the leather sofas, the butler came in, looking rather alarmed. I noticed his eye kept flickering towards me.
‘Milord, Mr – Laurence Frey has arrived … with …’ he cleared his throat and couldn’t say more, for my eldest brother was already walking in.
Proudly holding the hand of Eugenia, my former fiancée.
Nobody moved. Nobody so much as blinked.
Before my eyes even made a proper judgement of their appearance, Eugenia’s perfume hit my nostrils, and for a split second the scent of gardenias took me back to happier times.
She looked as angelic as I remembered – with her alabaster skin, golden hair and petite figure – but at the same time there was something decidedly different. She held her chin a little higher, looking ever so pleased with herself, and her eyes, though still wide and blue, now shone with a patent arrogance. I wondered whether that glow had always been there and I’d simply failed to notice until then. She kept tapping her bosom with a lace fan, her hand moving in an unashamed attempt to show off her new engagement ring. There was no need, though: the diamond was the largest and most vulgar stone that money could buy.
The first word came from Uncle Maurice, thinking out loud as always. ‘How come you’re here?’
Laurence clicked his tongue. ‘Uncle! Is that how you receive guests? I was expecting at least a “Merry Christmas” … then again, you did forget to send me an invite.’
Maurice seldom blushed, but his cheeks turned scarlet. ‘I didn’t think it proper.’
Then Catherine walked in, bearing the widest grin her jaw was capable of. ‘Laurence, Eugenia, dears! You made it! I was beginning to think you would not come.’
‘You invited them!’ cried Maurice, jumping to his feet.
‘Of course, Maurice. It is Christmas after all.’
‘Your husband specifically asked me not to send them an invitation.’
‘Did Father really do that?’ Laurence said with that irksome, derisive smile of his. ‘I find that hard to believe. Why would he not want to see his eldest son and his first daughter-in-law?’
‘I am sure he does,’ Catherine said. ‘I suppose you brought a footman and a chaperone?’
‘Indeed, Mrs Frey,’ said Eugenia, her sweet voice now a screech to me. ‘They are waiting at the back entrance with our luggage.’
‘Excellent.’ Catherine looked at the butler. ‘Pogson, see that they are given comfortable rooms. The north wing chambers would be perfect for Miss Ferrars.’
The butler took a step ahead, but halted when I spoke.
‘No.’
That syllable was more shocking than any foul-mouthed obscenity. All the heads turned to me, and their anxious stares followed my every movement as I rose from my seat and walked towards Laurence.
‘Catherine,’ I said, but glaring at my brother, ‘you cannot give such instructions. This is not your home. You are not to decide who is welcome.’
‘Oh, Ian! I am sure –’
‘Only Uncle Maurice can decide that,’ I interrupted, speaking from the bottom of my stomach, inches away from Laurence’s face.
The butler was still standing by the door, his face distorted and telling of an agonizing inner conflict. One of the maids was pretending to collect dirty glasses at a glacial speed, not blinking.
‘Scotland has turned you rough, brother,’ said Laurence, wiping a stray fleck of spit which had landed on his cheekbone. ‘Not that you were too tempting a catch to begin with.’
For the second time this year, I grabbed him by the collar, only this time I pulled a fist back and was about to strike him on the face. Fortunately for him, I was disgracefully interrupted.
‘
What the dickens is happening here?
’
My father’s thunderous voice startled us all, as we saw him enter the room in the most inappropriate attire: his tie was undone and at least three of his shirt buttons were unfastened.
I covered my face with a weary hand, expecting my father’s sharp tongue to destroy me. Laurence had always
‘Milord, Mr – Laurence Frey has arrived … with …’ he cleared his throat and couldn’t say more, for my eldest brother was already walking in.
Proudly holding the hand of Eugenia, my former fiancée.
Nobody moved. Nobody so much as blinked.
Before my eyes even made a proper judgement of their appearance, Eugenia’s perfume hit my nostrils, and for a split second the scent of gardenias took me back to happier times.
She looked as angelic as I remembered – with her alabaster skin, golden hair and petite figure – but at the same time there was something decidedly different. She held her chin a little higher, looking ever so pleased with herself, and her eyes, though still wide and blue, now shone with a patent arrogance. I wondered whether that glow had always been there and I’d simply failed to notice until then. She kept tapping her bosom with a lace fan, her hand moving in an unashamed attempt to show off her new engagement ring. There was no need, though: the diamond was the largest and most vulgar stone that money could buy.
The first word came from Uncle Maurice, thinking out loud as always. ‘How come you’re here?’
Laurence clicked his tongue. ‘Uncle! Is that how you receive guests? I was expecting at least a “Merry Christmas” … then again, you did forget to send me an invite.’
Maurice seldom blushed, but his cheeks turned scarlet. ‘I didn’t think it proper.’
Then Catherine walked in, bearing the widest grin her jaw was capable of. ‘Laurence, Eugenia, dears! You made it! I was beginning to think you would not come.’
‘You invited them!’ cried Maurice, jumping to his feet.
‘Of course, Maurice. It is Christmas after all.’
‘Your husband specifically asked me not to send them an invitation.’
‘Did Father really do that?’ Laurence said with that irksome, derisive smile of his. ‘I find that hard to believe. Why would he not want to see his eldest son and his first daughter-in-law?’
‘I am sure he does,’ Catherine said. ‘I suppose you brought a footman and a chaperone?’
‘Indeed, Mrs Frey,’ said Eugenia, her sweet voice now a screech to me. ‘They are waiting at the back entrance with our luggage.’
‘Excellent.’ Catherine looked at the butler. ‘Pogson, see that they are given comfortable rooms. The north wing chambers would be perfect for Miss Ferrars.’
The butler took a step ahead, but halted when I spoke.
‘No.’
That syllable was more shocking than any foul-mouthed obscenity. All the heads turned to me, and their anxious stares followed my every movement as I rose from my seat and walked towards Laurence.
‘Catherine,’ I said, but glaring at my brother, ‘you cannot give such instructions. This is not your home. You are not to decide who is welcome.’
‘Oh, Ian! I am sure –’
‘Only Uncle Maurice can decide that,’ I interrupted, speaking from the bottom of my stomach, inches away from Laurence’s face.
The butler was still standing by the door, his face distorted and telling of an agonizing inner conflict. One of the maids was pretending to collect dirty glasses at a glacial speed, not blinking.
‘Scotland has turned you rough, brother,’ said Laurence, wiping a stray fleck of spit which had landed on his cheekbone. ‘Not that you were too tempting a catch to begin with.’
For the second time this year, I grabbed him by the collar, only this time I pulled a fist back and was about to strike him on the face. Fortunately for him, I was disgracefully interrupted.
‘
What the dickens is happening here?
’
My father’s thunderous voice startled us all, as we saw him enter the room in the most inappropriate attire: his tie was undone and at least three of his shirt buttons were unfastened.
I covered my face with a weary hand, expecting my father’s sharp tongue to destroy me. Laurence had always
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