Rosamunde Pilcher - September

She sighed in exasperation. That Lottie was a real nuisance, and no mistake, turning everybody's lives upside down. She settled herself once more with her supper tray on her lap, but the chicken had cooled and lost its tastiness, and even the Scottish programme could not claim her attention.

Once more the telephone rang. Once more she set aside the tray and got up to answer the call. The man from Faults told her that the Balnaid number did not seem to be ringing out, but that an engineer would be around to see to it tomorrow morning.

Edie thanked him. Nothing more could be done. She picked up her supper tray and carried it through to the kitchen. Scraping the remains on her plate into the rubbish bin, she washed up the few bits and pieces and stacked them on the draining-board, all the time trying to work out where on earth her sad, half-witted cousin could have got to.

Archie Balmerino, bathed, shaved, groomed, dressed in his evening clothes, and, given a kiss of approval by his wife, left Isobel at her dressing-table, doing something complicated to her eyelashes, and emerged onto the landing from their bedroom.

For a moment he paused, listening for other signs of activity, but nobody but himself appeared to be about, and so he set off down the stairs, one step at a time, with a hand on the bannister rail. All through the day, each occupant of Croy had been hard at it, with jobs allotted and tasks to be accomplished. Which was just as well, for there had been a hell of a lot to do. Now the house was ready, dressed for the party, a stage set for action, awaiting the raising of the curtain, the entrance of the dramatis personae.

He was the first. At the turn of the stair he paused, to stand, admiring with some satisfaction, the scene below him. The great entrance hall, cleared and tidied of all its normal day-to-day clobber, presented a face both impressive and welcoming. In the huge fireplace, with its carved overmantel, logs flamed, and the table that stood in the centre of the worn Turkey rug reflected, in its highly polished surface, the considerable arrangement of white chrysanthemums and scarlet rose-hip berries which Isobel had concocted sometime during the course of the afternoon.

Croy dressed for entertaining. An excitement in the air, a promise of pleasures to come. For once austerity and necessary economies had been tossed overboard, and the old house could be sensed revelling in the indulgence of rare extravagance.

He thought of other evenings. His own twenty-first; and the evening when he and Isobel had celebrated their engagement. Birthdays, Christmases, hunt balls, his parents' silver wedding…

And then, frowning at himself, he shut the memories away. Nostalgia was his greatest weakness. One could look back forever, but looking back was an old person's ploy and he was not old. He was not yet fifty. Croy was his and yet not his. It had come to him, through his father and his grandfather, to hold in trust for Hamish. And the strength of a chain was the strength of its weakest link.

He himself. The horrors of Northern Ireland would remain with him until the day he died, but the haunting ghosts and dreams had finally been laid to rest, and with them disposed of, he knew that there were no longer excuses to be made to himself. The time had come to stop vacillating and start constructing some practical plans for his inheritance and his family and their future. He had marked time for too long, and there were no more years to be wasted. He wasn't quite sure what he would do, but he would do something. Borrow money and start that factory that Pandora thought such a brilliant idea. Or grow soft fruit,, raspberries and strawberries, on a huge commercial scale. Or go in for fish-farming. There were opportunities and possibilities all about him. All he had to do was make up his mind and go for it.

Go for it. The words had a heartening ring to them. He knew again some of his old, youthful confidence. Knew that the worst was over, and nothing could ever be quite so bad again.

He went on, down the stairs, into the dining-room. He and Pandora had laid the table together, just the way it had always been arranged for important occasions, when Harris was in charge, and pleased to instruct the youthful Blairs on correct and time-honoured procedure. It had taken them most of the afternoon, with Archie polishing up the bubble-thin wineglasses, and Pandora folding the starched white napkins into mitres, each tipped with the embroidered coronet and the letter B.

Now he observed, with a critical eye, their work. The effect was splendid. The four heavy silver candlesticks marched down the centre of the table, and firelight shone and sparkled from gleaming silver and glass, for here, as well, the logs flamed, and Jeff Howland had been given the job of filling all the wood-baskets. The scent of dry and crackling pine was warm and spicy. Archie walked the length of the room, checking on the placement, straightening a fork, altering, very slightly, the position of a salt-cellar. Satisfied, he went on into the kitchen.

Here he found Agnes Cooper, up from the village for the evening. Agnes normally came to work in her track suit and a pair of trainers, but this evening she wore beneath her pinafore her best turquoise Crimplene dress, and she had had her hair done.

She was at the sink, dealing with the odd saucepan or two, but turned at his footstep.

"Agnes. Everything all right?"

"All under control. I've just got to keep my eye on the casserole, and put the wee bits of smoked trout onto the plates when Lady Balmerino says."

"It's good of you to come and help us."

"That's what I'm here for." She eyed him in some admiration. "I hope you don't mind my saying, but you're looking fantaastic."

"Oh, thank you, Agnes." He found himself a little embarrassed, and to cover his confusion, offered her a drink. "A glass of sherry. How would that be?"

Agnes was also a little taken abacki "Oh. Well. That would be very nice."

She reached for a towel and dried her hands. Archie found a glass, and the bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream. He poured her a generous tot. "Here you are…"

"Thanks a lot, Lord Balmerino…" She raised the glass in a convivial fashion, saying, "Here's to having a good time," and then took a ladylike sip, folding her lips appreciatively around the rich taste. "Sherry's lovely," she said. "Like I say, it always gives you a beautiful glow."

He left her and went back, through the dining-room, across the hall, and into the drawing-room. Another fire, more flowers, soft lights, but no guests. His house party, it seemed, were taking their time. The drinks tray had been set out, and placed on top of the grand piano. He considered the situation. They would be on champagne for the remainder of the evening, but he needed a Scotch. He poured himself a drink, and then poured a second one, and, carrying the two glasses with a certain amount of care, painfully made his way upstairs again.

On the landing he came upon his daughter, who, for some reason, was wandering around in her underclothes.

"Lucilla!" he reproached her.

But she was more concerned over his appearance than her own.

"Goodness, Dad, you look gorgeous. Really romantic and distinguished. The Lord Balmerino in full fig. Are those new trousers? They're heaven. 1 wouldn't mind a pair of those. And Grandpa's old smoking jacket. Quite perfect." She put her naked arms around his neck and pressed a kiss on his newly shaved cheek. "And you smell delicious as well. All sleek and barbered and yummy. Who are the drinks for?"

"I thought I'd better make sure that Pandora's awake. Why haven't you got any clothes on?"

"Just on my way to borrow a petticoat from Mum. My new dress is a bit flimsy."

"You'd better get a move on, It's twenty-five past eight."