Summer at the Scottish Castle, page 29
‘All right.’ She positioned him, touch featherlight now. ‘You can open your eyes.’
He did, slowly, because he wanted to remember every moment of whatever came next. Disoriented, he glanced at her first, a lopsided smile on his face.
‘Well?’ Jess raised her brows eagerly.
Mac looked around and saw they were in one of the castle’s exhibition rooms that focused on the history of Clan Rosemire. Tainted light streamed through the stained-glass window and a few dressed-up visitors were milling about the paintings, artefacts, and information posters.
And in front of him, a laminated photograph of Bearnard’s bench had been printed and placed on the wall along with a large paragraph about what the etching might mean – and how LGBTQ+ history was rooted in the castle walls and gardens through a possible romance between the gardener and the fifth Lord Rosemire. An entire wall dedicated to their love affair.
‘You did it,’ he whispered.
‘I did.’ Jess’s eyes shone with tears. ‘I had to. It’s the least Bearnard and Rosemire deserved.’
‘This is wonderful.’ His fingers hovered over the words, all of them a message to visitors that love could be found anywhere, with anyone. ‘God, if I’d seen something like this growing up …’
‘It would have been easier,’ she finished for him. ‘Less lonely.’
‘Yes. Exactly.’ Awed, he could only shake his head and wrap his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. ‘It’ll never be hidden or locked away again.’
‘No. Never.’ They stood that way, taking it all in, for a moment longer before she said, ‘Are you ready for the next surprise?’
He raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. He wondered if the next surprise had something to do with the distant melodies and chatting. The entire day had been one wonderful surprise after the next, and he couldn’t comprehend just how much work Jess had put into all of it – not only the entire village, but the castle, too.
Speechless, he nodded and she dragged him back into the corridor. They passed strangers and locals as they wandered towards the back of the castle, a place Mac rarely ventured. It felt older here, the walls turning to uncovered stone that ended with an arched doorway. Daylight poured through, and as he stepped outside, the hot, heavy summer air kissed his face.
They stood in the castle’s courtyard in the very heart of Rosemire. Twinkling lights were strung overhead, joining one crumbling wall to the other, and tables and chairs had been set out on the cobbles. The violin music came from a young woman who plucked and stroked out a keening melody, lids low in serene concentration while costumed visitors floated about happily, looking for all the world as though they’d stepped back in time. Ivy and pink clematis cascaded down the stone as though the walls were made of nothing but plants and …
Everything sparkled. Mac had never seen something so beautiful, other than the woman at his side, whose smile was now brighter than the lights above.
‘You did all this, too?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Jess … It’s beautiful.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’ She took his hand, gazing up at him. ‘Fancy a dance?’
He glanced around. Nobody else was dancing, and he was terrible himself, so the instinct was to say no … But he could never deny Jess. He pulled her into the centre of the courtyard, twirling her under his arm and snatching a laugh from her. He loved that sound, and the way she blushed and wrinkled her nose when she realised people were watching.
He didn’t care about anyone else. His family were in the gardens, Arran enjoying some sort of re-enactment that involved jousting. It was just the two of them. Just her.
Slowly, they began to sway to the music. He placed his hands on her hips, her curves warm and softly cushioned through the thin material of her dress. His fingers curled, desperate for more. As though sensing it, she looped her arms around his neck so they were chest to chest.
‘Every day I’ve had with you has been perfect,’ he whispered. ‘Even the one when we burnt the pies and the one when Arran shot me in the arse with an arrow.’
She giggled. ‘I’m glad you’re happy.’
Still, he was sure shadows danced across her features just for a moment. ‘Is something bothering you, love?’
She seemed to deliberate before shaking her head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’
He frowned, but she tucked her head into his chest and they continued to dance. He was certain she must have been able to hear his heart pounding and clanging and crashing by her cheek; hoped she could. He wanted her to know. Even if it was too soon to say it, he wanted her to know.
‘I wish this could last forever,’ she whispered, words tinged by melancholy.
He tilted her chin up, wondering if she meant the day or them. It didn’t matter. He’d make it last forever. He fought for the things he loved, and he loved Jess. He’d make sure she always knew it. ‘It can.’
We can.
They turned in a slow circle until Jess pulled away again, fingers curling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. It gave him the chance to kiss her forehead, her slightly too-long fringe sticking to his lips. But when he looked, waiting for that smile he always seemed to draw from her, he noticed her gaze fall past his shoulder and her body stiffen.
It felt as though he was hugging a marble statue and not her; not his warm, lively Jess.
‘Excuse me a moment?’ she asked.
‘Everything all right?’ He followed her gaze curiously, but saw nothing to warrant a reaction. Just guests: families, the violinist and a few older couples watching them dance. Hamish was among them, and so was Lauren’s mum, Elsie. Back after the floods, finally.
‘Fine. I’ll just be a second.’ She squeezed his hand before leaving, weaving through the throng of guests until he could no longer see her.
Puzzled, he scratched his chin, and after waving at his friends, sat at one of the free tables with rustic wildflower bouquets and candles in the centre. He admired the posies in an attempt to calm his random bout of nerves. Nothing was wrong. It couldn’t be. She’d probably just nipped to the bathroom.
But she’d looked … shocked. Sad. Distant. And he didn’t know why. And her words … He’d thought she’d meant she didn’t want the day to end, but had there been something deeper in her words? He made to get up, find her and make sure she really was OK, but he didn’t get the chance.
‘Is this seat taken?’ A blonde woman hovered in front of the table, wearing a black blazer rather than a medieval costume like most others. He didn’t recognise her, and she didn’t look to be with anyone. Still, he couldn’t very well say yes.
‘No. Please.’ He motioned to the empty chair, feeling the woman’s gaze on him as she slowly sat.
She wore a strange, calculated expression, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. It made him antsy. ‘I saw you dancing with Lady Jessamine Byron just now. You two make a lovely couple.’
‘Who?’ The surname stirred something in him. Byron. Jessamine Byron. That wasn’t Jess. She would have told him if she was a Byron, just as she would have told him if her full name was Jessamine, and not Jessica as he’d assumed.
But had he ever asked?
‘Jessamine Byron. The lady you were just dancing with. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’
‘That wasn’t … Sorry, I think you’ve got that wrong. I’ve never spoken to a Byron in my life.’ Unless … he hadn’t known he was – he’d seen many new faces today – but nobody had mentioned the Byrons were here. Mac couldn’t help but squirm at the thought of the wealthy family finally returning to Fort Aileen. No. This woman had clearly made a mistake. Maybe Jess resembled somebody else. Maybe somebody had given the woman the wrong information.
The woman’s brows knitted. ‘Is that right?’
‘Sorry, who are you again?’ Mac tapped the table anxiously.
‘I’m Emily Kingsley, a journalist for Splendour. I was hoping you might give us an insight into what it’s like to be dating the Countess of Cheshire.’
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Right, well, my girlfriend’s a tour guide, so … can’t help you there.’
Amusement flitted across her features as though she knew something he didn’t.
‘Is that what she told you? Oh, dear. What is it you do, may I ask?’
‘I’m …’ He needed to stop talking. Needed to understand. But he searched the courtyard for Jess desperately as he said, ‘I’m a gardener. Look, what is this? I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.’
‘And how long have you been romantically involved with Jessamine?’
His palms began to sweat, and the rest of him, too. He couldn’t find Jess, couldn’t set it straight, but doubt needled through him as though maybe it was true.
No. She couldn’t be a countess. A Byron. She was Jess. She was a tour guide. He’d seen her … tour-guiding. Hadn’t he?
‘I’m not sure it’s your business,’ he said.
‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job.’ She gave him a condescending smile with a flash of blindingly white teeth. ‘Do you stay in the castle with her often?’
‘We work in the castle.’ He frowned, running a hand across his face roughly. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got it wrong—’
‘I don’t think I have, sir.’ The woman – Emily – rooted through her expensive black handbag and pulled out an iPad, unlocking it before thrusting it in his face.
Mac stopped breathing.
Jess’s face was plastered across a collage of online articles,
Countess of Cheshire gets engaged
Divorce on the countess’s cards and
Champagne problems: Lady Byron melts down
The final one, though …
Lady Jessamine Byron escapes to ancestral home, Rosemire Castle.
It was true. Jess … Jessamine … was a countess. A Byron. An owner of the castle and the grandchild of the man who had ruined half of Fort Aileen’s employment opportunities all those years ago. He desperately wanted to rationalise it, but … Had he actually seen her go into that house he’d dropped her off at the night of his family dinner? He couldn’t remember. He could only remember all the times he’d offered to take her home and she’d refused. The way she knew the secret passages around the castle. The fact she’d owned horses and spoke with such perfect elocution. How Rufus was always loitering around the gardens, never across the bridge where Jess claimed to live. He’d even been in the foyer the day of the floods.
And she’d mentioned growing up in Cheshire.
He’d tried to ask about her surname in the old banqueting hall. She’d brushed him off so naturally, but … He didn’t know her full name. Didn’t know much at all. Why hadn’t he realised how strange that was? It felt strange now. He’d felt so close to her before, so sure he knew enough to love her, but now she was a silhouette. A puzzle. He’d slotted in most of the pieces only to find they were in the wrong place.
Had he even seen her giving a tour? No. Not even once, unless the one she’d given him counted.
But how could he have not known? How could he have not seen?
No. Denial set in. He knew Jess. This was just some sort of joke. A prank. He scanned the courtyard frantically again but there was no sign of anyone he knew. No laughter or familiar faces or Jess.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, standing on weak knees. He had to find Jess. He had to set it all straight.
He had to be sure the woman he loved hadn’t lied to him from the beginning. He wanted so badly to believe she wouldn’t, but the dots just wouldn’t connect anymore.
Jess should have known it was all too good to be true. Her world hadn’t stopped when she’d seen Mother standing on the other side of the courtyard, disdain twisting her features. No, it had started again. She’d been hiding for months, living the fairy tale she’d always dreamed of, and now it was over.
She wended through the crowd slowly and prayed Mac wouldn’t follow, the violin music sounding tinny and hollow in her ringing ears. She was distantly aware of people greeting her. Elsie, Lauren, even Hamish. She cast them forced smiles and followed her mother’s pale, tailored suit into the corridors.
And there Lady Philippa Byron waited by the windows, her gaze steely and her lips pursed. ‘You cancelled the gala, your one chance at redeeming your reputation, for this?’ she snapped. ‘To dance with some farmer and hold a tacky costume party instead?’
Jess clenched her jaw and sucked in a long breath. ‘He’s not some farmer, and this isn’t a costume party. It’s a celebration for a village I love very much. I do not care about my reputation, Mother. I care about my friends.’
Mother scoffed. ‘What friends? These are not your friends. This is another one of your silly games of pretend. You like to be the saviour. That’s why you work with the charities. And now look. You’ve taken it too far, Jessamine.’
‘No,’ Jess whispered. It wasn’t a game, nor was she a saviour. She was a woman who had missed out on so much over the years that she never wanted anybody else to feel the emptiness, the isolation, she had. She was a woman who just wanted to use her wealth and title to make the world a little bit easier to bear, because what was the point otherwise? ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but this is what I’ve chosen. I deserve that for myself. I don’t need your approval.’
‘And you certainly don’t have it,’ Mother hissed through gritted teeth.
Finally, Jess had done something worthy of her attention, her anger. Only she no longer craved it the way she had when she was a child. She no longer needed it. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t anything close to her mother’s life.
‘You are dragging our family through the mud every moment you play this silly game,’ her mother went on. ‘I could barely clear your name after that article, but now … Go and take off that awful dress and meet me downstairs. I’ve a car waiting to take us back to London.’
Jess looked down at the dress. Maybe she had wanted to be somebody else. For a long, long time. She didn’t want to go back to tailored pencil skirts and suits. She didn’t want to go back to London.
‘No,’ she decided. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said no. This is where I belong – and you weren’t invited.’
If Mother’s glare was deadly before, it was fatal now. ‘Don’t tell me this is about that scruffy man.’ The word burned through Jess’s skin like poison. ‘What can he possibly offer you? A cow? A life on a farm or working in a shop? Will you be driving a tractor next?’
‘Everything.’ A tear rolled down Jess’s cheek. ‘He can offer me everything. So much more than you ever have.’
‘I beg your pardon!’ Mother stepped closer, pointing a bony finger. ‘I gave you a comfortable life. A life of luxury. How dare you be so ungrateful.’
‘I never wanted any of that!’ Jess exclaimed, her voice echoing along the corridor eerily. ‘I wanted a home. Not a big fancy house with servants. A home. A place where I felt loved. And you couldn’t give me that, so I found it here. You won’t take it away from me now.’
‘You are a countess! Start behaving like one before you lose it all!’
‘I am Jess!’ she shouted, tears pouring from her now. ‘I’m a good friend and a hard worker and you cannot take those things from me anymore. You won’t. I don’t care about being a countess. I don’t care about finding a new husband to clear my reputation. I don’t care what your friends think of me, and I don’t care about the people who stare at me at dinner parties because they think I need to lose weight or buy a new dress. I don’t care! I care about this, here. I care about the people in this village. I care about my cat and picnics and Mac. I care about people being free to be who they are and love who they want. I don’t care about my title, Mother! I don’t care about society! I don’t even care that you’re disappointed in me, because I’m disappointed in you. I’m disappointed that you treat me like dirt. I’m disappointed that all you expect from me is to sit and look pretty while your friends tear me apart looking for flaws. I’m disappointed that I can’t even remember one day where you made me feel like anything but a countess rather than your daughter. I’m disappointed that I grew up completely, utterly, painfully alone.’
Her shoulders heaved with the outburst, and silence followed. There it was, then. All out on the table, never to be taken back. She was glad, relieved. There was nothing left to say, and no illusion left to conform to. She wasn’t going to stand by and be bullied into submission. Not ever again.
‘I’m not going back to London,’ she said finally when Mother didn’t respond. ‘I’m staying here because it’s my home now. I’d like you to leave.’
Mother’s lip curled with disgust, and she looked at Jess as though she were a speck of dirt on her cream-coloured blazer. ‘I don’t even recognise you anymore.’
‘Good. That means I’m doing something right,’ Jess admitted, biting her lip.
‘Your father would be turning in his grave. He gave you this title. He trusted you to follow in his footsteps.’
The words stung, but she tried her best not to show it. ‘I was six years old when he died. If he expected that of me, then that was his burden, not mine. I’ve learned a lot about the Byrons while I’ve been here. I learned they bought out this castle without recognising how important it is to the village. I learned they were the cause of a lot of pain for people’s parents and grandparents. If those are the footsteps I was expected to follow, I’m glad to disappoint you. Both of you.’ She sniffled. ‘But I remember how Dad would laugh and be silly and play games with me. I have to believe he would want more for me. I have to believe he’d be proud of me now. You’re not allowed to speak for him about something he isn’t here to witness.’
Mother only checked her watch and neatened her hair as though Jess’s words meant nothing. ‘I have nothing left to say to you. I cannot stop you from making your own mistakes. Just know I won’t be there to pick up the pieces when it all comes crashing down again.’
