The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart

on the counter. To her surprise, the house was spic and span. Then she caught sight of the shepherd’s pie and lifted the note with a tired smile. How sweet of Mummy to have taken all this trouble when she had so much to cope with before Brad’s arrival. And, despite her sadness at leaving Strathaird, she recognized how good it felt to be in a place entirely her own once more. Living at the castle with Mummy and Genny had been fine, but there was something to be said about opening your own front door and knowing you were home.

      The phone rang and she picked up.

      “Hello, darling.” Charlotte’s mouth curved as her daughter’s voice poured down the line in an excited, thirteen-year-old rush.

      “Yes, of course you can sleep over, darling. But don’t be a nuisance to Mrs. Morison. Give them my love.”

      Charlotte hung up, glad Genny had new friends. She’d been so alone and shy when they’d first returned to the island after John’s accident. Making the change from London hadn’t been easy. The other children had not willingly accepted her, and of course her limp hadn’t helped.

      She switched on the kettle, absently inserted the pie in the oven, and shoved the recurring guilt over the night when she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Genny had paid the price, her leg crushed in the twisted metal. The accident had left her with a serious limp that Charlotte prayed would diminish with time. She quickly shifted her thoughts back to the present before remorse engulfed her and reflected on all that had happened in the past few months. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.

      Of course, it was unrealistic to believe that life would go on forever as it always had. Brad and his soon-to-be wife, Sylvia, could hardly be expected to put up with the inconveniences that were a part of Strathaird, she acknowledged, taking a chipped Winnie the Pooh mug off the hook above the sink and opening the tea tin. It was ironic, she reflected, that she, who so desperately longed for change in her personal life, could not bear the thought of seeing Strathaird transformed even a little. Which was why she’d left. She was only half a mile up the road, she realized, but mentally she was gone. Strathaird, with its draughts, the lift that always got stuck and the broken step leading down to the lawn that for some reason never got repaired, was a part of her past. But for all her life, it had represented home.

      She dangled the mug carelessly, engulfed by sudden nostalgia, then stopped short, remembering the mammoth-size crates filled with gym equipment that had been delivered three days ago, now looming ominously in the Great Hall. Moving out was definitely the right thing to do, she realized with a shudder, picturing Sylvia, sleek and blond, mounted on the treadmill.

      Selecting a ginger snap from the dented biscuit tin, she set it beside the tea mug. The image of Brad’s smooth, sexy, sophisticated fiancée flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. A smart, highly organized, modern woman, she reflected, remembering the one time they’d briefly met, two years ago, long before there was any talk of marriage. Pouring boiling water into the mug, she bit dismally into the cookie, feeling suddenly dowdy and drab. The woman probably had a color-coded closet. Her bags full of designer outfits were probably already carefully packed for her stay on Skye—or would Prada and Calvin Klein remain stashed in her pristine Manhattan apartment?

      Not that she cared.

      Charlotte straightened her drooping shoulders and sipped her tea cautiously. Sylvia could look as good as she liked, and she wished Brad very happy. After all, the woman was obviously the perfect choice for him: neat, orderly, efficient, the ideal companion for a man with all his responsibilities.

      The acrid scent of burning food made her swivel toward the oven, the shepherd’s pie that she’d forgotten a sharp reminder of just how absentminded and unorganized she could be. Sylvia, she reflected somberly, probably never did silly things like leave the oven on. Then, hoisting a slender hip up onto the counter, she grinned as she imagined Sylvia’s apartment; probably somewhere in the upper east sixties, the perfect address, très slick, Italian furniture—modern, of course—a very clean, minimalist look, all ecru and beige with touches of chrome. Not a thing out of place.

      A crack of laughter broke the silence as she slipped on a pair of charred oven gloves, opened the oven door and pictured Brad and the twins in this hypothetical home. She grimaced at the burned crust, glanced despondently at the oven’s too-high setting and pulled herself up guiltily. She had no business criticizing Sylvia, who from all accounts was delightful and who adored Rick and Todd, Brad’s half brothers whom he’d taken in eight years ago when their parents died tragically in a plane crash. What right had she to judge someone who, according to general opinion, was the perfect wife for him?

      Charlotte gazed down at the pie, burned to a crisp, whose destination was the rubbish bin. She decided to give her mother a thank-you call before she went to bed, although she wouldn’t mention the burning bit. Mummy was a brick. It was so decent of her to have finished the cleanup, which she’d been dreading returning to.

      Dumping the pie temporarily in the sink, she took her tea to the old wooden table and sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs with a thud, the day’s emotions and the long drive finally catching up with her. She jiggled the stool warily. Perhaps Mummy was right and she should invest in some new furniture on the next trip into Glasgow. But she hated crowds and shops and people and decisions—even minor ones such as choosing chairs or curtains seemed insurmountable right now. And that went for clothes too, an issue her mother brought up constantly. Why she should care what she looked like here on Skye was beyond her. After all, there were only the sheep and now Armand de la Vallière to see her—and Armand, though very fashion-conscious, was gay, so he didn’t really count.

      Her mind wandered back to Brad wondering how he truly felt about inheriting Strathaird. She swung her foot absently, remembering their talks of old. It had been a while since they’d sat down for a long cozy chat. God knows, in the dark bleak days when she and John leaped from one argument into another, knowing he was a phone call away had been a lifesaver. But since the accident, their conversations had somehow fizzled out. She had felt guilty talking to him for so long and so often without a specific reason. Before John’s injury, there had always been a motive. She’d poured out some of her pain. And although she’d rarely taken his advice, it had helped. But since the accident, any talk had been businesslike and to the point. Oh well, Charlotte sighed, it was probably best. They each had their lives to live.

      She rose briskly and brushed her hair away from her face, considering whether Brad fully realized all that inheriting Strathaird implied—the people, the everyday worries, the plans and intricacies? Or did he think he could run it like he ran Harcourts, the multimillion-dollar porcelain and upscale decorating enterprise he’d inherited from his grandfather? She refilled her cup, sipped absently. “Hell’s bells,” she swore crossly when she burned her tongue and the tea spilled, dirtying her T-shirt. This was definitely not her day, she reflected grimly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And why was she so concerned about Brad, when she had more than enough on her own plate? Ridiculous! Brad was a big boy. He knew the place well, had been coming here since he was a child and could very well take care of himself. There was no reason for her to worry. Or was there? It was one thing to pop over for short visits to see his grandparents, flying in on a chopper, then wafting out again. But this was a different kettle of fish altogether, and she doubted whether even the eternally well-prepared Brad had the slightest inkling of all that would be expected of him as laird.

      A meow from the windowsill brought her out of her reverie. Hermione sat curled on the outside ledge, preening her whiskers and cleaning her soft tabby fur. Charlotte rose, opened the window and allowed the cat to pad daintily over the sink toward her basket by the stove. As she reached to close the window, a sudden movement caught her eye. She frowned, wondering if a sheep had wandered in from the fields. All at once she shivered, then pulled herself together, deciding she was even more tired than she’d realized. This was Skye, and there was no danger here. She turned and thoughtfully eyed the cat.

      “Where have you been?” she inquired, picking her up and stroking gently. “I’m glad to see you know your new way home. How do you like it?” She was reassured by a satisfied purr. “Good,” she murmured, letting the animal slip from her arms. “At least one of us is happy.”

      She