Page 63 of Duke It Out
It smells of fresh paint and new carpet. Since I was here last the contractors have fitted the solid cast-iron wood burning stove in the fireplace, and the oak lintel has beengiven a final tidy up. It’s neutral and calm inside, which is what we wanted.
“You did this?” she asks finally.
I shrug. “The cottages were just sitting here. It seemed logical to put them to good use.”
Edie turns to face me, a strange expression on her face. “Logical?”
I nod briefly.
“You could have rented them out, made money from them.”
I give a brief laugh. “Despite what you might infer from my father’s diaries, we’re not in need of extra income.”
She flushes slightly and closes her eyes, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
I shake my head. “Didn’t think you did. But while the trust might be all about keeping things secure for future generations, the foundation is – well, to me it is – about making change right now. And we needed this.”
I watch her chest rise and fall as she takes in a breath and take a step back towards the window. I’m determined to keep a distance between us.
“So why a safe house in particular?”
“Let’s just say it was something close to home.”
“Janey.” She breathes the word out, like a secret.
I nod again, slowly. “Right under our noses. I had no idea what she was going through. And then one day she came to the house in tears. We moved her out that afternoon. Gave her the old gate lodge cottage, sent her husband packing, and?—”
Edie lifts a hand as if to stop me.
“I’ve said enough. So, we are working with a women’s aidcharity in Inverness, and the cottages are here for anyone who needs them for however long. Rent free.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Least we can do.”
She perches on the edge of the dark grey sofa and looks up at me through her thick lashes. “You didn’t have to do any of this. You give the impression it’s all about duty, but you really do care.”
I look out of the window for a moment. A bird of prey soars overhead, circling in search of food.
“Can I look outside?”
I watch as she heads out through the back door into the garden, where there’s a wooden climbing frame and some raised beds full of compost. That was Janey’s idea.
“I couldn’t stand to be another in the long line who looked away,” I hear myself saying.
“Your father?”
I clear my throat. “My great grandfather took his duty seriously. I’d like to think I could emulate him, and make up for the way?—”
She raises her brows as I tail off midsentence. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re nothing like him. You’re rewriting the story of this place.”
I lean back against the cool stone of the wall, watching as she picks daisies.
“Janey says you’re writing?”
She looks up suddenly. “Only in the evenings.”
“It wasn’t an accusation.”
