Page 5 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

Chapter Two

I checked Google Maps on my phone, which I’d clipped onto one of Marlene’s air vents in front of me.

I knew the tea was taking place at a stately home called Carston Manor in the middle of the Hertfordshire countryside, but in order to even glean this information, I’d had to jump through so many proverbial hoops I’m surprised I hadn’t sprained an ankle.

Not only had I been asked to provide scanned copies of my driving licence and passport to an encrypted email address, but I’d also had to complete a two-page questionnaire asking everything from whether I was a member of any pressure groups to if I’d ever completed a confidentiality agreement before. (The answer was yes. I’d undertaken hospitality for numerous high-profile events, where the so-called great and the good had been in attendance.)

Once all my information had satisfied the powers that be, I’d received a secure email reply and two separate passwords I was required to enter in, all so I could access the location and time of this secretive birthday bash.

The Secret Service had nothing on this!

Carston Manor was situated on the outskirts of an English chocolate box village called Little Brook.

The drive there was all winding country lanes, edged with lush, emerald-green hedges. The embankments were dotted with yellow cowslip flowers.

Fields unravelled in a sea of daisies under the powdery blue May sky. Thankfully, last weekend had been the first May Bank Holiday of the year; if it had been this weekend, the journey wouldn’t have been so pleasant with traffic to contend with.

A quaint little Gothic church nestled on the other side of the fields, its spire twirling up into the spring sunshine. A road sign coming up on the left-hand side informed me that I was entering Little Brook.

The setting was like a Constable painting, so different from my home town of Strath Ross, which was more like Wuthering Heights, with its moody loch and plunging rock faces. There was only one road into Strath Ross, which took you past the stunning and shimmering Loch Crawe. It was like a little secret stashed away on its own, and I loved it.

Refocusing on the road ahead, I negotiated my way through what I presumed was Little Brook’s main street.

It consisted mainly of independent shops, their bottle windows brimming with everything from expensive fashion and crockery to jewellery. Willowy, ornate streetlamps craned their necks over the cobbled road. Affluent looking locals drifted up and down the pavement, cheerily waving to one another or slipping into cafes whose awnings rippled gently.

Google Maps directed me through the main thoroughfare, until I saw the meandering traffic behind me disappear in my rear-view mirror in a vanishing trail of BMWs, Mercedes and Land Rovers.

Carston Manor was situated behind a set of imposing black wrought iron gates, well away from the buzz of the high street and down a right-hand lane. Birds were erupting in a variety of song in the surrounding trees. More hedgerows were doing a good job of concealing the grand house from view.

If I angled myself right against the driver side window of my car, I could just make out the odd glimpse of brilliant white stonework.

I eased Marlene up to the closed gates and lowered my driver side window.

An officious male voice barked, ‘Name, please,’ from a grey and silver intercom system on the right.

‘Daisy Madden. I’m here as part of the⁠—’

But he didn’t give me time to finish what I was saying.

There was a loud buzzing sound, and the gates slid backwards.

I drove through, my tyres scrunching over the buttery-coloured gravel. The tree-lined avenue opened out.

I let out a long, low whistle as I gazed through the car windscreen. Carston Manor was like something out of a Disney pop-up book. It was a grand pillared affair with a couple of romantic balconies, a dozen winking mullioned windows and a cherry-coloured panelled door.

A well-built older man, who reminded me of a WWE wrestler, emerged from the right side of the house and directed me to a staff parking area.

I eased in between a battered Mini and a small Transit van and grabbed my giant straw bag from the passenger seat. I’d rolled up my jeans and T-shirt and stuffed them into my bag together with my trainers, in the hope that I could change my outfit at the end of the shift. My packed wheelie case was stashed in the boot.

I didn’t fancy driving all the way to Strath Ross looking like Connie from Fawlty Towers.

I clambered out and locked up the car. This would be some place to describe to Grandpa when I saw him tomorrow.

The soft May breeze lifted my high ponytail. I straightened the collar of my fitted, pinstriped shirt.

I’d learnt the hard way a few years back that comfortable shoes were everything in this game, so I’d teamed my slim-fitting, black trousers with my pair of charcoal loafers.

No sooner had I started to make my way towards the side door, as instructed in the email I’d received, than a steely-eyed, middle-aged woman appeared.