‘Here they come,’ Kitty said, leaning closer to the glass and making it fog with her breath, obscuring the group traipsing with suitcases towards the inn. ‘And not one of them a Gaelic student. Hardly surprising. Who wants to take language classes over the holidays?’
‘These ones are all painters and willow-weavers,’ Beatrice confirmed. ‘And there’s two potters, I think.’
‘I’ll have plenty of time to help out at the inn.’ Kitty shrugged, not minding a break from teaching. She spent term time at her university campus in the north, coming home to Gene and the inn at weekends and on uni holidays. For Kitty and Gene each of these visits had the fervour of a reunion after years apart, Gene was so enthusiastically devoted to Kitty. ‘You should get some rest, let me take the reins a bit this week,’ Kitty said, turning her eyes away from the station road and the stream of tourists and locals with their last-minute Christmas shopping passing the jetty with its moored tourist boats. ‘You’re looking fair tired.’
‘Thanks very much!’ But Beatrice couldn’t really disagree. She knew her eyes were sunken, even after eight hours’ sleep. ‘I’m fine. I’ll have an early night.’ Kitty frowned. ‘But if you don’t mind clambering up there with the fresh bedding?’ Beatrice pointed to the bed beneath its newly refurbished gauzy white canopy, perfect for stylish young honeymooners now that she’d replaced the heavy green nineteen-fifties chintz that she’d slept under on her summer holiday. ‘I’ll hold the ladder steady for you.’
Kitty sprang up to help.
The bed was the invention of Atholl’s mother and not something either of the Fergusson men would ever see dismantled. The whole room – from its towering, canopied four-poster piled high with mattresses, the half-panelled walls, and the claw foot bath in the corner – had been a tribute to their oldest sibling; a baby girl who never lived to admire the pretty views of the Highland village.
Sentimentality ruled the Fergussons and they all adhered to their mother’s wishes that the room would delight generations of wee lassies and holidaymakers from all over the world, intent upon living out their very own fairy tale.
The Princess and the Pea Inn had been famous for its eccentric-themed room in the middle of the last century and was now having something of a renaissance, thanks to Beatrice’s attempts at modernisation and the weekend supplement spreads and crafting magazine ads she’d bagged in exchange for free B&B in the Princess room – one of which, unbeknown to the women, had found its way over to New York and into the hands of one of Nina’s colleagues, sparking the whole scouting trip idea. Port Willow was establishing a reputation as a much-sought-after destination on the radar of craft enthusiasts and those in search of wild nature and romance, even if it was happening slower than Beatrice would like.
‘Oh, Kitty, I hope you don’t mind me saying…’ Beatrice said awkwardly from the foot of the ladder.
Halfway up and dragging the duvet, Kitty could only shout down, ‘Go on.’
‘Gene’s new aftershave.Um, I hate to mention it, but… it’s quite strong. Overpowering, in fact. I’d ask Atholl to mention it to him but you know what they’re like, it might cause ructions.’
Kitty listened, wrestling the duvet into position at the top of the pile of soft new eco-mattresses that Beatrice had sourced at breath-taking expense from a company in Glasgow. Beatrice talked on, the atmosphere growing more awkward by the second. ‘It’s nice that Gene’s making so much effort these days, only I’m noticing he’s overdoing it a bit with the scent.’
Kitty made her way down to ground level again, her brow wrinkled in confusion. It was true the inn wasn’t the only Port Willow resident enjoying a renaissance. Gene too had enjoyed – or more accurately endured – a makeover last August, thanks to Beatrice, and his new shaven-headed, smartly pressed look had kick-started his love affair with the younger Kitty.
‘He doesnae have a new aftershave,’ said Kitty. ‘Just the one he’s always worn and I’d be the first to tell him if it was pongy. Are you sure it’s him?’
‘Positive. At breakfast service all this week I’ve been holding my breath to avoid it. It’s so strong it makes me queasy.’
Kitty narrowed her eyes and cast a furtive glance down her friend’s body. ‘Is anything else making you queasy?’
‘Not really. I mean, Mrs Mair’s homemade soup was definitely a bit off yesterday.’
‘The Scotch broth?’ Kitty replied. ‘I had it for lunch, it was braw, nothin’ the matter wi’ it.’ Kitty watched her friend as if weighing up what to say next.
Beatrice threw the laundry into its basket, dragging it towards the door, telling her to forget she said anything.
‘Bea?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You’re not late, are you?’
‘The guests aren’t at the reception desk yet,’ Beatrice called over her shoulder as she opened the door. ‘I’ll head down in a sec, get them checked in.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘No, Bea,’ she said levelly. ‘I mean are youlatelate.’
The words made Bea freeze as she stepped into the corridor and turned her head to meet her friend’s stare. The whole world froze around her.
Blinking and calculating, trying to remember, Beatrice’s emotions circulated. Perplexity, realisation, denial, and back to perplexed again.
‘Oh!’ said Beatrice, letting the laundry basket drop to the floor.
Chapter Eight
A Taste of Scotland
Nina hadn’t slept well. The low radiators along the wall by her bed were clanking and kicking out an incredible heat. Checking her phone with a groan, she realised she’d only been out for an hour and her nap hadn’t done her a bit of good.
