“No,” said Hamish, removing the waiter’s dinner jacket and then the abbreviated trousers. “I would hae been most offended. I think, as it is, I should go home.”
Priscilla wrestled with her conscience. Her parents would be furious. But Hamish looked so miserable, and he did not seem to have much fun – except with some of the local ladies, Priscilla reminded herself sharply. But he saved every penny to send back to his mother and father and large brood of brothers and sisters over on the east and she was sure he never ate enough.
The door opened, and Jenkins, the Halburton-Smythe’s English butler, walked in. Hamish was just about to put on Uncle Harry’s trousers.
“Don’t you ever knock?” snapped Priscilla.
“A good servant never knocks,” said Jenkins, his gooseberry eyes bulging with outrage. “And what, may I ask, are you doing with this constable, and him without his trousers?”
“Don’t be a silly twit, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You saw Mr Macbeth arrive. He could not possibly put in an appearance in that awful dinner jacket, so I am lending him one of Uncle Harry’s. What are you doing here anyway?”
“Mrs Halburton-Smythe sent me to look for you. One of the maids said she had seen you coming up here.”
Priscilla bit her lip. Somehow it had never crossed her mind even to turn her back while Hamish was changing his trousers. She had become used to the fact that the Highlander, though quite prudish and shy in some respects, was never self-conscious about appearing undressed. But Jenkins was not a Highlander. And if she pleaded with Jenkins not to tell her mother what he had seen, that might make the whole innocent business seem sinister.
“Very well, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You may go.”
“And what shall I tell Mrs Halburton-Smythe?” asked Jenkins, his eyes gleaming with malice. It was not that he disliked Priscilla in any way; it was just that he was a terrible snob and he thought Hamish Macbeth had no right to be attending Tommel Castle as one of the guests.
“Chust say,” said Hamish, whose Highland accent became more marked and sibilant when he was annoyed or upset, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe will be doon the stairs shortly, and if you add anything to that statement, ye great pudding, I’ll hear o’ it and I’ll take ye apart bit by bit.”
Jenkins glared awfully and then he wheeled about, his arms held out as if carrying a tray, and made a ponderous, stiff-legged exit.
“He’s like a butler in a fillum,” said Hamish. “I think when he feels his act or accent is slipping, he takes the bus down tae Strathbane and sees another old movie.”
“Don’t blame old Jenkins too much,” said Priscilla ruefully. “We must have looked like a bedroom farce.”
“How do I look now?” asked Hamish anxiously, straightening down the lapels of Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket.
“Splendid,” said Priscilla, thinking privately what a difference good clothes made to Hamish’s appearance. He was really quite a good-looking man with his red hair and clear hazel eyes, particularly when he was out of that joke of a uniform. It would be fun to take Hamish in hand. She gave herself a mental shake.
“Well, if you’re ready, let’s go,” she added.
“Are you sure it is all right?” asked Hamish, hesitating.
“You shall go to the ball,” said Priscilla with a grin.
Hamish moved closer to her and looked down at her shyly. “You’re looking awf’y pretty tonight, Priscilla.”
Priscilla always dressed in what pleased her and never bothered about the dictates of fashion. She was wearing a leaf-green chiffon blouse with a V-necked frilled collar and a black evening skirt. Her fair hair fell in a smooth line to her shoulders. Her only jewellery was the emerald-and-diamond engagement ring Henry had bought her at Asprey’s. She looked up into Hamish’s eyes and felt strangely awkward and uncomfortable. Up until that precise moment, Priscilla had always been at ease in the policeman’s company. With Hamish, she felt obscurely that she could be herself and that Hamish would always like her no matter what she did. It was that old feeling of undemanding intimacy that had made her stay in the room while he changed his trousers. For the moment that easiness had fled, and Priscilla felt herself beginning to blush.
She took a step backwards and mumbled, “Let’s go.” Aware of Hamish’s curious eyes on her, she scooped up the waiter’s clothes, draped them over her arm, and hurried from the room without looking back to see if he was following her.
When she reached the dining room, she abandoned Hamish to his fate and went to join Henry. He was happily talking to his admirers and, to her relief, had not noticed her absence from the room.
At last she looked over to see how Hamish was faring. The policeman was engaged in conversation with Jeremy Pomfret and the Helmsdales. Priscilla’s parents had been thwarted in their intention of throwing Hamish out by the Helmsdales’ welcome of him. For Hamish took many prizes at shooting contests and Lord Helmsdale was one of his admirers, as was Jeremy Pomfret. Lady Helmsdale did not know Hamish, but she found him a nice, pleasant man with a refreshing air of shyness – unlike that horrible Peter Bartlett, that cad, who had now drunk enough to turn nasty.
Lady Helmsdale was further pleased when Hamish turned out to have intelligent views on the decline of the grouse population. “If the decline continues,” said Hamish, “most of Scotland’s moor owners will hae no alternative but to opt for intensive sheep farming or forestry planting, and that would mean the loss of the heather and the heather accounts for ninety per cent of the grouse. It would also lead to a verra serious loss of sporting income, rural employment, not to mention the tourist revenue.”
Jeremy, encouraged by Hamish’s shy, respectful manner, found courage to air his own views. Hamish listened with half an ear, while he picked up snippets of conversation from other parts of the room. While appearing to attend closely to Jeremy and the Helmsdales, he was indulging that intense Highland curiosity of his to the hilt.
There wasn’t a woman as well-dressed as Priscilla in the room, he thought. Vera was wearing last year’s fashion of slim sheath with three belts. But Vera was plump, and all she had achieved was three spare tyres instead of one. Hamish knew Vera by sight. He did not know Diana, but he thought it was a pity that such a beautiful girl should be dressed in funereal black that was bunched up, Japanese-style, about her middle. The horsy girl beside her, mused Hamish, turning his gaze on Jessica, should surely never have gone in for an orange strapless gown. Every time she moved her shoulders, her bones stuck out in all sorts of odd places.
Jessica and Diana had drawn a little aside from Vera and Peter.
“I wish you would stop staring at me in that smug way and saying how tired you are,” whispered Diana. “If you’ve got one of the gamekeepers into your bed, you should keep quiet about it.”
41
“I would hardly call Peter a gamekeeper,” giggled Jessica.
“What!” Diana almost spluttered with rage. “He was with me!”
“He couldn’t have been,” said Jessica. “He was with me.”
Both girls glared at each other and then gradually the anger died out of their eyes to be replaced by a look of mutual consternation.
“He couldn’t be such a bastard. Even Peter couldn’t do that,” whispered Diana. “What time did he call on you?”
“Four in the morning,” said Jessica in a small voice. “He didn’t call on me. I went to him.”
“He told me to visit him at midnight,” said Diana miserably.
Both girls held hands like children and turned and looked at Peter Bartlett. His back was to them and Vera was facing him. They saw her full, pouting lips framing a kiss.
“And guess who was with him in-between-times.” said Jessica. Her eyes filled with tears. She took a step towards the captain.