Page 37 of The Secret Christmas Library
The door swung open, and, as she glanced up, her face broke into a smile of pure surprise.
She had expected – well, nothing, really. She hadn’t had a clue what Jamie was talking about. Maybe that there would be a bunch of old tweed mouldering away – more tat.
But no. The wardrobe was stuffed full of dresses. No, she thought again, these were not dresses; they weregowns.Wrapped in plastic, draped on soft padded hangers.
Mirren lifted them down. There was a fifties floral dress with a wide neck, in a stiff, shiny material with flowers appliquéd on to it. There was a high-necked, ruffled Victorian long frock that looked like The Vampire’s Wife brand – ironic, thought Mirren, given who was across the corridor – but was far too old and frayed. There was a silvery nineties-style slip, a sliver of a thing which looked gorgeous but also freezing; and a bright orange, rather fabulous muumuu which came with a matching turban.
Finally, she came across the simplest dress: a dark red, almost burgundy gown that was made of softest silk; it had little bell sleeves, and a full hem. She pulled it out and held it up against herself, wonderingly. Whose dress was this? Whose had it been? Then she found a tag, still on it, with a designer label, and a breathtaking price. This dress had never been worn. They’d do better on Vinted than looking for a book, Mirren thought. She checked the others: many were the same. Someone had bought these and stuck them in a room and forgotten all about them.
Cut on the bias, the wine-coloured dress was also extremely forgiving, and she slipped it on and looked at herself in the mirror on the front and smiled. It was so utterly unlike anything she would ever wear; she looked like a flapper, getting ready to go down to the drawing room to find out who’d been murdered.She smiled to herself. She had one pair of black shoes, which were not ideal, being flat and rather sturdy, but actually, when she put them on, they rather added to the effect; they could easily be 1920s. She ran back to the bathwater and flattened down her curly hair behind her ears, then pulled out from her make-up bag a packed, but rarely used red MAC lipstick. Mixed with her regular browny lip gloss, it almost matched the colour of the dress. She lashed on some mascara, then picked up her black cardigan. It slightly spoiled the effect but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
Then she put it down again. No. Things were a bit mad. She was hundreds of miles away from anyone who knew her, who would judge her – her family, her friends, her colleagues. This place was ridiculous – an endless crumbling castle – but it was magical too. It had a deep enchantment all of its own, in the ancient walls, the whirling snow, the empty spaces on the walls where the pictures had once been, the unhappy man and his unhappy antecedents, the endless, endless books. This was a holiday from real life, a different way of being, and she could behave however the hell she wanted. It wasn’t as if she’d ever be in this situation again, being summoned in an ancient Scottish castle by a clanging old dinner bell.
She glanced around the room, spotting another bookcase, this time full of hardback fiction from the last quarter of the twentieth century –The Thorn Birds;A Year in Provence;Lace. Amazing! She could rifle it later – and next to that, an old leather seat, beside the window. On the back of the chair was a tartan blanket, the deep red of the stripe, on a neutral background, matching her dress almost exactly. She gave it an experimental sniff, but it smelled absolutely fine, of soft lambswool infused with woodsmoke. She sprayed it quicklywith perfume, then wrapped it around her elbows. That was more like it. She glanced at herself once more, almost lost her nerve, wondered whose dress it was, and if this was a completely ridiculous idea. Then she heard, once again, the bell clanging, deep within the building, summoning her, and without another thought, before she could change her mind, she opened the bedroom door.
22
The door opposite hers opened at exactly the same time, and she caught a glimpse inside; Theo’s room was green where hers was red. She supposed that was how the household staff would have kept track of it, back in the day when they had a full staff, and not just Bonnie working wonders all on her own. She was perfectly friendly, but Mirren still found it creepy, as if, when there was nobody in the house, Bonnie simply shut herself away in a box.
Theo walked into the corridor. Mirren stared at him.
‘Youbroughtthat?’
‘Of course,’ said Theo. ‘Who comes to a castle without formal wear?’
He was immaculately attired in black tie, his bow tie a little floppy, his white shirt perfect. His dark hair was slicked back, making him look even more darkly handsome than usual, particularly when he smiled at her.
‘You look very nice.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mirren. ‘I’m wearing a blanket; do you think they’ll notice?’
Theo rolled his eyes. ‘Only if you insist on saying “Hey everyone guess what I’m wearing a blanket,” he said. ‘I know you are very keen on reminding us how you’re an honest working-class child of the soil or whatever it is, but we all get it: you hatethe parasitical upper classes, even while you’re currently working for them, so okay, Millie Tant, can we just go downstairs, with you looking quite lovely, and not be quite so chippy during dinner?’
Mirren gave him a look, stung.
‘Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. I just complimented you. Also, if you’re going to be so insistent about the fact that you don’t go to a lot of smart places, I should warn you in advance, dinner is going to be terrible.’
And then, by way of consolation, he offered her his broad arm to go down the great, grand staircase, and, not knowing quite what else to do, she took it. The scent of his expensive Penhaligon’s aftershave reminded her, briefly, of the year before. Why did he have to smell so good, dammit?
In contrast to the rest of the house, which was now doused in gloom, presumably made even worse by Jamie taking out half the light bulbs from other places, the Chinois drawing room was easier to find this evening, blazing as it was with light. The faded turquoise and bright bees-and-flowers wallpaper glowed gently. An extremely old record player was playing jazz, rather fuzzily. Jamie and Esme were at opposite sides of the room, evidently still not talking to one another. Esme was standing by an open window as the storm raged outside, smoking furiously, even though the wind kept blowing her cigarette out. Jamie was by a wooden art deco cocktail bar, mixing some brown liquid in heavy glasses. He added maraschino cherries carefully.
‘Old-fashioned?’ he asked carelessly, and Mirren found herself beaming. Jamie looked at her rather strangely. In fact, had Mirren only known it, he was indeed finding it strange. Not many people in this house smiled for no reason. Not manypeople smiled, full stop. Plus, she looked different – Jamie didn’t know much about women’s clothes, but this was definitely something nice.
And the reason Mirren couldn’t seem to stop this stupid grin from spreading across her face was similar. She hadn’t been able to stop herself being excited by the fact that Jamie was wearing . . . Well, of course he would be – why wouldn’t he? This was just what dressing for dinner meant, up here. Nonetheless, he was wearing a real, honest-to-goodness, true-life kilt, without any self-consciousness whatsoever.
Mirren hadn’t really ever given much thought to tartan, but this was a faded blue, green and orange, a country-looking design, with a heavy old sporran on it. He wore it with a plain white shirt and a tweed waistcoat. Normally she would have thought of kilts as being quite funny, but somehow she really liked this. It suited him so well. He looked . . . he looked more at home. Not quite so anxious, rather more rugged.
He caught her eyes on him and looked up. ‘You look nice,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Mirren, blushing and accepting the drink he handed her. She bit her lip; she’d noticed him noticing her smile and didn’t want to admit that the reason she looked so happy was that coming into a castle drawing room dressed in a beautiful dress and the lord of the manor handing her a cocktail felt like the stuff of fantasies.
‘Oh,’ said Esme, turning in from the window. ‘That’s a nice colour on you.’
Mirren was even more surprised to get a compliment from Esme. ‘Um, thanks! There’s loads of dresses up there.’
Esme rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, yes. Another nail in the coffin of the McKinnon family coffers. Darling spendthrift Mama.’ She frowned. ‘Mind you, she doesn’t need all that stuff whereshe is. I’m going to have a rummage. I bet some of it is worth a bit.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Mirren.
