A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Page 8

  ‘A penny for them?’

  His face appeared over her shoulder in the mirror. He stood behind her, close enough to send her heart racing, but not touching. Even though they had been as intimate as it was possible for any man and woman to be, he never assumed any rights over her. Robert’s proprietorial touch had been something that irked her, she remembered now. After they had bedded for the first time, his manner changed, as if he had gained something that she had lost.

  She turned away from her reflection. ‘Do you ever look back at yourself and wonder if it was really you, who did those things, who felt those things?’

  ‘Do you mean, would I change the past if I could?’

  ‘No, but I mean, if you were back in the past now, would you behave differently, make different decisions?’

  ‘Hindsight is a marvellous thing.’

  ‘I don’t mean hindsight, I mean—actually, I’m not sure what I mean. What you said about my making you think things, say things you’ve never said, it’s the same for me. You’ve stirred up all sorts of feelings I didn’t know I had. I’ve only known you three days, and already I know—’ She broke off, embarrassed.

  ‘I’ll miss you too, if that’s what you were going to say.’

  He had such a look in his eyes, of longing and desire that so perfectly reflected her own feelings. She knew what he was thinking, and when she stepped closer, reaching for him, his arms went around her, and she knew she’d been right. ‘Grayson,’ she said softly, simply for the pleasure of saying his name.

  ‘Constance.’ His hand on her waist pulled her closer. His other hand found hers. When he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, he seemed pained. Slowly, his head dipped towards hers, giving her every chance to step back, to end the moment, but even if she’d wanted to, it would have been impossible. His breath was hot on her cheek. There was a tiny frown drawing his brows together.

  ‘Oh, Constance,’ he whispered, and she heard in his voice what she felt too, all the sweetness they were doomed to miss out on, knowing the clock was already measuring out the hours before they parted, knowing that it was inevitable.

  Their lips met because they were meant to meet, because they were made to lock together. This kiss was not like before. Their lips clung, and their hands remained twined, pressed between them, against their hearts. His free hand tangled in her hair, cradling her head. She flattened her palm on the roughness of his cheek. Time stopped as they kissed, and there was nothing in the world that mattered in that moment save the meeting of their mouths, the press of their bodies, the languid sweep of his tongue, the taste of him and the scent of him, the dizzying, sensual delight of him.

  They broke apart slowly and reluctantly, gazing at each other, dazed. The world had shifted, they both acknowledged that in the look they shared, in the way their fingers still clung. And then the clock on the mantel chimed out a tune, and they blinked, released each other, stepped back. From what? Constance wasn’t sure, but it was best not to speculate, she was certain of that.

  Chapter Six

  The dining room of Oman’s Hotel was situated at the front, on the ground floor. One large central table was set though as yet unoccupied, but several of the smaller round tables were busy with a mix of single gentlemen, two elderly couples and a group of four matronly women in the far corner beside a covered grand piano. The walls were painted moss green, decorated with pilasters of brown marble topped with gilded, moulded acanthus leaves, and the ceiling was ornately moulded. An austere head waiter with waxed moustaches and a pronounced French accent showed them to a table in one of the window embrasures, his minion snapping the starched napkins out with a flourish. Silver cutlery gleamed. Light sparkled off the crystal glasses.

  Grayson watched Constance drinking it all in, trying not to look nervous as she was handed the large leather-bound menu. Taking the wine list from the hovering sommelier, he listened with half an ear to the man eulogising about the hotel cellar while perusing the list for himself, before selecting a decent claret that, he noticed wryly, surprised and impressed the wine waiter.

  ‘You are obviously accustomed to such places,’ Constance said, as the sommelier departed. ‘I’ve never eaten in a restaurant before.’

  ‘I am forced to endure business dinners about once a month. Don’t let them intimidate you, it’s their job to make a song and dance. It allows them to justify their prices.’

  ‘But there’s so much choice, and a good few things I’ve never heard of.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Hodge-podge? “A traditional Scottish stew made from neck of lamb, served in an ale and barley broth with seasonal vegetables”, according to what is written here.’

  ‘Another of Walter Scott’s traditions in the making, I reckon,’ Grayson said. ‘It’s listed under Traditional Highland Dishes, along with haggis and sheep’s head, which is something I remember my mother making, and I hope never to have to eat again. The stink of it hung in the air for days afterwards.’

  ‘And you obliged to sleep in the kitchen recess too. In fact it is traditional to cook a sheep’s head broth in the Highlands, though thankfully my mother never did so. There was one wee wifey in the village, Mrs Angus McLeod, who was famed for it, and also for her black puddings, which I must admit I am rather fond of. I don’t see those featured here.’

  ‘Blood mixed with oatmeal is probably a stretch too far for the Oman Hotel’s diners who include, let us not forget, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll,’ Grayson said, in the obsequious tones of Mr Urquhart.

  ‘You’ll be dining among exalted company when you’re here. Mind now, to take cream with your porridge instead of salt, lest you betray your humble origins.’

  ‘It just won’t taste the same, made fresh and served with cream. My mammy used to make it but once a week, to save the coals, and let it set cold in an old drawer.’ Grayson grinned. ‘We were poor but we were happy. We’d have a slab of it every morning, fried on the griddle.’

  ‘You should recommend they do the same here, during the King’s visit, for the sake of authenticity,’ Constance said, her eyes alight with laughter. ‘The food of Old Gaul, served to their patrons dining in the garb of Old Gaul. Instead of braised cod cheeks, which they have here, they could offer crappit heid.’

  ‘That sounds so disgusting I’m scared to ask what it is.’

  ‘Cod’s head,’ Constance informed him, ‘stuffed with oats and a bit of suet.’

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  She chuckled. ‘I’ve never tasted it myself, but old Mrs McLeod served it up with boiled turnip tops. I don’t see any of those on this menu either. Really, it is somewhat lacking in authenticity.’

  ‘If there is a specific dish that Madam would particularly like, I am sure the chef would be able to prepare it for you,’ the waiter, who had appeared from nowhere, opined. ‘Although we do have an extensive menu, it is our aim at Oman’s to please...’

  ‘No. Of course. There is more than sufficient choice here.’ Constance’s cheeks were scarlet, her eyes helplessly roaming the menu again.

  Grayson cursed the cat-footed functionary under his breath. ‘Shall I choose for both of us?’ Receiving her grateful nod, he did so. Their wine appeared then, and by the time he had finished tasting, and singing the sommelier’s praises to the high heavens for his own choice, Constance had recovered her composure.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said, taking a tentative sip from her own glass, ‘though I’m not the connoisseur you clearly are.’

  ‘I’ve simply more experience than you.’

  ‘Are there hotels as elegant as this in Glasgow?’

  ‘There are, though their clientele tends to be merchants rather than marquesses.’

  ‘Do you live near your shipyard?’

  ‘Lord, no. My yard’s in Govan, on the south side of the River Clyde, and my big fancy house is across the river, in the west end of the city.
I take it you’ve never been to Glasgow?’

  ‘I was born in Clachan Bridge, and had barely travelled beyond the boundaries of the estate until I came to Edinburgh,’ Constance replied. ‘Is not one city very much like another?’

  ‘You couldn’t get more of a contrast than Edinburgh and Glasgow. We don’t have a castle or a palace, though we’ve a fine cathedral, a first-rate university, and a great deal more green space—that’s what it means, Glasgow, dear green place.’ Grayson took another sip of wine. ‘My city’s a bit rougher around the edges than Edinburgh. We’re more down to earth. It’s a workhorse kind of city, full of merchants and shipbuilders, not lawyers and doctors. Trade, that’s what Glasgow is all about.’

  ‘And that is why the King is coming to Edinburgh,’ Constance said sardonically.

  ‘Aye, you’re in the right of it. He’d look down his nose at us, and we’d have no compunction in telling him where to go if he expected us to go bowing and scraping.’

  The first course arrived, and with it the head waiter, overseeing the delivery, removing the silver covers from the serving dishes with a theatrical flourish. Stewed carp, lobster vol-au-vent pastries, and pigeon pâté with toast. Grayson made the appropriate noises, aware of Constance, no longer embarrassed or overawed but amused.

  ‘It is like a piece of theatre,’ she said, leaning over the fish to inhale the aroma. ‘My goodness, that smells delicious. And those little pastries there look so delicate. My mouth is watering. I hope you’re hungry, there’s a lot of food here.’

  ‘I could eat a scabby-headed wean.’

  She gave a peal of laughter. ‘I have no idea what that means, though I could take a guess. Do you know your accent gets broader and broader, when you talk about your dear green city?’

  ‘You should hear me talking to my men at the yard.’ Grayson puffed out his chest and pulled his shoulders back. ‘It’s a man’s world, a shipyard. If every second word isn’t an oath, they think you’re a wee jessie.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone ever accusing you of being such a thing, though you’re not at all as rough round the edges as you like to pretend. All this,’ Constance said, nodding at the now full dining room, ‘you know how to order fine wine, you aren’t in the least bit intimidated by a French menu or superior waiting staff. And then there’s Mr Urquhart, showing you that suite without a quibble.’

  ‘He showed me the suite because I bribed him with five pounds, and because he is good enough at his job to be able to size people up in a matter of seconds. He knew I could afford it. Money talks, Constance, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s not only money. You’re so confident. You don’t doubt that people will listen when you speak.’ She had set her fork down, her pastry half eaten.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s nothing.’ She picked up her fork again. ‘This pigeon dish is delicious.’

  ‘It’s pâté, and whatever it is that’s bothering you, it’s not nothing.’ He topped up their glasses. ‘What happened upstairs between us, I know you felt it too. Am I presuming too much, when I say that we don’t have much time together, so we should not waste a second of it?’

  ‘You’re not presuming.’ She reached across the table to touch his hand, their fingers curling briefly around each other. ‘You’re right. Let’s enjoy this moment and this wonderful food. After all, this might be my one and only chance to experience the best Edinburgh has to offer.’

  ‘I reckon Mr Urquhart would tell you it’s the best that Scotland has to offer, but I’m not much interested in Mr Urquhart’s opinion. As long as you’re enjoying it that’s all that matters. I hope you’re not full, though. There’s still two more courses to come.’

  * * *

  ‘Roast goose. Peas with mint. Asparagus. Omelette with herbs,’ Grayson translated as each dish was set down before them.

  Constance, who had thought herself quite replete, found her mouth beginning to water. He served her himself, making a small, delicate plate of the omelette, peas and asparagus, making an effort to make it look appetising, reminding her of the care he’d taken when peeling an apple for her, the day they met. It didn’t seem possible that they’d only known each other three days. If she was lucky, they’d have four more. He was right, there was no point in dwelling on what they could not have, she should enjoy what they did, and if that meant Flora must stay up all night to write, then that was what she would do.

  ‘The omelette is delicious,’ she said, taking a bite. ‘Though you won’t mind my saying, nothing tastes so good as a wee boiled egg fresh from your own hens.’

  ‘You kept hens then, in Clachan Bridge?’

  ‘We did, and we had our own cow, and a kailyard too, like every other cottage in the village.’

  ‘So you were a crofter, as well as a schoolteacher?’

  ‘Not really. I can milk a cow, make butter and crowdie, but the rest of it, actually planting out the runrigs and tending to the crops, we always paid some of the village children to do. My father earned a decent wage, and coin is hard to come by in places like Clachan Bridge, so we were never short of eager labour.’

  ‘And the school you taught in, was it the laird who funded that?’ Grayson had made short work of his omelette, and was now carving the goose which Constance, her own plate still half-full, regretfully refused.

  ‘The old laird had the schoolhouse built when my parents first married, before I was born. I’m not sure where they lived while that was going on.’

  ‘And the new laird, the improver who bought the estate, he continued to fund the school, then? Isn’t that odd, given his plans?’

  ‘I never have been able to decide whether it was good of him or cruel, to keep the villagers’ hopes alive by maintaining the school.’ Constance took a sip of wine. ‘I knew from the start, because Robert told me, that he planned to give the whole estate over to sheep.’

  Grayson set his knife down, reaching over the table to touch her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Let’s talk of something else.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t mind. It’s strange, isn’t it? I keep trying to keep the past at bay, and it keeps fighting its way back into the conversation.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I hoped, like we all did at first, that the laird would change his mind. Or rather, I hoped that Robert would persuade the laird to change his mind, because I assumed that he thought as we all did, that it would be a crime to turn the lands over to sheep.’

  ‘But he could not?’

  ‘He would not. He believed that sheep were the future. He reckoned the laird would give him a portion of the lands that were cleared, that he’d make a good living from it. I do him the credit of thinking that he didn’t envision having to force the villagers out. He thought they’d see the sense of moving on. Nothing I could say would persuade him though. He actually thought I’d be pleased that he was providing a good future for us both. I couldn’t marry a man as blind or selfish as that.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope not.’

  Constance forked the last, cold but delicious mouthful of omelette, frowning. ‘I don’t mean because of what he did. That was cruel beyond belief and unforgivable, but he was already not the man I thought I loved by then. I was forced to accept that he didn’t love me in the same way. I didn’t care about how we lived, how much land we had. I’d have happily lived in a simple cottage in the village with him. I wasted years of my life waiting for him, years we could have been happy, but he wouldn’t have been—happy, I mean, not with me alone.’ She pushed her plate away, shaking her head. ‘What were we saying earlier, about telling each other what we didn’t even know we were feeling? Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so maudlin.’

  ‘Blame the wine, and have some more, and don’t apologise. We shall be each other’s confessor.’

  She smiled faintly, taking a sip of the
very good wine, and pushing Robert to the back of her mind. ‘Oh, well, in that case, I’ll confess that when I was wee, I planned on having six children when I got married. Three girls, and three boys. I even had alphabetical names picked out for them. Ailsa. Bruce. Catriona. Dougal. Ewan. And Fiona. I was a very regimented thinker, even as a little girl.’

  ‘Now you’ve got me wondering what you’d have done if you’d reached seventeen? A tall order but not unheard of.’

  ‘That’s a tricky one. I know, Quentin!’ Constance exclaimed triumphantly. ‘I know it’s not in the least bit Scottish.’

  ‘No, but it shows you were prepared for any eventuality.’

  ‘All but the one I am faced with, which is no bairns of my own at all. Though it is a situation of my own making,’ she added hurriedly, ‘so don’t be feeling sorry for me. One of the lovely things about being a teacher was spending time with so many bairns, and yet being able to pack them off to their parents at the end of the day.’

  ‘I would have liked a whole houseful of weans, a consequence of being an only child, I reckon. I never had a number in mind as you did, and I certainly didn’t have names at the ready, but—’ Grayson broke off, shrugging awkwardly. ‘I am lucky to have the two of them, and they would certainly not thank me now, for adding to their number.’

  The waiter chose this timely moment to clear the plates, allowing them both time to lighten the mood. He returned almost immediately with two small silver dishes, setting one down in front of each of them. ‘Lemon ice,’ Constance said, with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘My favourite, and I think I might have a tiny bit of room left for it. I’d never had an ice until I came to Edinburgh. Pearl is very fond of it.’

  ‘It’s certainly easy eating, if one has no teeth.’