J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

Maddee

Taylor’s first thought was Bitch . Her second was Fine . It had worked. She did have her voice back.

She needed to get out of this room anyway, so she didn’t just sit and pout for the rest of the day. It would be good to have some company for dinner, at least. Provided they stayed on safe topics.

She gathered her sweater and headed downstairs.

Maddee was sitting in the drawing room, right where Taylor had left her yesterday. If she hadn’t actually seen her drive off after their aborted session, she would have assumed she’d never left. Her hair was still skinned back from her face. She was reading a magazine. Taylor caught the cover as she turned the page-the glossy Hello! So the woman wasn’t above a little gossip.

Taylor cleared her throat and Maddee jumped.

“Wow, you’re quiet. Hey, I’m so glad you came down.” She put the magazine on the couch and came to Taylor. “I’m so sorry. I thought, well, you read the note. You know what I thought. No chance it helped?”

She looked genuinely remorseful and hopeful at the same time. Taylor forgave her. She was just trying to help.

“Yes. It did. I don’t condone what you said, that really hurt. But I can talk. So I guess in one way I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“What about some tea?”

Taylor saw that the ubiquitous tea cart was sitting against the wall. She shook her head, she was getting sick of tea.

“What about a little whisky, then? That might help things along.”

She shook her head, vehemently. She hated whisky. But some hair of the dog wouldn’t go amiss. Her head was pounding, and it wasn’t from the aftereffects of the shooting.

“I’ll have some, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to drink alone, though. What will you have?”

There was a small bar off to the right of the tea cart that Taylor hadn’t noticed before. Maddee bustled up to it, picked out a decanter and poured some amber liquid into a cut-crystal glass. The scent of… Good grief, that was Jack Daniel’s. Her stomach turned. Ugh.

Taylor picked through the other decanters until she found one that was red. She took the stopper out and sniffed. Yes, the vintage port. She poured some for herself.

They sat opposite one another on the sofa, clinked glasses and drank.

Maddee took a slow sip, savoring, then, with a wink at Taylor, tossed the rest of the drink back.

“What the hell, right? We’re stuck here for a bit, and I’m not driving. Roland might get lucky-if he’s a good boy. What do you say, Taylor. Shall we tie one on?”

She went to the bar and poured herself a bigger shot this time, mixed in some Coke, dropped in a couple of square ice cubes.

Taylor debated for a second. It wouldn’t take much to get her back over the edge. But a beer wouldn’t hurt.

She set the wine down on the table and rummaged in the small refrigerator under the bar until she found a Heineken.

“Oh, no. Not that swill. You need to drink a real beer.” Maddee dipped down and looked in the fridge, pulled out a Tennant’s lager.

Maddee handed her the bottle, then turned to the bar and found a glass. She held up it critically to the light, then apparently decided it would do. She took the Tennant’s back from Taylor and poured it into the glass ceremoniously.

“We are in a castle. Drinking out of the bottle is a bit gauche, don’t you think?”

Taylor smiled and nodded. She’d had Tennant’s before. She liked it well enough. She took the proffered glass and took a sip. They settled into the chairs.

Maddee turned out to be good fun. She regaled Taylor with stories, tidbits about the estate, about Memphis and his foibles, of which there were many, and gossip about the servants. She knew everyone, it seemed. She assiduously avoided the topic of Evan, which suited Taylor just fine.

Trixie came for them at seven, to announce that dinner was ready, and found them both quite tipsy. They made their way up the stairs to the second dining room. Taylor sat heavily at the table. She was suddenly feeling the beer, was light-headed and silly. Her hands moved clumsily as they tried to secure her napkin.

Dinner was a somewhat simple affair, with only soup, Highland steaks, carrots, peas and a side of boiled potatoes, but Maddee insisted they have a bottle of champagne to toast their newfound friendship. The bell was rung, the serving girl sent off to the cellars. She returned five minutes later with a bottle of Dom Perignon, 1987. Taylor had to admit, there was something nice about having a massive wine cellar of excellent vintages at your disposal.

Maddee popped the cork and poured. She held the crystal flute high and slurred, “To friends.”

“To Scotland,” Taylor said.

They clinked glasses again, buddies, and tucked into dinner.

The food was good, a bit undersalted for Taylor’s taste tonight, but she guessed that had to do with her throat being sore. Three bites into the steak, her stomach started to get upset. She set her fork down and licked her lips. Surely she wasn’t going to get sick. She hadn’t had that much to drink.

It was quickly apparent that she was most definitely wrong.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Though drunk, Maddee’s face creased in concern.

“Over there, through the cream-colored door. Do you need me?”

Taylor shook her head and bolted for the door. There was a long hall that ended in a bath. Thanking whichever earl had decided to install modern plumbing, she ran down the hall and made it just in time.

She vomited up all the drink and food. Even had some dry heaves for good measure. That wasn’t going to help her throat.

After fifteen minutes, she cleaned herself up and was able to make her way back to the dining room. Maddee was still there, but her head was on the table, cradled in her arms.

She’d passed out before the pudding.

Good grief. Taylor made a note to check the alcohol content of the beer she’d had. Even after being sick, getting all the alcohol out of her system, she still felt woozy and unsteady on her feet.

There was a bit of a commotion from the hall, and with effort, Taylor turned her head toward the main dining room door. A stocky brown-haired man came through. He took in the scene, shaking his head.

“Och, Maddee, lassie, what have ye done?” He turned to Taylor. “Ye must be Memphis’s friend. I’m Roland MacDonald, Maddee’s husband. Ye’ll no be better off than she, I see.

Trixie,” he called. “Trixie!”

Trixie appeared through the same door.

Roland was smiling good-naturedly, though Taylor could tell he was annoyed. “These lassies have drank themselves to sleep. See to the lass there. I’ll get Maddee home.”

“Och, Miss Taylor, are you all right?” Trixie’s concern was nice. Taylor allowed herself to be led from the room. She heard Maddee come to a bit as she left.

“Hiya, honey,” she said to Roland, then started to laugh. She hardly sounded drunk, just exceptionally happy.

But Taylor definitely was intoxicated. Her feet weren’t moving the right way. She had to lean heavily on Trixie’s arm, and listen to the older woman muttering under her breath.

“Not right for women to act like that. What was she thinking?”

Taylor wished she could tell Trixie that she really hadn’t had much, just the beer and a few sips of champagne, not enough to be sick, for Christ’s sake, but she settled for an agreeable mmm-hmm and let herself be led into her rooms.

“Ye’ll be needing some ginger tea, that will help with the digestion. And the headache, I daresay. Sit ye down and let me call for it.”

Taylor needed some water, that’s what she needed. She weaved her way to the bar, found a liter bottle of Highland Springs, and brought it back to her chair. She couldn’t get the lid off. Her hands weren’t working right. Her head wasn’t working right either. Jesus, she was bleeding drunk.