A Room at the Manor Read online

  Julie Shackman trained as a journalist and studied media and communication before turning her hand to women’s fiction. She lives in Scotland with her husband and two teenage sons. When not reading and writing romance, she writes verses and captions for greeting cards.

  First published in 2018

  Copyright © Julie Shackman 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76063 286 1

  eBook ISBN 978 1 76063 644 9

  Cover design: Romina Panetta

  Cover images: Getty Images and iStock

  LOVE ALWAYS TO MY THREE SPECIAL BOYS:

  Lawrence, Daniel AND Ethan

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  One

  ‘Have you been sprinkling your fairy dust again, Lara?’

  I beamed across at Mrs Arnold. ‘Thank you. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.’

  My retired English teacher took a sip of her Earl Grey tea. ‘Enjoying it, she says! Your red velvet cake is positively dancing across my tastebuds.’

  I slid out from behind the dark wooden counter and approached Mrs Arnold. ‘I was worried that it might be a bit on the dry side . . .’

  Her chocolate-coloured eyes twinkled out at me from her carefully powdered face. ‘You need to believe in yourself more, young lady.’

  She delivered another forkful of cake to her mouth and let out a little sigh of contentment. Then she shifted in her bentwood chair, almost knocking over the laminated True Brew menu. ‘I hope that Kitty Walker appreciates all your hard work and effort.’

  A blush crept up my neck and decided to stay there.

  ‘Since you started working here,’ Mrs Arnold continued as she waggled her cake fork, ‘your baking has been a godsend.’ She gave a small shudder from under her aubergine cardigan. ‘I mean, Kitty’s efforts are all well and good, but there’s only so much Victoria sponge and apple tart a person can take.’ She leaned over conspiratorially. ‘Your Portuguese tarts last week were truly sublime.’

  From a circular table nearby, two younger women sporting spray tans and slashes of red lip gloss interjected. ‘So you’re behind the cheesecake brownies?’ grinned one through bleached teeth. ‘They were excellent.’

  I basked in their praise. ‘Guilty as charged.’

  Her polished companion nodded her blonde bob. ‘It’s about time this place moved into this century.’

  Mrs Arnold opened her mouth again to speak but then clamped her lips shut. I turned to see my boss, Kitty, looming towards me in her plastic True Brew apron. ‘When you’ve quite finished gossiping with all the customers, Lara, table three needs clearing.’

  ‘I wasn’t gossiping,’ I explained calmly. ‘These ladies were just complimenting me on my baking.’

  Kitty’s frosted pink mouth pinched. ‘Yes. Well, I don’t employ you to bake. That’s my job.’ She thrust out a wobbling chest. ‘Your role is to serve customers and to clear tables, which, right now, you are failing to do.’

  I made an effort to smile. ‘But if you recall, Kitty, when you took me on, you told me that I could bake and experiment with some of my own—’

  ‘I don’t remember saying any such thing,’ Kitty interrupted loudly, her jowls quivering as she hoisted her eyes away from me for a moment. ‘Now, that table. It’s positively a mess.’

  I snatched up a tray and marched over to the cluttered table to tidy it. Mrs Arnold and the two glamorous ladies awarded Kitty disapproving glares, but she simply spun on her sparkly trainers and sallied back to the counter.

  I could sense my face was as red as my corkscrew hair.

  It was nobody’s fault I was working for Satan’s Mother except my own—and that had been necessity, not choice. Being made redundant from my civil service PR job had seemed like a blessing, especially when I then took off to Malta and met Anton. But upon returning to my hometown of Fairview in Scotland, there hadn’t exactly been a wealth of employment opportunities. I’d been lured in with Kitty’s unkept promise of the opportunity to contribute to the cake display, and the prospect of working on my baking skills. I realised I could have looked for work in public relations again, but the prospect of being trapped in some high-rise office filled me with dread.

  If I owned a place like this, I thundered inwardly, it certainly wouldn’t resemble its current state. I stacked the dirty teacups and glared at the dark wood panelling and sombre matching tables and chairs. What once might have been considered cosy had long since become dated and drab. The tea room carpet was a loud red and green tartan affair that shouted at you as soon as you stepped foot in the place and the dim glow of the carriage lights did nothing for the dingy Scottish landscapes Kitty had hung on the walls.

  The tea room didn’t even serve loose-leaf tea. Kitty bought cheap teabags and coffee that erred on the side of powdery. I promised myself that if I ever had my own establishment, customers would be treated to coffee that was rich and aromatic. I would stock a whole array of teas; French Earl Grey, Oolong, White Tea, Jasmine.

  Baking had always held a fascination for me, but ever since I’d taken that night school baking class the summer before university, I’d fallen even more in love with it. The textures and smells. The meditative process of kneading and beating. And the way even the simplest of recipes could trigger the recollection of a special memory, or remind you of a precious moment, was something to be savoured. I glanced down at the silver bracelet dangling delicately from my wrist, thinking of when my late great aunt Hettie had given it to me after I’d completed the baking course.

  I whisked away the tray bearing the dirty crockery, avoiding the sympathetic expressions from Mrs Arnold and the manicured ladies, and heading straight for the dishwasher. My new boss could be hard to take, but there were a couple of positives to this job. At least my
best friend, Morven, lived nearby, and thank goodness I still had my flat just around the corner. I’d rented it out to a divorced lady in her forties for the past eighteen months, with a view to selling it after I’d moved to Malta to start life properly with Anton. My tenant had proved to be an ideal one, moving out six months ago to join her new man in London. Once my flat had been vacated, Morven diligently collected my mail, liaised with the estate agent when I couldn’t and paid frequent visits to make sure all was well for my imminent return from Malta.

  As soon as Malta entered my head, images of vanilla sand, sea foam popping like champagne corks against the rocks and Anton’s dark eyes swam in front of me. I slammed the dishwasher door shut in an effort to send them packing. All the hours and effort I’d put into making his wine bar in Valletta a success and what did I receive in return? A gushing brush-off as though he’d swallowed a self-help book and the revelation that he’d replaced me with a burgundy-haired Russian. I just hoped he and his pneumatic barmaid, Tanya, didn’t fall down any abandoned mineshafts.

  Kitty pulled me out of my dark thoughts by bustling over to the mound of blueberry muffins she’d made and needlessly rearranging them. I’d suggested jazzing up the muffin selection by introducing other options, such as candied ginger and apple, dark chocolate and Guinness and pistachio and chai. My ideas were swiftly shot down with ‘I know what my customers like and it certainly isn’t any of that foodie fad nonsense’.

  What was faddish about ginger was anyone’s guess.

  I’d returned to Fairview three months ago now and decided, in my lower moments, that members of the criminal underworld probably got more lenient sentences than working for Kitty Walker.

  ‘Lara! Customer!’

  I bit my lip at Kitty’s bark and turned to a young mum and her bright-eyed toddler.

  ‘How about one of my emerald biscuits?’ Kitty called over to the little boy. ‘I bet you’d love the icing. I made these, you know.’

  His ash-blond head swivelled between Kitty’s rather bland offering and the mini cupcakes I’d rustled up that morning, dotted with chocolate buttons and a dash of sparkles. Kitty followed the boy’s blue gaze. ‘Where did those come from?’ she glowered.

  ‘I made them,’ I replied, defiant. ‘I thought the little ones might like them.’

  Kitty’s lip curled up towards the tip of her wide nose. ‘I don’t think they’re in keeping with the ethos of this establishment.’

  I was on the verge of pointing out that this was a small Scottish tea room, not a worldwide conglomerate, when the boy chirruped, ‘Can I have a cupcake, please, Mummy?’

  I appeared from behind the counter and knelt down in front of him, my True Brew apron crinkling against my jeans. ‘Seeing as you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll find you the biggest one.’

  His tired-looking mum nodded at me through a wide smile, but Kitty’s expression was thunderous. I picked up the fattest of the mini cupcakes with the tongs and swiftly delivered it into a brown paper bag. That’s another thing I would change: no cheap brown bags, but ones specially embossed with the name of my tea room.

  Once they had paid and vanished out the door in a flurry of weatherproof jackets and pushchair, Kitty rounded on me. ‘Well, seeing as you’re so keen to be the boss, you can lock up again tonight.’

  I buried a frustrated sigh. And there was me, thinking that what with all the happy customers, the old dragon might actually accept my freshly baked contributions as she’d promised. No chance. I grumpily folded up some napkins and stared out of the window at the afternoon sky, where shafts of sunshine were attempting to banish some milky cloud. I could bake and I loved doing it. I was also experienced in public relations. And yet here I was, working in a tea room that time had forgotten, undervalued and tongue-lashed.

  ‘Customer outside, Lara!’

  I poked out my tongue at Kitty’s retreating back and snatched up my notepad. A quick glance outside reminded me that one of the outdoor tables was jostling with half-empty teacups and remnants of fruit scones. I reached for a tray and made my way outside where I was met with a sudden bellow.

  ‘Open your eyes, girl!’

  Two

  I clutched the tray a little tighter. ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied hurriedly. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  The elderly man’s piercing grey gaze was unnerving. He stared at me for a few more moments before recovering himself. ‘Well, obviously, judging by the way you were swinging that thing around.’

  Okay, so I had been daydreaming a bit, but I certainly hadn’t been careless with the tea tray. It was hardly a dangerous weapon, was it? While I tried to gather myself after this verbal onslaught, the man eased himself gingerly into one of our wrought-iron chairs. The tea shop overlooked the town square, with an excellent view of the higgledy-piggledy shops and the myriad old lanes between them.

  He balanced his black and gold beech walking cane against the edge of the table. I noticed the handle was arched and carved in the shape of a thistle. Once settled on the quilted cushion, he eyed with blatant suspicion the tubs of daffodils I’d recently placed nearby.

  I glanced nervously over my shoulder towards the tea room. Its bevelled windows reflected a duck-egg blue sky and golden April sunshine. I was keeping everything, including my fingers, crossed that Kitty hadn’t witnessed this altercation.

  The old man’s voice barked into the air. ‘You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?’

  I turned my attention back to him. His grey combed-back hair framed an aggressive expression that was emphasised by a dashing, thick moustache. I glimpsed a moss green waistcoat and trousers beneath his grey raincoat.

  ‘I could have sustained a serious injury just now,’ he carped, still examining me through narrowed eyes. ‘I think the least you could do, young lady, is offer me a complimentary tea and a slice of that Victoria sponge.’ He raised a papery finger and jabbed it towards our cake display.

  ‘But I didn’t touch you,’ I protested, pulling the tray protectively into my chest.

  ‘You banged right against my shoulder! I could have sustained a life-threatening injury because of you. I’m very frail, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well, your tongue sure as hell isn’t,’ I hissed under my breath.

  The man peered up at me. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Is everything alright, Lara?’ Resplendent in her white and gold apron, Kitty barrelled past me.

  ‘This girl almost knocked me flying,’ protested the man from his seat before I could articulate a response. ‘It’s a bloody good job I was fit in my younger days.’

  Oh good grief. I took a steadying breath. ‘I am sorry but I’m quite sure I barely nudged you.’ I opened my mouth to explain further but Kitty’s death stare persuaded me otherwise. Instead I scooped a red curl behind my ear.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Carmichael,’ gushed Kitty. ‘Lara is rather inexperienced.’

  My head whipped round to look at her. This was Hugo Carmichael? The old laird?

  The Carmichael family lived at Glenlovatt Manor, just outside Fairview. They were a bit of a local enigma, stashed away in that butterscotch stone pile of theirs, keeping a distance from the great unwashed. They used to open up the manor to raise funds for local charities occasionally, but it had been closed to the public years ago, not long after the sudden death of Lydia Carmichael, the wife of the current laird, Gordon. Presumably the estate was now only occupied by the men of the family, Hugo, Gordon and Gordon’s son, Vaughan, who had been sent off to public school years ago and was apparently now a sculptor. It was a rather depressing thought, three single aristocrats rattling around that sprawling estate.

  My mum, Christine, would often accidentally fawn over images of Glenlovatt in the local paper before remembering she was anti-establishment, but I always viewed them as an unfathomable entity, living on the fringes of our little town and surveying everything from behind heavy velvet drapes overlooking acres of glossy woodland.

  K
itty chose to ignore my reaction and clasped her hands across the gold teapot motif emblazoned on her chest. ‘Can I treat you to some complimentary tea to apologise, Mr Carmichael?’

  The man’s expression rearranged itself into one of faux surprise. What a crafty old sod!

  ‘Well, I suppose that would be acceptable.’

  Kitty speared me with a frosty look. ‘Lara, take Mr Carmichael’s order and bring it out to him straight away.’

  Both Mr Carmichael and I turned our heads slightly to watch her bustle back inside.

  I clanked the tray on the empty table nearby and arranged my features into an expression of politeness. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘An Earl Grey and a slice of Victoria sponge—please.’

  I presented him with a cautious smile, gathered up the tray and hurried back inside.

  Three

  It was a typical Scottish spring morning. Rain ran down the windows of True Brew, like diamonds racing one another.

  I shielded myself as best I could under my umbrella and rustled around inside my handbag for the keys to True Brew. I suspected Kitty had only given me a spare set so she could skive off early at closing time or have some extra time in bed in the mornings, but I was determined to take the chance to prove to her she’d hired more than just a waitress.

  Fairview was quiet except for the patter of the rain as I let myself in and switched on a couple of lights.

  Once I’d shrugged off my raincoat, propping it over one of the radiators to dry, I unpacked the ingredients and switched on my iPod to listen to some mellow songs as I began to bake.

  As I whisked the egg whites, sugar and salt in a large bowl, I imagined the rich, red river of raspberry jam gliding off the end of my teaspoon and into the careful indentation I would make for each macaroon. I laughed to myself as my stomach grumbled, even though I’d only just had cereal for breakfast. I was hoping the day’s customers would show Kitty just how good my little golden islands would turn out to be.