Set Me Free Page 12

  Dotted here and there were small ornamental statues, their shapes softened and blurred because of the exposure to the elements and the moss and lichen covering them. The boundaries between flower beds were blurred and the gravel paths in between them overrun with weeds. I wondered why Torcuil had let the garden fall into such disrepair – there seemed to be a stronger reason than not being able to afford a gardener. It was more of a sense of . . . defeat. He said he cared so much for Ramsay Hall, but I felt that part of him had given up, in a way. Like part of him didn’t believe this place could ever be restored to order, to its old beauty. To life.

  It was a sad thought, and I wandered around in the fresh summer breeze, trying to dispel it. The roses in the flower beds, though left to their own devices, were beautiful – some of them were a colour I had never seen before, a mixture of pink and yellow and orange on the same rose. The yellow ones with pink tips looked like they were blushing, and the pink one with the touches of yellow seemed bathed in sunshine. I bent forward to look at them better and inhale their scent, when something moving at the edges of my vision made me straighten up quickly. It must have been a bird taking flight from a windowsill in the upper floor . . . but no, there it was again. There was something moving behind the furthest window on the right. A shadow. The curtain flickering. And then nothing. The fuchsia wrapped around the back door swayed gently in the breeze and a shower of pink flowers fell on the stony ground. But nothing else moved.

  I dismissed the shadow as a trick of the eye. But as I unearthed a pair of gardening gloves and began tugging at the weeds, I kept my eyes on the windows and never turned my back to the house again.

  16

  Kindred spirits

  Lara

  Dear Kitty,

  I’ve had the best afternoon ever. I went to Inary’s house for lunch, and it was great. She burnt our toasties and we ended up having cornflakes because she’d run out of everything else. Nonna would have had a fit, but I loved it. This is what I always imagined writers would be like, I think: they just focus on their work and forget about everything else. I mean, I’m sure Charlotte Brontë didn’t stop writing to make herself a nice risotto, don’t you think? They go on and on into the night as well and are completely possessed by their art. It’s all very romantic, and Inary has just the right looks for it: her hair looks like a painting, so bright and wavy. Not like mine. Frizzy. She said my hair is gorgeous. Obviously she was just being nice, but then she showed me in the mirror in her room, and it was weird but as she untied my ponytail and let my hair fall, it didn’t look so bad.

  Inary’s house is exactly the way I’d like my house to be, one day. Full of books and with a study all for myself. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up, be a writer or a teacher or a librarian, but whatever I’m going to do, it must have something to do with books. Also, Inary has a gorgeous boyfriend who looks like an actor. He’s had to go to London so I didn’t meet him, but I saw a picture and he has raven hair, like Damien in Bride of Shadows.

  Inary is going to read my Bride of Shadows fan fiction. I’m so excited.

  I so wish she lived in London, then I could speak to someone who understands. She used to live there, but she came to see her sister, who died young, and then she decided to stay. Her boyfriend followed her. She said she loves living here, though it’s so small. She told me that there are a thousand and five hundred souls living in Glen Avich, and a few more floating around. I think she means commuters.

  After having been to Inary’s house, I decided to go down to the tree house at Ramsay Hall – Torcuil said I can go any time I like. I wandered around for a bit first because I was sort of hoping I’d meet that boy again.

  As I walked, I felt strange, like he was just at my shoulder all the time. And then, there he was.

  “Lara,” he said, and I was startled.

  “Yes. Hello. You are silent as a cat!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Where are you going?”

  His eyes are really grey. As in, properly grey. A shade I’ve never seen before. I don’t even think that Damien has eyes as grey as that. And his hair is so black. I didn’t think someone with skin so white could have hair so dark.

  “Up to the Ramsay Estate. Do some reading in the tree house.” I showed him my Wuthering Heights and the blanket I’d sneaked out from Nonna’s cupboard.

  “I like reading too. There aren’t many books around, but the schoolmaster always lends me some.”

  “You mean your teacher?”

  “Yes. I go on Ailsa with my boat. I bring some food and a book and spend hours there, reading. Just me, alone with the loch. My father gets cross at me because I read instead of helping him. He says I’ll become a priest or a schoolteacher.” He smiled. When he smiles he looks different. He looks like he’s shining from the inside. It doesn’t happen often; usually he seems sad, or troubled. “Sometimes I write poems.”

  “A priest?” Seriously?

  “Yes. But I don’t enjoy the Bible much, so I don’t think that’s ever going to happen!”

  Okay. Sometimes he says strange things. I mean, the Bible? What teenager reads the Bible? Unless you come from a super-religious family. I suppose that’s possible.

  “Want to come up with me?” I asked, and then I was scared. In case he said no.

  But he said, “Very well,” and we walked together in silence, and it wasn’t awkward, it was just peaceful. Every once in a while he looked at me and smiled.

  And that was all, a walk with no words, until we climbed up the tree house and sat there cross-legged.

  “Are you sure Lord Ramsay doesn’t mind we’re here?” he said.

  “I’m sure. He told me—”

  Suddenly he grew very pale, and once again he seemed scared. But why? Why was he so frightened again, like last time? It’s hard to explain; it was like the weather had turned all at once, like it does here in Scotland, going from clear to rainy in the space of a heartbeat.

  “I have to go now,” he said in a voice so soft I could barely hear it, rising to his feet.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked, and I regretted it at once. Maybe he didn’t want to see me, maybe I was making a fool of myself.

  “I hope so,” he said, and crawled to the little door.

  Suddenly, I remembered. “Hey . . . you never told me your name.”

  “My name is Mal.”

  And who are your people? I was about to ask, just like he’d done to me the first time we met. But I didn’t get the chance, because he disappeared down the rope ladder. I crawled to the little door and looked out, but a thick white mist was rising from the fields. I could only make out a blurry shape for a few seconds – and then he was gone.

  So now I know his name.

  17

  Ramsay Hall

  Margherita

  The next day I arrived at Ramsay Hall bright and early, with two bags full of groceries for Torcuil’s weekend. I made my way into the kitchen and began putting them away, when I heard a noise coming from inside the house. I froze.

  It was probably a mouse. Or one of those weird noises you hear in old houses, like the building settling or things creaking all by themselves. Or the wind around a window. It was nothing. So I started working again.

  And again the same noise made me jump. And then another – a thump, like something falling or someone putting something down forcibly . . . And steps. Steps that moved towards the kitchen. Steps that moved towards me.

  There was someone in the house, and whoever it was, was coming to get me.

  And then he began to sing. Very loudly. It was a Miley Cyrus song – I recognised it from Lara’s playlists.

  “We can’t stop, we can’t stop! OH OH OH . . . We can’t STOHOP . . .”

  I knew that voice.

  “Aaaah!” Torcuil jumped as he walked into the kitchen, only a second before oblivious to my presence and singing away. I was standing with a packet of pasta in each hand, trembling from head to toe. So much
for not being easily spooked.

  “Oh God. You gave me a huge fright there,” he said. He was wearing an Edinburgh University T-shirt and a pair of woven cotton pyjama bottoms.

  “So did you! I thought I’d die!”

  “It must have been my singing,” he replied with a smile.

  “Yes, that alarmed me for sure. What are you doing here?”

  “I came back last night. It’s a bank holiday today. Did I forget to tell you?”

  “Yes! Anyway, no harm done. Apart from having lost five years of my life.”

  “Did I scare you as much as that?” He looked genuinely concerned. For a moment, I considered telling him about the shadow I’d seen yesterday; then I changed my mind. It had been a trick of the eye, not worth mentioning.

  “No, of course not. I was joking.”

  “That’s a relief. What are you doing here?”

  “Working. It’s Friday. Remember?” I grinned and put away a few tins of peas.

  “It’s a quarter to eight in the morning! It’s a miracle I’m dressed.”

  “And I’m thankful for that,” I laughed. “I’m a morning person, what can I say?”

  “Well. It’s good to have you here. Is that food?”

  “Yes. And all for you. I was going to make a lasagne for you to find tonight.”

  “Homemade lasagne, oh yes. I loved Mrs Gordon’s homemade lasagne. Well, homemade by the Co-op in Kinnear. Cup of tea?”

  “Yes, I’d love a cup of tea. And maybe I’ll make pancakes with maple syrup, what do you say?” I showed him the bottle of maple syrup I’d bought. “I was going to leave it for you to find, for Saturday morning breakfast.”

  “Oh, that is good. Very, very good. I’m always starving at the weekend; I was thinking I should start going down to La Piazza—”

  “I lost my mum a customer!” I laughed, mixing eggs, flour and milk in a bowl.

  “But that’s a lot of food,” he said, peeking into the cupboard. “Let me know if you need more money for that . . .” He looked all worried.

  “Not at all. Staples cost a lot less than takeaways.”

  “I haven’t bought anything but bread, ham and biscuits in a long time.”

  I rolled my eyes, whisking the mixture. “You’re the stereotype of the hapless man!”

  “It’s not really about being a man. My sister is the worst of us three. Her children are being brought up on cheese sandwiches. Nobody in my family seems to cook much.”

  “Just the opposite to my family, then! We cook and eat a lot. Maybe too much, I suppose,” I said, putting a hand on my curvy hips, and then regretting it immediately. It probably wasn’t appropriate to bring attention to my hips. Only the conversation had been so friendly that I’d forgotten myself.

  “Not at all, you look . . . great,” he scrambled, and it was my turn to blush. “Oh, no,” he said, all of a sudden.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just remembered I don’t have a pan.”

  “I know you don’t. I bought one. Well, two,” I said, taking them out of my bag for life. “Ta-da!”

  He smiled. “You’re stocking up my kitchen!”

  “Listen, any normal human being owns a pan. I had to get it.”

  “You need to tell me how much—”

  “Shush!”

  “Okay. Okay. But honestly—”

  “I won’t buy any more stuff. Promise.”

  “Deal. Goodness, you are quick . . .” he said as I buttered the pan, placed it on the fire and began producing picture-perfect pancakes.

  “I used to do this for a living.”

  “I can see that,” he said admiringly, and I was pleased. Very pleased. In fact, I was surprised at how much I relished that little bit of praise.

  “Oh, I forgot about the tea,” he said, switching the kettle on and fishing two mugs from the cupboards.

  Five minutes later, I had a stack of syrupy pancakes ready. He sat at the table, folding his long legs underneath it. I noticed once again how tall and broad-shouldered he was, and suddenly the kitchen table seemed a lot smaller.

  “These are gorgeous,” he gushed, taking a big bite.

  “Why thank you.” I had to agree. “So, anyway, of the three of you . . . I mean you and your siblings . . . you were lumbered with this lot.” I opened my arms, to signify Ramsay Hall and the land around it. “Where do they live? Can they not help with Ramsay Hall a bit?”

  “Sheila lives in Perth near my mother. She’s not remotely interested. To her, Ramsay Hall is just a money drain. That’s what my mother thinks, anyway, and Sheila lives under my mother’s command. If it weren’t for the riding school, my mother would have sold the place already.”

  “Command?” I laughed. I had a vision of Lady Ramsay in a military uniform, shouting orders.

  “Yes. You don’t know her.”

  “She sounds scary.”

  “Mmmm.” He nodded. “She is. My mum and my sister aren’t my favourite people in the world. I know it sounds terrible . . .” – he ran a hand through his hair: he did it a lot, it was an unconscious gesture, like pushing his glasses up his nose – “. . . but hey, that’s the way it is.”

  A sudden ray of sun shone through the clouds and through the glass and made its way onto our table. It made the syrup bottle glimmer like liquid gold, and Torcuil’s hair shone russet.

  “No, not at all. I understand. Families can be a difficult thing. My husband . . .” I hesitated. Just thinking of Ash gave me a knot in my stomach, of both resentment and longing. “My husband has a really complicated relationship with his own mother. I think that my mother-in-law and your mum are probably cut from the same cloth. She’s quite horrible to him, actually.”

  “That must be hard. I mean, that is hard. I know it from experience.”

  “It’s very painful for him, yes. I think . . . I think it scarred him.” And more deeply than I’d realised.

  “So, you are separated.”

  I swallowed. “Yes. For a bit. Maybe forever, who knows? Everything is up in the air at the moment, I don’t know what’s going to happen . . .” I realised I had begun ripping the napkin into a million pieces, so I stopped myself.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he said.

  “No, that’s okay, don’t worry. Tell me about your brother.”

  “Well, Angus is five years younger than me. He’s a fiddler. He’s so talented; I must take you to hear him playing.”

  “He lives here in Glen Avich, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s AviCH. Not Avick,” he laughed.

  “Sorry, I do my best! I’m English-Italian, remember? Scotland for me was just somewhere I saw on TV before my mum moved here. I haven’t had time for Scottish elocution lessons!”

  “You sound like a Londoner, you really do.”

  “That’s what I am. In a way.”

  “Do you speak Italian?”

  “I don’t, but I understand it. Actually, my grandparents didn’t even speak Italian as such; they spoke Piedmontese. It’s a French-Italian dialect. Anyway, you were telling me about Angus . . .”

  “Oh, yes. Angus does stay in Glen Avich, but he never really lived here at Ramsay Hall. He went to boarding school and then to Glasgow to study music.”

  “Did you go to boarding school?”

  “They didn’t send me, thankfully. I really wanted to stay anyway. I went to the local schools and then to university in London. I had terrible asthma, so I was kept at home.”

  “Oh . . . that’s why you said the kitchen and the bedroom are the only places where you can breathe! Everywhere is full of dust!” I was alarmed. What if he had an attack when he was here all alone? Yes, I barely knew him, but I cared already.

  “I know, I know, but it would take weeks to clean the whole house and all the knick-knacks and books and paintings . . .”

  “Lara and I will start on it. Okay, probably just me. Bit by bit. Mind you, I’m terrible at housework.”

  “Oh, that bodes well, con
sidering you’re supposed to be my new housekeeper.”

  “Sorry!” I laughed, taking another bite of pancake. “But beggars can’t be choosers. I’m joking, of course.”

  “You are joking as in you are actually very good at housework?”

  “No, I’m terrible at it. I was joking about the beggars can’t be choosers thing. I bet there were quite a few people who would have loved this job. I mean, it’s such a lovely place—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, a lot of people think that Ramsay Hall is spooky.”

  “It is. But in a nice way. If it was done up . . .”

  “We can’t afford that. People think the Ramsays have heaps of money, but it’s not true. Angus is a musician; I’m a lecturer. Enough said.” He shrugged. “We simply can’t afford to restore this house.”

  “Have you thought of opening it up to the public?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “There are ghosts.”

  I laughed. “That could be a tourist attraction! A real haunted castle.”

  “Yes, well, try living with them.”

  I laughed some more.

  Then I remembered the shadow through the window and the basement door closing, and the laughter died on my lips. If I told him, would he think I was mad?

  “Torcuil?”

  “Yes?”

  No. It was too weird. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No, it’s fine. Honestly.”

  “There’s something on your mind,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. His concern touched me, and all of a sudden, as I looked at him leaning against the windowsill with his cup of coffee, his feet bare, his hair still damp from the shower, my heart gave a little jump.

  Which really wasn’t good.