The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance) (4 page)

“What I need is several extra feet of fencing,” Fiona replied. “But I won’t say no to that drink.”

Colin paced irritably in front of the estate manager’s desk. McTavish sat there gravely listening to Colin’s tirade, tapping tensely on his knee. McTavish had been working for the Parkers for forty years and prided himself in his efficient manner of keeping the property running flawlessly. Trespassers had never been an issue in the past, even the canine variety, due to the high fence which ran all the way around the property. He had blamed the wedding incident on the high number of people in and out of the main gate that day, which might have allowed an errant dog to slip in unnoticed.

“I can’t have my guests disturbed and their property damaged while they are under my roof,” Colin said, feeling put out because he had always
been known for offering impeccable hospitality. Aiken had been understandably upset, and while he didn’t blame Colin, he had shown an almost proprietorial fury at the idea that outsiders were gaining access to Loch Murray.

“Indeed not,”
McTavish agreed briskly. “Has Mr. Aiken been offered some sort of compensation?”

Colin waved his hands airily. “I’ve told him to send us the repair bill, of course,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s the timing which is unfortunate. We were going to tour Skye in that car this weekend before the
MacGowan’s annual summer do.”

“The Rover is in fine running shape,”
McTavish reminded him.

“Yes, but it really isn’t the same, is it?” Colin said peevishly, before releasing a sigh and returning to his more usual frame of mind. “I was thinking that I’d invite Aiken for a weekend fishing trip up north instead as a sort of compensatory measure.”

“Mr. Aiken is fond of his fishing,”
McTavish concurred. “Shall I book the lodge?”

“If you would,” Colin said gratefully.
“Now about that dog. I take it you already have narrowed down the list of suspects?”

McTavish
stared thoughtfully at his desk. “Well, I’m not certain yet, but it seems likely to me that the hound must belong to the new tenant at the gatekeeper’s cottage. You recall that the MacPherson’s wanted to try living closer to town and we agreed to let them sublet the cottage for a year. In both cases, the dog ran in that direction, and it also presents the lowest bit of wall giving on to the grounds. I suppose that a healthy dog could get over that if he had a mind to.”

“You’ve seen the car,” Colin pointed out. “So I think we can assume that the mutt is strong enough to jump.”

“And to open a car door?” McTavish asked mildly. “It seems to me that we had a human visitor as well this time, most likely trying to control the dog.”

“I hadn’t even stopped to think about that,” Colin said in admiration. “Well done,
McTavish. Although fairly dastardly behaviour on the dog-owner’s part if he didn’t even dare come to excuse himself. Well, check it out to be sure that it’s the new tenant, and then write a nasty-sounding note threatening dire actions if he can’t keep his dog under control. That should put an end to these little escapades.”

“Right away,”
McTavish nodded. “I’ll draft the letter tonight, mention possible eviction. Will there be anything else?”

“Just tonight’s dinner reservations at the Club.
See if you can push them back an hour, would you? Aiken is going to need some time to regain his humour before I pick him up.”

McTavish
nodded and made a quick note on his ever-present notepad. “And what about the opening event for Mackenzie House?

Colin sighed. “I’d forgotten about that.
What a bore, a bunch of old people talking about how much better things used to be…do you think I could send my regrets?”

McTavish
shook his head firmly as if he were dealing with a petulant child. “With the Parker Trust helping to fund the project, and with the centre less than half an hour away, it would be hard to justify your failure to attend,” he pointed out in his businesslike way. “And the locals might take offense. No, best you go and make a good showing.”

Colin wrinkled his nose, but concurred. “I suppose you’re right,” he said reluctantly. “In that case, could you please get an invitation for Aiken as well?”

“Very well,” McTavish agreed. “And will you bring a female companion?”

Colin scratched his head for a moment. “I suppose Bridget,” he said, weighing his options. “Aiken has taken a fancy to a friend of hers who is visiting. Can you take care of the invitations?”

“Of course,” his manager said briskly. “Once I send off the letter to the cottage.”

A shadow darkened
Colin’s brow briefly at the reminder of today’s intruder. Still he watched his manager’s efficiency with satisfaction and then stepped out of the office into the grand entry hall, trying to shake off his irritated mood so that he could enjoy the rest of the day.

He wasn’t used to unwelcome intrusions from the outside world. It seemed to him that one of the advantages that came from being of the privileged class was that you could be protected from these sorts of banal annoyances and hassles that could spoil a perfectly fine afternoon. He was not unkind by nature, but neither could he be expected to put up with everybody else’s problems and the simplest thin
g to do was to avoid the masses entirely.

He didn’t particularly want to cause an eviction, but the threat alone should be enough to make the dog’s master
take responsibility for his pet. He certainly couldn’t continue to have his guests being disturbed like this or to have property damaged. In fact, he was being quite kind not to forward the upholsterer’s bill to the new tenant, as it was.

Feeling better in his conscience, he strode out into the garden to check the sky. Tomorrow he was going boating with a number of friends and he was glad to see a clear horizon. Now he could put
all this nuisance behind him and concentrate on enjoying the evening.

Chapter Three

Mackenzie House was a stately old mansion set on spacious grounds. Like most of the historical buildings in the area, it was made of grey stone that had been quarried in the nearby hills several
hundred years ago. It had served alternating roles as private residence and public building, depending on local favours and politics, and many historical figures had stayed within its walls.

Fiona
’s work had been part of a renovation project to reopen the old building as a visitor’s centre and site of historical interest. Before the attic was torn apart to be insulated, she had gone through the old boxes and archives helping to piece together the history of the place, which was now spelt out in neat displays in the main rooms. Tables of drinks and snacks were spread around the main hall, where most of the guests had gathered for the official speeches. A few still wandered through the beautifully landscaped gardens in the early evening light.

Rhona
and Dougal Andrews, the hosts of tonight’s event, had inherited the neglected property several years ago and it had been their idea to turn it into a cultural centre, with a multi-functional room in the grand hall and a new glassed-in atrium overlooking the garden. Now they beamed proudly at the results, welcoming their guests heartily as they mixed and mingled with the well-dressed public.

Fiona
cowered in the corner, seeking solace in finger foods, just as Sarah had described. She wasn’t nervous about the public speaking, feeling confident in her area of expertise, but she had just spotted two unmistakable faces in the crowd and it had completely thrown her off balance.

Standing out with polished ease among the glitter and perfume were the two handsome men whom
Fiona had seen last week beside the muddied convertible. She now knew the blue-eyed, friendly-looking face to be Colin’s, while his friend had a more mysterious, slightly sly air. Despite what Sarah had said about their elitist attitude, they seemed poised and charming as they interacted with the crowd, flirting gently with an older woman, slapping the backs of the old boys in a comradely way.

Of course, this crowd was already a select bunch,
Fiona reminded herself. Apart from the mayor and the heads of a few societies, there were probably titles among them and she certainly wasn’t hearing many local accents. Everybody sounded like they’d been to posh public schools down in England, if they weren’t actually English themselves, and for the first time she felt self-conscious of her own accent, softened though it had been by her education.

“Ladies and gentlemen,”
Dougal’s voice boomed out as he moved to the front of the great hall and took his place behind a speaker’s table, which had been set up with a microphone for the occasion.  “Welcome to the official inauguration of Mackenzie House. This centre has been a dream in progress for the past several years and I hope that as of tonight it will start to be as dear to the community as it has been to Rhona and me.”

Dougal’s
voice continued to boom out, making the microphone completely unnecessary, which was just as well as he began to pace behind the table with his usual restless energy. His enthusiasm was contagious and most of the crowd listened with appreciation, apart from Fiona whose attention kept straying to Colin Parker.

He and his
companion were both escorting well-dressed young women who didn’t seem particularly interested in the proceedings but stood elegantly clutching the men’s arms. Members of the Historical and Cultural Society were easy to spot, hanging on with more rapt attention to Dougal and Rhona’s short speeches and then to the longer discourse by the head of the Society.

Fiona
was suddenly feeling out of her depth as she gazed around at the chic dresses and well-cut suits around the room. She had worn her best white blouse and neat black skirt and only now, as she made a quick mental survey, did she realise that she was dressed exactly the same as the caterers. Her confidence took another blow.

She also felt as if her guilt was written across her brow any time either of the men glanced in her direction. But she might as well have been invisible, just a slightly off-centre decoration behind the
far table. She had to keep reminding herself that neither man had ever seen her and had no reason to link her to Livingstone’s unwelcome incursions into their world.

Then
Dougal was back at the microphone, smiling broadly as he introduced “the woman who made it all happen, who put Mackenzie House in its rightful spot on the history map, the passionate historian and poetry expert, Miss Fiona Buchanan.”

He held out his hand to usher her up to join him at the microphone, and
Fiona fixed her gaze on his to forget her self-consciousness. Dougal and Rhona were from the upper class, she reminded herself hastily, and had never been anything but warm, welcoming and grateful in their interactions with her, taking her word unquestioningly on all matters historical. The thought gave her courage.

“Good evening,” she said nervously
into the mike, after shaking Dougal’s meaty hand and nearly having her wrist broken.  “First of all I would like to begin by offering a huge thank you to Dougal and Rhona for giving me the opportunity to study the history of this amazing place. All of the credit for what you now see goes to their vision for Mackenzie House, where I really only played the role of a technical expert. But what a pleasure it has been for me to be able to poke into the fascinating hidden secrets of the area which is so rich in colourful history. Already at the time of the Jacobite Risings, before the Massacre at Glencoe…”

And she was off, all shyness forgotten, launching into her favourite subject.
By conscious effort she managed not to overload her audience with all the spicy little anecdotes of loyalty and betrayal, allegiances and skirmishes and personalities which made history happen. Broadly she sketched out the history of the area from Glencoe to Fort William, passing through Braeport where Mackenzie House, at that point a small fortress-castle, had played a role.

When she found herself breathless, she became aware of her surroundings again and immediately wondered if she had let herself be carried away. But the audience looked interested or at
least amused, so she decided that she might have gotten away with it. However, it was best to wrap up her speech in a hurry, before she started off again.

She only had time to mention Campbell’s notebook in passing, saying that the publication of this forgotten verse should earn him the title of
Braeport’s own Rabbie Burns. “He managed to capture the essence of this wild country, using images that still stand today for the beautiful landscape and the people he was thinking about as he walked through it. I will leave you with one line that I just discovered this afternoon. He might well have been describing a local girl for whom he suffered an unrequited love, but he named his poem after our own river when he wrote, “My mind’s eye seizes and forever guards

The memory of yon s
ilver flashing beck

C
arving through that high and rocky glen which softer summers never tamed…”

As she stepped away from the podium,
Dougal met her with his hearty handshake and beaming red face. “A warm hand of applause for Braeport’s cultural revivalist, Fiona Buchanan,” he said as Fiona slipped back into her corner, feeling her face flush. “And a reminder to all of you who are keen to hear more of her passionate description of our history and culture, Fiona will be leading a fund-raising historical walk through the nearby countryside next weekend. So pull out your Wellingtons and your cheque books…”