Page 38 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)

Olivia was not downhearted, however, for who could be miserable when Robert Osborn was of the party?

His mere presence never failed to lift her spirits.

It was a fortunate circumstance that Effie was so irate at being hauled up to Scotland by her implacable brother that she chose to travel for much of the time with the servants in the second carriage, thereby leaving a seat for Osborn in the principal coach.

However taciturn Lords Embleton and Rennington might choose to be, Osborn managed to keep Olivia thoroughly entertained.

She had no idea what they talked about, but whatever it was, it beguiled away the hours splendidly.

As they finally turned aside off the rutted track laughingly described as a road onto the even more rutted drive of Strathinver, Olivia flattened herself against the window of the carriage to catch the first glimpse of the house.

“Wait until we emerge from the trees,” Osborn said, smiling understandingly at her. “You will have a perfect view from this side.”

And there it was, a solid building with a high central tower and two lower arms set at a right angle, with smooth lawns sloping down to a sinuously meandering river.

From one of the arms, another long wing with a multitude of towers protruded, giving a wide facade overlooking formal gardens.

As Olivia watched, a shaft of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds and set the stonework sparkling.

“It is beautiful!” Olivia said, rather awed.

“I am glad you like it,” he said, smiling at her. “I like it too — in small doses.”

“Oh, you are funning, I am sure! Who could not like living here? Look! Deer! How lovely! And you have your own river.”

“Every self-respecting Scottish estate can manage that,” he said. “So much rain means many, many rivers.”

“And fish,” she said. “I am very fond of salmon… or whatever is in your river.”

“Yes, salmon, also trout and grayling.”

“That sounds delicious,” she said with a sigh.

“Edible grayling instead of wayward Lord Grayling. How strange to be named after a fish! He might have been Lord Eel or Lord Haddock. But how lovely everything looks in the sun! I do not know why you complain about the weather here, Osborn. It seems perfectly benign to me.”

“That must be your doing. You have brought the sunshine with you.”

The carriage drew to a halt before the front door, which nestled in a narrow turret set between the two principal arms of the building.

It was fortunate that it was not raining, for their carriage could not get very close to the door itself for the assortment of carts, ladders, buckets, boxes and other signs of work going on.

“Oh, heavens! I had almost forgotten the builders,” Osborn said gloomily. “Now we shall have nothing but hammering all day, half the rooms out of commission and the house filled with the smell of new paint.”

“I like the smell of paint,” Olivia said.

“Mama is always refurbishing one room or another, and when she runs out of rooms at Corland, she visits Josie or Izzy, and refurbishes there, too.” Then, sadly, she added, “I suppose nothing will be done at Corland from now on. Every room will stay just as it is, without Mama to change it.”

“You miss her,” he said, with such sympathy that she could only nod wordlessly, feeling tears prickling.

“We all miss her,” her father said, his voice trembling.

Effie’s footman found a route through the builders’ detritus to open the carriage door, and they all carefully picked their way to the entrance, where the door remained firmly closed.

The footman rang the bell, then lifted the heavy knocker several times, and then, when nothing happened, rang the bell again.

“Oh, let us not stand about in this ridiculous manner,” Osborn said, moving forwards. “The door will not be locked, I should hope.”

He had barely set his hand to the doorknob when the door was heaved open and several men in smocks and brightly coloured neckerchiefs barrelled out, almost knocking him over.

One of them cursed loudly, and Osborn picked him up bodily, lifting him clean off his feet before setting him down none too gently.

“Language! There are ladies in the vicinity. Who are you, anyway, and why are you using my front door instead of the servants’ entrance?”

The man visibly paled. “William Page, if it please your lordship, sir, and… and… we’re doin’ the ’all, sir.”

“Doing the hall, are you?” He sighed. “I suppose it could be worse. It could be the dining room… or my book room.”

“Dinin’ room next week,” the man said helpfully. “Book room? We doin’ the book room, Bill?”

“Week after.”

Osborn groaned.

By this time, a butler had appeared and in a stately manner shooed the painters away and ushered the arrivals into the entrance hall.

The painters were indeed doing the hall, for the entire floor was covered with sheets liberally spattered with paint of a multitude of colours.

Buckets of paint stood about and ladders leaned against walls as several men worked away at the ceiling, one end of which was a dingy brown and the other freshly painted a soft, creamy colour.

The wood panels on the walls had already been painted a pale golden colour, to match the balustrade of a balcony running the full length of one side.

“This will be lovely when it is finished,” Olivia said, leaning backwards to admired the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling. “Such pretty colours! It will feel like sunshine every day.”

“I suppose it was very dismal before,” he said. “These walls were almost black, and the floor under these sheets is black — black marble, so that will still be dark.”

“Some rugs will lighten it,” she said, “or you might replace it with a paler marble, or a pattern of some sort.”

He laughed. “You must talk to Mama about it. All this is her doing.”

“Then she has excellent taste.”

More servants now began to stream out of the service stairs to attend to the visitors.

Olivia was shown to a bedroom which had not yet been refurbished, for it featured dark wood panels and heavy, old-fashioned furniture.

The bed looked comfortable, however, and there was a delightful view over a part of the river and the woods beyond, with the tip of a tower projecting above the trees.

A continuous stream of maids arrived with the usual bed linen, hot water and warmed towels, but also plates of cakes and delicate pastries, which Olivia nibbled appreciatively as she washed and changed into a fresh gown.

Another maid arrived, and bobbing a curtsy, said in a charming Scottish brogue, “Lord Kiltarlity’s outside, milady, asking if ye’ve everything ye need.”

Trying not to laugh, for her mouth was full of deliciously crumbly pastry, Olivia went to the door and peeped out. He was lounging against the wall, smiling, eyes twinkling. Oh, those eyes! How could she resist a man who looked at her that way?

Swallowing hastily, she said, “Come in, Osborn. There are a dozen maids in here to protect my virtue, so you need not worry about that, but you must tell me what the tower is that I can see from my window.”

“It is not exactly a tower, but the ground rises in that direction, so it appears above the trees. It is the local gaol.”

“The gaol! Is there a town there, too?”

“No, which is the problem. We are so far from any town that we have to deal with our own lawbreakers here. I have promised Embleton that if Lady Euphemia is troublesome, I shall have her thrown in the dungeon. She is not quite sure whether I am serious. Do you like my cook’s creations? She has such a light hand with pastry.”

Olivia could only agree, and they sat in companionable comfort on the window seat, working their way steadily through an assortment of edibles, and talking of who knows what, when the door burst open and Lady Kiltarlity swept in, her face stormy.

“Here you are, Kiltarlity! What are you about, to be skulking here instead of attending to your guests?”

“Lady Olivia is my guest, too, Mama. May I not attend to her, also?”

“Not in her bedchamber, no. Miss Atherton, may I—?”

Osborn jumped to his feet. “ Lady Olivia, if you please!”

Lady Kiltarlity looked him up and down imperiously. “In my house, Kiltarlity, we use correct forms of address.”

“And in my house, we employ courtesy above correctness.”

For a moment, they glared at each other.

Olivia laid a hand on his sleeve. “You are very kind, Lord Kiltarlity, and I appreciate that you still call me ‘Lady Olivia’, but I am not entitled to that form of address any longer. Above all things, you must not fall out with your mama on my account.”

He smiled at her, patting her hand. “Then I will not, and I shall bite my tongue whenever she calls you ‘Miss Atherton’ , for your sake. And she is certainly right in other ways, for I should not be here in your bedroom, no matter how many maids are here, and I should be attending to my other guests. Shall we make our way downstairs? I shall undertake to convey the pastries in safety.”

“There are more in the drawing room,” Lady Kiltarlity said, with the hint of a smile. “Leave the platter here in case our guest… in case Lady Olivia should feel hungry in the night.”

“How very kind you are!” Olivia cried, jumping up and wrapping an arm around Lady Kiltarlity’s. “Both kind and with a wonderful eye for colour. I was just telling Osborn… Lord Kiltarlity how much I admire the new scheme in the entrance hall.”

“Oh! You like it, do you? Then do come and see the winter drawing room. I am rather proud of my choices there.”

And the two went off arm in arm, leaving Osborn to trail behind them.