Page 34 of Some Like It Scot
I started to argue, but she raised her palm, stilling my rebuttal. She, of all people, knew the pain Allison left behind, and the only reason I’d healed as well as I had was because of this place. These people. Not Allison.
“The real problem isnae out there, Graeme, whereverthereis.” She waved toward the window. “We live in a broken world where people leave and the ones we love die. In our modern times, death is skirted off the stage where we don’t see it with such clear eyes as our forebears did in these bràigh and glens, but we saw. We lived it, and living through death changes us. It can make us afraid of the oddest things, like... the unknown. The risks. Maybe even our own dreams.”
“I’m not afraid.” I stood. “I’m angry.”
“Don’t you ken, son. Your anger looks more like fear with its feet dug into the ground. You’re the only one who has the power to release the grasp you have on it.” She tilted her head, studying me. “We’ve had to come to terms with this out-of-order death, with the grief of it all, but don’t let what happened with Greer or Allison or anyone else steal what you have now. To nick your dreams. You’re stronger than that, whether you believe it or not.”
She turned and walked from the cottage. Leave it to a mum to dress down her bairn and leave them in the wake. I slid back down into my chair, fighting against her assessment. Allisonhadbeen wrong.
A flicker of doubt twinged in the back of my mind. But had I been wrong too? Had I been so afraid to trust our relationship that I’d “dug in” my heels to my way instead of giving her freedom? Had Allison been one of the casualties of me holding so tightly to keeping anything in my chaotic world that I’d blamed her—blamed anything—as a way to manage my grief?
The edge of London’sTheArt Newspaperwavered in the breeze coming through the window, sliding across the table a little from where Mum left it. Likely for an added barb in her argument.
Had I limited my dreams out of... fear? I flinched at the notion. I’d been justified in my anger toward Allison. Lachlan and this community warranted me staying close to home.
My palm tightened around my mug as the burning in my throat intensified. I raised my gaze to the window, where wisps of cloud floated across the blue sky, hinting of evening rain. What if, in some small way, Mum was right?
Chapter 8
Katie
“Dining etiquette during the Edwardian era was highly dependent on rank.” Mrs. Lennox stood at the head of a long table in the spacious dining room of Craighill, her golden gown shimmering in the fake candlelight.
Impressive with its vaulted wooden ceiling and wall of large windows, the room boasted of a time and place of grandeur that didn’t quite match the simple ten-seater, but Emily had said the Lennoxes were continually having new furniture delivered in order to better match the era.
And theexperience.
However, the structure itself already gave the sense of stepping back in time. Stone, woodwork, centuries-old paintings. Those things alone bumped the experience higher on the ratings scale, despite my somewhat loony introduction to the place.
Now, if only I could get my wardrobe to match the general ambience. I stared down at my simple floral dress, my only “formal” attire I’d packed since Mrs. Lennox assured guests that appropriate clothing was provided. The fact that my summer midi hit at my knee probably broke some sort of Edwardian rule and assured me of a future scandal, but what was a girl to do when she clearly didn’t have the wardrobe to match the Downton vibes yet?
“We shall experience our first formal dinner tomorrow, with each guest dressed inappropriateevening attire.” Her gaze landed on me as if my appearance earlier in the day, or maybe even now, was currently seared on her brain.
I sighed and looked away, only to run right into Mark’s glare as he stood across the table from me. His smirk and very obvious perusal of my body only dug the sense of not measuring up even deeper.
Way to hit on my biggest insecurity, Mark the Menace.
“I assure you, not only will you enjoy the elegance of the dining, but our chef plans to prepare a feast that will leave you duly impressed.” Her attention turned to Mr. Logan, who responded with a gracious nod.
“Dining for the rich of this time period was a three- to four-hour event.”
Three to four hours? Well, back home in Appalachia, meals could last that long, but it was only because everyone sat around and talked forever. Were things the same in the Edwardian era? For some reason, I couldn’t quite imagine someone in this setting resembling my uncle Dean, who would loosen his belt, lean back in his chair, and pick food out of his teeth with his pocketknife.
“And tonight I mean to set before you some of the rules of Edwardian dining so you will be prepared with your seating and basic etiquette for the rest of our time.”
She waved toward the table, each place setting as immaculately ordered as if Mr. Carson himself stepped from the screen ofDownton Abbeywith his handy measuring thingy in tow.
“Wealthy Edwardian families, as we wish to emulate during your stay here, enjoyed a great variety of the best foods of the time, with an incredibly high volume of meat dishes, including fish, butcher’s choice, and fowl in one sitting.”
The carnivore within me offered an internal growl of appreciation... and then proceeded to echo a not-so-internal one. Loud enough to garner a crooked grin from Mr. Wake, who leaned in my direction. “Right on cue.”
Despite the warmth in my cheeks, I grinned and shrugged a shoulder. “Accidentally being on cue is my forte.”
His eyes crinkled with his smile, the exchange surprising me because it was the first normal encounter I’d had since arriving. Maybe Mrs. Lennox meant for eccentricity to be one of Craighill’s charms.
Niche. I’d give her that.
“I hope the chef lives up to Mrs. Lennox’s praise, because the cucumber sandwiches at lunch didn’t quite do the trick.” Mr. Wake patted his stomach.
