The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart
and let out a rich laugh. “If Rory so much as gave you the time of day, you’d be up and running, and well you know it,” she teased in a loud whisper as they entered the smoky haze of the Celtic Café. She spotted Rory, tall and muscled behind the counter, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Charlotte waved and sent him a critical glance. His bright blue eyes were indeed a riveting sight, but being a pal, she’d never thought much about them.
“Hello, Charlie.” Rory came out from behind his post and gave her a whacking kiss on both cheeks that left Armand sighing. “So, did you finally finish the move? I can help you on Saturday if you’ve odd jobs needing done.”
“Thanks. I’ve got most of it sorted out.”
“How was Glasgow?” He quirked a heavy eyebrow at her.
“The same.” She answered shortly, making for the table. Rory sighed, shrugged and wiped the table off with a damp cloth as Armand sat down. She caught Rory’s piercing gaze and swallowed. He was an old friend, one who knew her well, knew all the ups and downs in her life over the past few years. But, like Moira and her mother, he was unable to understand why she stuck staunchly by John even after the abominable way he’d treated her. None of them understood, she reasoned, seating herself. How could they possibly realize that her troubles were of her own making, that she was to blame?
“You know where to find me if you need me,” Rory murmured with a resigned shrug. “Cup of tea?”
“Two, please.” She smiled gratefully, glad he’d dropped the subject. “By the way, Brad’ll be here in a few days.”
“Great. How’s he doing?”
“Engaged to be married.”
“You already told me that,” Rory remarked dryly, sending her a penetrating look before returning behind the counter. The three had played together as kids and the friendship went back a long way.
“Not bad,” Armand remarked, lifting his glasses and peering critically at the watercolors painted by a local artist gracing the wall. “For such a backward little village, there appears to be quite a mouvement artistique in this place.”
“Mmm,” Charlotte answered, mind wandering. She still had to go up to the castle and pick up the last remaining odds and ends.
“So, Bradley is expected within the next couple of days?” Armand remarked as Sheena, the waitress, placed the tea on the table.
“Day after tomorrow, I think. Thanks.” She sent Sheena a smile.
“And you’re sure that you will survive in that cottage?” Armand’s lips pursed in distaste. “It seems very rural, ma chère. And quite abhorrent that Bradley should be expulsing you from the château.”
“Armand, you know perfectly well Brad’s not expulsing anyone,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “This is none of his doing, much less his fault. The judge decided Strathaird’s fate, not him. In fact, he begged Mummy and me to stay on,” she added more patiently.
“Then why the move?” he asked, stirring a lump of brown sugar into the strong brew.
“Because,” she said with a sigh, “like it or not, things are going to change. And I know I won’t be able to handle it.” She flexed her fingers nervously. “It wouldn’t be fair to him or me, or the others involved. It’s simply time to move on, Armand, and better to get it done before he arrives.”
“Je suppose.” Armand shrugged doubtfully and patted her arm. “You have much courage, cousine.”
“It’s not as if I’m moving into a cave! The cottage has every modern convenience, hot water, a washing machine. You make it sound as if we’re out on the street.”
“The accommodations appear needlessly common to me.” Armand sniffed.
“Well, you’ve never been inside, so you can’t tell,” Charlotte retorted. “Which reminds me, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? That is, if you can bear to eat in such modest surroundings.” She sent him a mischievous grin, then changed the subject and set about recapturing their former lighthearted mood.
When Armand returned from his visit with Charlotte, he was pleased to see that the library was quiet. The local ladies who cleaned Strathaird had finished their ritual morning vacuuming and were having coffee in the kitchen, and Penelope had left for the village. Armand took a deep breath, trying to quell the surge of anticipation. He’d already set one part of his plan in motion this morning, and here was an ideal opportunity to take the next step.
Leaving his jacket carefully folded on the sofa, he moved to the circular wooden ladder at the far side of the room. He would begin here, searching the entire collection shelf by shelf. It would require time and concentration, but he’d already waited so long and time was no longer on his side; he’d have to force himself to go slowly, be methodical. This might be his only chance. But what if he was wrong? he wondered with a sudden pang. He swallowed, throat tight, and tried not to think about it. There were other possibilities, he reminded himself quickly. If he did not find what he was looking for here among the books, then obviously his first deduction was correct. The answer would be where he’d always believed it was.
He glanced at the door, then mounted the steps carefully. He would begin with the French novels, so that if anyone questioned his actions he’d be able to justify the choice. Once they got used to seeing him fiddling in the library, nobody would think anything of it.
Half an hour later his search had yielded little. He passed a white linen handkerchief across his forehead and nervously wiped the perspiration, leaning his right hand on top of a pile of ancient volumes on a higher shelf. As he did so, his fingers met with an object on top of the books. Steadying himself carefully on the library steps, Armand pulled it carefully toward him, amazed when he beheld a small, silver-mounted pistol. He studied it, eyes narrowed. It was definitely of another age, small and elegant, designed perhaps for a woman. The butt was delicate and exquisitely inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
The muffled sound of voices emanating from the hall made him slip the pistol into his trouser pocket and hasten back down the steps, being careful not to trip. Grabbing a book, he ensconced himself once more in one of the leather armchairs before anyone entered the room.
Charlotte turned off the Land Rover’s engine and stared for several moments at the castle’s ancient austere facade, softened by her mother’s terra-cotta pots, spilling pink and white hydrangeas over the shallow stone steps, and thought over what she and Armand had talked about earlier. A sigh escaped her. Paris and the thought of her jewelry parading down the catwalk on Armand’s models was exciting, flattering and very hard not to dream about. It was a long time since she’d dreamed about anything, she realized suddenly. John’s image flashed before her, making her feel immediately guilty, but she swept it aside, determined not to allow the dark cloud to descend upon her. And for the first time in years, she dared to peek into the future.
Biting her finger abstractedly, she stared at the castle walls without really seeing them. Was Armand right? Could her designs really open up a new avenue in her life? Lately it had seemed so bleak. She sat for a minute behind the wheel, pondering, caught between past, present and future. Following the soft orange glimmer caused by the setting sun bouncing off the glistening stained-glass windows like sparks off a live wire, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to dare. Then she jumped out of the vehicle, pulled out the planters her mother had asked her to pick up at Haldane’s Nursery in the village, and carried them up the steps, torn between the budding urge to take the plunge and the overwhelming guilt that just thinking of doing so caused her.
“Ah, there you are, darling,” Penelope said, looking up and smiling as Charlotte entered the hall.
“Hello, Mum. Here’s everything you asked for. I told them to put it on the bill,” she said, thankful for the distraction.
“Thanks.” Penelope frowned doubtfully. “Do you think we should do that, now that Brad…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at the plants.