Читать книгу Secret Things and Highland Flings - Tracy Corbett - Страница 7

Tuesday 29th May

Oliver Wentworth took the opportunity of his sister’s phone ringing to take a breather from playing the dutiful carer. The distress at witnessing his pregnant sister being trampled on by an irate Shetland pony had sapped all of his energy. Thankfully, apart from a fractured fibula, she and the baby had escaped relatively intact.

As his sister answered her phone, he listened to her attempting to calm her distraught husband, reassuring him she was okay and relaying the story of how she’d toppled over the feeding trough when the aptly named Goliath had upended her. Having spent several years trying for a baby, he couldn’t imagine Harry taking the news of his wife’s injury too well. Poor bloke.

When the conversation switched from Louisa’s health to declarations of love, Olly tuned out. He adored his sister, but he didn’t need to hear about the intimate details of her marriage.

Instead, he gazed out of the taxi window and admired the scenery outside.

Medical services were few and far between in the Highlands, so they’d ended up at the Broadford Hospital on the Isle of Skye. The treatment had been first-rate, but it was a slow drive back to Shieldaig, the lanes winding and narrow. At least it allowed him time to recover from the trauma of Louisa’s accident and absorb the sight of his heritage passing by bathed in the May sunshine.

Shieldaig was sixty-eight miles west of Inverness in the Wester Ross region of Scotland, a quaint village with a miniscule population but with a huge influx of visitors during the summer months. It was both beautiful and brutal. Mountainous landscape dominated the view, framing the expanse of lochs and villages nestled between. It was the stuff of postcards, picturesque and enticing. But it was also challenging – as many an inexperienced walker had discovered when attempting to conquer Beinn Eighe ill-equipped. Even more so as the area had a poor phone signal.

As an adult, he could appreciate the appeal of the rugged terrain, where land merged seamlessly into sky. But as a kid, he’d hated the place. It had been a prison. A punishment. A place from which he’d been desperate to escape. And although he still harboured painful memories from those early years, he was hopeful of finally shedding his dislike of the place and reconnecting with his siblings.

As the taxi driver negotiated the narrow lanes, Rubha Castle came into view. The grey stone construction sat ominously against its tranquil surroundings. It was strange to think this was his home. There’d been a castle on the site for over eight hundred years, but the Wentworth family had only been resident for four hundred. His grandfather had briefly opened the castle to the public during the Sixties, hoping it would generate an influx of cash, but closed it again when the venture failed to prove cost-effective. They still hired out the venue for weddings and special occasions, but it wasn’t enough to maintain its continuing upkeep – a current bone of contention between his two sisters.

As the current Earl of Horsley, Olly was expected to take over running the family estate, socialise with blueblood aristocracy and sit in the House of Lords – something he had absolutely no interest in doing. Thankfully, recent reforms had abolished automatic hereditary rights, so he was off the hook in terms of his peer duties. And Louisa was more than happy running Rubha Castle, so he was superfluous to requirements.

Okay, so he was the Edward VIII of the family. The wayward black sheep who’d shirked his ancestral duties in favour of chasing pipedreams. It had been his parents’ favourite accusation, thrown at him many times during his adolescence. And they’d been right, of course. Even as a kid he’d craved freedom, a desire to see what the world had to offer. But his departure from their lives at barely eighteen was entirely down to their doing, not his.

Louisa had just ended her call when the taxi bumped onto the bridge joining the castle with the mainland. The driver pulled up in front of the open portcullis but left the engine running, an indication that he wasn’t offering any assistance. Olly couldn’t blame him. Trying to manoeuvre an eight-months-pregnant woman with her leg in an orthopaedic boot out of a car wasn’t going to be easy.

With a sigh, Olly got out the taxi and went around to open the door.

Louisa smiled up at him, her green eyes rimmed with dark circles. ‘Are you feeling strong?’

He grinned. ‘Positively herculean.’

She laughed and took his hands but winced when he tried unsuccessfully to pull her from the vehicle. He could tell she was in pain, however much she tried to hide it. Louisa’s outward fragility concealed an inner strength that enabled her to cope with adversity. Which was just as well, considering the upbringing they’d had.

Assistance appeared in the form of Gilly Jennings scurrying across the courtyard, red-faced and panting. Technically, she was the hired help, a cook-cum-housekeeper, but she’d always been more of a ‘parental figure’, bossy but warm-hearted, filling the gap caused by their own parents’ coldness.

‘Och, you poor love,’ she said, reaching the taxi. ‘Here, let me help you.’

Olly was bumped out of the way. He was about to object, when he realised his seventy-year-old housekeeper had already eased Louisa out of the car, usurping him as primary carer.

He tried not to feel disgruntled. But then he remembered they’d survived without him for eleven years. They didn’t need him. It stung, but it was the price he had to pay.

He paid the driver and unloaded the wheelchair from the boot.

As they made their way across the inner courtyard, Gilly issued instructions, sending him ahead to open doors, clear the stairway and put the kettle on.

Suppressing his frustration at being ordered around, he did as he was told, knowing he was still ‘in the dog house’ and it would be a long time before anyone felt he’d made amends. Gilly only allowed him to push the wheelchair when they reached the steps leading into the west guard tower.

Shortly after Louisa and Harry had married, they’d moved into the private area of the main keep, near the grand banqueting hall and billeting room, which were used for events. In contrast, upon his return, Olly had been given a small room in the south-west wing, an area previously used to stable horses. That said it all, really.

Having deposited his sister in her bedroom, he went to make drinks.

He returned armed with sugary tea and shortbread biscuits, grateful for Gilly’s baking skills. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

On entering the bedroom, he heard Louisa yelp.

Gilly was trying to roll her onto her side. ‘Her back’s hurting,’ she said, continuing to push.

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, placing the tray on the Jacobean sidetable. ‘Move over, will you.’ He pulled up short when he saw the hurt look on Gilly’s face. He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Gilly. What I meant to say was, as my sister is currently the size of a small elephant, it might be better if I do it.’

Louisa threw a pillow at him.

Gilly laughed and stood back to allow him access. Disaster averted. He winked at Louisa, who normally didn’t carry an ounce of fat on her and would therefore forgive him for likening her to a large land mammal.

He eased her onto her side.

‘Look at you, being all tender and caring,’ Gilly teased. ‘Perhaps you should follow your sister’s example and get married yourself.’

He suppressed a shudder. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘Why ever not? A good-looking man like yourself shouldn’t have any trouble finding a lass.’

Finding one? No problem. Holding on to them? Another matter entirely. Of course, it didn’t help that he rarely stayed in one place long. But all that was about to change.

‘I’m sure the right girl’s out there,’ Gilly said, tucking in the bedsheet. ‘Although she mightn’t be too impressed by a man pushing thirty and yet to secure a proper job.’

And there it was, the scolding he’d been waiting for.

He didn’t need Gilly to tell him he was a waste of space. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings.

Emotionally, he still felt like an eighteen-year-old kid backpacking the world while scraping a living. Only he was twenty-nine now and still searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was missing from his life, he knew that much. It was a sobering thought – one that depressed him – so he pushed the notion from his mind.

‘Still, you’re here now.’ Gilly handed Louisa a mug of tea. ‘It’s just a shame Lady Eleanor isn’t around to see it.’

Actually, it was a blessing. His mother had been the main reason he’d left home aged eighteen. He couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. All his life his parents had banged on about ‘protocol’ and ‘tradition’ and the need for ‘honesty’. They’d beaten him down with draconian rules and restraints, expecting him to behave in a suitable way for someone in his ‘elevated’ position. And yet the whole time they’d been two-faced liars.

He’d discovered this one night in 2007, when he’d stumbled across their illicit plan to falsify the provenance of a valuable painting. The painting was several hundred years old, but there was significant doubt surrounding its authenticity. So they’d created a set of false documents to make it look like it was an original work by renowned Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli.

Overhearing their conversation had been shocking and unbelievable. But the tipping point had come when he’d realised they’d managed to pass off one of his replica sketches as an original Albrico Spinelli, too. The sketch had sold ahead of the auction for several thousand pounds, creating a ‘buzz’ around the main painting and increasing its value.

He hadn’t known which had angered him most: the fact that his mother’s art tutelage and insistence on using genuine sixteenth-century materials hadn’t been about showing an interest in developing her son’s talent but a way of making money, or because they’d gone behind his back and made him complicit in their crime. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason his mother had made him paint replicas wasn’t for his own benefit but so his parents could flog them and improve the family’s finances.

A huge argument had followed. His parents’ excuse? That it was a necessary evil to save Rubha Castle from financial ruin. They’d refused to apologise or admit any wrongdoing. Instead, they’d accused him of being selfish for not wanting to help the family. But how could he continue to paint when he knew his works were being created deliberately to defraud people? It wasn’t moral or right, not to mention a contradiction of their holier-than-thou principles. So any loyalty or admiration he might have felt for his parents’ so-called traditional family values had evaporated in that moment.

He took a swig of tea and dunked a biscuit, something his mother would never have permitted. He no longer cared.

He was by no means a saint. But even as a teenager he hadn’t been able to reconcile the knowledge that his parents were crooked. So he’d left home the moment he could, not returning for eleven years, even to attend their respective funerals.

He ate another biscuit.

The irony was that having fought so hard to lead his own life, ending up alone and abroad at eighteen had scuppered his dreams to become a renowned artist. Instead, he’d drifted from one country to another, fruit picking and bartending, ending up as the ‘drop-out’ his parents had predicted.

But after years of being estranged, he’d decided it was time to stop punishing his siblings for something that wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know about their parents’ shameful secret, only their charitable work in the community. So they’d never understood why he’d left, or what had kept him away so long. And he still couldn’t tell them. He never would. He’d just have to hope that in time they’d forgive him.

Louisa yelped, reminding him he was supposed to be playing nurse.

‘We need to elevate your foot,’ Gilly said, lifting Louisa’s booted leg with all the tenderness of a caber tosser.

‘I can manage, Gilly.’ The pain of a broken leg was clearly testing the bounds of his sister’s normal chirpy demeanour. ‘If you could pass me that pillow.’

He intervened. It was the brotherly thing to do. He might fall short in all other areas as far as family duty were concerned, but protecting his sister from a well-meaning Gilly was at least within his capabilities. He grabbed the pillow before Gilly could inflict further damage and eased it under Louisa’s foot. She mouthed him a ‘thank you’.

He touched her cheek, wondering how she’d managed to blossom into such a tender human being when their upbringing had been devoid of any real affection. Neither parent had been the warmest of people, but his mother’s cruel streak had been magnified by the untimely death of their father and the bitterness she held towards her only son. His siblings had taken the brunt of his mother’s meltdown, the knowledge of which only added to his guilt.

Despite not being close to his parents, he still felt a loss. Loss for not having had an adult relationship with either of them. Loss at being separated from his siblings for so long and loss for carrying a grudge around for eleven years that had slowly eaten away at his belief in the ‘happy ever after’.

He tucked his hands under Louisa’s arms and eased her upright.

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

‘Are you in pain?’

She shook her head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’

He frowned. ‘Get what?’

He never did find out. His phone rang.

He left Louisa in Gilly’s care, nicked another biscuit and ducked into the corridor to answer his phone. But when his older sister yelled, ‘Louisa’s had an accident?’ he knew his day wasn’t getting better any time soon.

He leant against the stone wall and braced himself for a bollocking.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

Sophie sounded pissed off, which was par for the course. If Louisa were a margarita, bursting with colour and flavour, her life garnished with a paper umbrella and bright red cherry, Sophie was the ice in the glass. An antidote to joy.

‘How come I got to hear about it from Gilly?’

‘Sorry, Soph. There was no phone signal at the hospital.’

‘And you couldn’t have gone outside?’ Her voice rose another notch.

‘I didn’t want to leave her alone. She was upset.’

‘But you don’t mind upsetting me? Cheers, Olly. Some brother you are.’

He let her rant; he deserved her wrath. And it wasn’t her fault she was bitter – it was the upshot of growing up in a loveless household.

When he’d returned to the UK, Louisa had welcomed him with an open smile and unadulterated joy at having him home. In contrast, Sophie’s reaction had been to slap his face, call him a bastard and refuse to talk to him for two weeks. He supposed her yelling at him was progress. It was painful, but at least she was talking to him.

‘Selfish … arrogant …’

‘You’re right, Sophie. I should’ve called you. No excuses.’

‘Too bloody right! I’ve been there for her, you haven’t. All through IVF, all through the miscarriages—’

He dropped his head against the cool stone wall. ‘I know and I’m sorry, but I want to make amends for that.’

‘Too effing late!’ This was followed by a series of more expletives.

Hearing Sophie swearing was like witnessing a Disney princess in a bar fight. She was tall and curvy, with long blonde hair and stunningly beautiful. She looked ‘expensive’, a real upper-class society girl. She was a freelance columnist for various fashion magazines and attended events with the who’s who of London society, where she smiled, charmed and spoke with a plummy accent. It was only behind closed doors that the façade slipped.

He took another bite of biscuit, waiting until she’d finished ranting.

It took a while.

Finally, she said, ‘Is she okay? Do I need to come up there?’

He swallowed. ‘I don’t think so. Gilly’s here and Harry’s planning to cut short his business trip. He should be back later tonight. And I’m here—’

‘Ha! For how long? You’re not exactly Mr Reliable.’

He smothered a sigh. ‘How many times, Soph? I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’ She mumbled another expletive. ‘And if you are staying, make yourself useful and help us sort out the estate.’

‘Can’t we leave it to the solicitors?’

‘Which part of we’re running out of money don’t you understand? If we leave it to the solicitors we’ll have nothing left.’

He pushed away from the wall. ‘But I know nothing about probate. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’

‘I’m not talking about probate. You need to persuade Louisa to sell Rubha Castle.’

Oh, no. This was one argument he wasn’t getting involved in. ‘You know I can’t do that. Rubha Castle’s Louisa’s home, it’s her livelihood. It’s where she wants to raise a family—’

‘We can’t afford to keep both properties. The terms of the will state we’re only allowed to sell one. If we get rid of the Windsor townhouse, it won’t solve our financial problems. Plus, I’ll be out on the streets. At least Louisa has an alternative. Harry’s family own half of Scotland, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or don’t you care?’

‘Of course I do. I just wish there was a way of keeping both.’ He rubbed his forehead, feeling as exasperated as Sophie sounded.

‘Well, there isn’t. Rubha Castle costs a fortune to upkeep. It no longer attracts many visitors and Louisa’s insistence on rescuing random animals is adding to the expense. If we sell it now we’ll get a decent return, but if we wait until it crumbles to the ground it’ll be worthless. It doesn’t make good business sense.’

‘But Louisa loves it here. She’d be heartbroken to sell. And you know how much she adores those animals.’

There was a weighted pause. ‘I know.’

Despite his sister’s determination to sell the castle, he knew she was worried about Louisa and didn’t want to cause her any distress. His youngest sister worked part-time for an animal charity, she’d built a life for herself in Scotland, she’d even married a local laird. She was a sensitive soul who was trying to rid herself of her own childhood demons by making Rubha Castle a ‘happy home’. Olly could understand that.

And so did Sophie, despite what she claimed.

‘I wish there was something we could do.’

Sophie sighed. ‘Did Louisa tell you her great plan?’

‘What plan?’

‘To sell Mother’s paintings. She’s sent them to an independent art gallery in Windsor for valuation.’

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The subject of art was a sensitive one.

‘I think she’s hoping they’ll sell for a shedload of dosh and solve our problems. I’ve no idea what their value is. The gallery owner asked for any preliminary drawings of the works to be sent over, but neither of us has any idea what those are. Do you?’

‘They’re the preparatory drawings an artist sketches before painting the main work.’ He frowned. ‘Why do they need preliminary drawings?’

‘Apparently, it helps to evaluate the paintings. Mother never sold anything during her lifetime, so it’s difficult to put a value on the work.’

Technically, that statement wasn’t true. His mother had sold a painting in 2007 for a whopping 1.7 million quid. But as the world at large, and in particular the French buyer of the painting, believed it to be painted by Italian Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli, Olly wasn’t about to correct that assumption. Especially as he was complicit in the crime – albeit unwittingly. If the truth ever got out about the painting’s real origins, the fallout would be immense. The family’s reputation was shaky enough. There was no way they could withstand the scandal of forged masterpieces, a lawsuit and a criminal investigation.

He shuddered at the thought.

Part of him worried that selling his mother’s paintings posthumously might be exposing them to overintense scrutiny. But they didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like she’d forged the Spinelli herself, was it? He had no idea who the real artist was, or how his parents had come into possession of the painting. But the point was, they needed cash, and he wasn’t about to stand back and let four hundred years of family history flush down the loo without a fight … no matter how averse he was to his relatives. His mother had been a bloody good painter. If he was right, her work was valuable. And, more importantly, finite in number. Nothing like a dead painter to inflate the asking price.

He rubbed his forehead, his mind returning to the present. ‘I think they’re boxed up in the billeting room somewhere. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’

‘By the way, Louisa found another painting hidden among Mother’s collection. It was boxed separately and covered in a dustsheet. It was a painting of a religious bloke reading from a scroll. It wasn’t like her other paintings, but Louisa thought the gallery might as well have it.’

Olly’s world skidded to an abrupt halt. His heart followed suit, banging into his ribcage, sucking all the oxygen from his brain.

He must have made a noise, because Sophie said, ‘Olly, what’s wrong? Is it a bad painting?’

A bad painting?

On the contrary, it was a bloody phenomenal painting.

It was the second forged Spinelli.

Shit!