Page 64 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I passed the familiar spread of farmers’ fields on the left, with their shaggy, amber-haired Highland cattle and then turned right into the private road that led up to my family home. The trees on either side thrust their branches in dramatic, twisted curves, casting spidery shadows over the roof of my car. The Georgian wrought-iron gate with its fussy leaf carvings stared back at me as if to say, “Oh, long time, no see!”

I got out of the car and jabbed the security code into the panel that was wired into one of the gate posts. It still worked. It hadn’t been changed since I was last here over a year ago. My parents were rather lackadaisical about that sort of thing.

The gates glided open.

My tyres crunched over the driveway gravel, with its candy-pink chips, grumbling in consternation as I passed banks of rustling undergrowth.

It felt like I’d never left.

Bannock House glinted under the intermittent rays of the watery sun, its grey coade stone proud and resilient against the Scottish weather.

The house had two storeys and a taller central tower with numerous other turrets rising phoenix-like from its high walls. The entrance was imposing and consisted of a large oak door which was reached via a broad set of stone steps.

An impressive walled garden was situated at the rear, which contained an arboretum dating back to the late nineteenth century and nurtured many glorious North American conifers. Surrounding that was an abundance of various trees, ranging from elm and sycamore to beech and Scots pine. The gardens still captivated me every bit as much as they did when I was a child.

I parked my car at the rear of the house and collected my handbag from the passenger seat. The throb of birdsong felt like a welcome serenade.

My favourite go-to place here, apart from the sprawling gardens, was the library. It was an alcove affair in beech wood, with a single high window and a gothic-style fireplace. There was a Cairngorm tartan rug on the floor in a palette of greys.

I used to love perching myself on a stool, surrounded by the volumes of books and drinking in the scent of paper and the delicate floral perfume of Scottish bluebells, which Mum would place in a china vase on the nest of tables.

I made my way across the gravel and round to the front entrance to be greeted by a surprised and delighted-looking Mrs Bamber, our housekeeper. She bounded out of the door. “Miss Anastasia! Oh, my goodness!”

She enveloped me in her arms and I clung to her. She was as much a fixture of the house as the arboretum was.

“How are you, Mrs Bamber?” I asked. “All well?”

Mrs Bamber’s apple-cheeked face glowed. “Stanley and the boys and I are grand.” She sighed, drinking in my appearance. Her hazel eyes sparkled at me with affection. “It’s been too long. Far too long. And look at you! All grown up and sophisticated.” She stroked my ponytail. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

I laughed. “I take it you mean in a good way.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, Miss Anastasia. But yes, I must admit I do. You look wonderful.” She asked me if anyone was expecting me and how things were going with Flower Power.

“Everything’s fine. Well, more than fine actually. The shop’s doing great.” I hesitated. “Business is picking up now after a bit of a slow start.” I dropped my voice. “And no, I’m not expected.”

Then I mentioned Marcus and Mrs Bamber’s expression darkened. “Aye. The poor lad. That Jacob turned out to be a right charlatan.” She drew a little closer. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Miss Anastasia, but I never warmed to the man. I always thought there was something right shifty about him.”

“Mrs Bamber? What’s going on? Who is it?”

I looked over Mrs Bamber’s shoulder at my mother emerging into the hall. Both our eyes locked on one another.

Mum’s lip sticked mouth fell open. “Anastasia? Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?!” She bounded over the polished, black-and-white chequered hall floor and bundled me into her arms. Her words came out in one long rush. “It’s wonderful to see you. Your dad’s out on the golf course. I’ll ring him.”

“No, don’t do that,” I laughed. “He’ll never forgive us.”

Mum was wearing one of her heavy trouser suits. This one was in ghost grey.

I gave Mrs Bamber’s arm a supportive squeeze.

“I’ll go and rustle up some tea,” she insisted. “And you couldn’t have timed this any better. I’ve just finished icing a ginger cake.”

I smiled fondly after Mrs Bamber, aware that my mother was still staring at me, as though I was some kind of apparition.

I pointed at Mum’s trouser suit. “A New York purchase? It’s lovely.”

She nodded and beamed at me, her dark coiffed hair skimming her shoulders. “I’m glad you like it, sweetheart. Oh, you do look so well!”

I glanced about the hall, as though seeing the sweeping watercolours and elaborate urns of grassy reeds for the first time. Two sage-green Christmas trees were standing to attention near the bottom of the staircase, waiting to be decorated. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this, Mum, but there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”