Anne Douglas (16 page)

She was silent, watching him, watching his face change, soften, the gold-flecked brown eyes no longer fixed on her, but looking back to scenes only he could know.

‘We weren’t gentry, you know,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘My father was a self-made man from Sheffield, my mother had worked in his first office. But all they wanted was to live somewhere like Conair, somewhere with hills and water and peace. The sort of place they’d never dreamed would be for them. But when my father made his money before the war, they came up here, found the house and bought it.’ Ronan Allan’s eyes turned back to Lynette. ‘When we moved in, I’d never been so happy in my life.’

She looked down at her notebook and the letters he had given her to type seemed already a long time ago.

‘Can you imagine it?’ he asked. ‘Coming to a place like this? Being able to climb hills, go fishing, learn to ride? I thought I was in paradise!’

‘What happened?’ she asked, at last, though of course, she knew.

He shrugged. ‘The war came, Father’s business collapsed. Trading with other countries, exporting, importing, none of that was possible. He did what he could but in the end was declared bankrupt. Had to sell up to pay his creditors, I had to leave my school, our whole life changed. Paradise lost, you might say.’

He leaned forward a little, keeping that strange gaze on her.

‘I suppose you think I’m complaining too much? There are thousands of people – millions – worse off than me? I know that’s true, but when you’ve been given something that means everything to you and then it’s taken away – it’s hard.’

‘I know, I understand,’ she heard herself saying, marvelling at the sympathy she’d never thought she could find for this man. ‘Where did you go, then? When the crash came?’

‘Back to Sheffield, back to what we were. My parents died and I went into hotel management. Worked in Yorkshire, Cornwall, several places. Then I saw this job.’ He smiled a little. ‘You can imagine how I felt. Couldn’t believe it, a chance to be near my own home. You know the rest.’

Lynette slowly rose to her feet. ‘You didn’t think it would be too painful, to come back?’

‘I knew it would be painful, but the pull of the Highlands was too strong. I’ll admit, seeing the old house as a hostel – I suppose I didn’t take it well.’ He came to stand close to her. ‘Lynette, I’m sorry. You understand how it was?’

‘Yes.’ She looked down at his letters. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Couldn’t we start again?’ he asked quietly. ‘Become friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘I’d like very much to be friends with you, Lynette.’ He put out his hand. ‘Shall we shake hands on that?’

Reluctantly, she put her hand into his and as she did so, feeling the firmness of his fingers clasping hers, something ran through her like an electric current. Oh, Lord, what was happening? Couldn’t be, could it, that she was finding in her inner being an attraction to Ronan Allan? That sudden jolt – it was some time since she’d felt anything like it on meeting a man, but she knew well what it was. Oh, yes, she knew what it was, but she couldn’t take it in. Or, wouldn’t. It was just too impossible to believe.

All the same, as she freed her hand from his and moved towards the door, she was trembling again.

‘I . . . must get on,’ she murmured. ‘Fionola will be wondering what’s happened to me.’

He was with her at the door, opening it for her, looking down at her, letting her see the new softness in his gaze.

‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Lynette. Or, at least, that you let me talk. I feel we’ve cleared the air, haven’t we? Now, we can start again. You do want that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. Why not?’

She took a firm grip on herself, returning rather to her old, crisp manner as she left him.

‘I’ll get these letters back to you as soon as possible, Mr Allan.’

‘No hurry, Lynette. And my name is Ronan.’

‘I couldn’t call you that.’

‘When we were alone, you could.’

Alone? Her gaze sliding away, she made no reply but moved swiftly out and he watched her go.

Twenty-Six

Lynette did not in fact return at once to Reception. Whatever was happening there, Fionola would have to cope, for she felt so strange, so at odds with all that was usual, she must have a smoke in the fresh air, or she didn’t know what she’d do. Dumping Mr Allan’s letters in Mrs Atkinson’s little office, she took her cigarettes from her suit pocket and let herself out into the grounds from a glass side door.

Ah, that was better. Inhaling deeply, she gazed at the amazing views, on the one hand across the Sound of Sleat to Skye, on the other over Loch Hourn to Knoydart. Splendid hills, either way, some still peaked with snow, even though this was late April and there was surely a promise of warmer weather soon. But wasn’t it said that in the Highlands it could be any season any time?

Her thoughts were running riot, moving everywhere except to Ronan Allan, though she knew she must face the thought of him some time. Something had happened between him and her that morning, something that couldn’t be put back, and the question would have to be asked – did she want it put back?

‘My name is Ronan,’ he had told her. She could call him that when they were alone. Alone? No, no, she didn’t feel up to thinking of that, being alone with him, calling him Ronan. No, no, look at the clouds, she told herself, look at the hills . . .

‘Ha, ha, caught you!’ a familiar voice whispered in her ear and she spun round to find Scott Crosbie smiling down at her, his ginger hair blowing in the wind, a cigarette at his lip. ‘Hi, Lynette. You’re doing just what I’m doing, eh? Having a secret smoke? Why didn’t you come to the kitchen for a coffee?’

‘Oh, Scott, you made me jump!’ She raised a smile for him and pushed back her own blowing hair. ‘I’m really supposed to be doing some typing – just dashed out to clear my head.’

‘Clear your head with a cigarette?’ He laughed. ‘Suppose we should really be giving them up, but, hell, I don’t smoke much and I lead a stressful life, don’t I? I need a ciggie.’

‘Do you?’ she asked, as they walked a little way across the lawns. ‘Do you lead a stressful life?’

‘Sure I do. All chefs do. Goes with the job.’ His eyes on her face were suddenly sharp. ‘But you look a bit stressed yourself at the moment. What’s up? The boss been at you again? Or, have you been at him?’

‘You know how we are.’ Her smile was bright. ‘But, it’s funny, I sort of feel sorry for him now.’

‘Oh?’ Scott looked at the cigarette between his fingers, his mouth tightening. ‘First time you’ve said that.’

‘Well, it must have been hard for him, having to leave his home. I mean, when you’ve had something you love and it’s taken away, it can be hard.’

‘That what he told you?’

Almost word for word, she thought, but said nothing.

‘Trust him,’ Scott muttered. ‘Pulling the old heart strings. Did you ask if he played the violin? The truth is, there are a stack of folk in Scottish tenements who’d give their eye teeth for his life, eh? He’s got nothing to complain about. When did he ever have to worry about the rent, or what the bairns were having to eat?’

‘His father did go bankrupt, you know.’

‘Aye, but I bet he didn’t end up on the dole. Look, let’s talk of something else. When are you coming for another cookery session?’

‘Oh, soon, Scott, soon. I really enjoy helping with your fancy dishes.’

It was true. The snatched times she had spent with the cooks in her lunch hour had proved completely satisfying to her, though she had no hopes that she would ever be able to make their soups and soufflés, elaborate meat and fish dishes, gateaux and desserts.

‘It’s kind of all of you to let me help – I do appreciate it. Just hope I’m not too much in the way.’

‘Look, you’re not getting in anyone’s way. We’re the ones should thank you, when you’re acting as unpaid kitchen maid.’

Scott tossed his cigarette end into the grass and gave Lynette a rueful smile.

‘Feel guilty, in fact, that I haven’t given you proper lessons yet. Maybe you could get an afternoon free some time? I have a lull about then.’

‘I’ll try. I could maybe work a split shift with Fionola. Though I might have to clear that with Mrs Atkinson first.’

‘As long as it’s not with you know who,’ Scott said with a grin.

But when they re-entered the hotel, it was to see the tall figure of Ronan Allan walking down the staff corridor towards them, and Lynette’s heart leaped in dismay.

‘Ah, Miss Forester.’ The manager’s eyes were flickering between her and Scott. ‘Do you have those letters for me to sign?’

‘Not yet, Mr Allan. I was just taking a break, but I’ll get on with them right away.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you. And you, Scott, everything all right with the guests’ lunch?’

‘Certainly, Mr Allan.’ Scott’s tone was cheeky. ‘Isn’t it always?’

‘I was just observing that you were away from the kitchens.’

‘Having a wee break, like Miss Forester here. If that’s OK with you?’

Flushing darkly, Mr Allan made no reply but walked away, his head held high, and Lynette, turning to Scott, touched his arm. ‘I hope you haven’t upset him, Scott.’

His brown eyes puzzled, he stared. ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? I thought you liked having a go at His Nibs?’

She laughed uneasily. ‘Maybe I’m a reformed character.’

‘Is he, though? Look, I’d better get back to work. Don’t forget what I said about finding afternoon time.’

‘I won’t.’

She hurried away to descend on Mrs Atkinson’s typewriter, rolling in paper and clattering away at Mr Allan’s letters with an incredible turn of speed. When she had finished, she read them through and took them, not to his office, but Reception.

‘Lynette, where on earth have you been?’ Fionola cried, her beautiful eyes stormy. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet here, answering the phone, booking folks in – I was just about to send out an SOS.’

‘Sorry, I had these letters to type. Would you be a sweetheart and take them in to Mr Allan for me? Then go and have your break.’

‘Thank the Lord for that. I’m dying for my coffee.’

‘Take as long as you like,’ Lynette said grandly. ‘I’ll be here.’

Certainly will, she thought. Facing the manager in his office again was something she just didn’t want to do. But, oh God, there he was some moments later, actually at Reception, gold-flecked eyes fixed on her, dark eyebrows raised.

‘You didn’t need to send Fionola in,’ he said softly. ‘Am I so terrible, you can’t face me?’

‘No, no, it was just that I wanted to stay here, let poor Fionola go for her break.’

‘I see.’ The eyebrows descended. ‘Oh, well, I can breathe again. Listen, Lynette, there’s something I want to tell you – though maybe Mrs Atkinson’s mentioned it already?’

‘Mentioned what?’

‘Our ceilidh evening at the end of April. Thing is, we pride ourselves on being part of the community, and twice a year we hold a little dance that’s open to everyone in the area for a small fee we give to charity. We hire a band, the guests usually join in and everyone has a good time. Have you heard about it?’

‘No, I haven’t, but it sounds a terrific idea.’ Lynette, relaxing, was genuinely interested. ‘A ceilidh – dancing – oh, I can’t wait!’

He studied her, slightly biting his lip. ‘There’s something else I’d like to suggest. I was wondering if, this year, we should ask the young people from the hostel if they’d like to join us. They need only make a small donation. What do you think?’

‘You’re going to ask the hostellers? Why, that would be wonderful! They’d love it. All they get usually is a sing-song! Oh, but are you sure, Ronan?’

Somehow, the name slipped out, but she saw him jump a little and catch his breath, and then he suddenly touched her hand.

‘I’m sure. The guests will be happy to see a cross section of the community, and the hostel is part of the community. I think the young folk should be here.’

‘I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect.’ She laughed. ‘Apart from anything else, my dad can come as well, and he’s pretty good at an eightsome reel. Oh, it’s good of you. I appreciate it. Honestly.’

‘Would you be willing to help Mrs Atkinson, then? You know, organizing it? Sending out invitations, discussing the buffet menus, booking the band, that sort of thing.’

‘Of course I’d be willing! I’d be delighted.’

They stood together, smiling at each other, he suddenly seeming years younger, she her most attractive self, until the hotel doors flew open, the porters came in with luggage, new guests following, and as Lynette slipped smoothly into her routine, Ronan returned to his office. As he sat down at his desk, his lips still curved into a smile, he found himself humming under his breath, and recognized the tune – one used for the eightsome reel.

Twenty-Seven

News of a dance for the locals to be held at the Talisman seemed astonishing to Frank and Monnie, who hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort from such a superior hotel. And any young folk at the hostel were welcome to attend as well?

‘Why, that’s grand, Lynette!’ Frank exclaimed. ‘But I thought you told us your boss didn’t like the hostel? How come we’re all welcome at the ceilidh?’

Lynette hesitated. ‘I suppose he’s finally realized the hostel is part of the community.’

‘Will you be able to go?’ Monnie asked, her grey eyes thoughtful on her sister. ‘Can you leave Reception?’

‘It’s all arranged. The ceilidh won’t start till eight and Mrs Atkinson has kindly said she’d stand in for Fionola and me until nine, when George, the night porter, takes over anyway.’ Lynette smiled. ‘Should be fun, eh? Going dancing again!’

‘I’m curious to see your Mr Allan. You getting on better with him these days?’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Lynette’s expression was cagey. ‘I do sort of understand his feelings, though. Must have been hard for him, leaving Conair House.’