Highland Fling Episode 15

The heat felt as if it was sinking bone-deep into her, an antidote to the piercing chill. As she floated, she ran over the events of the day: the body in the orangery, the diary she’d squirrelled away and the story of the Green Lady, as haunting as the landscape. This place was beautiful but it was making her jumpy. In the candlelight it was easier to believe in ghosts, she thought, as she stepped, soaking, on to the mat. And besides, there was a murderer here, or nearby. Somewhere.

The peach towels on the heated chrome rail were vast. Eleanor had an eye for quality, Mirabelle thought, as she gathered her clothes and sneaked back along the corridor, dismissing the idea of a green ghost in the shadows. In her room she surveyed her wardrobe. She had packed four evening dresses and chose one with a fitted bodice and flared skirt in burnt orange taffeta. Quickly, she dressed her hair, put on her diamond earrings and carefully applied red lipstick before stepping into a pair of tan, ostrich-skin high heels that she’d been wearing for over a decade. When she was done, she gazed out of the window at the low moon.

The gong sounded. As the echo faded, McGregor knocked on the interconnecting door. Silently, he held out his hand and they walked downstairs. On the last run of steps they heard music – something by Fanny Mendelssohn. They followed it. The dining room was off the main hall, opposite the drawing room. The double doors lay open and, inside, the walls shimmered silver in the candlelight.

A vinyl record moved on a turntable, catching the light as it spun. Bruce and Eleanor stood at the fireplace, both turned away from the door, nursing champagne glasses and talking quietly. Bruce, like McGregor, wore black tie, while Eleanor had slipped into a floor-length pale pink gown with a diamond brooch pinned to the swooping neckline. Her hair was curled in a chignon. McGregor coughed politely and Bruce swung round.

“Come in. It’s only us tonight. Just family.”

“We’re having duck,” Eleanor said. “It’s your favourite, isn’t it, darling?”

“I bagged them myself. I’ll shoot again tomorrow if you fancy, Alan. We might get some pigeon if we’re lucky. Will you join me?”

“Why not?”

Mirabelle thought it was extraordinary after all that had happened that they were discussing food. But then there wasn’t much else to do in the country. She recalled riding for hours and afterwards lurching from meal to meal in her younger days, when she used to get invitations to house parties. “Is Tash coming down?” she asked.

Bruce shook his head. “Gillies took her a tray.”

“Shock,” Eleanor added.

The Champagne was delicious. Eleanor swayed in time to the music. Behind her, Mirabelle noticed the ornate mantel, its swirls carved out of moss-coloured, polished granite with veins of white-flecked grey. Her heart lurched at the sight of a figure on the threshold. A shadowy apparition – a woman in green. She let out an involuntary squeal and everybody turned. “Are you all right?” McGregor asked.

“Sorry,” Mirabelle apologised.

It was Tash. The girl stood absolutely straight. Her deportment, Mirabelle thought, was marvellous. She had fixed her hair in a glossy bun with trailing wisps and wore long pearl earrings, which swung like tiny lamps as she walked into the room. Mirabelle noticed her hand was trembling. Poor thing. It had taken guts to come downstairs.

“Darling,” Eleanor breathed. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Tash shrugged. The dress was astonishing. A perfectly fitted sheath of green satin hung in folds around her slim frame, setting off her jade eyes and milky skin. As she sashayed towards the fireplace, the fabric glistened in the low light, moving like a pool of tidal water.

She seemed quite different from the weeping wreck in the kitchen, though as she moved into the light it was clear the girl’s eyes were puffy from crying. “I didn’t want to sit up there by myself,” she said, her American accent stronger than Eleanor’s. Momentarily she looked as if she might cry again, as if she was sculpted entirely of water and might dissolve into droplets.

“Just look at you, you could be a model,” Eleanor kissed her on the cheek. The words seemed to pull the youngster together. “Is that dress a Schiaparelli?” The girl nodded. “Well it’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I read somewhere that when someone you love dies, you’re supposed to wear sackcloth. But sackcloth isn’t going to make you feel any better, is it?” she said, her voice breaking. Eleanor took her hand. “You’re being very brave, darling,” she said. “And just for the record, we all feel different shades of lousy tonight. But you are the main thing. We’re all here to look after you.”

Tash smiled weakly. Bruce poured her some Champagne.

Tash paused. “I’ve spent all day thinking about Nina. And crying. It’s just been...” she gestured, “feelings, I guess. It doesn’t seem real.”

“I’m sure that’s quite normal, dear. Did you sleep?” Eleanor asked.

The girl’s eyes flickered and she bit her lip. “Not really. But it was probably good to rest. I’m still jet-lagged. It’s been more than a week but I can’t seem to get over it and now this... Anyway, I thought I’d come down. Is that awful?”

“Not at all.”

Tash sipped her Champagne. “I expect it’s the shock,” she said. “The way I was this morning, I mean. Waking up and being told and then feeling it was a dream. My parents died when I was only five years old. I don’t remember much, but I got through it. I suppose I will get through this too.”

“Nina was a wonderful woman,” Bruce said. “So clever.”

Tash wiped away a tear. Her voice was breaking again. “It’s not what most people will remember her for. I’m glad you said that – not just that she was stylish or beautiful, though she was those things too. But that she was clever. She always said the Orlovs were doomed to tragedy.”

Tash began to cry quietly and Eleanor handed her a cotton handkerchief.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mirabelle asked.

‘“Their history,” Tash sniffed. “Nina came out of Russia in 1917 as a baby – she and her mother and brother fled to Paris with my family. Thinking about it, that must have been far worse than this.”

“And Nina’s father?”

“Same as my grandfather. The Reds put him in prison and later we found out he had been shot. He was only a baron, which is the lowest there is, but they shot anyone who didn’t get out.”

Her heart lurched at the sight of a figure on the threshold. A shadowy apparition – a woman in green...

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, at £8.99