‘The tartan…’
‘You might be the head of the clan but I’m a Douglas, too.’
This woman was his family, he thought, dazed.
Move on. Family was a scary thought. His eyes fell to the kilt she was holding out.
‘I’m not wearing that.’
‘You promised,’ she said with something akin to forcefulness. ‘You can’t back out now, your Lordship. I’ve promised as well.’
‘You’ve promised?’
‘Well, you promised first. You said you would, and now I’ve telephoned the organisers and they’ve told everyone you’re coming. They’ve trucked in the Barram pipe band with an extra piper this year, ’cos last time the piper had a wee bit too much whisky on the bus on the way here and didn’t perform to expectation. So there’s two pipers to pipe you on stage, your Lordship, and a whole pipe band besides, and the Brownies are doing a guard of honour especially.’
‘The Brownies?’ To say he was hornswoggled was an understatement. ‘What on earth are Brownies?’
‘Scary little brown persons,’ she said. ‘You must have heard of them. They sell cookies and do bob-a-job, only now it’s two dollars and you have to sign forms in triplicate saying they can’t hurt themselves when they shine your shoes.’
‘I’m lost,’ he complained, and she grinned.
‘Fine. Stay that way. Ask no questions, just smile and wave like the Queen Mum. You want me to help you to dress?’
‘No!’
‘Only offering. I thought you might have trouble with your sporran.’
‘An earl,’ he said with cautious dignity, ‘especially the ninth Earl of Loganaich of the mighty clan Douglas, can surely manage his own sporran.’
‘Tricky things, sporrans.’
‘Not to us earls.’
‘Well, then,’ she said cheerfully. She walked across and dumped a kilt, what looked like a small mountain of spare tartan fabric, tassles and toggles, a purse of some description and a beret with a feather on his bedside chair. Boris followed behind, looking interested.
‘There you go, your Lordship,’ she said happily. ‘Everything you need to look shipshape. Come on, Boris.’
‘Boris can help,’ he said graciously, and her grin widened.
‘I’ll leave you with your valet, then, shall I, my lord? Porridge in the kitchen in thirty minutes?’
‘Toast.’
‘If you’re wearing a sporran you need porridge.’
‘Toast,’ he said in something akin to desperation. ‘As the leader of your clan I demand toast.’
She chuckled. ‘Ooh, I love a forceful man…in a kilt.’
‘Susie…’
She got her features back under control with difficulty. She was back to a grin only. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said. ‘Sir.’ He got a sharp salute, clicked heels and she was gone, leaving him alone with his valet.
‘Boris…’ he said cautiously, eyeing his pile of tartan as if it might bite. ‘What do you think a sporran might be?’
It took him a while. It took him close to an hour, really, but if he was going to do this thing he might as well do it right. By the time he had every pleat in place, every toggle where it was supposed to be toggling, and the feather in his cap at just the right angle he felt like he’d done a full day’s work. He gazed in the mirror and thought he had done a good day’s work. He looked unbelievable.
Boris was sitting watching with the patience of all good valets, and when Hamish finally adjusted his cap and looked at the final result the dog gave a deep low woof, as if in appreciation.
‘Not bad at all,’ Hamish told the dog. ‘I wish Jodie could see me now.’
And Marcia?
Marcia couldn’t help but be impressed with this, he thought, but it was Jodie he thought of. Jodie would look at him and whistle, and giggle.
Like Susie giggled. Susie and Jodie…
Two unlikely women in his life. Jodie was no longer part of what he did. She was making choir stalls with her Nick. Ridiculous. How could she make any money doing that?
And Susie… In a couple of weeks Susie would be a memory as well and he’d be left with Marcia.
Which was the way he wanted it.
‘Porridge!’ The yell from below stairs startled him out of his reverie. ‘On the table. Now.’
He crossed to the landing. Took a deep breath. Swelled his chest.
‘Toast!’ he yelled back. ‘Woman!’
She emerged from the kitchen and gazed upward. And froze. Her eyes took in his appearance, from the tip of his shoes, his long socks with their tassles, up to the feather…
He felt like blushing.
‘Wow,’ she said at last on a long note of awed discovery. ‘Oh, Hamish, wow. They’re going to love you.’
‘Who?’
‘All the ladies of Dolphin Bay,’ she said simply. ‘Me, too. What a hunk. Do you have everything in the right place?’
‘I think so,’ he said, still trying not to blush.
‘And you’ve got the appropriate attire underneath?’
‘Don’t even go there.’ He stepped back from the balustrade-fast-and she chuckled.
‘No matter. I’ve never seen such an impressive Scottish hero-and I’ve seen
‘I’d imagine that those guys might be a bit handier with their weaponry than I am,’ he said, still cautious. ‘I’m all froth and no substance.’
‘You certainly look like substance. Porridge now, sir. Double helping if you like.’
‘Susie…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I thought I made myself clear. Toast.’
‘There’s a bit of a problem,’ she confessed. ‘If I’d seen your knees before this, I might have concentrated a bit more. Very good at focussing the mind, those knees.’
This was ridiculous. He wanted his kilt lowered.
‘So what’s happened to my toast?’ he managed.
‘I burnt two lots,’ she confessed. ‘I was thinking about Angus. And Priscilla.’
‘Priscilla?’
‘Angus’s pumpkin. She’s going to win today. Biggest pumpkin on show. I ended up with only one slice of bread left and Rose wanted that for toast fingers in her egg.’ She took a deep breath and fixed him with a look that told him he was going to get a lecture, right now.
‘Hamish, you might tell me you belong in New York-you might tell me you’re not really an earl-but anyone seeing those knees knows for sure that you’ve found your home right here. You’re the ninth Earl of Loganaich and you just need to forget all those silly ideas of being anyone else, including a toast eater, and learn to like porridge. Now, enough argument. I have a team of men arriving in ten minutes to help load Priscilla onto the trailer. So-what do they say? Save your breath to cool your porridge-my lord.’ She smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Come and get it while it’s hot.’
It was like an out-of-body experience.
Firstly there was the fairground itself. It was nestled between two hills, with the harbour and the town on one side and bushland on the other. One could stroll around the fairground, walk a short distance to the shops or to the boats, retreat into the bush-as a few young couples showed every sign of doing even this early on-or if it all got too hot one could disappear to the beach for a quick swim.
Susie pulled her little car into the parking lot and Hamish gazed around, stunned. It was a fantastic, colourful
