Sealed With a Kiss (4 page)

And then they were out of the town of Kilmannan, and the road curved upwards through the rocky, heather-covered countryside. Sheep grazed along the roadside, pausing to chew the cud and stare as
the Land Rover trundled past, still travelling at about fifteen miles per hour. Kate felt her eyes prickle with sudden, unexpected tears. It was so wild and beautiful, and completely empty of
people or cars. They swept through the moorland, with Jean pointing out the occasional long, low white house: the old crofts.

‘It’s mainly incomers that live in them now, of course. Artists, and there’s a writer up there on the hill. Keeps herself to herself, mind you. There’s not many islanders
stay on here now. It’s a real shame.’ Jean shook her head. ‘Thank goodness Roderick is trying to make a go of the estate since his father died.’

Kate allowed herself a little smile at the prospect of Roderick. He was clearly the apple of Jean’s eye, and she could just imagine him. Single, bedecked from head to toe in a hairy tweed
suit and green wellies, probably a bit podgy and balding. His car smelled of wet dog, and Jean had shifted a couple of magazines out of the way before she sat down. Kate glanced at the back seat to
see what they were:
The Scottish Farmer
and
The Field
. Not much chance of discussing the latest goings-on in
EastEnders
over a cup of tea with her new boss then.

The car rose out of a dip in the road and crested a hill.

‘Oh my God!’

Jean stopped the car in the middle of the road. She switched off the engine, turning to her left and facing Kate.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Kate had blurted out the words without thinking. She had read somewhere that many of the islanders were fervently religious. Wondering if she was about to be
ejected from the car for blasphemy, she sat frozen for a second.

‘Now, you can’t beat that, can you?’ smiled Jean.

The scene was breathtaking. The low, setting sun was burnt across the sky, light reflecting off the sea and tinting the white sand of the deserted beach orange. Waves lapped at the shoreline
and, as Kate watched, a kestrel hovered overhead, pausing before shooting down towards its prey. On either side the hills rose, framing the picture.

‘We don’t have much in the way of shops and social life, but we have this to make up for it. And you can’t put a price on that.’

They shared a smile. Kate watched Jean as they drove along the moor road. Her features had softened as she had relaxed on returning to her beloved island. She no longer looked stern and
forbidding. And was that even a twinkle in her eye? Her time at Edinburgh University had taught Kate that the Scottish sense of humour was often so dry as to be imperceptible.

At the top of the next hill the countryside changed. The heather-covered, rock-strewn moorland, surrounded by forests of pine trees, was replaced with rolling pastureland. Cows grazed on rich
grass that reached down towards another deserted bay, this one surrounded by rocky outcrops.

Then they reached the southernmost tip of the island. The rough grass was dotted with rocks, and gorse bushes huddled together, fighting against the strong winds. In the distance Kate could see
the sleeping giant of Eilean Mòr, the uninhabited island situated five miles to the south.

‘That’s pretty much it, Kate,’ said Jean, ‘that’s our wee island. What do you think?’

‘It’s perfect.’ Kate was desperate to explore every inch of the island, but was suddenly overcome with tiredness. Her legs felt leaden, her eyes were drooping, and she needed
to be at home: wherever home was. She had no idea what her new house would look like, or where it was. For all she knew, she could be right in the middle of nowhere, like those crofts Jean had
showed her. That would be ‘taking time alone’ to a ridiculous degree. Plus she was fairly certain that if she lived in the middle of nowhere she’d make precisely no effort to get
to know her fellow islanders.

They drove down past a loch, which Jean informed her was home to the fishery and part of the Duntarvie estate. ‘One of the parts that actually makes us some money,’ she added with a
wry smile. They swung left and through stone gateposts, upon which two pockmarked, lichen-covered lions were resting.

‘Duntarvie House,’ read Kate, marvelling at the faded grandeur, ‘I’m here at last. It doesn’t seem quite real.’

The Land Rover rattled over a cattle grid, shaking her back to reality. No sooner had she recovered from that than her head thumped the roof of the car.

‘Ouch!’

‘Sorry, the potholes on this driveway are an absolute menace.’ Swerving to avoid another huge hole in the road, Jean slowed even more. ‘Every winter the snow breaks down the
driveway a wee bit more, but it’s such an expensive job and Roderick keeps putting it off. At this rate we’ll be soon be better off driving on the grass verge.’

Kate gazed out of the window. The driveway was narrow, with rhododendron bushes gathered in huge clumps on either side. They passed over a stone bridge and the driveway rose up a hill. Looking
ahead, Kate could see a square white building, with windows and doors painted a dark burgundy. As they approached, she saw there was a stone archway and caught a glimpse of a stable yard through
it, with doors painted to match the house. In front of the house, a field stretched down to the drive and was full of fat, hairy Highland ponies that raised their heads to watch their progress
– ears pricked, dragon-breath clouding from their nostrils.

‘That’s Morag and Ted in there,’ said Jean. ‘He has a mail-order business, and she breeds the Highlands.’

The road arced round, revealing a row of long, low cottages, again with the same rich, dark, red woodwork, and beautifully kept gardens behind manicured beech hedges, still holding their russet
leaves. ‘Susan and Tom, Helen and George, Mr Jamieson.’ Jean pointed out each house, one by one. ‘You’ll be meeting them soon enough – they’re your new
neighbours. Everyone likes to keep an eye out for each other around here.’

Kate suspected that keeping an eye on people had as much to do with keeping up with village gossip as it did with kindness. But it was comforting to know she wasn’t going to be left
squashed under a wardrobe for weeks on end, if the resident gossips had anything to do with it. Looking out of the window, she couldn’t disguise the huge, face-splitting yawn that took her by
surprise.

‘Och, you’re exhausted. I’ll show you the big house in the morning. It’s no going anywhere.’

Jean turned left off the main driveway and down a stony track. Nestled by itself, surrounded on three sides by trees, was a white cottage. Smoke curled from the chimney, and in the gathering
dusk a warm light glowed from the windows. Kate jumped out of the car almost before Jean had turned off the engine.

‘Don’t get yourself too excited – it’s needing a wee bit of work,’ Jean said, but more to herself than to Kate, who was crunching across the gravel path to the
front door.

It was unlocked. The same burgundy paint covered the windows and door here, too, bubbling in places to reveal patches of hot-pink undercoat. The cottage smelled of wood smoke and, faintly, of
damp. In the hall the woodchip-papered walls were painted a terrifying orange. The carpet appeared to have been modelled on giraffe skins, but Kate didn’t care. After years of living with
Ian’s love of neutral decor, even the hideous colours seemed warm and comforting. The house felt welcoming, thanks to the wood fire burning in the sitting room. A long passageway ran parallel
to the front wall of the house, with doors on the right opening into each room. After the sitting room came the kitchen. Kate laughed aloud at the ancient Formica worktops and metal-edged 1960s
cupboards. It was all so completely contrary to the modern box that she’d spent the last three years living in – and she loved it.

‘As I said, it’s needing some work, but maybe you’ll enjoy that?’ Jean led Kate up the steep staircase to the bedroom. The iron bedstead was huge, filling the room.
‘We thought you’d be tired, so I made you up a bed this morning. Roderick was off the island yesterday just to get you a new mattress, and there are more blankets, if you need them, in
the bottom of the cupboard here.’

Kate walked forward into the room. The low, sloping roof gave it a cosy feeling, and flames were flickering merrily around a fresh pile of logs. Someone had obviously been in and banked up the
fire just before she arrived.

It was heavenly. She was impatient for Jean to leave so that she could run a bath and get into bed and sleep for a week.

Reading her mind, Jean turned around, touching Kate on the hand with a look of concern.

‘You look exhausted, my dear. Get some sleep, and I’ll pop in tomorrow before I go to the supermarket. Don’t forget I’ve left you some food in the kitchen.’

Kate could have squealed for joy at the prospect of being left alone at long last, but instead she thanked Jean very properly.

When she’d closed the door, and the Land Rover had scrunched up the path out of sight, she let out an almighty whoop of joy and leapt onto the sofa. It was the first time in her life that
she’d lived completely on her own, and she was certain she was going to love it.

Returning to the kitchen, she found a saucepan of vegetable soup waiting on the gas hob. In the fridge were a bottle of milk, some cheese and, rather more excitingly, a bottle of champagne with
a Post-it note attached:
Welcome to Duntarvie. Hope you’ll enjoy living and working here. R
.

The famous Roderick. Kate had noticed that Jean talked about him with a motherly pride. She had built up a pretty detailed picture of her new employer: living on a country estate that he’d
inherited, complete with his own staff. He definitely wore a waxed jacket, and spent his time shooting things; and, to top it all, he probably read the
Daily Telegraph
. Still, he’d
supplied her with a bottle of champagne, and that was a good start. Kate popped the cork.

‘Here’s to me. And to living alone, and to crumbs in bed.’ She poured the champagne into a mug, having failed to find a glass. Clearly Roderick hadn’t investigated the
contents of his estate cottages that closely. ‘Cheers.’

The bathroom was freezing cold. It had black-and-white tiles on the floor, and a huge cast-iron bath. The walls were a nauseating pink. Kate pulled the string hanging down from the wall heater,
then quickly turned it off again when it smelled as if it was about to burst into flames. She was desperate for a hot bath. She turned the taps on full. They clanked alarmingly and, after a couple
of false starts, water came pouring out, filling the room with steam.

Refilling her champagne mug, Kate grabbed her phone and quickly texted her mother and Emma to let them know she had arrived:

She snapped a quick photograph of the battered brocade armchair and the smouldering log fire. She batted away the tiny moment of panic at being miles away from everyone and everything. This is
an adventure, she told herself. I can go home in six months and I’ll have proved my point, and I’ll be able to put ‘Girl Friday’ on my CV and confound potential employers. I
can do this.

Emma’s message was sent with a photo of the champagne and the mug. She’d fill her in on what the house was like later, but it was time to sink into the bath, which was now full to
the brim and invitingly bubbly.

Kate rapidly removed her foot from the water. It was freezing cold. The water heater hadn’t been on long enough to heat the whole tank. A huge swimming-pool bath wasn’t so appealing
when it was cold.

She washed her face in icy-cold water, climbed into the pyjamas she’d packed in her holdall and pulled back the old-fashioned counterpane.

Proper blankets.

Huge, heavy, hairy blankets, and starched linen sheets.

She squeezed herself into the tightly made bed and was asleep in seconds.

Kate woke up shivering. In place of the roaring fire there was a heap of grey ash. She extricated herself from the blankets and shuffled down to the kitchen.

Eight o’clock. She’d had fourteen hours of dreamless sleep. Since she’d left Ian she’d struggled to get five hours in a row and had often found herself flicking
mindlessly through TV channels at 3 a.m. Perhaps it was the sea air or the interminable journey that had tired her out, but she felt she could sleep as long again and still be exhausted.

Taking a cup of coffee through to the sitting room, she was relieved to discover a central-heating thermostat. Log fires were all very romantic, but not first thing in the morning. The house was
just as pretty by daylight, but the silence was deafening. Mission one would be to find the much-longed-for dog. Or cat. Or even both, thought Kate, smiling to herself at having nobody else to
please.

After a short shower – she wasn’t taking any risks with the hot water this time – she decided to explore the grounds of the estate.

‘Kate?’

She spun round, surprised to hear her name at all, let alone at this time of the morning. She hadn’t got very far, having left the cottage and made her way gingerly up the muddy drive in
her fluffy suede boots.

‘Morag Banks.’

The woman in front of her had short, close-cropped hair and strong, handsome features untouched by makeup. She was carrying a horse’s head-collar, and wiped her hand on muddy jodhpurs
before holding it out.

‘How d’you do? Used to ponies?’ She was brisk, but smiling. ‘Come and give me a hand, and then I’ll make you a cup of tea. Must be a bit strange for you, waking up
so far from home.’

Kate wasn’t sure if it was an instruction or an invitation, but the prospect of more tea was nice. It hadn’t really occurred to her that it would be so much colder five hundred miles
north. She smiled to herself as she followed Morag at a brisk march. If she’d come here with Ian, he’d have arrived with a full set of waterproofs and walking boots. Instead she had
only an overnight bag and a suitcase, until her boxes arrived from home.