Set Me Free (12 page)

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, considering 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.

“You don't mean it, do you? You haven't really seen a ghost?” I blurted out.

Torcuil opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then clamped his lips shut. “Of course not. Don't be silly.”

I felt completely stupid for having asked that question. I decided to change topic quickly.

“I met Stoirin, yesterday. Fiona showed me around.”

His face lit up. “Stoirin is beautiful, isn't she? My brother's wife, Isabel, was the only one who was allowed to ride Stoirin, apart from me.”

I noticed he was using the past tense. I wasn't sure whether to ask what happened to Isabel. He must have read my expression, because he explained.

“My sister-in-law . . . she's not very well. She can't really leave the house.”

“Oh . . . I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. She's been like this for a couple of years now and hasn't been outside in six months. She's fine physically, but . . . there's something in her mind that . . . cripples her. The doctors say it's some form of anxiety thing, but who knows.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Poor Isabel. My heart went out to her. “If there's anything I can do . . .”

“You are very kind. But I don't think so. There's nothing anyone can do,” he said, and there was such sorrow in his words and on his face, it was like a cold, black cloud had entered the room. He seemed to care about her a lot.

“Did you see what I did in the garden?” I said hastily, to try to lighten the mood.

“No . . . I came home last night when it was dark, and I haven't been out today,” he replied, and stood to look out of the window. “Why, what happened?”

“Have a look.” I smiled. He opened the door and walked outside – it was a drizzly morning and the sky was grey, but he didn't seem to notice and he walked out in his bare feet. That's Scottish people for you. They seem immune to cold and damp. He looked around, and a smile danced on his face.

“You cleaned it up. Thank you,” he said. And then, “Thank you,” he repeated in a small voice, and looked away, to the grey skies.

That night, as we baked for La Piazza, I couldn't stop thinking about Isabel. I made a batch of
amaretti
, the bittersweet almond cookies. To me,
amaretti
signify the bittersweetness of life. I slipped some into a little paper bag and tied it with a ribbon.
For Isabel,
I wrote on it with a silver Sharpie.

I tried to phone Torcuil to ask if I could drive up and leave the parcel with him, but there was no reply. I had no idea where Isabel lived, so I walked to Inary's house in the windswept evening sky, grey clouds galloping above me.

She welcomed me with a smile. “Oh, Margherita, come on in.”

“It's okay, I just came to—” I began, and then Torcuil's face peeked from behind her.

“Hello,” he said, running his hand through his hair as usual.

“Torcuil is here, we were just having a wee whisky,” Inary said. “Join us?” She stepped aside to let me in.