Some like it scot, p.8
Some Like It Scot, page 8
Mr. Grump? I was not grumpy and would have told her so if she didn’t just turn and walk back the way she’d come. “All right, I’m going to start walking toward the horizon, and I want you to push the button there, on top, and just follow me as I walk. I’ll edit out any extras, but make sure you get the loch and the buttercups.”
My body nearly bristled at her directives. First Mum and now some stranger telling me what to do. More reason to steer clear of women as a general rule.
She paused and looked back at me, her nose wrinkling with a frown like a little girl who’d done something wrong. “Sorry, I just bossed you around like you were a cameraman, didn’t I?” Her shoulders scrunched in further plea, and all my grand resolve caved like the eejit I continued to be. “Would you please video me? It won’t take but a minute.”
I frowned like the grump I apparently was and raised the camera in answer.
Her smile flashed wide, and then she fluffed her hair so that it fell around her shoulders before proceeding to walk away from the camera. I pushed the button, and the numbers at the top of the screen started counting.
She continued walking away from the camera, legs taking long strides forward, and then she turned, raised a brow, and shrugged one of her shoulders, before waving toward the horizon in invitation.
Those eyes stared at me from the other side of the camera, dazzling and engaging, as if they looked directly into my soul. My throat squeezed against the awareness, the attraction.
A fleeting thing. Nothing to worry about. It had just been a while since a somewhat interesting stranger came through Glenkirk and into my world.
“Great!” she exclaimed, bringing her hands together as she moved back to me and plucked the camera from my hands. “Thank you so much.”
She stared down at the screen, reviewing the video, and then cast me a look. “Great job. Usually when I have strangers video, I get more thumbs than usable content, but you focused right in on my face and the view.”
I cleared my throat and shoved my hands back in my pockets. “Is that something you usually do for your work?”
She nodded, kneeling down to tuck the camera back in her bag. “I usually do three a week and have people guess”—she waved her hand in front of her as if displaying a title in the air—“what misadventure will I find today?”
“Don’t you mean ‘adventure’?”
“Nope. I make a living off my misadventures.” She stood, pulling her rucksack over her shoulder before leaning down to collect her fishing rod. “So, basically, I get paid to mess up.” A shadow passed over her features as she stood. “And it’s something I’m really good at doing because I tend to mess up a lot.”
Getting paid to bungle things? What a strange job!
And one I felt much too qualified for.
Without the videos and social media and travel parts.
Katie walked past me toward Craighill, its tower rising in the distance over the next hill, and I followed, mind spinning with more questions than I’d ever voice. From the longing in those eyes and the curb of sadness in her words, of all the people at Craighill, Katie Campbell’s story may be the only one worth hearing.
Chapter 6
Katie
Walking into a live-action scene of a Clue game was odd.
Especially when one was dressed more like a lost camper than a 1920s Tudor mansion guest.
At least that’s what it felt like as I turned the corner of the hallway into the lower salon of the manor house and met a collection of people poised as if waiting for the game to begin.
Not that I could pass for Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the candlestick.
Though Mrs. Lennox’s daughter, Ana, certainly gave off Miss Scarlet vibes as she reclined on one of the chairs by the fireplace wearing an elegant red gown—especially the way she stared at the man by the bookshelf in a pinstriped suit. With his wire-rim glasses and slicked-back blond hair, he had to be Professor Plum.
I chuckled. Hmm . . . Who else?
The middle-aged man wearing a white button-down and beige trousers by one of the large windows gave off hints of Colonel Mustard—all the way to his shoe brush mustache—though he did have a bit of class about him.
Then there was the young woman with wild curly brown hair who looked like she was, well, examining a piece of pottery on the mantel with a magnifying glass in hand. Mrs. Peacock, perhaps. After extensively viewing as many seasons of Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs that would fit on my lengthy flight from Australia, I could confidently say that her simple blue dress looked era appropriate.
My lips inched wide. Okay, I was pushing the Clue comparison a bit too far.
Three women, two men. Those numbers couldn’t be right.
And then I remembered Mark . . . and my stomach cramped with annoyance. I’d known the man through our mutual contacts for a year, and apart from the disastrous moment on a streetlamp-lit evening under an umbrella in London, things had remained professionally distant.
But he’d rescued me, unintentionally, from a conversation with a horrendous travel agent by asking if I knew where the bathrooms were, and then we’d found a pub, had coffees, and . . . he kissed me. Well, tried to kiss me.
But sometimes the loneliness felt heavier than other times. And the atmosphere was somewhat romantic. And I was wearing a cute dress with flats, so we were almost the same height. And he’d complimented my hair.
I blame the ambience of lantern light on glossy pavement—it seems pretty powerful in classic movies.
Thank the good Lord for the double-decker bus distraction from prolonging the encounter or the kiss. Because the whole incident brought forth his true colors from beneath the umbrella and shocked me back to my senses. Loneliness was preferable to boorish and conceited company any day.
I tipped a little farther around the doorframe, my very un-Clue-like body half hidden, to get a better look for any other occupants in the room.
“Miss Campbell?”
I spun from my spot, nearly decapitating a bust of some possible war hero on the table nearby. Mrs. Lennox approached from the hallway, her peach lace dress giving off all the Downton Abbey vibes, though I’m not sure a white feathered stole matched the Crawleys, but who was I to say?
I currently wore vegetable-covered bright yellow wellies and carried a fishing pole.
Which may have been why Mrs. Lennox’s smile tightened into some sort of terrifying imitation of my aunt Maude the first time I showed up at church wearing trousers. That what could you possibly be thinking? mixed with wait until I speak to your mother type of look.
“If I’d been able to find you, I would have properly prepared you for meeting the rest of the guests.” Her gaze trailed down me.
“I still don’t have anything to wear except a gown that’s too tight in the chest and rises above my calf.” I scrunched up my shoulders. “And I think I may break some sort of Edwardian rule by wearing that in public, because the men might actually see my calves.”
Instead of the joke inspiring Mrs. Lennox’s natural smile, her brows crashed together. “Oh, well, we certainly can’t have that, can we? I do feel that the guests we have with us are the honorable sort, but I wouldn’t put much stock in the staff to keep things aboveboard.” She tapped her lips and gave me another once-over. “Well, until I can secure a seamstress, I’ve had Mrs. March order you something appropriate from”—she lowered her voice—“Amazon. They promise to deliver the items here within the next two days, which will bide us some time for any alterations of the other gowns.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” I tugged out the card Mirren had given me and offered it to her. “This is a local seamstress who comes highly recommended. And the clerk in the bookshop assured me she works fast too.”
“Local?” Mrs. Lennox reached out to take the card as if it had leeches hanging from it. Truth be told, it did have a little blueberry smudge from the scone I ate at Mirren’s, but nothing worthy of dramatics.
I glanced around the room and caught my eye roll before it started. Dramatics was the theme of this experience. “Surely you realize that one of the best ways to grow your business is through word of mouth?” I waved toward the room. “It’s why social media works so well. But local reputation carries a lot of weight too, especially for this type of business. If you don’t get the community behind you, then you’re really missing out on free marketing, as well as some local support.”
“But I don’t know any of the locals, except the MacKerrows.” She brought the card closer to her face to read it. “It’s quite a small village though, isn’t it?”
“It’s big enough to spread the word about Craighill. Plus, the folks in Glenkirk will visit places like Tobermory and Inverness and other parts of Scotland.” I shrugged a shoulder. “You want the folks in the village to have good things to say about you so the word will keep spreading, don’t you?”
She studied the card and then looked back at my face, her brows dipping the teeniest bit before she gave her head a little shake and drew in a breath that straightened her posture. “We simply must do something about your attire, Miss Campbell, but now that you’re here, it’s time for introductions.” She waved her hand toward me. “And you’ll just have to make do as you are.”
Strange how the statement came with a weird mix of barb and freedom. Being who I was had rarely been good enough in Mom’s world of high class and higher expectations, especially after Sarah died. Distance helped.
My brain stumbled over the thought. I’d created distance from her for a long time. As soon as I was old enough to leave home. Death within a family hit hard enough, but even more so when the favorite child died. And measuring up to a perfect sister was hard enough when she lived. Measuring up to a memory was impossible.
“Come, Miss Campbell, let us meet the guests.” Mrs. Lennox gestured me forward, and all eyes turned toward my navy-raincoat, yellow-wellies, mussed-hair self.
Miss Adventure in the sitting room with a fishing pole.
Exactly what the story had been missing all along. I chuckled inwardly. Except maybe a butler. I hadn’t seen one of those, and a butler seemed necessary for any Clue-inspired daydream of mine.
Mrs. Lennox sashayed into the room, her smile sweeping the space and giving a bit of dramatic pause in her entry.
Ah! There was Mark, standing by a mounted elk on the wall and wearing some sort of vintage hunting pants, a white button-down, a vest, and a . . . noticeable glare.
At me. Which I didn’t deserve. I was the one who was almost hit by the bus in London while he kept kissing me! If I hadn’t pulled out of his iron-clasped hold when the bus blared its horn, my London misadventure may have been my last.
And no one wanted their last memory to be of a really bad kiss.
Even if it was in the rain.
“I am so pleased that you all could join Craighill for its very first Edwardian Experience.” Mrs. Lennox’s wrists twisted as if attached to the words. “Allow me to make introductions, and then we will discuss a few specifics.” She gestured toward Colonel Mustard, her smile broadening. “This is Alexander Wake, who will be referred to as Lord Wake while with us. In his modern life, you may know him as the owner of Wake Trust.”
My attention shot to the man. Wake Trust? Seriously? It was only one of the top marketing companies in Europe. How on earth did Lennox bag the owner of Wake Trust for her little costume drama?
“Lord Wake and my husband are dear friends, and he graciously offered his support for our little venture.”
Well, that answered the question.
“The esteemed Miss Ana Lennox, my daughter, as many of you know, will assist me in offering some of her thoughts on Edwardian times. She is quite the connoisseur of historical movies.”
“I’m fine if you’d prefer just to call me Ana. Especially as we become more acquainted.” Ana stood and focused her attention one by one on each of the men in the room, giving her shoulders enough of a shrug to have the sheer golden shawl slip off one side to reveal her skin.
Hmm . . . subtle much? And then the thought hitched on the idea that Ana was the only child of the Lennoxes and, from what my servant Emily said, very wealthy.
Another reason to avoid going home. Mom always had some rich, uninteresting businessman with the glorious reputation of social status, dull personality, and high-maintenance mother for me to meet.
But I think Mrs. Lennox may have taken the wedding cake!
I shrugged a shoulder. Not sure what this said about me, but after the first few days here, the eccentricity of the choices of these people began to make more and more sense.
“Mr. Nigel Logan is well-known for his food blogs, articles, and weekly television show called Tastes Around the World.” Mrs. Lennox nodded to him. “Our chef is particularly delighted to have you experience his culinary masterpieces, Mr. Logan.”
Mr. Logan dipped his head, his pale gaze zipping from one person to the next, bouncing off Ana before landing on, or should I say, rising to me. To say he was unimpressed may have been an understatement. Which didn’t hurt my feelings. Especially since dancing with the man might require a stepping stool . . . for him.
“I do realize all of you need to use your modern devices for your work, but do try not to allow them to negatively impact your overall immersion into this era. Photos and videos are encouraged, but please refrain from interrupting the natural process of our historical journey here at Craighill. And though you all have signed waivers to allow for your images to be shared, please ensure your fellow participants are presented in the best light.” Her smile dipped into a delicate frown, as if she curated it for the speech. “We want everyone to experience the best of the Edwardian world with the fewest interruptions from the modern era or negative perspectives as possible.”
“The full experience will truly be delightful,” Ana Lennox added, her white teeth on full display for Mr. Logan.
“Next, we have Miss Estelle Dupont, known for her history articles and blogs.”
The woman with the magnifying glass curtsied and preened, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
“I’ve also been a consultant for two historical movies.” Her smile brimmed as she raised the appropriate number of fingers, her lush French accent curling over the words. “And I’m waiting to consult for another of even larger appeal than the previous.” She searched the room with those large brown eyes of hers, her smile fading. “Of course all of you are doing marvelous things too. Even if it isn’t . . . cinema. We all have important pieces to contribute—”
“Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Lennox interrupted and spun to Mark, who straightened and flashed his perfect teeth. “Mr. Mark Page is with us as a sports and outdoor enthusiast who, I am sure, will find our equestrian and other Edwardian opportunities well worth note in his magazine and popular YouTube channel.”
“I’m looking forward to proving my visionary skills.” And focused the full weight of his comment on me.
What in the world? His comment didn’t quite fit with—And then his allusion clicked into place. Right! We were both up for the Vision Award . . . again.
And clearly he wasn’t too thrilled about it. Especially since I beat him out of the prize last year.
His competition levels rivaled most teenage boys or diva TikTokers. Just because we were finalists for the same international social media award didn’t mean he had to try to burn my face with his scowl. Leave it to Mister Outdoorsman to take offense at us sharing the spotlight for the third time.
Another win would certainly help my chances of getting published too, wouldn’t it? Prove to the publishers I had the credentials and skill to create great travel stories for children? And winning again might just prove the nudge I needed to take that chance.
I turned to meet Mrs. Lennox’s defeated expression as she looked over my ensemble again, focusing for a full five seconds on my fishing rod.
“And this is Miss Katie Campbell.” She tossed a limp wave in my direction. “She is known for her humorous videos and blog posts, insightful articles, and . . . entertaining documentaries under her moniker Miss Adventure.”
At least she sounded more positive toward me than she looked.
“We are having a bit of trouble with her attire—” Mrs. Lennox seemed to think better of elaborating as she took a dramatic view from my wellies to my head. “But I feel certain it will all get sorted very soon.”
My smile froze on my face. Yep, no need for anyone to wonder what she might be referring to.
“As stated in your packet, as part of the experience, each of the ladies will receive a custom-designed gown to wear to our Edwardian Ball on our last evening, and each gentleman their own Edwardian suit.” She brought her hands together in pure delight. “And I will be guiding you through your process of immersion into the Edwardian world. As a former literature professor and an amateur historian, I feel certain I have set up this experience to give you a taste of the era, while also enjoying some modern perks. The natural beauty of Mull only enhances your discovery and allows you a natural break from many of the distractions common in more populous places.”
She offered a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Though I do hope you increase the number of people you bring to the next experience, Mother.” Ana scanned the room, her smile coy. “More people to meet.”
“We shall see, dear.” Mrs. Lennox’s smile tightened as she stared at her daughter and gave her head a little shake. “I look forward to guiding you in your Edwardian Experience”—this time said with less flourish and no wrist swirl—“for the next three weeks. May you absorb the history and opulence of this marvelous time period.”
She pressed her palms together as if in prayer, perhaps for me . . . or for herself on having to reform me into an Edwardian lady. I hope my expression offered my condolences.
“We will begin our first class at ten o’clock sharp,” Mrs. Lennox continued. “How to dine like an Edwardian.”
Even though I’d seen this class in the brochure, it still inspired my grin. I mean, how many ways were there to eat?
