AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The table falls silent as we stuff our faces. When Diana nods, Sean takes one while the sprogs eat a nonalcoholic version in bright pink. Little girl screams greet their arrival.
Frank and Ian had been conferring at the other end of the table. Ian, now resigned to no word about the house, has relaxed. “Frank and I thought we could all try some rock climbing later. Work off some of this meal.”
Mum narrows her eyes. “Mrs. Mac is preparing a wonderful dinner.” She shakes a finger at Ian. “You say you will be back on time, but I know you all so well. I know we will eat overcooked lamb, inedible veg, and Mrs. Mac will stand in the corner, glowering. Everyone, besides you, is here for the week, so pick another day.”
Frank opens his mouth, then shuts it when Ian shakes his head.
I checked with Allan when we arrived and so far there’s no sign that anyone followed us here. This works out well, since my plan is to take Cress and JL to some places we weren’t able to visit yesterday.
* * *
Cress
After our brunch, Viktoria gives me a brief tour of the house. Max’s Chicago house seemed massive until Viktoria explains the layout of Grant House. The Scottish Baronial mansion, with fifty-two rooms over four floors plus a basement, covers more territory than we can possibly manage today.
“Don’t linger,” Max warns us. “We have to leave in the next half hour if we’re to get to everything I have planned.”
Viktoria gives me a carefully curated tour of the most important rooms, including two lounges and several bedrooms that have hosted famous visitors over the centuries.
“Who has visited?” I ask.
“Many people. Conan Doyle once or twice. Alexander Fleming, the man who discovered penicillin. Even Charles Dickens. He came up from Edinburgh for two nights and gave a public reading in our library.”
I rhapsodize over the mishmash of antiques crowding every room. All the mantelpieces are chock-a-block with Staffordshire pottery dogs. Several lounges, replete with Rennie Mackintosh–inspired wallpapers in the British Art Nouveau style, have furniture to match. Especially eye-catching is the Mackintosh Rose wallpaper in the family lounge.
I peek into the kitchen with its typical Aga stove, and several large refrigerators, unusual in most British houses. A butler’s pantry, large storage pantry, and laundry branch off from the main room. A conservatory at the back is a wonderful indoor garden with some sort of evergreen shrubs, a few fig and lemon trees, and luxurious potted rosemary bushes. The stained glass ceiling showers a rainbow of light over the room.
When we reach the library, I can barely believe my eyes. With row after row of rich oak shelves that climb practically to the ceiling and a balcony running all the way around the room, I could be in the Duke Humfrey reading room at the Bodleian library. Centuries-old bindings vibrate with a seductive siren song. A shelf of oversized books that I guess are a collection of gazetteers and atlases calls to me. My fingers itch to move a volume to the large library table dominating the middle of the room. A long credenza in front of ceiling-to-floor windows showcases Brian’s impressive collection of single malts. I could stay there all day on one of the comfortable-looking sofas, a drink on one of end tables.
Then Max comes in with my coat over his arm. “Time to go.”
JL and I, along with Prince and Bristol, pile into the Rover. The dogs are eager for the ride and a run. They sit on either side of JL, heads poking out the windows. Although Max has two cars garaged here, both are two-seater sports cars. As we take the twelve-mile ride, Max points out Castle Grant, former home of the clan chief. “There are lots of Grants around here. We’re second cousins to Sir Robert.”
JL looks wistful. “Cool that you live near a town named for your family.”
Max shrugs. “There’s good and bad about it all. Sometimes everything is so claustrophobic. Tradition and history weigh on you. And everyone knows who you are, how you’re related, and all the scandals in your family.”
“I like the sense of belonging,” I say.
Max reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.
“And history can still weigh on you, no matter who you are or where you live,” I continue sadly.
“Vraiment. It’s all woven into your identity. But even if it’s part of you, it doesn’t have to own you.”
“It’s hard to break free,” I say, looking at Max.
JL stares out the window scowling. “This conversation is getting too heavy. Tell us what we are going to see.”
“Should have brought Dad along,” Max grumbles. “He knows all the stories.” Max smooths back his hair with one hand and shifts with the other as we go up a small hill. “But I’ll take a stab at it.” He makes an ostentatious display of clearing his throat and humming as if to tune up before he begins.
“‘Good’ Sir James Grant”—he picks up a finger and crooks it for the quote, then clamps his hand back on the steering wheel—“established the town in 1765 as a center for wool and linen weaving mills. Unfortunately, those enterprises failed early on. Trade really was the driver for the growth of the town and by the mid-nineteenth century it was the second largest in the county after Inverness.”
“Tell us something interesting,” JL grumbles. “Scandals, murders, royal visits.”
“This is interesting,” I say. “You’re being a pain in the ass, JL.”
JL sticks out his tongue and says, “Keener.”
