Page 30 of Duke It Out
“I’m certain it is.” Kate had shot me a conspiratorial smile and waggled her brows. “So, I’ll take it that’s a deal then?”
I’d met her grin with one of my own. “You’re on.”
We’d headed back to the estate, Rory pointing out various landmarks as we went, then I’d showered and come down to find some lunch in the kitchen. A set of car keys were sitting on the island.
“For you,” Janey had said, sliding them towards me. “There’s a little Golf in the garage round the back. I’ve sorted the insurance, so you can explore the area and find your feet a bit. Might make you feel a bit less trapped.”
It’s something to look forward toafterI’ve tackled some work. Right now, I need to get a grip on what the next few weeks are going to look like.
First things first: this study feels like a mausoleum. I’m not sure why the curtains are half-drawn or why the whole room sits in gloomy half-light, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s touched it since the late duke passed.
I drag the heavy curtains open – they weigh a ton – and lift the catch on the sash window to let in some air. Crisp pine and cold, clean air rush in, cutting through the stale, heavy atmosphere. I breathe it in, grateful.
It’s better and brighter already. Dust motes dance in the sunlight and I can hear the crunch of gravel outside as someone arrives in the courtyard. A moment later there’s shouting, and laughter and I see a familiar van arriving – the last thing I expected to see over here was a Tesco delivery – but everyone needs groceries, I guess.
If Rory’s the epitome of buttoned-up upper class restraint, his father must have been the diametric opposite. It feels likedigging through his dirty laundry, looking for the choicest pieces to pull together a generation’s history to be kept in the archives. It’s a massive responsibility, and my stomach flutters with nerves.There’s only one way to eat an elephant, I remind myself.One bite at a time.
The papers on his desk are yellowed and curling, ringed with coffee stains and splashes of goodness knows what else. I pick up a piece and sniff it, catching a faint ghost of a whiff of whisky. There’s an enormous wooden tea chest to one side of the desk, half-full of red leather diaries. I pick one up.
1981, January
I turn the brittle pages, squinting at the faded ink – his writing is legible, at least. That’s a start. I trace a finger along the lines as I read aloud, as if somehow that might help me get a feeling for the late duke.
“MacDuff is a damn fool. Went shooting with him yesterday and he’s complaining the gamekeeper’s been doing a half-arsed job, but he’s the one that’s been pocketing the funds for it. That stable lad’s been running errands for him after hours, and if the rumours are true, those errands aren’t exactly business related…”
I’m just getting into it, putting on a gruff upper-class accent and pressing my chin to my chest to do my best impression of a stereotypical aristocrat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Rory’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, and I jump. The book slips out of my hands and crashes onto the floor, the pages coming unglued and flying across the carpet. His face is a mask of fury.
“I’m doing my job.” My pulse is rushing in my ears, and I feel inexplicably guilty, like I’ve been caught with my hand in the till.
“You don’t show up for dinner, then turn up in my father’sstudy without so much as a by your leave.” His jaw is clenched as he fixes me with that terrifying stony gaze.
I feel my face burning hot with indignant embarrassment.
“I took dinner upstairs. Janey said I could have it wherever I liked, and I had a zoom meeting at eight.” I’m not about to tell him it was Anna calling because she wanted to see the place for herself on a video call. “You never said anything about waiting to get started. I assumed you’d want me to get straight to work.”
Rory’s eyes flick over the desk, taking in the scattered papers and the piles of journals I’ve started to put into year order. “These papers – these diaries – I need you to appreciate that this isn’t something you can leaf through casually. Your job is to record them accurately, not dig for gossip.”
I open my mouth to protest.
“And certainly not to mock centuries of heritage,” he adds, his eyes pinning me to the spot.
I stand up slowly, ignoring the fact that my poor thighs are screaming and my backside feels like I’ve done five hundred weighted squats. I stiffen my posture and raise my chin to look as haughty and self-righteous as possible.
“I’m doing my job,Your Grace.What exactly did you expect? I can’t write a memoir without knowing the man behind the words. You can’t just sweep him under the rug and pretend he didn’t exist.”
His expression darkens and he takes a step towards me. I watch his chest rise and fall under the crisp cotton of his shirt.
“I’m asking you to focus on the facts, Edie, and not get caught up in what you might perceive to be thejuicy details.”
The words drip with scorn, and I feel myself witheringslightly. “You want me to be a stenographer? Because if you want me to transcribe every single note and diary entry verbatim, I can do that, but it’s going to take a hell of a lot longer than three months.”
“No,” he says, and this time his voice is almost calm. “I want you to tell the story for the family records, as discussed. But I need you to understand that this isn’t a history lesson.” He gestures to the room, and with a sweep of his arm takes in the view outside that rolls down towards the loch. “The estate, my family’s legacy, it’s all tangled up in these pages. And if we don’t get it right, it could cost more than you could hope to understand.”
A muscle works in his stubbled jaw, and he rubs a hand across his face, then rakes it through his hair. It falls stubbornly back over his forehead. I can’t figure out why he’s reacting like this to some vague ramblings about a gamekeeper.
