Page 40 of Duke It Out
Callum grins. “Never get between a man and the next drop of his favourite Netflix series.”
“So it would seem.” I laugh at the two of them doing a high five. “Honestly, I’m fine. Just tell me which bit of the Aga to put it in.”
Callum leaves for the pub and Gregor gives me a guided tour of the massive cast-iron Aga. There are six different ovens, all with their own heat setting. It’s the most upper-class thing you could ever see.
“Why have one oven with a thermostat when you can have six at different temperatures.”
Gregor chuckles. “Aye, it’s a beast right enough. We’ve got a regular oven through in the catering kitchen, but it always feels too much like work being in there, and when the place is quiet like now, I’d far rather be in and out of this place.”
I look around the huge morning kitchen again. “I can see why.”
“It’s a bonny spot,” Gregor agrees.
I head upstairs to have a shower and wash the dust and ink off. It seems to soak into me somehow, as if the old duke is determined to make his mark from beyond the grave. I resolutely do not think about Rory or wonder where he is. Not one single bit.
It’s dark when I go back downstairs, and despite the fact that everywhere is lit up I can’t help feeling a bit spooked at the idea that I’m in this place all by myself. The place creaks and shifts like it’s breathing. It’s enormous, and ancient, and full of memories I know nothing about.
I head for the kitchen, trying to tell myself that it’s just a house and definitely not haunted by a thousand years of ghosts when I hear a creak as the front door opens and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I turn around and for a moment I think the figure silhouetted in the doorway is Rory. My heart thumps against my ribcage and the I realise as he steps inside – it’s Jamie.
“Sorry, did I make you jump?” He grins. “Just coming to get the dogs.”
“Oh no,” I lie. “I was just going to get some dinner.”
He strides across the hall and follows me into the kitchen, where I spot the lasagne sitting on a metal tray under foil. Jamie picks up the note.
“Half an hour in the top oven,” he reads aloud as he lifts a corner of the foil. “Gregor’s catering for six as usual, I see. Are you expecting guests?”
I laugh. “Hardly. I don’t know anyone up here.”
“You know me,” says Jamie, raising a brow in question in the direction of the lasagne. “Shall I stick this in?”
“Yes, please.”
He slides it in, and the door of the Aga closes with an expensive-sounding clonk. “Now we just have to remember it’s there. I could tell you a million stories about things I’ve stuck in there when I’m pissed or hungover, forgotten about them and five hours later discovered a blackened piece of charcoal waiting for me.”
“Wouldn’t you smell it?”
He shakes his head. “The whole thing’s a closed unit, so the smells go up the chimney. Aga casualties are a hazard of country house life. Everyone’s got a tale about them.”
I think back to Grandma Rose’s kitchen in Balerno, near Edinburgh. We had an ancient white belling cooker and Formica worktops which had been fitted about a million years before I was born. “I didn’t grow up with an Aga,” I say, realising that’s probably obvious.
“You probably didn’t burn as many dinners as I have, in that case. Give me two secs, I’m just going to release the hounds.”
He disappears and a moment later Rory’s two spaniels and the wiry little terrier appear in the kitchen, noses pointed eagerly.
“They don’t miss a trick. You can have a treat when I get you back to the cottage, and no, you’re not having any lasagne. That’s for Edie.”
“There’s plenty,” I protest.
“You looking for company?”
And I realise that actually, it would be quite nice to have someone to talk to over dinner. It turns out that even bookish introverts can have too much of their own company, and I’ve definitely hit that level. “If you’re not busy?”
Jamie shakes his head. “Nope, I’ve got a load of paperwork I’m supposed to battle through before a meeting tomorrow but I’m allergic to paperwork.” He reaches into a cupboard and pulls out three dog treats, tossing them in the air so the dogs catch them. “Dyslexic,” he adds, matter-of-factly. “So,” he pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards. “How’s it going?”
“Being here or work?”
