she was, somehow, girly. Womanly, more like, although I can’t quite explain why. She wasn’t moving or making a sound; then, suddenly, she snorted delicately and came forward in her stand. Without thinking, I laid a hand on her silky head, then on her muzzle – she was so warm, and soft. She rubbed herself against me ever so lightly, as if she were saying hello.

  “You seem smitten.” Fiona smiled.

  I couldn’t look away from Stoirin’s eyes. Finally, I forced myself to take a step back. “I’d better get on with it,” I said, turning away . . . and then turning to look at Stoirin again.

  “You must have made an impression on her too. She doesn’t let just anyone touch her. She’s sweet, but not that sweet. Why don’t you come back and ride her? I mean, ask Torcuil first. Stoirin is his; we don’t use her for the school.”

  “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be for me. Honestly. I don’t ride horses. They are . . . high.”

  Fiona burst into her deep laughter again.

  “I’d better go and get some work done,” I told her. “Thanks for the tour. See you later.”

  As I walked on, I crossed paths with a group of mums and little girls in horse-riding gear. Fiona was going to be busy. Something made me turn around once more before the stalls were completely out of sight. I can’t swear by it, because it was quite a distance away, but I thought I saw Stoirin’s sweet, dark honey eyes following me.

  I made my way into the kitchen. The place looked tidy and clean enough. Again, I suspected he had cleaned for me, because there was once more there was a faint hint of bleach underneath the damp, mouldy smell that was omnipresent at Ramsay Hall. On the kitchen table, there was a note.

  So sorry about the mess in a rush as ever

  looking forward to seeing you at the weekend

  please put the heating on or you’ll freeze

  T

  Clearly, he was too much in a rush for punctuation too. I grinned, picturing Torcuil running out of the door, clutching stacks of paper.

  He was right about the cold; there was a shiver building up in my body already. Somehow, the temperature inside was lower than outside. I switched on the thermostat in the kitchen and then I made my way down to the one of the cellars as he’d showed me. I went down the stony steps and opened the door to the basement. It was dark and silent in there, and quite spooky, with the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and cobwebs everywhere. I am not easily spooked, though, so I walked down the steps resolutely.

  “Sorry, mate,” I said to the huge, old-fashioned boiler as I banged it a few times. No joy. Hopefully Torcuil would change the heating system one day . . . but in a house like this, that would cost a fortune. I went on kicking, and it felt quite satisfactory to let out some steam. I was about to kick it again when a low humming began emanating from the thing. Clearly, the dancing Mrs Gordon wasn’t the only one with the magic touch. I was about to turn around to go back upstairs when the door of the basement slammed closed, making me jump in fright. I silently cursed the draughts in that chilly old house, and ran up the steps to the door. For a moment, I had a vision of it having locked itself and me being stuck there until Torcuil came back in two days’ time �
� and then, as I turned the handle and the door opened, I laughed at my own silliness. Clearly, I was taking a leaf out of Lara’s book, turning every situation into a mini gothic novel. To be fair, at Ramsay Hall it wasn’t hard to do so.

  I made my way back upstairs and ransacked the cleaning cupboard in the kitchen. I hesitated at Torcuil’s bedroom’s threshold; I had never cleaned anyone’s house before except mine, so it felt strange to intrude in somebody else’s space like that. His scent – wood smoke and pines and a hint of something else, something fresh and pure that reminded me of sea air – was everywhere. For a moment I stopped, and something in me responded to the scent. Like a long-lost memory, somewhere I’d been once and wanted to go back to . . . And then I shook myself.

  My eyes fell on a photograph on Torcuil’s bedside table: two little boys wearing jeans and woollen jumpers, both on horses. One of them had bright-red hair and freckles and looked thin and small. There was a bright smile on his face and an aura of mischievousness and fun around him. It had to be Angus – he looked like the typical younger brother, I thought. My younger sister, Laura, the baby of the family, had the same look about her. The other boy was, without doubt, Torcuil. The picture must have been taken when he was about eleven, in between childhood and the beginning of young adulthood. He was tall already, with wavy, thick auburn hair and a wistful look in his eyes, like an old soul inhabiting a young body. He had a serious demeanour, like someone who already felt responsibility on his young shoulders.

  There wasn’t much to do for the day. In fact, after cleaning all I could clean and opening all the windows I sat on the little bench against the back wall. Tomorrow I would bring groceries in and cook a feast for when Torcuil came back at night. In fact, I might even use him as a guinea pig for the baking experiments I had in mind. It was a warm day – by Scottish standards – and I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the breeze. A lovely scent of roses came to me. I opened my eyes and contemplated the garden. For the first time I noticed a few rose bushes lining the flower beds in the back of the garden, towards the trees. I made my way towards them, stepping onto the little gravel paths between the flower beds.