Page 95 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

Cayla picked at the frayed hem of her shorts. ‘Hi.’ She stared down at her bare, painted toes. They were sporting zesty green polish. Her eyes flicked up from the carpet to meet mine. ‘If you’ve come to try and talk me round about acting again, you’re wasting your time.’

‘Cayla!” gasped Gillian. ‘Don’t be so rude. For pity’s sake, Daisy is only trying to help.’

‘It’s alright,’ I reassured her.

I made a move towards the front door. ‘I’ll go. Leave you to your revision.’

Then I turned around. ‘I just thought you might be interested in telling the story of a young woman just like you, who wanted to be an actor as well. This is what I tried to talk to you about on the phone. Except her dreams were snatched away from her.’ I eyed her tall, lean figure. ‘She never had the opportunities you have.’

Gillian twisted the front door handle.

Cayla tried not to look interested. ‘Was that Florence? The girl you mentioned on the phone?’

‘Yes. She wanted to act, but in those days, it wasn’t easy for someone like her.’

Cayla examined me from under her long fringe. She pushed it out of her eyes. ‘When was this?’

‘She started working at The Ramblings in 1905 as a scullery maid, but she was, by all accounts, a talented and driven young lady, just like you.’

One of Cayla’s hands rested on top of the bannister. Her dolphin dress ring sparkled on her thumb. ‘And you said she wanted to act?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, she did. More than anything. She appeared in a few local productions, but she always dreamt of making it onto the West End stage.’

‘But then she got blamed for stealing that vase?’ Cayla’s eyes were widening behind her fringe.

‘Yes.’

‘But she was innocent.’ I tried not to smile at Cayla’s entranced expression. I had already told her this, but it obviously didn’t all register.

I nodded. ‘That’s right. But by the time it was revealed she didn’t take the vase, poor Florence had passed away.’

Cayla pushed her hands into the pockets of her denim cutoffs. Gillian was stood beside me with her arms folded, riveted. ‘I’ve never heard this story before, and that’s saying something. You can’t keep much a secret around here. The poor little thing.’

Cayla processed what I was telling her. ‘So, she never made it to the West End?’ Her eyes were soulful.

‘No, she didn’t. She passed away at the age of eighteen.’

‘Oh, the poor lamb,’ gasped Gillian, every bit as gripped by the tragic story as her daughter was.

Shock filled Cayla’s pretty face.

‘What did she die of?’ asked Gillian.

‘Pneumonia.’

Gillian gave her head a disbelieving shake. ‘How did you find out about all this?’

I thought of Louise and the detailed journal that her late father compiled. ‘Let’s just say it was thanks to someone I know.’

Gillian widened her eyes. ‘Like I said, I was born and raised in Forrest Bank, and I’ve never heard of her.’

I pulled a face. ‘I get the impression that the Lords don’t like to talk about it. It’s not a part of The Ramblings past that they’re proud of.’

Cayla frowned over at me. The late morning sun glided in through the pane of glass in the front door and slid down over her bare feet. ‘It’s terrible. What a tragic story.’

I took a step towards the teenager. ‘It is, but that’s why the Lords want to tell Florence’s life story now. They want to stage a tour at The Ramblings regularly and show what actually happened.’ I steeled myself again. ‘And that’s what I wanted to ask you, Cayla. I think you’d make the perfect Florence.’

The teenage girl’s cheeks pinged bright red. Her eyes bored into the hall carpet.