Copyright

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Copyright © Val McDermid 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Cover photographs © Sandra Cunningham/Arcangel Images (grass); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN 9780007504299

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007504282

Version 2014-08-09

Dedication

To Joanna Steven, constant reader, constant friend, who is indirectly responsible for introducing me to the delights of the Piddle Valley.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

In conversation with Val McDermid

Val McDermid on Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Val McDermid

About the Publisher

1

It was a source of constant disappointment to Catherine Morland that her life did not more closely resemble her books. Or rather, that the books in which she found its likeness were so unexciting. Plenty of novels were set in small country villages and towns like the Dorset hamlet where she lived. Admittedly, they didn’t all have such ridiculous names as the ones in the Piddle Valley where her father’s group of parishes was centred. It would have been hard to make credible a romantic fiction set in Farleigh Piddle, Middle Piddle, Nether Piddle and Piddle Dummer. But in every other respect, books about country life were just like home, only duller, if that were possible. The books that made her heart beat faster were never set anywhere she had ever been.

Cat, as she preferred to be known – on the basis that nobody should emerge from their teens with the name their parents had chosen – had been disappointed by her life for as long as she could remember. Her family were, in her eyes, deeply average and desperately dull. Her father ministered to five Church of England parishes with good-natured charm and a gift for sermons that were not quite entertaining but not quite boring either. Her mother had given up primary school teaching for the unpaid job of vicar’s wife, which she accomplished with few complaints and enough imagination to leaven its potential for dreariness. If she’d had an annual performance review, it would have read, ‘Annie Morland is a cheerful and hard-working team member who treats problems as challenges. Her hens are, for the third year in a row, the best layers in the Piddle Valley.’ Her parents seldom argued, never fought. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a single dark secret.

Even their home was a disappointment to Cat. Ten years before her birth, the Church of England had sold the draughty Victorian Gothic vicarage to an advertising executive from London and built a modern executive home with all the aesthetic appeal of a cornflakes packet for the vicar and his family. In spite of its relatively recent construction it had developed just as many draughts as its predecessor with none of the charm. It was not a backdrop that fuelled her imagination one whit.

Cat’s tomboy childhood had been a product of her desire to be the heroine of her own adventure. The stories she had first heard and later read for herself had fired her imagination and given her a fantasy world to play with. Her delight at having siblings – older brother James and younger sisters Sarah and Emily – was largely due to the roles she was able to assign them in her elaborate scenarios of battling monsters, rescuing the beleaguered and conquering distant planets.

For most children blessed – or cursed – with so vivid an imagination, the natural outlet is school. But Annie Morland had experienced what she called ‘the education factories’ at first hand and it had left her with a firm conviction that her children would best thrive under her own instruction. And so Cat and her siblings were denied exposure to a classroom and playground society that might have subjected them to life’s harsher realities. No one ever stole their dinner money or humiliated them in front of a roomful of their peers. Instead, they came under the constant scrutiny of a mother and father who wanted only the best for them.

James, blessed with natural wit and intelligence, would have succeeded whatever educational system had been imposed on him. And Cat, who cared more for narrative than knowledge, would probably have done no better wherever she’d been taught. They would certainly have become wiser in the ways of the world if they’d escaped their mother’s apron strings, but had that been the case, their story would be too commonplace to hold much interest for an ardent reader.

Their only significant contact with their peers happened in the small park that had been created from a water meadow donated to the village on the occasion of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. The gift had been made by an international agribusiness keen to catch the eye of the Prince of Wales; and besides, the field had no significant agricultural potential since it lay within an oxbow of the Piddle and so could not be aggregated into one of the prairies so beloved by commercial farming. The park contained a football pitch, a tennis court, an adventure playground and, thanks to an American couple who had moved into the Old Schoolhouse, a rudimentary baseball diamond. Whenever school was out, the field acted as a child magnet. Little was formally organised, but there were always pick-up games of one sort or another into which the junior Morlands were readily absorbed. Cat particularly enjoyed any sort of ball game that included rolling or sliding in the dirt.

Cat progressed from tomboy to teenager without showing any academic or sporting distinction whatsoever. Her enthusiasm seldom lasted long enough to produce any solid results. Often her mother despaired of ever managing to shoehorn a French irregular verb or a simple algebraic equation into her daughter’s brain. After a nature walk, Cat would rather sit round the fire telling ghost stories than discussing the flora and fauna they’d seen in the woods and fields. She made notes when her mother insisted, then promptly mislaid them. Whenever she could drag their lesson off track, she did. In a history lesson, Annie would suddenly realise that instead of learning about Tudor foreign policy, her daughter was making the case for Henry VIII’s much-married state.

Faced with constant failure, Annie tried to find an explanation. Perhaps Cat was one of those individuals whose right brain dominated, making them creative, musical and imaginative. ‘Does that also include being utterly incapable of focusing on anything for more than two minutes at a time?’ her husband asked with mild exasperation when she outlined this theory to him one night as they retired to bed. ‘Who knows if she’s musical or creative? She says she loves music but she never practises the piano. She says she loves stories but she never finishes any of the ones she starts writing. She can’t be bothered earning pocket money because there’s nothing she wants to spend it on. All she wants are novels, and she can get as many of those as she wants from our bookshelves and the library bus. Honestly, Annie, as far as I can tell, she inhabits an entirely separate universe from the rest of us. She’s a completely dozy article.’

‘And what kind of future is she going to have?’ Annie tried not to admit pessimism into any area of her life, but where her eldest daughter was concerned, it was hard not to let it sneak in through the slightest crack in her defences.

‘One that requires no qualifications other than a good heart,’ Richard Morland said, rolling over and punching his pillow into submission. ‘Look how good she is with the little ones. Catherine will be fine,’ he added with more confidence than his wife thought he had any right to. That, she supposed, was where your faith came in.

Cat meanwhile was sleeping the sleep of the unconcerned, lost in happy dreams of adventure and romance. The details of her future never disturbed her interior life. She was serenely convinced that she would be a heroine. In her mind, all her life had been a preparation for that role. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be obstacles. Anybody who knew anything about adventures knew there would be stumbling blocks aplenty along the way to true love and happiness. Their families would be at war or her beloved would turn out to be a vampire or they would be separated by an ocean or an apparently terminal illness. But she would triumph and conquer every barrier to a satisfactory ending.

The only problem was how these exploits were going to get started. Years of ranging through the back gardens and living rooms of Piddle Wallop under cover of childish games and pastimes had convinced her she knew all there was to know of her neighbours. Of course, she was entirely mistaken in this assumption, but her blissful conviction was unlikely to be overturned while she paid more attention to the inside of her head than the secrets of those who surrounded her. As far as Cat was concerned, she knew nobody who was likely to provoke any sort of adventure. If she was going to embark on an escapade, she would first have to escape the narrow confines of the Piddle Valley. And she couldn’t see how she was ever going to manage that.

She was on the brink of despair when the impossible happened. In one brief moment, her prospects were transformed. Like Cinderella, it appeared that Cat was going to have her chance after all. If not at Prince Charming, then at least at the twenty-first century equivalent of the ball.

Their neighbours, Susie and Andrew Allen, were the culture vultures of the Piddle Valley. Andrew was the shrewdest of angels. His eye for theatrical gold had led him to a tidy fortune through investment in the West End commercial stage. He had no particular love of the performing arts but he possessed the knack of knowing what would please the popular taste.

For years, he had spent the summer in Edinburgh for the Festival, cramming every day to capacity with Fringe performances and Book Festival events that might conceivably inspire a musical. But a minor heart attack had felled him in the spring and Susie had insisted that this year must be different. This year, she would accompany him and he would be permitted to attend a maximum of two shows a day. ‘Because there are plenty of ways to have a good time in Edinburgh without having to sit through a one-woman show of King Lear, or a comedian doing Jane Austen’s Men,’ she’d said to Annie Morland. For although Susie Allen had herself been an actress, she had a surprisingly low threshold of attention when it came to attending the theatre.

But in order for Susie to enjoy those good times, she needed a companion for the awkward occasions when Andrew insisted on seeing a show whose description alone made her shudder. She had a very clear idea of the style of companionship she wanted. Someone whose youth would reflect positively on her; someone whose unformed opinions would have insufficient grounding to contradict hers; and someone who would attract interesting company without ever dominating it.

This was not how Susie expressed the matter either to herself or to the Morlands. And thus Cat was to be found one morning at the beginning of August packing her bag for a month in the Athens of the North, excited and delighted in equal measure.

2

No golden coach with white horses was laid on to transport Cat to Edinburgh. Instead, she faced the prospect of spending eight hours confined in the back seat of Susie and Andrew Allen’s Volvo estate. But Cat was convinced she’d be fine, even though she’d never been further than Bristol in the Morlands’ ancient people carrier. In the car, she’d be able to sleep and to read, those two essential components of her life.

There was no elaborate leave-taking of her parents. It was as if they had exhausted their potential for making a fuss of departing children when James had left four years before for Oxford. Cat had to admit to a twinge of disappointment at the apparent indifference of her family to her imminent absence. True, her mother gave her a smothering hug but it was followed by a brusque reminder to take her vitamins every morning. ‘And don’t forget you’re on a budget. Don’t blow the lot in the first few days. What you’ve got has to last you a month. You can’t turn to the bank of mum and dad if you run out of cash,’ she’d added sternly. Annie displayed not a sign of concern about what dangers might lurk on the streets of Edinburgh, in spite of having read the crime novels of both Ian Rankin and Kate Atkinson.

Hoping for something a little more affectionate or apprehensive, Cat turned to her sisters. ‘I’ll text you when I get there,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be on Facebook and Twitter big time.’

Sarah shrugged, either from envy or indifference. ‘Whatever,’ she mumbled.

‘I’ll post photos too.’

Emily looked away, apparently fascinated by the contrail left by a fighter jet. ‘If you like.’

Cat gave her father a look of appeal, hoping he at least would display some sign of dreading her departure. He slung a companionable arm round her shoulders and drew her away from the driveway towards the ramshackle garage where he indulged his woodworking hobby. ‘I’ve got a little something for you,’ he said.

Fearing another of his wooden trinket boxes, Cat let herself be led out of the sight of her mother and sisters. Instead, her father dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced a pair of crumpled twenty-pound notes. ‘Here’s a little extra spends for you.’ He put the money in her palm and folded her fingers over it.

‘Have you been robbing the collection plate?’ she teased him.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There would have been more but the congregation’s been down this month. Listen, Cat. This is a great opportunity for you to see a bit of the world outside your window. Make the most of it.’

She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Thanks, Dad. You always get it. This is the start of an amazing adventure. All these years, I’ve been reading about exciting exploits and wild escapades, and now I’m actually going to have one of my own.’

Richard’s smile held a touch of sadness. ‘I remember reading Swallows and Amazons and the Famous Five books and thinking that was how my life was going to be. But it didn’t turn out like that, Cat. Don’t be disappointed if your trip to Edinburgh doesn’t play out like a Harry Potter story.’

Cat snorted. ‘Harry Potter? Even little kids don’t believe Harry Potter’s for real. You can’t long for something you know is totally fantasy. It’s got to feel real before you can believe it could happen to you.’

Her father rumpled her long curly hair. ‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I believe in the Bible, remember?’

‘Yeah, but you’re not one of those crazies who think the Old Testament is history. What I mean is, all that magic and sorcery – nobody could believe that. But when I read about vampires, it could be true. It could be the way things are beneath the surface. Everything fits. It makes sense in a way that Quidditch and silly spells don’t.’

Richard laughed. ‘Well, I hope you can have an adventure in Edinburgh without being bitten by a vampire.’

Cat rolled her eyes. ‘Such a cliché, Dad. That’s so not what the undead are all about.’

Before he could respond, they were interrupted by a car horn. ‘Your carriage awaits,’ Richard said, gently pushing her out of the garage ahead of him.

The journey north was uneventful. In deference to Cat’s taste in literature, Susie had downloaded an abridged audio book of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. For Cat, schooled only in contemporary vampire romance, it was a curious and unsettling experience. It reminded her of the first time she’d tasted an olive. It was unlike everything that had crossed her palate before; strange and not quite pleasant, yet gilded with the promise of sophistication. This was what she would like when she knew enough of the world, it seemed to say. It was a guarantee that was more than enough to keep her focused on the conflict between the Transylvanian count and Professor Van Helsing.

The book ended and Cat drifted into consciousness of the outside world just as they reached the outskirts of the city centre. She squirmed out of her slouch on the back seat and eagerly scanned the neighbourhood, taking in the imposing symmetry of the grey stone buildings that lined the streets, interspersed with orderly tree-lined gardens enclosed by spiked railings. Although the light was barely fading into dusk, in her imagination it was a dark and foggy evening, when this would become a thrillingly ominous landscape. She had come to Edinburgh to be excited, and even at first sight, the city was living up to her expectations.

Mr Allen liked to live well, and he always took comfortable lodgings for his August pilgrimage. This year, he’d rented a three-bedroomed flat towards the West End of Queen Street which came with that contemporary Edinburgh equivalent of the Holy Grail – a parking permit. By the time they’d found a parking space that matched it, then lugged their bags up several flights of stairs, none of them had appetite or energy for anything more than a good night’s sleep.

Cat’s room was the smallest of the three bedrooms, but she didn’t care. It was painted in shades of yellow and lemon and there was plenty of room for a single bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe and a generous armchair that was perfect for curling up and reading. Best of all, it looked out over Queen Street Gardens. Cat had no difficulty in ignoring the constant traffic below and enjoying the broad canopy of trees. Now twilight had taken hold – and to her astonishment, it was already almost eleven o’clock, when it would be properly dark in Dorset – she could see bats flitting among the leaves. She gave a little shiver of pleasure before she closed the curtains and slipped into sleep.

Breakfast with the Allens was an even more casual affair than at the Morlands. When Cat emerged from the shower, she found Mr Allen in his dressing gown reading the Independent by the window, a cup of coffee at his elbow. He glanced up and said, ‘The supermarket delivery came. There’s fruit and juice and bacon and eggs in the fridge. Croissants in the bread bin and cereals in the cupboard. Help yourself to whatever you fancy.’

Spoiled for choice, Cat poured a glass of mango juice while she considered her options. ‘Is Susie still sleeping?’ she asked.

Mr Allen grunted. ‘Probably.’ He made a performance of closing his newspaper and draining his cup. ‘I’ve got a ticket for a show at half past ten at the Pleasance. A sketch comedy group from Birmingham doing a musical version of Middlemarch.’

‘That doesn’t sound very likely.’

He stood up and stretched. ‘And that, my dear Cat, is precisely why it might just work.’

Cat realised she still had a lot to learn about contemporary theatre. With luck, she’d know much more by the end of her four weeks in Edinburgh. ‘Are we coming with you?’

He chuckled. ‘God, no. Susie won’t venture anywhere near a cultural event until she’s kitted herself out in this season’s wardrobe. You two are destined for the shops this morning. I hope you’re feeling strong.’

At the time, she’d thought he was exaggerating, as she knew men are inclined to do on the subject of women and shopping. But by the fifth shop, the fifth pile of clothes, the fifth changing room, Cat was beginning to feel amazement at Mr Allen’s level of tolerance. Admittedly, she’d had little opportunity to observe married life at close quarters, apart from that of her parents. But although she didn’t like herself for the thought, Cat reckoned she had somehow previously missed the realisation that Susie Allen was the most empty-headed woman she’d ever spent time with. What was bewildering about this discovery was that Mr Allen was definitely neither empty-headed nor obsessed with how he looked. It was puzzling. All they seemed to share was curiosity. But while Mr Allen’s curiosity was aimed at finding new wonders to bring to the public’s attention, Susie Allen seemed interested only in spotting famous faces among the crowds that thronged the shops and the streets of Edinburgh.

‘Isn’t that the little Scottish woman who’s always on the News Quiz? Oh, and surely that’s Margaret Atwood over there, trying on hats? Oh look, it’s that rugby player with the big thighs.’ Such was the level of Susie’s discourse.

Her one saving grace, at least to a teenager, was her generosity. While she lavished a new wardrobe on herself, Susie was not slow to treat Cat to similar delights. Cat was not by nature greedy, but there was never much to spare in the Morland family budget for the vanity of fashion over practicality. Although Cat knew it was generosity enough to bring her on this trip and that her parents would disapprove of her accepting what they’d regard as unnecessary charity, she couldn’t help but be seduced by the stylish trifles Susie thought her due. Even so, by mid-afternoon, Cat was weary of retail therapy and longing to plunge into some cultural life.

Her prayers were answered when they returned to the flat to find Mr Allen sitting by the window with a cup of tea and his iPad. ‘I have tickets for you both for a comedy show this evening at the Assembly Rooms,’ he announced without stirring. ‘I’ve been invited to a whisky tasting, so I’ll meet you in the bar after the show.’

Cat retreated to her room, where she spread her new clothes on the bed and photographed each item with her phone. She posted her favourite shot – a camisole cunningly dyed in gradations of colour from fuchsia to pearly pink – on her Facebook page then sent the others to her sisters. She texted her parents to say she’d spent the day walking around with Susie and they’d be going out to see a show in the evening. Instinctively, she knew what not to tell her parents. Sarah and Emily wouldn’t give her away. Not because they were intent on keeping her confidences, but rather because their annoyance at what they were missing out on would manifest itself in blaming their parents.

The pavement under the triple-arched portico of the Assembly Rooms was busy with people milling around, eyes darting all over the place, eager to spot acquaintances or those they would like to become acquainted with. Posters plastered every surface, over-excited fonts trumpeting the attractions within. Everything clamoured for Cat’s attention and she clung nervously to Susie’s arm as they pushed through the crowds to get inside.

The scrum of people seemed to grow thicker the further they penetrated the building. Mr Allen had spoken of the grace and elegance of the interior, explaining how it had been restored to its eighteenth-century glory. ‘They’ve kept the perfect proportions and returned it to its original style of decoration, right down to the chandeliers and the gold leaf on the ceiling roses,’ he’d told them over their early dinner. Cat had been eager to see it for herself, but it was too crowded to form any sense of how it looked. In between the heads and the hoardings she could catch odd glimpses here and there, but it formed a bewildering kaleidoscope of images. The sole impression she had was of hundreds of people determined to see and be seen on their way to and from an assortment of performances.

‘I know where we’re going.’ Susie had to raise her voice to be heard in the throng. She half-led, half-dragged Cat through the crowd until they finally reached their destination. Susie handed over their tickets and they were admitted to the auditorium.

This was not Cat’s initiation into live performance. She’d regularly attended performances in the village hall and even, occasionally, at the Arts Centre in Dorchester. She knew what to expect. Rows of seats, a soft mumble of conversation, a curtained proscenium arch.

Instead, she was thrust into a hot humid mass of bodies that filled the space around a small raised dais at one end of the packed room. Through the gloom, she could see some chairs, but they were all taken. What remained was standing room only. Standing room so tightly packed that Cat was convinced if she passed out, nobody would know until they all began to file out and she crumpled to the floor.

‘It’s a bit hot,’ she protested.

‘You won’t notice when the show begins,’ Susie assured her.

Because Susie had taken so long to get ready, they were only just in time. A skinny young man with a jack-in-the-box spring in his step bounced on to the stage, his hair a wild shock of blond and blue that matched his T-shirt. He dived straight in with a barbed attack on his arrival in Edinburgh, his West Midlands delivery so fast and so heavily accented that Cat could barely make out one line in three.

The audience seemed to fare better, following the performance well enough to cheer, laugh and heckle in equal measure. It was a novel experience for Cat, and in spite of her discomfort, she found herself caught up in the atmosphere, clapping and laughing regardless of whether she’d got a particular joke.

Eventually the show came to an end, with whoops and cheers signalling that it had been more of a success than not. The one good thing about being so far back was that they were able to make a relatively quick getaway. It was almost dizzying to emerge into the relative airiness of the foyer after the closeness of the event. ‘The bar,’ Susie said, immediately dragging her away from the direction of the street and deeper into the bowels of the building. ‘I’m gagging for a drink.’

The bar was no less crowded. People stood three deep waiting to be served. Susie groaned and glanced at her watch. ‘Andrew will be here any minute; he can do the donkey work for us. Come on, let’s find a seat, my feet are killing me.’ Cat wasn’t surprised. Even a teenager would have had more sense than to go out for the evening in the ridiculous shoes Susie had bought that morning.

Finding a seat didn’t seem a likely prospect to Cat, but Susie was undaunted by the crowds. She spied a table occupied by a group of young people who were clearly together, bunched around wine bottles and glasses. Susie marched straight up to the table and plonked herself on the end of the banquette. ‘Squeeze up, darlings,’ she said, waving her hands in a shooing motion.

Despite their anarchic appearance, this was evidently a group of nicely brought-up students. They obediently squashed closer together, creating just enough space for Susie and a sliver of seat for Cat. But politeness didn’t extend to including the pair in their conversation. Cat felt invisible and unattractive. All at once it dawned on her that she had never been in a crowded place where she didn’t know most of the other people present. It was simultaneously thrilling and unnerving. The potential for romance or danger was all around her; it was time to embrace the unfamiliar, not shrink from it.

She turned to share her insight with Susie, who was scouring the room with a pout on her face. ‘Unbelievable. I emailed and Facebooked at least a dozen of my best friends to say we’d be here tonight and there’s not a single one of them to be seen. I wanted you to meet the Elliots, they’ve got a son around your age. And the Wintersons, their twin girls must be off to university at the end of the summer. But no. Not a soul in sight.’

Cat felt the bubble of excitement burst within her, pricked by Susie’s discontent. But before she could say anything, Mr Allen appeared, pushing his way through the press of bodies. ‘This is impossible,’ he said, breathing a cloud of whisky fumes over them both. ‘There’s no pleasure in this. Let’s just walk home and have a drink there.’

‘But we’ll miss seeing everybody,’ Susie complained.

‘You can’t see anybody in this mob, never mind have a conversation. We’ll catch up with people soon enough. This is no introduction to Edinburgh life for poor Cat. Look at the girl, she’s practically melting in here.’

Cat was sure it had not been his intention, but Mr Allen’s words only served to make her feel more unappealing and unsophisticated. Flushed, she stood up and stepped aside to free Susie from the banquette. As she set off in the wake of the Allens, one of the young men at the table put a hand on her wrist. She startled away from him and he winked at her. ‘Cool top,’ he said.

She took off after Susie before she lost sight of her flamboyant peasant dress, even more hot and bothered than before. But as they emerged into the chill of the evening, she realised that brief final contact had made the entire evening worthwhile. Edinburgh really was a city of infinite promise.

3

Cat was surprised by how quickly her Edinburgh days fell into a routine. In the morning after a late breakfast, she and Susie used the excuse of art to get out of the flat and explore. It was true that they saw many paintings, sculptures and obscure installations, but more than that, they saw the city, from the regimented grid of streets of the Georgian New Town to the multi-layered maze of vennels and closes that formed the old town where Burke and Hare had plied their trade. Cat had googled the dark side of Edinburgh history, and it was she rather than Susie who enlivened their prowls through the city with tales of body-snatchers and Janus-faced citizens who held their sinister secrets behind the mask of respectability. On more than one occasion, Susie put her hands over her ears and laughed nervously, ‘Stop, Cat, you’re scaring me.’ And that was before she even touched on the vampire lore she’d picked up on the Internet. Cat was in her element, seeing potential for terror and adventure around every twist and turn of the narrow streets.

Of course, neither art nor sightseeing was sufficient to hold Susie’s attention for long. Somehow, their routes around the city centre invariably washed them up against some fascinating shop window like flotsam on the shore at Cramond. Cat understood it was the price she had to pay for the delight of exploring so exotic a city. That and Susie’s constant complaint that she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t bumping into anyone they knew from their London days.

On the fifth day, they returned footsore to the flat to find Mr Allen laying the table with a selection of cheeses, meats and vegetable delicacies, several of which Cat was depressingly unable to identify. ‘I was passing Valvona and Crolla on my way back from a rather promising show based on the songs of Chris de Burgh, and I thought I would treat us to lunch,’ was his greeting. He distributed plates and cutlery then opened a bottle of pale white wine with a corkscrew that had the look of something that had won a design award. ‘Oh, and this came by hand while we were out.’ He nodded at a thick piece of card tucked into the flap of the sort of heavy white envelope that signals senders with a good opinion of themselves.

Curious, Susie picked it up and flipped the card over. ‘Oh, Andrew, the Highland Ball! I’ve always wanted to go. It’s been one of my dreams for as long as I can remember.’

He looked mildly surprised. ‘You never said. They invite me every year. But I’m generally here on my own so I’ve given it a miss.’

‘We are going to go, though? Aren’t we?’ Susie reminded Cat of her younger sister Emily faced with the prospect of the latest Pixar animation. She’d been like that once, but she preferred to treat her enthusiasms in a more mature way these days. Even her mother would have struggled to spot just how excited she’d been by the latest Twilight movie, for example. ‘Oh, Andrew, please say we’re going.’ She turned to Cat. ‘The Highland Ball is the social event of the Edinburgh season. Absolutely A-list, Cat. The perfect place for you to find a real catch.’

Cat felt the tide of colour rising from her chest up her neck to her cheeks. Mr Allen shook his head and gave his wife an indulgent smile as he sat down at the table. ‘Leave Cat alone. Not everyone goes to the Highland Ball to find a man, Susie. But if it matters to you that much, we’ll go. And we can take Cat.’ He chuckled. ‘The Highland Ball. That’ll be an experience for you. All those men in kilts. You do know how to do Scottish country dancing?’

Susie subsided into a chair. ‘Don’t be silly, Andrew, where would Cat have learned Scottish country dancing? We’ll have to get her some lessons.’

‘Robbie Alexander’s wife runs a class specifically geared to the Highland Ball,’ he said. ‘She told me about it a couple of years ago. Why don’t you give her a ring and see if she can fit Cat in?’

And so that afternoon, Cat found herself on a bus to Morningside, where Fiona Alexander had commandeered the last available church hall in Edinburgh to impress the basics of Scottish country dancing on the novitiate. ‘Think of it as war conducted by other means,’ Mr Allen had said on her way out the door. It hadn’t exactly reassured Cat about what to expect.

She sidled in, hoping there would be enough people in the hall for her to pass unnoticed. Luck was not her friend, however. There were fewer than two dozen potential dancers in the hall, mostly gathered in clumps of four or five, the young men nudging each other and horsing around, the women rolling their eyes or texting or gossiping with heads close together. Two or three older couples had gravitated to the far end of the room, where a woman of indeterminate age in a tartan skirt and white blouse, hair tied back with a tartan ribbon, stood frowning at a portable CD player. Cat presumed she was Fiona Alexander. She leaned against the wall and waited for something to happen.

After a few minutes, Fiona clapped her hands for silence. The mutter of voices died away and she launched into her welcome speech, moving seamlessly on to a brief explanation of how the session would be run. ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners. We’re going to keep the same partners, and it’s generally easier if you work with someone you know already.’

To Cat’s dismay, almost everyone seemed to be already paired up. Two other girls, both of whom she considered much prettier, and two young men were the odd ones out. They gravitated towards each other, leaving her stranded and terrified that she was going to have to dance with Fiona.

She was saved by a young man thrusting open the double doors of the hall and skidding to a halt on the threshold, panting and dishevelled from running. He bowed low towards Fiona, his thick blond hair flopping forward over his forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, Fiona. I missed the bus and ran all the way from Bruntsfield. I think a bunch of old ladies thought I was a performance artist – they applauded me as I passed the coffee shop.’ He stood up crookedly, one hand pressed against his ribs.

Fiona gave him a look of mock disapproval. ‘Come in, Henry. At least you’re here now. Which is just as well because this young lady here—’ she gestured towards Cat ‘—is without a partner.’ She smiled at Cat. ‘My dear, I presume you’re Catherine Morland? Susie Allen phoned earlier. This unpunctual reprobate is Henry Tilney, who helps me out with my classes. Henry, meet Catherine.’

As he moved towards her, pushing his luxuriant honey-blond hair back from his brow, Cat had the chance properly to take stock of him. Henry was the right sort of tall – a shade under six feet, broad-shouldered but slim without being skinny, graceful rather than gawky. His eyebrows and lashes were much darker than his hair, and had it not been for his dark hazel eyes she might have suspected him of tinting them for effect. His forehead was broad and his cheekbones well defined on either side of a prominent nose that saved him from being too pretty for a man. His skin was pale and clear, unblemished by freckles. He didn’t have the confected good looks of a boy-band member but his face was compelling and memorable. Heroic, even, Cat allowed herself to think.

He dipped his head in greeting. ‘Nice to meet you, Catherine. I promise you, it’s not as hard as it looks. I’ll be gentle with you.’

When she looked back on that first meeting, Cat would wonder whether she should have been more wary of a man who began their acquaintance with such a blatant lie. For there was nothing gentle about what followed.

After an hour of being whirled and birled, of Gay Gordons and Dashing White Sergeants, of pas de basques and dos-à-dos, they broke for refreshments. Cat was uncomfortably aware that she was sweating like an ill-conditioned pony and that Henry seemed positively cool by comparison. She expected him to peel away from her at the first opportunity, to make a bee-line for one of the tall blondes with the far-back vowels and hair bands, but he told her to stay put while he fetched her a drink.

She collapsed gratefully on a bench till he returned with plastic tumblers of fizzy water. He sat down beside her, long legs in raspberry-coloured cords stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankle. ‘Phew,’ he sighed. ‘Fiona really does believe in putting us through our paces.’

‘Why are you here? You totally knew what you were doing, every step of the way.’

‘The Alexanders are neighbours of my father. Fiona mentioned that she was always short of competent men in her classes, so my father volunteered me. He likes to play the good neighbour. It stands him in good stead when he does something monstrous,’ he added, almost too softly for her to hear.

Mysterious bad behaviour was naturally meat and drink to Cat. Now she was even keener to find out more about her intriguing dance partner. ‘Well, I’m glad he did,’ she said. ‘This would be a nightmare if I was partnered with someone as clueless as I am.’

Henry gave her a wolfish grin, revealing small, sharp teeth. His eyes looked almost tawny in the afternoon light, like a lion stalking prey. ‘You’re welcome. But I’m failing in my Edinburgh duties,’ he said, straightening up and ticking off his questions on his fingers. ‘How long have you been in Edinburgh? Is this your first time? Do you prefer the Pleasance to the Assembly Rooms? What’s the best show you’ve seen so far? And have you eaten anywhere decent yet?’ He had a delicious accent; almost BBC, but with a hint of Scots in the vowels and the roll of the r.

Cat giggled. ‘Is that the checklist?’

‘Absolutely. So, have you been in Edinburgh long?’ He gave her a wicked look.

‘Almost a week,’ she replied, stifling another giggle.

‘Really? Wow, that’s amazing.’

‘Why are you amazed?’

He shrugged. ‘Somebody has to be. And are you an Edinburgh virgin? Is this your first time at the festival?’

‘It’s my first time north of the line between the Severn and the Trent,’ she confessed.

Now he looked genuinely amazed. ‘You’ve never been north before? How on earth have you managed that?’

Cat felt shame at her untravelled state. ‘I live in Dorset. We’ve never travelled much. My dad always says we’ve got everything on our doorstep – beaches, cliffs, woodland, green rolling hills. So there’s no need to go anywhere else.’

Henry’s mouth twitched, whether in a smile or a sneer she couldn’t tell. ‘Dorset, eh? Well, I can see the temptation to stay put. But you must admit, Edinburgh’s pretty good fun. Worth the trip, wouldn’t you say?’

Now she was on safer ground. ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful. And there’s so much going on, it makes me dizzy just thinking about it.’

‘And have you been to the Assembly Rooms?’

‘Our first night we went to a comedy show. God, but it was packed.’

Henry nodded. ‘Always is. Have you seen any theatre yet?’

‘We saw a wonderful play last night about coal mining. Dust. You should catch it if you can, it was very moving.’

‘I’ll add it to my list. What about music?’

Cat shook her head. ‘The friends I’m with don’t really have the same taste in music as I have. But I’ve got a whole list of writers I want to see at the Book Festival. Honestly, Henry, this is the most exciting time I’ve ever had.’

‘More exciting than Dorset?’ He was teasing, she could tell.

She laughed. ‘Almost.’

‘I had better work a bit harder, then. Otherwise I’m going to end up on your Facebook page as, “almost as exciting as Budleigh Salterton”.’

She gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘Budleigh’s in Devon, you ignorant boy. And what makes you think I’m going to mention you on Facebook?’

‘Because it’s what you girls say. “Went dancing in Morningside, partnered with weirdo in red trousers who doesn’t even know where Budleigh Salterton is. Duh!”’

She giggled. ‘No way.’

‘Here’s what you should say: “Mrs Alexander partnered me with the best dancer and conversationalist in the room. Ladies, check out the fabulous Henry Tilney.”’

Cat shook her head in pretended sorrow. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I confide everything to Facebook?’

He gave her an incredulous look. ‘You’re female and, I’m pretty sure, under twenty-one. If you don’t do Facebook, how are your sisters and your cousins and your best mates going to be provoked to teeth-gnashing jealousy of your trip to Edinburgh? How else will they know you’re having the time of your life while they’re doing whatever it is they do in Dorset? All you girls do it all the time – Facebook, Twitter. I have this theory. It’s why you’ve all suddenly got so good at writing novels. Chick lit and the serious stuff. It’s because of all the practice you get spinning yarns on your phones and iPads.’

‘You’re telling me that guys don’t do exactly the same thing?’

Henry nodded. ‘We do different stuff. We talk about sport or politics or who got impossibly drunk on Friday night. We don’t do the chit-chat about our lives the way you girls do. We talk about serious stuff. Plus we have better punctuation and grammar.’

Cat hooted with laughter. ‘Now you really are kidding. Here’s one thing that guys do much more than women – trolling. You are the evil that stalks the Internet, with your shouty capital letters and your sweary insults and your truly terrible mangling of the English language.’

Now he was laughing too, enjoying the effect of what she realised was a wind-up. ‘To be honest, I think the honours are pretty much divided between the sexes,’ he said. ‘Men are just as gossipy as women, and you girls can give as good as you get in the abuse stakes.’

Whatever Cat might have said in response was lost, as Fiona was shepherding them all back on to the floor.

‘On your feet, girl,’ Henry said. ‘There are willows to be stripped and eightsome reels to be beaten into submission.’

Cat threw herself into the dance with renewed energy, discovering that the basic steps had finally sunk in. By the end of the afternoon, she could go for several minutes without having to apologise for crushing Henry’s toes. When the final measures of the Canadian Barn Dance concluded and they collapsed on the bench again, she realised she’d had more fun with Henry than she’d ever had on a dance floor before.

‘That was such good fun,’ she said.

‘You’re all set for the Highland Ball now. I take it that’s what this is in aid of?’

Cat nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve been going your whole life?’

‘I’ve been a few times. But I’m not sure whether we’ll still be in Edinburgh by then.’

‘We?’

‘My family. My father gets a little stir-crazy in the city if he’s here too long.’

Before Cat could ask why a grown man’s schedule should be dictated by the preferences of his father, Susie Allen swept through the double doors in an elaborate multi-layered confection of muslins. ‘Cat, darling, over here,’ she called, as if her entrance hadn’t already earned the attention of the whole room. She continued towards them in a cloud of floral perfume. ‘I thought I’d better come and get you. Andrew’s got us an invitation to a preview of Jack Vettriano’s latest show this evening, and it’s over the bridge in some little town in Fife, can you believe it? So he’s outside in the car.’ All the while she was speaking, her eyes were raking Henry from crown to toe, making a mental catalogue of his attributes. She gave him a sultry look that Cat feared was meant to be seductive. ‘And is this your dance partner, Cat? Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

Although she knew she ought not to grudge sharing Henry with Susie, who was the only reason Cat was there in the first place, still she felt a twinge of resentment. ‘Susie, this is Henry Tilney. Henry, this is my friend and neighbour Susie Allen, who has very kindly brought me to Edinburgh.’

Susie extended a hand as if to be kissed. Instead, Henry jumped to his feet and shook it delicately. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, head cocked as if assessing her for the pot. ‘That’s a lovely frock, by the way. I love the way all the layers are cut on the bias so they cascade like a waterfall.’

Susie gave him a shrewd look. ‘Thank you. Are you in textiles yourself? A designer perhaps?’

He laughed delightedly. ‘God, no. I just have a sister, that’s all. Ellie likes to lecture me on the finer points of women’s fashions. She’s got her eye on a design course at the College of Art.’

Satisfied that he wasn’t a gay man in disguise, Susie tucked a hand under Cat’s arm. ‘Sounds like she’d be a perfect pal for you, Cat. I hate to drag you away when you two are just getting to know each other, but we’re on a tight schedule.’

Henry inclined his head politely. ‘It’s festival time. Everyone’s always running to catch up with themselves. No doubt I’ll see you around at the Book Festival. I usually grab a coffee there in the morning.’

‘’Kay,’ Cat said. She followed Susie to the car, completely oblivious to the ache in her feet and ankles.

Amazing. Awesome. Astonishing. Henry Tilney had seen her at her worst, red-faced, sweating and cursing. And still he seemed keen to see her again. That was some consolation for knowing she looked such a mess. Whatever their next encounter might be, she couldn’t look any worse.

4

Her complete failure to recall anything about Jack Vettriano’s latest collection of paintings was not something Cat was proud of. She’d always admired his work when she’d encountered it on cards and prints. It was the sort of art she could imagine practising herself one day. On any other occasion, she’d have been riveted to see the originals and she’d have snatched at the chance to talk to the artist himself. But Henry Tilney had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She’d even have been hard pressed to remember which town they’d been in, principally because she’d spent the entire journey on her phone researching Henry.

Her first port of call had been Facebook. Disappointingly, Henry didn’t share his information with people who weren’t his friends. And since they had no friends in common, there was nothing she could glean by a more circuitous route. Next she tried Google. There, she did find a Henry Tilney, but since this one was a much-decorated general who had made his name in the Falklands war before Cat had even been born, this obviously wasn’t her dance partner. Out of curiosity, she clicked on the ‘image’ button. Even allowing for the scale of the photo on the phone, the resemblance between General Tilney and her dance partner was so uncanny that the relationship between them was immediately obvious. Father and son, no question about it.

General Tilney had made his reputation on a night operation against the Argentinian ground forces. He’d been a lieutenant-colonel at the time, which Cat thought sounded pretty impressive. In spite of his rank, he’d led the sortie himself, single-handedly accounting for an improbable number of the enemy before finally effecting a single-handed rescue of one of his men who had been wounded and trapped behind enemy lines. ‘Almost superhuman,’ one newspaper cutting said. Clearly not a man you’d want to cross, which possibly explained Henry’s deference to his father’s wishes.

‘What have you found out about him?’ Susie asked from the front seat.

‘What? Who?’

Susie chuckled. ‘Your dance partner. No point in pretending, Cat. I know what you’re up to, tapping away on your phone. What have you found out about Henry Tilney?’

‘Nothing much. His dad’s a general.’

‘General Tilney?’ Mr Allen interrupted. ‘The Falklands hero?’

‘That’s what it says on Google.’

‘He owns Northanger Abbey,’ he said. ‘One of those medieval Borders abbeys. It got turned into a fortified house at some point. I remember a film company trying to rent it for some Gothic horror movie, but Tilney wouldn’t even take a meeting. I can’t imagine him being much of a dancer.’

‘Pay attention,’ his wife scolded. ‘It’s the son we’re interested in, not the General.’

Fortunately for Cat, who was mortified by Susie’s fascination with Henry as all teenagers are by adult interest in the objects of their attraction, they arrived at their destination.

On the return journey, Susie talked incessantly about the guest list, while Mr Allen managed to squeeze in a few comments on the paintings themselves. Left to herself, Cat hit on the brilliant notion of checking out Henry’s sister. What had he called her? Allie? No, Ellie, that was it. Back on Facebook, Cat searched for ‘Ellie Tilney’, but without success. She tried ‘Ellen’ but that didn’t help. She waited for her companions to pause for breath then asked, ‘Susie, what’s Ellie short for?’

‘I’m not sure. Eleanor?’

And so it was that Cat found herself face-to-face with Henry Tilney’s sister. Eleanor had the same thick blonde hair and brown eyes set in pale skin and a finer-boned version of the same features. Like her brother, not exactly beautiful, but striking. There were the usual photos of parties and dimly lit bars, Ellie mugging at the camera with an assortment of young men and women. Cat scrolled through the photos until she eventually came across one of Ellie and Henry leaning into each other at a sepulchral café table with espresso cups in front of them. Definitely the right Eleanor Tilney, then.

She clicked on the ‘about’ button and discovered Henry was indeed her brother. He was also a lawyer, an occupation that would have struck dread into the heart of most seventeen-year-old girls. Lawyer equalled boring, lawyer equalled know-all, lawyer equalled run for the hills. Except that Cat’s brother James had just been accepted as a trainee barrister in a set of chambers in Newcastle upon Tyne and she knew James equalled none of those things. So his profession did not quench her interest in Henry as it might have done with another girl.

Mining Eleanor’s Facebook page offered the information that she had another brother, Freddie, a captain in the army. But there were no other titbits about Henry. Still, at least now Cat knew he was respectable. And in spite of her longings for romance and adventure, deep in her heart she knew respectable was not something to despise. She gazed out at the gathering dusk, remembering the coolness of his hand against hers, the dancing laughter in his unusual eyes and the promised prospect of meeting at the Book Festival. Not to mention a Borders abbey. That was more than enough romance and adventure to be going on with.

The next morning found Cat suspiciously early at the breakfast table. She could barely contain her impatience while she waited for Susie to complete her morning preparations. Cat sat by the window, unable to concentrate on Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. She frowned at the clouds hanging low over the distant hills of Fife, wondering if she should read in them a portent of gloom to come.

But by the time Susie finally pronounced herself ready to set off for Charlotte Square Gardens and the tented village of the Book Festival, the clouds had scattered, bathing them in warm sunshine as they climbed the steep hill of Charlotte Street. This time, Cat was determined to subscribe to the pathetic fallacy. The sun shone; therefore only good things could happen to her.

The event for which they had tickets was not due to begin till noon, but Susie minded the lengthy wait as little as Cat did, for it gave her the opportunity to see and be seen. It also provided her with plenty of time to bemoan the fact that she still hadn’t run into any of the legion of friends and acquaintances she knew to be in the city. ‘Honestly, Cat,’ she complained, ‘a more paranoid person than me would think they were deliberately avoiding me. I’ve been tweeting my movements on a daily basis, even texting some of the girls, but somehow we keep missing each other. I really must make more of an effort, if only for your sake, darling.’

But Cat was paying scant attention to Susie. She’d managed to secure them a table with a clear view of the entrance. And if Henry was already listening to Janice Galloway reading or to a pair of historians debating the Arab Spring, he would be unable to leave without her spotting him. She was like a pointer, casting about in every direction for the faintest spoor of Henry Tilney.

Yet it was Susie’s desire that was the one to be satisfied. At the next table, a woman dressed in the Edinburgh cultural uniform of linen and cashmere had been constantly glancing across at them. She would peer for a moment, frown then look away, only to turn back a moment later, her expression uncertain. After a few minutes of this behaviour, she leaned across the table and spoke. ‘Excuse me interrupting,’ she said. ‘But are you by any chance Susan Armitage?’

Susie reared back in her seat, flabbergasted. ‘I was once,’ she said, as if caught out in a misdemeanour. ‘But I’ve been Susie Allen for years. I’m sorry, do I know you?’

The woman had lost her air of uncertainty. ‘I used to be Martha Collins. We used to sit next to each other in Speccy Barton’s French class.’

Susie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Little Martha Collins? Oh my God, I see it now. How amazing. What are you doing here? And what have you been up to all these years?’

The former Martha Collins picked up her coffee cup and moved to their table. ‘The short version? Married, one son, three daughters, widowed. I’m Martha Thorpe now. I’ve got a little business in interior design. We help people refurbish their period properties, that sort of thing.’

‘Gosh. You’ve had an eventful time of it. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve been very happily married to Andrew for a million years. He’s made his money investing in musical theatre.’ Susie allowed herself to preen for a moment.

‘And is this your daughter?’ Martha nodded at Cat.

Susie looked startled, then guilty. ‘Cat? No, not at all, no.’ A look of pain flickered in Susie’s eyes, gone almost before it could be named. ‘Andrew and I have no children. Cat’s a neighbour from Dorset. We’ve got a house there, it’s where we spend most of our time. London’s so crowded and dirty these days. Even in Holland Park.’

Martha’s eyebrows rose. ‘Holland Park. How lovely. We’re in Crouch End. Even though I have a lot of clients in Chelsea and Notting Hill, I wouldn’t be anywhere but North London. So lively. My girls love it there. Though I wouldn’t wish three teenage daughters on my worst enemy,’ she added with a laugh that sounded suspiciously forced to Cat’s ears. As Martha expanded upon the achievements of her own brood, it gradually dawned on Cat that a previously unsuspected disadvantage of being childless was the lack of weaponry one had against the tidal wave of a proud mother’s conversation. For once, Susie was rendered speechless because she had nothing to chip in with. Really, if the Thorpe children were half as gifted as their mother claimed, the only question in their future would be which of them would be Prime Minister. If Cat had not had her own lively interest in her surroundings to preserve her, she might have lost the will to live entirely.

Then, ‘Here come my dear girls,’ cried Martha, pointing at three fashionably dressed females who, arm in arm, were moving towards them along the wooden duckboards, the swagger of their passage forcing everyone else to detour on to the still-damp grass. They looked as if they’d popped out of the same mould, each having slightly less clean-cut lines than the previous sister. So the eldest had features that could almost be described as sharp, while the youngest still had a puppy plumpness that lacked such clear definition. All three had identical tawny hair and eyes of a blue that is sometimes described as icy but which Cat preferred to think of as Scandinavian, having watched too many subtitled TV detective serials.

The trio, who were giggling at some private joke, made a scant acknowledgement of their mother and pulled up more chairs. ‘Girls, this is my old school friend Susie Allen. Can you believe it’s over twenty-five years since we’ve seen each other?’ Martha’s tone was apologetic.

The eldest raised her eyebrows. ‘I bet you didn’t recognise her,’ she said to Susie.

‘Of course I did,’ Susie said.

Martha butted in. ‘Susie, this is Isabella—’

‘Bella,’ the eldest interrupted, rolling her eyes in a ‘pity me’ expression.

‘—and then Jessica, and last but not least, Claire. Girls, this is Cat – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your surname.’

‘Morland,’ Cat said.

‘Girls, this is Cat Morland from Dorset. She’s a neighbour of Susie’s, come to Edinburgh with Susie and her husband.’

Bella, who had looked bored up to that point suddenly perked up. ‘Morland? From Dorset? OMG, girls. Look at this.’ And she pointed dramatically at Cat.

Cat flushed. Was she so much of a country bumpkin that it was obvious on sight to these London sophisticates?

‘Oh God, you’re right,’ Jessica said. ‘I just thought we must have seen her out and about, but of course, that’s what it is.’

‘What are you girls on about?’ Martha asked.

‘Can’t you see it, Ma?’ Bella demanded. ‘She’s, like, his spitting image.’

‘Jamie Morland,’ Claire said wearily. Clearly her role in the trio was to clarify her sisters’ gnomic utterances. ‘Johnny’s friend from Oxford who came to stay at Easter. From Dorset.’

‘The one that Bella’s been losing sleep over,’ Jessica chipped in.

‘I so am not,’ her sister protested. ‘Can I help it if he totally likes me? I mean, if somebody keeps texting you, it’s really rude to not text them back, right?’

‘So, let me get this straight,’ Martha said. ‘Are you Jamie Morland’s sister?’

‘We call him James,’ Cat said. ‘He was at St John’s College.’

‘He’s our brother Johnny’s sidekick,’ Claire said. ‘And he’s very keen on Bella.’

This was news to Cat, who had thought until then that she and her brother were close. Obviously, when he was separated from his family, James had a very different life from the one apparent to those who thought they knew him. He had never mentioned Johnny Thorpe or his sisters round the family dinner table. Cat wondered why, since they seemed so fond of him.

‘Hey, Cat, let’s take a wander round and see who we can spot,’ Bella said, jumping up and pulling Cat to her feet. She linked arms with her as she’d done previously with her sisters, but shook her head briskly at Jessica and Claire when they made a move to join them. ‘Not now, brats. I need to get to know Cat.’

‘Get the inside track on Jamie, more like,’ Jess grumbled.

Ignoring her, Bella swept Cat along. Before she knew it, they were gossiping about the things that entertain young women of a certain age and type. It was all new to Cat, but as they strolled in the sunshine, she managed to appear as if she were entirely familiar with a conversational world that encompassed intimate gossip about people neither of them had ever met, current fashions and where the cool people were hanging out in Edinburgh. In short, a range of subjects that had no useful application whatsoever.

Luckily, Bella required little input from her companion when it came to conversation. She knew enough of the world to entertain both and Cat was sufficiently well brought up to provide the appropriate prompts. But eventually, even Bella ran out of steam. ‘What are you seeing today?’ Cat asked when it was clear she was required to pick up the baton of dialogue.

‘We’ve got the hot ticket of the day,’ Bella said. ‘The open-air adaptation of Ginny Blackstock’s Cupcakes to Die For at the Botanic Gardens.’

Cat squeaked with delight. ‘So have we.’

‘Wow. With your brother being Jamie and all, it’s like we’re totally meant to be bgfs,’ Bella whooped. ‘Oh, Cat, this is so going to be the best Edinburgh ever.’

5

Cat had convinced herself that in spite of Henry Tilney’s failure to appear at the Book Festival grounds, he would surely attend the dramatic adaptation of last year’s bestselling novel about love, zombies and patisserie, Cupcakes to Die For. Had they not touched on the subject of the fluency of women’s writing at Mrs Alexander’s dance class? Was this not the most sought-after ticket of the Fringe? And was not the Botanic Gardens the coolest of venues?

But again, she was disappointed. There was no sign of Henry among the milling audience at the al fresco performance, nor even anyone Cat could momentarily mistake for him. However, that evening there was some slight mitigation of her disappointment for now she had a friend to giggle and gossip with.

Bella had summoned Cat with an enthusiastic wave as soon as she had clapped eyes on her, and Cat had been glad to see her. With Bella, she could indulge her daydreams of Henry to the full. The very idea of discussing him with Susie Allen made the back of her neck turn chill with horror.

But before they could delve into the very depth of their respective affections for James Morland and Henry Tilney, the young women were obliged to watch the play, which, unusually, turned out to be as entertaining as its advance publicity had promised. Even the weather joined in the fun, bathing the audience in warm sunshine throughout. In a momentary lull, Cat looked around in vain for Henry and noticed Mr Allen muttering eagerly into his phone. She wondered whether this was to be his next venture in the West End. If so, it would surely add another zero to his bank balance, and on the advantageous side of the decimal point.

Once the final applause had died away, Bella and Cat escaped on their own to roam the gardens and strengthen those bonds of friendship they had started to weave earlier. ‘So, are you still at school?’ Bella asked.

‘I’ve never been at school.’

Bella’s eyes widened. ‘Wow, how did you get away with that?’

‘We were all home schooled. My mum thought it was better that way.’

‘Amazing. And Jamie got into Oxford. Your mum must be a totally cool teacher.’

Cat shrugged. ‘I suppose. But I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’m not academic like James.’

‘Oh, something will turn up. You could always get a job as a chalet girl over the winter while you decide.’

‘What about you?’ Cat was eager to turn the talk away from her lack of prospects, a subject that had begun increasingly to dismay her.

‘Camden School for Girls,’ Bella intoned as if she were revealing she’d spent her youth in a penal institution. ‘Ma spent all the money sending our brother Johnny to a classy boarding school so there was nothing left for us girls. I’ve left now, though.’

‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I help out in the business. I’m learning as I go. It can be fun sometimes, but mostly it’s pretty boring and Ma can’t afford to pay me much, so it’s a bit of a dead end. I need to find me a man to pamper me.’

Before Cat could comment on this novel idea, they were overtaken by the weather. Although it had stayed fair for the outdoors performance, they felt a few drops of rain and took refuge inside the humid shelter of the glass and sandstone Palm House.

‘It’s like the tropics in here,’ Cat exclaimed. ‘I read this novel last year, it was, like, a prequel to Jane Eyre, you know? It was kind of the story of the madwoman in the attic?’ In spite of Bella’s blank look, she pressed on. ‘Anyway, it’s really atmospheric, you feel like you’re in the Caribbean yourself. And this—’ She spread her arms wide. ‘This is what it felt like.’

‘I wouldn’t mind being in the Caribbean myself, if I could be with Jamie.’

Cat still couldn’t get used to thinking of her brother as ‘Jamie’. It didn’t fit him at all. ‘I imagine he’d be quite good at knocking coconuts out of trees,’ she conceded.

‘I bet he goes totes brown in the sun, he’s got that kind of skin,’ Bella mused.

‘We all do,’ Cat said. ‘My mum says it’s because we all ran around half-naked like savages when we were small.’ She spun round on the balls of her feet, peering between dripping fronds and sheltering leaves, half-convinced that Henry Tilney must be somewhere nearby. ‘I really thought Henry would be here,’ she said wistfully.

‘If he was a zombie like in the play, he’d be lurking in some graveyard eating the dead,’ Bella said, dropping her voice to spooky depths.

Cat laughed. ‘I think I’d have noticed if he was one of the undead. They’re a bit obvious, Bella. But if he was a vampire …’ Her voice tailed off.

‘Oh yeah, if this was, like, a Twilight movie, he’d have to hide indoors on a sunny day like this.’ She gave Cat a gentle poke in the arm. ‘That’s it, he’s a vampire. That’s why he’s not around this evening. It’s way too bright for him to be outside.’

Cat giggled. It was a preposterous notion, but nevertheless it was the kind of absurd fantasy that they could have fun with. ‘And of course, yesterday was cloudy so he was able to be out in the daylight, just like in the Twilight books. And he had run all the way across town, he said. And everybody knows vampires can run really far and really fast.’

‘Was he, like, amazingly strong? Could you tell from dancing with him?’

Cat cast her mind back. It was true that Henry had manoeuvred her through the complicated dance moves with little apparent effort. She’d felt safe in his hands in spite of her clumsiness and there was no doubt that he had prevented her from violent collisions with other dancers on more than one occasion. ‘He never let me fall. I know it doesn’t sound much, but when you’re whirling round in an eightsome reel, believe me, it’s a big deal. Have you been to the Highland Ball?’

Bella rolled her eyes. ‘Only, like, every year.’

‘Then you know what it’s like. It must be quite terrifying to have a partner who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I bet people get hurt all the time.’

Bella shrugged. ‘I only dance with men who know what they’re doing. I wish Jamie was here, he’s a dreamy dancer.’

Cat frowned. She’d never seen her brother dance willingly at parties, never mind master the intricacies of Scottish country dancing. She thought Bella’s assertion a wild statement of faith in someone she knew rather less well than she supposed. ‘I guess we’ll never know,’ she said. ‘Since he’s not here.’ She sighed. ‘Do you think Henry’s gone back home? Without saying?’

‘Even if he has gone home, I bet he’ll be back soon as.’ Bella turned and took Cat’s face in her hands, gently moving it this way and that to catch the light. ‘I mean, now he’s seen how pretty you are, he won’t be able to stay away. Didn’t you say he’s a lawyer too? Maybe he knows Jamie. Maybe he can persuade Jamie to take a weekend off and come to Edinburgh? How hard can that be?’

They emerged into the evening air, relieved to be out of the humidity of the palm house. They found Martha Thorpe and Susie Allen sitting on a tartan rug sipping white wine spritzers on a grassy bank. Mr Allen was nowhere to be seen, and the women were engaged in a form of parallel monologue. Martha talked about her children and Susie about her wardrobe. Neither seemed to notice that their twin tracks had no connection; they were content to be in conversation with someone who never tried to wrench the discussion away from their favoured subjects.

Cat and Bella sat on the top of the bank, arms round their knees, leaning companionably into one another, comparing notes about the events they were most looking forward to at the Book Festival and discovering with delicious pleasure that they were of one mind on most of their selected authors.

The only surprise for Cat was that she seemed to have read much more widely than her new friend. But she supposed when you grew as old as Bella, there were more calls on your time and fewer opportunities to spend the evening on a chaise longue with a book. Certainly the Thorpes seemed to watch a great deal more television than the Morlands, whose viewing was, of financial necessity, restricted to those channels that were available free of charge. Their options were further circumscribed by their parents’ conviction that all soaps and most dramas were absurd and therefore not worth the time they demanded. Cat found little hardship in this edict, since there was always something else she would rather be doing.

But that evening in the Botanics, she luxuriated in sharing an intense conversation about the novels she inhabited in her imagination. This was entirely a novelty for Cat, since she was the only member of her family who set any store by fiction. Their views baffled her; fiction seemed to Cat to be the highest form of the writer’s art, depending as it did on the resourceful application of creativity and the necessity of direct communication with the reader.

For historians and writers of narrative non-fiction, all the building blocks of their work were already in place. They had nothing more to do than gather them and construct a pretty edifice. Conversely, the writers of fiction began with nothing other than the contents of their heads and their understanding of the human condition. They must comprehend the deepest and strangest elements of emotion and behaviour and render them accessible to those who lacked their wit and skill.

Poets, it might be argued, also relied on their own emotional and intellectual resources. But Cat had serious doubts about poets. She firmly believed that while some could thrill and excite, too many failed the fundamental test of communicating with their readers. The more obscure their verses, the more praise they appeared to garner. Annie had attempted to convince her that T. S. Eliot was a writer of incomparable ability but Cat had rebelled on the second page of The Waste Land. ‘Honestly, Mum, how can you say someone’s a great writer if you’ve no hope of understanding their work unless you’ve got a stack of reference books next to you? It’s just showing off. If I behaved like that in front of other people, you’d totally tell me off when we got home. So why is it all right for T. S. Eliot to swagger about like a complete know-all and make the rest of us feel stupid?’

Not for the first time, Annie had struggled to find an answer to her eldest daughter’s candour. ‘It’s a challenge,’ she’d finally said. ‘It makes you think. It makes you look beyond your own narrow horizons.’

‘But reading the Twilight novels makes me think,’ Cat replied defiantly. ‘Just because you’re not interested in thinking about the same things doesn’t mean it’s worthless.’

It wasn’t solely her mother who dismissed the power of fiction within the Morland household. Richard naturally read the Bible, though rather less than his parishioners might have hoped. He read a great deal, having the excuse of a weekly sermon to sprinkle with erudition. Most of his reading consisted of philosophy and natural history, with occasional forays into biography. The Internet had also afforded him access to a bewildering array of blogs, which he dipped into like a man sampling an all-you-can-eat buffet. He claimed he approached his reading with a measure of scepticism. Cat was less certain about that; she thought sometimes the blogs more closely resembled the condition of fiction than her father was willing to admit.

Her brother James wasn’t much of a reader. He’d dutifully read the Harry Potter books, but that was the last fiction he’d embraced. In his early teens, he’d discovered the true crime genre. Since then, his reading for pleasure had consisted of exploring the warped lives of serial murderers and spree killers. It was a fascination that puzzled Cat. It couldn’t even be explained as preparation for life at the bar, for James had no intention of pursuing criminal law. He was destined for family law, something of his father’s social conscience having rubbed off on him. And yet, he remained fascinated by the perverted actions of a psychopathic few.

And so Cat was stranded on the shores of fiction alone, save for the occasional forays of her younger sisters, both of whom preferred to fiddle with Facebook or tattle-tale with Twitter than sit down with a book. Cat had briefly cherished hopes of Emma becoming a reader like her when her younger sister had picked up the first volume of the Hunger Games trilogy. But it soon became clear that her interest had only been pricked because she’d seen the film of the book at a friend’s house, and that she had no sincere love for the written word per se.

And that was why Cat revelled so thoroughly in the company of Bella Thorpe, who might not have been the most assiduous reader in the city of Edinburgh, but who at least understood enough of the joys of novels to seek out the presence of their authors, if only to have her copies of their work signed. For once, Cat felt the fiction lovers were in the ascendancy. All they lacked was Henry Tilney who, she was sure, would only have enriched their conversation. But as her parents had been careful to teach her, Cat knew you couldn’t have everything. At least, not all at the same time.

6

Two days later, Cat rushed into the Spiegeltent at the Book Festival grounds, hot and damp and five minutes late. Bella waved at her from a far booth and she excused her way across the busy café and subsided on to the bench opposite her friend.

‘Where have you been?’ Bella’s voice was plaintive. ‘I’ve been waiting, like, forever.’

‘I’m hardly late at all,’ Cat protested mildly, taking off her father’s elderly Panama hat and shaking the rain from it. She had brought the hat to shelter her from the sun but so far it had done more service as protection from the squally East Coast showers.

‘Love the hat – that is so cool. I need one just like it. But seriously, what kept you?’ Bella pouted.

‘Well, technically it’s your fault.’

‘My fault? Like, how can it be my fault that you’re late? I even left early because it looked like rain and I didn’t want to get caught in it, which by the way I managed better than you did.’

Cat smiled, not caring that the sudden shower had left her a little bedraggled. It was a condition familiar to her at home, and Susie Allen was still at the flat and so had not been able to chide her for being less than perfectly turned out. ‘It’s your fault because you got me into Morag Fraser. I’d never even heard of the Hebridean Harpies series till you dragged me along to her event. And now I am totally hooked. I was reading Vampires on Vatersay till one in the morning. I just had to finish it. And then I started Banshees of Berneray at breakfast and I could hardly drag myself away from it to come and meet you.’

Bella squealed. ‘Have you got to the bit with the long black veil?’

‘How did you know? That’s exactly where I stopped.’

‘You stopped? How could you? Are you not wild to know what’s behind the long black veil?’

‘Of course I am. But I had to get out the door and up the hill or you’d be even more cross with me. I’m dying to know the dreadful secret behind the veil.’

‘Well, I’m not going to tell you,’ Bella said stoutly. ‘I’m not going to spoil it for you. But I swear you’ll have a heart attack, literally.’ She fished her phone out of her pocket and brought up a website. ‘I’m going to email you the link. It lists the whole series in order.’

‘What are they? Go on, tease me, tempt me, tell me.’

‘Ghasts of Gigha, Werewolves on Wiay, Poltergeist Plague of Pabbay, Shapeshifters of Shuna, Killer Kelpies of Kerrera and the latest, Maenads on Mingulay.’

‘That sounds so cool.’

‘You don’t know the half of it, girlfriend. You are going to be screaming like a Berneray banshee before you’re finished. You’re going to be looking over your shoulder every time you turn a corner.’

Cat gave a delicious little shiver. Already, she’d categorised the dimly lit narrow alleys that threaded between the streets of the New Town as ripe territory for supernatural creatures to lurk among. Now, thanks to the apparently ordinary Morag Fraser, she’d have terror on one shoulder and horror on the other as she walked the streets after sunset. It was probably as well that Susie took care to stay close when they made their way back from evening events. ‘And they’re all as good as Vampires on Vatersay?’

Bella bumped shoulders with her. ‘They get even more scary, trust me. And it’s not just me saying that. My friend back home, Madison Crowley, she’s read them all too, and she says the same. She had to sleep with the light on for a week, she was so totally terrified after Shapeshifters of Shuna.’ She pouted. ‘I wish Maddy was here, you two would bond like sisters. Of course, she’d be left out a bit, she hasn’t got a gorgeous man in her life like Jamie or Henry. I’m always giving guys a hard time for not fancying her the way they do me.’

Cat struggled to make sense of Bella’s words. ‘You give boys a hard time because they don’t fancy your mate?’

Bella tossed her tawny hair back and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Well, duh. She’s my mate, so I have to put myself out for her. That’s what friends do for friends. I totally put my friends first. Like, we were at this party, some guy my brother Johnny knows was all over me and poor Maddy was all on her own, so I said to him, “You don’t even get to dance with me unless you dance with Maddy first. Because she is lovely inside.” He wasn’t happy, but he did try. She wasn’t having it, though. I guess he wasn’t her type. Anyway, that’s just a for example of how I am for my buds. If anyone dissed you, I would be all over their faces.’ She smiled. ‘But that’s not going to happen, you’re not going to be a wallflower. You’ll have to beat the guys off with a stick, you’re so pretty.’

Cat blushed, not least because she knew Bella was only being kind. She was well aware of how nondescript her looks were. ‘Now you’re having a laugh.’

‘No, but you are. See, you’re bubbly. And that’s what lets Maddy down. She can be really banal, you know? Now, when we were leaving here last night, there was this guy watching you, you could see he really fancied you. That would never happen to Maddy, she never does anything that would catch a man’s eye. But you didn’t even notice, did you? I bet he went home dreaming of you and you never even realised he cared. You’re so caught up in the invisible Mr Henry Tilney that it’s like all these other sweet guys don’t exist.’

‘I’m not that bothered about Henry,’ Cat lied. ‘He seems to have disappeared, anyway. So it would be pointless even if I was.’

‘I don’t believe you’re not bothered.’

‘Cross my heart. The Hebridean Harpies are much more interesting. I’m totally obsessing about what’s behind the long black veil. There’s no room in my head for Henry Tilney.’

‘I can’t believe you missed out on them, have you never seen the TV series?’

Cat shook her head. ‘We’re not big on TV in our house.’

‘Weird.’ Bella dismissed the subject. ‘So, Henry, is he your type, then? Because if he is, we need to keep an eye out for guys that look like that, to take your mind off him.’

Confused, Cat frowned. ‘I don’t think I have a type. I either like people or I don’t.’

Bella opened her eyes wide. ‘Double weird. You’re such a strange one, Cat. Now I know exactly the kind of man who makes my heart beat faster.’ She looked dreamily around the bustling Spiegeltent. ‘And I think you could probably guess what my type is without having to try very hard.’

‘I don’t—’

‘No, no, don’t embarrass me. I always give myself away.’ She raked around in her bag and took out a tiny mirror and her lipstick. As she applied a fresh coat of scarlet to her lips, she carried on talking. ‘There’s two guys over by the coffee counter, they totally can’t take their eyes off you.’

Startled, Cat followed her friend’s gaze. One of the young men in question gave her a louche wink, then nudged his friend, who had turned away to pick up two cartons of coffee. A moment later, they were gone. ‘You’re mistaken, Bella. They’ve gone off.’

Bella tutted and flicked her hair out on both sides in a gesture of impatience. ‘Oh, come on then, there’s nothing happening here. I’m literally going to die of boredom if I have to sit here a minute longer.’

Without checking whether Cat was ready to leave, Bella strode off, apparently driven by some inner urgency to be away from the confines of the Spiegeltent. They emerged into the humid air trapped beneath the tented walkways of the festival. Bella paused, like a pointer sniffing the air, then hustled off towards the exit. Cat thought she saw the two young men from the coffee counter ahead of them, but she couldn’t be certain.

‘Do keep up,’ Bella said impatiently.

And Cat obeyed, not quite sure why they were in such a hurry. But she had observed her friend with her sisters and understood that when Bella was in this mood, it was better to obey.

7

If the burghers of Edinburgh had conspired to transform the traffic flow of the capital into a circle of hell that Dante would have recognised, they could have done no better than their plan to bring trams back to the city. Road closures, diversions and temporary lights had made the centre almost impossible to navigate.

The junction of George Street and Charlotte Square had always been one of the most awkward street-crossings in the city, with a constant hurtling of vehicles back and forth and round the tight corners of roads built for carriages, not buses. But this year, the felony had been compounded by the closure to traffic of most of George Street. True, it had created a Continental feel the length of this major artery, with restaurant tables and temporary event venues in the middle of the road. But it had also funnelled the festival-fattened flow of traffic into ever fewer capillaries.

As they emerged on to the pavement, Cat was momentarily bewildered by the transition from the genteel crowds of the Book Festival. But Bella was as sharp-witted as ever. She pointed to her left, towards Bute House, the official residence of the Scottish First Minister. ‘Let’s walk this way, Cat,’ she urged, linking arms with her friend.

Cat couldn’t help but notice that the two young men from the coffee stand were crossing the quieter side of the square towards the First Minister’s grand grey Georgian pile. The realisation made her faintly uneasy, but before she could examine the feeling, the long bonnet of a bright scarlet sports car screeched to a halt beside them. Startled, she swung round to see two young men waving at her and Bella from their open-topped vehicle. As is often the way when we are confronted with those we know in unexpected situations, it took Cat some seconds to realise that the passenger was her brother James.

Any exclamation of surprise she may have uttered was lost in the screech of delight from Bella and the answering whoop from the driver.

‘Johnny! And Jamie,’ Bella screamed. ‘I don’t believe it. Totes amazeballs.’

The driver jumped out of the car without opening his door and bounded up the steps to the pavement level where the young women had stopped in their tracks. He threw his arms around Bella and the pair of them pogoed together in a tight circle that was clearly the product of much practice, all the while whooping like savages.

James Morland meanwhile made a more decorous exit from the passenger door and trotted up to his sister, giving her a quick hug. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded with a delighted laugh, pushing him away from her but holding firm to his upper arms.

‘Spur of the moment, Sis. Johnny turned up at my flat last night and persuaded me to join him. I think he’s missing his mum – I swear he’s got a boot full of dirty laundry for her.’ James gave her his familiar quick and easy grin, but she was so excited to see him, Cat failed to notice how his eyes kept flicking across to her friend.

‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

James winked. ‘My pupil master’s extended his holiday in Tuscany, so I’d just be twiddling my thumbs in chambers. They told me not to bother coming in, then Johnny showed up and twisted my arm.’ He was speaking to Cat, but his attention was all on Bella, whose ecstatic dance with her brother had just ended.

John Thorpe broke away from his sister and seized Cat’s hand, swooping low over it in a mock-heroic gesture. ‘And you must be the famous Cat Morland I’ve heard so much about from Bella and Jamie. I’m Johnny Thorpe, and you must be delighted to make my acquaintance.’ He released her hand and beamed at her, his plain face revealing how pleased he was with himself and his attempt at humour.

Cat giggled uneasily, not quite sure how to handle so bombastic an introduction. ‘Bella’s told me all about you.’ There was some truth in that, though his sister had not mentioned his paunch or his thinning hair.

He raised his eyebrows in an arch expression. ‘God, I hope not,’ he said in exaggerated style. ‘So, Cat, I bet you can’t guess how long it took us to drive up the bloody awful A1 from Newcastle.’

Cat, whose studies in British geography had left her with gaps the size of Wales in her knowledge, looked to James for help. ‘I don’t know how far it is.’

Her brother tore his attention away from Bella long enough to say, ‘About a hundred and twenty miles.’

‘More like a hundred and fifty,’ John corrected him. ‘Given the time it took. So, Cat, what do you think? How long?’

Cat frowned, trying to do the sums in her head. ‘About two and a half hours?’ she hazarded.

John slapped his thigh in a gesture of incredulity. ‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen my flying machine? An hour and twenty minutes. I noticed the church clock on Shieldfield Green said ten o’clock as we passed it on our way up from the Quayside.’

James laughed. ‘You’ve lost an hour, Johnny. We left at nine.’

John’s chest puffed up under his pink and grey striped polo shirt. ‘At nine?’ He turned to Cat for support. ‘Is he always like this? Picking a fight when he knows he’s in the wrong? I tell you, just look at this car of mine and tell me you think it would take two and a half hours to travel a hundred and fifty miles.’

‘A hundred and twenty,’ James said weakly.

‘It does look fast,’ Cat said, trying to make peace between the pair before their mock argument turned, as they so often do between men intent on impressing women, into the real thing.

‘Fast? She goes like the proverbial. Just touch the gas and she shoots forward like a bullet. She’s hand built, engine tuned to within an inch of its life. Look at that cream leather interior, the black walnut dash, the perfection of that chrome. Spring-loaded drink holders, on-board wifi and subwoofers to blow your ears off. And don’t get me started on the brake horsepower and the torque.’

Cat nodded politely, hiding the fervent hope that he would not indeed get started on those perplexing matters. ‘It looks very smart.’

‘And you know what I paid? Three grand less than the list price. Three grand! Amazing, no? She’s the perfect car for me. In the City, success is ninety per cent front and ten per cent balls. And this beauty makes a statement about me. She lets people know I’m a man to be reckoned with. She was built for a Christ Church man, to his spec. But I heard he’d been a bit too flash with his cash so he was looking to offload her for readies. I ran into him in that Slovakian cocktail bar up near Hilda’s and he goes, “Johnny, Johnny, my man, do you know anybody who might be interested in the best car in Oxford? Only, I need to realise her capital value sharpish.” Now, I’d just had a spot of luck at the casino, so I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Et voilà.’

‘I don’t know much about cars, but it looks like you got a bargain.’

John gave a smug little smile and patted his hair in a self-satisfied gesture. ‘A total bargain. But you know, I was helping the poor guy out. You need a favour, I’m your man. Always ready to do my bit.’

Before he could preen further, his sister exclaimed, ‘Johnny, there’s a traffic warden heading straight for us.’

‘Buggering barnacles,’ he swore, turning his back on them all and returning to the car, this time opening the door. ‘Come on, girls, get in!’

Cat hung back, looking dubiously at the shallow parcel shelf behind the two seats. But Bella grabbed her hand and together they clambered inelegantly into the rear of the car. They’d barely squeezed in when John stamped on the gas and shot down the hill in a throaty roar of exhaust. Cat and Bella clung to each other, shrieking.

At the first set of traffic lights, John resumed the conversation. ‘I could have sold it for four grand more the day after I bought it. Jacko Jackson from Oriel offered me cash on the nail the next day in the King’s Arms.’

‘Yeah, but you’re forgetting your parking permit was included,’ James pointed out.

‘Like I’d be dumb enough to sell my parking permit after the amount I had to bribe the college porter to get it in the first place. Duh.’ The lights changed so once more communication was rendered impossible.

Before long, another set of traffic signals brought them to a halt. ‘Do you like a rag top, Cat?’ John asked.

‘He means a convertible, Sis. With the top down.’

‘Oh. Well, this is my first experience, unless you count a quad bike. But yes, I can see it might be fun if you were in a proper seat and not in fear of spilling out the back every time you accelerate.’

John roared with laughter. ‘God, Jamie, you never told me she was so funny. Cat, I’m going to take you for a spin every day I’m here. With the top down.’

It wasn’t that thrilling a prospect to Cat. ‘There’s a forecast of rain tomorrow.’

‘We’ll dodge the raindrops. I’ll drive you up the coast for fish and chips.’

‘Won’t you want to take it easy after your long drive today?’

He laughed again. ‘Call that a long drive? That was just a warm-up. No, it’s a date. Fish and chips at North Berwick for lunch.’

‘Oh, me too, me too!’ Bella exclaimed.

‘Are you kidding? I didn’t come to Edinburgh to drive my sister around. Jamie, it’s up to you to amuse Bella.’

And again, conversation was stilled by acceleration as they drove out across the Dean Bridge and down Queensferry Road a way towards the flat where Mrs Thorpe and her daughters were staying, some little distance from the Book Festival and most of the venues of the Festival Fringe. The one advantage their accommodation had over the Allens’ apartment was that it lay just outside the city centre’s restricted parking zone, so all that was required to find a parking space was for John Thorpe to drive round the block three or four times.

As they walked back up the hill to the Thorpes’ flat, John fell into step beside Cat. Desperate to avoid another lecture on the subject of his splendid car, Cat cast about for something to say. Given that Bella was his sister, she reasoned that they might share some tastes in common. ‘Bella has introduced me to the Hebridean Harpies series of novels,’ she said.

‘Oh my good lord,’ he groaned. ‘Spare me! Not another one. I’ve had Bella wittering on about those bloody books for ever. I don’t have time to waste on novels, but if I did, it wouldn’t be them I’d choose. Vampires and banshees – I ask you. Those books are dumber than a deaf mute with a mouthful of superglue.’

The image was so singularly unpleasant that Cat could think of no immediate riposte. ‘So what do you read?’ was all she could manage.

‘Only what I have to for work,’ he said. ‘I don’t have time to read. How can you bear to read when there’s cars to race and dragons to slay?’ He imitated the movement of his hands on a console controller, making the revving, screeching and gunshot sounds of a computer game.

‘Surely it’s just as dumb to slay imaginary dragons and drive imaginary cars as it is to read Morag Fraser’s books?’ Cat demanded.

He snorted. ‘Obviously you’re not a gamer, sweetheart. What I do sharpens my reflexes and keeps me on top of my game. Reading those stupid books just fills your head full of nonsense.’

It was true that there had never been a games console in the Morland household. But Cat had been in other homes where the children had had apparently unlimited access to a staggering range of virtual experiences. And from those encounters, she dredged up something she hadn’t known till she’d looked up Hebridean Harpies on Wikipedia. ‘Do you play DragonSky?’ she asked.

He nodded with enthusiasm. ‘I used to play it all the time. Not so much now that Felony Driver IV came out.’

‘Did you know that Morag Fraser was one of the writers on DragonSky?’

Taken aback, he goggled at her. ‘I don’t see how,’ he said. ‘You sure she didn’t just make the credits for being somebody’s girlfriend or something?’

Before Cat could muster a response, Bella, who had been walking ahead with James, turned and pointed at the building where their flat occupied part of the second floor. ‘This is us, Johnny.’

Although she had begun to feel quite cross with John Thorpe, the warmth with which he greeted his mother and sisters restored Cat’s general spirit of goodwill. Even so, she was taken aback by the apparent rudeness of the banter the Thorpes exchanged with one another. ‘Ma, dearest,’ John said, hugging his mother so tight she squealed. ‘Where in the name of God did you get that hat? It makes you look like the Wicked Witch of the West.’

Martha Thorpe smacked him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘You are the worst boy in the world, turning up without warning.’

‘And where are the two ugly sisters?’ he called, bringing his siblings rushing from their bedroom to perform the same whooping dance he’d earlier conducted with Bella. However brutal it all seemed compared to Morland family life, it appeared to please the Thorpes.

‘You’ve put on weight, fatso,’ Jessica said.

‘And you’ve got five more zits on your nose,’ her brother riposted. ‘Ma, have you got a washing machine here?’

Martha sighed. ‘You’ve brought your washing, haven’t you?’

‘Clever girl,’ John said. ‘You guessed. I’ll bring it up later. But look, Ma, see who I’ve brought with me.’ And he hauled James, blushing, into the ring of Thorpe women. ‘You can squeeze us in here, can’t you?’

Martha looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know where.’

‘Oh, Ma, you can sleep on the sofa, and Jamie and I will share your bed,’ John said with the cavalier ease of a man who has never had to pay the piper. ‘Now, Jamie, sit yourself down and Ma will get us a coffee to revive us after our drive.’ And he was off again, regaling the company with a paean of praise to his new car.

By the time Cat and Jamie escaped from the crowded flat, Martha had accepted a collective invitation to a ceilidh that evening at the grand New Town home of one of her clients, Bella had dragged her to one side to tell her that Johnny thought she was the cutest thing he’d ever clapped eyes on, and John himself had informed Cat that he was going to dance her legs to stumps at the ceilidh. To be the centre of such attention left Cat a little breathless. It was very far from what she was accustomed to, and it was hard to sift through the swirl of mixed feelings she was enduring.

‘He’s pretty full on, is Johnny,’ James said as they set off to walk back to the Allens’ flat.

Were it not for the friendship between the two men and the flattery of John Thorpe’s interest in her, Cat might have answered with more acerbity. Instead, she simply said, ‘The whole family are pretty full on.’

‘But he’s a good guy. He’s always up for a laugh.’

‘He’s certainly never short of something to say.’

James laughed. ‘There’s no pleasing you girls, is there? You’re usually complaining that guys have got nothing to say for ourselves, but when we do talk to you, apparently you don’t like that either.’

‘Whatever. You seem to be everybody’s favourite in that family.’ The comment was innocent enough, yet James flushed.

‘They made me really welcome when I stayed with them in the Easter vac,’ he said. ‘You like them? Martha and the girls?’

‘I do, very much. Bella especially. We totally hit it off.’

‘That’s great. But then, what’s not to like? She’s smart and funny—’

‘And so beautiful and cleverly dressed and well read,’ Cat butted in. ‘Exactly the kind of girl I always wanted as a best friend.’

‘And she’s easy-going and relaxed,’ James added. It wasn’t quite how Cat would have described her friend but she let it go because James continued, ‘And she thinks you’re great too. She texted me to say she’d met you and how cool she thinks you are. And when a girl like Bella thinks you’re cool, then you know it’s the truth.’

‘Wow! She said that? Awesome. I didn’t realise you were such good mates. You know, Bro, you hardly said anything about her when you texted me after you stayed with them.’

They were in the middle of the Dean Bridge as she spoke and James turned away to lean on the parapet, gazing down at the treetops below. ‘I hoped you’d get to meet her yourself soon, and I didn’t want to influence what you thought of her. I’d be as happy as you if the pair of you ended up best friends.’ He swung round and smiled at her.

‘That’s very sweet of you, James. Oh, and by the way, what’s with the whole “Jamie” thing?’

He shrugged and resumed walking. ‘It was Bella’s idea. She said they knew too many Jameses and she didn’t want there to be any confusion who she was talking about. So she started calling me Jamie and they all followed her lead. Though, to be honest, I think Johnny’s taking the piss a bit.’ James spread his hands in a wry shrug. ‘That’s blokes for you.’

‘Still, he obviously likes you. And it was really thoughtful of him to stop off in Newcastle to see if you wanted to come all this way to see me and the Allens. He must have thought I’d be missing you all.’

James gave her a quizzical look, which she took to mean that he was surprised at her effusiveness. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Right. Thoughtful. And how is everyone at home?’

Cat’s exposition on the home life of the Morlands occupied them all the way back to Queen Street, save for one brief digression on Bella’s sense of humour. The Allens were delighted to see James, and to hear that they too had been invited to the ceilidh. Mr Allen begged off, on the grounds that he had to endure a one-man version of A Farewell to Arms, but Susie was ecstatic to have so early an opportunity to wear the dress she had bought only that afternoon from the sweetest little boutique in the Lawnmarket.

By mid-afternoon, Cat was exhausted with people and conversation and was quite delighted to sneak off up the hill to the Book Festival to listen to three Shetland poets reading from their work. Luckily they passed her comprehensibility test and they wove a web of words around her, its dreamlike quality the perfect preparation for an evening’s dancing that would be at once systematic and spontaneous. The first time she’d done Scottish country dancing, she’d been whirled around emotionally as well as physically. Who knew what the second occasion might hold?

8

The Thorpes, the Morlands and Susie Allen arrived simultaneously on the doorstep of the grand mansion on Rothesay Terrace. Cat and Bella were so delighted to see each other after seven hours of abstinence that they immediately formed a two-person huddle, admiring each other’s dresses, their hair and their make-up as they moved oblivious through the gleaming marble and glittering crystal of the entrance hall and into a ballroom transformed for the night with tartan silks and indifferent Victorian Highland landscapes.

The party settled round an oval table midway down one side of the room and they had barely secured drinks and a tray of hors d’oeuvres when the ceilidh band struck up. Two fiddlers, an accordion, a keyboard player, a drummer and a pair of guitarists occupied a small stage at the far end of the room and it was quickly apparent that they were a gifted ensemble. No sooner had the dance caller announced a Gay Gordons than James was on his feet, reminding Bella that she’d promised him the first dance. Bella half-rose, then looked around. ‘Where’s Johnny?’

‘He’s gone through to the card room,’ James said. ‘He’s feeling lucky.’

Bella pouted. ‘Well, I’m not going to abandon Cat just because Johnny has no manners. If we get split up now, it’ll be the Dashing White Sergeant and Strip the Willow before you know it and we’ll never see each other again all evening. Honestly. Men.’

James sat down, crestfallen. Cat had never seen him so eager to take to the dance floor. But at the end of the first section of the dance, he cast a beseeching glance at Bella, who rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, all right, Jamie. If you insist.’ She put a hand on Cat’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, but what can you do? He’s gagging to get me on the dance floor, it would be cruelty to refuse him. You don’t mind, do you? Johnny will be back any minute, win or lose, I promise.’

And she was gone, drawing James after her. He cast a quick look back at his sister with a worried frown, but she put a brave face on it and waved him off, even though that left her to the tender mercies of Martha and Susie and their seemingly endless conversations about fabrics and Pantone colours. Not only did she want to be on the floor, caught up in the excitement and movement of the dance, but she felt too the shame of being one of the wallflowers. In all her fiction-fuelled fantasies, she’d never been one of the disregarded ones, and it hurt to find herself overlooked. She’d read enough to know that it was the heroine’s part to suffer the smug scorn of others, but that didn’t make it any easier to keep a smile fixed on her face. But she was damned if she was going to pout or sulk over John Thorpe. She would suffer, but nobody would know.

And just then, as if to reward her silent stoicism in the face of torment, her gaze fell on a far more welcome sight than her friend’s brother. There, less than three metres from their table, was Henry Tilney, unmistakable even though his back was to her. He was immaculately dressed in a perfectly tailored Argyle kilt jacket, nipped in at the waist, and fishtail-back tartan trews. He stood watching the dancers, then turned to face the entrance to the ballroom. His lively profile, handsome and dark-eyed, brought a blush to her cheek which faded as soon as she realised he had no notion that she was there. As she watched, a pretty young blonde in a white Empire-line dress with a tartan sash that matched his trousers sidled up to him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. For a moment, Cat’s stomach lurched at the thought he might already be spoken for, but then her good sense kicked in and she recognised Ellie Tilney from the Facebook profile she’d studied on her phone. Relief flooded through Cat in a second scarlet tide and she told herself it spoke well of Henry that he had so affectionate a relationship with his sister.

The Tilneys moved closer to Cat’s table, still oblivious to her presence. But a woman edging up the room ahead of them stopped abruptly with a little scream of delight. ‘Martha Thorpe!’ she exclaimed, lunging forward to air-kiss her friend.

It was enough to make both Tilneys stop and turn towards Cat. Henry gave a slow smile of recognition, his dark eyes appearing to grow even darker in his pale face as they drank her in. Cat felt a silly grin spread across her face as he moved towards her, Ellie in his wake. He nodded to Susie. ‘Mrs Allen. How lovely to see you again.’

Susie simpered and batted her thickly mascaraed eyelashes at him. ‘Why, hello, Henry. When we didn’t see you at the Book Festival, I was beginning to think you’d left town without saying goodbye.’

‘You’re spot on, Mrs Allen. I did have to go out of town unexpectedly for a couple of days. Urgent business, I’m afraid. But now I’m back again.’

‘I dare say you’re not sorry about that,’ she said coquettishly. ‘There’s nowhere like Edinburgh at this time of year. Anywhere else would feel dull, don’t you think?’

He caught Cat’s eye momentarily. ‘Since everyone worth spending time with is here, I’m bound to agree with you.’ He gave Susie another courtly nod.

By now, Martha and her friend had introduced themselves to Ellie and invited her to join them. ‘Plenty of wine to go round,’ Martha said, pouring Ellie a glass in spite of her protestations that all she wanted was water.

Now, at last, having fulfilled the obligations of good manners, Henry turned his attention to Cat. Before he could say anything, however, the dance ended and the caller invited the gentlemen to take their partners for the Military Two-Step. Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Did we get that far with Fiona?’

Cat made the effort of recall. ‘Heel and toe, and heel and toe and forward, two, three? Is that the one?’

‘Splendid. Well done, Cat.’ He extended a hand to her. ‘Shall we?’

But before she could slip her fingers into his waiting grasp, a familiar loud voice boomed in her ear and a hot, beefy hand snatched hers. ‘Not so fast, mate.’

It was John Thorpe, back from the card table at precisely the wrong moment. He glowered at Henry, who gave Cat an enquiring look. Before she could say anything, John continued as he had begun. ‘She’s with me, buster.’ He moved towards the dance floor, presuming that Cat would follow. And she did, to avoid the embarrassment of being dragged off her chair.

Henry stepped to one side, a look of concern on his face. ‘Are you OK with that?’

‘I said I would dance with him, that’s all,’ Cat said over her shoulder, uncertain whether he had heard her or not.

Once they were on the dance floor John acted as if nothing untoward had happened. He made a perfunctory apology for keeping her waiting, then launched into a rambling account of the polo ponies, cars and dogs of the men he’d been playing poker with. Whenever the configuration of the dance made it possible, Cat couldn’t help but gaze longingly towards the part of the room where she’d left Henry. But she could see not a sign of him. Nor could she see Bella and her brother. She felt cut off from everyone she cared about, abandoned into the custody of a man who seemed to disregard everyone but himself.

As soon as the dance was over, she thanked him then scuttled back to the table, where Martha and her friend were still deep in conversation with Ellie Tilney. But Henry was nowhere to be seen. There was some consolation to be had, however, for Martha introduced her to Ellie then swapped seats so the two young women could chat to each other. In the absence of Ellie’s brother, there was nobody Cat was happier to talk to.

Ellie, as Cat had previously noted from her Facebook profile, had striking good looks, sharing the same marble-white skin and unfathomable leonine eyes as her brother. Her dark blonde hair flowed back in waves from a widow’s peak, framing her delicate features. She was more formal than Bella and her sisters, more restrained in her style and conversation, and had none of their flirtatiousness towards the young men who eyed them up as they promenaded past, looking for partners. But Cat sensed an interesting personality behind that reserve and desperately wanted to know her better, suspecting they might well become friends irrespective of Henry. However, since they knew almost nothing about each other and since Cat was too proud to enquire as to the whereabouts of her brother, they struggled to find enough in common to trigger a close conversation. Once they had worked their way through the charms of Edinburgh – its architecture, its museums and galleries, and its festivals – neither girl seemed to know what to talk about next.

Before their constraint became uncomfortable, they were swooped on by Bella, who threw herself on the chair next to Cat and exclaimed, ‘There you are. At last. I’ve been scouring the dance floor for you for ages. You totally missed the Dashing White Sergeant, and I was buzzing for you to make up a threesome with me and Jamie.’

Cat’s face fell under her friend’s attack. ‘I’m sorry. I looked, but I couldn’t even see you.’

James arrived just in time to take a gentle punch in the arm from Bella. ‘I told your hopeless brother to go and look for you but he wouldn’t leave my side. Honestly, Cat, men are so lazy.’

‘It wouldn’t have done any good if I’d found Cat only to mislay you,’ James said in his defence.

Bella rolled her eyes. ‘Hopeless.’

Cat leaned back in her seat so she could include Ellie in the conversation. But her new friend was already on her feet. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I promised my father I’d meet him in the supper room. It was lovely to meet you.’ And she bowed with curious formality before backing away and making for the exit.

‘Who on earth was that?’ Bella asked. ‘She acts like she’s in Pride and Prejudice.’

‘That’s Henry Tilney’s sister, Ellie.’ Cat stared after the disappearing figure. There was something about Ellie, something out of time and out of style. Like there would be if you were a two-hundred-year-old vampire, she thought with a mixture of dread and delight.

‘Is he here?’ Bella looked around eagerly. ‘Is he half as good looking as she is? Where is the all-conquering brother? Point him out to me, I’m totally dying to see him.’

‘What are you both on about?’ James asked.

‘Honestly, you men talk about women gossiping, but you’re just as bad. Actually, no, you’re worse. You’re like little old women, you put your heads together and gossip, gossip, gossip about cars and women and sport. Well, Jamie, this is our little secret and we’re not sharing.’ Bella prodded him in the chest to drive home her point.

James laughed. ‘You’re just trying to hide the fact that you’ve got nothing important to say.’

‘Cheeky boy,’ Bella complained. ‘Honestly, Cat, you’ve done an atrocious job of bringing up Jamie. He has no idea at all of how to treat a woman. You’d better stop eavesdropping, Master Jamie, or you might hear something you don’t want to.’

The banter continued between Jamie and Bella, freeing Cat from any responsibility to contribute. She was grateful that the subject of Henry had been sidetracked, though there was a tiny part of her that was disappointed by Bella’s swift loss of interest in a subject that was so dear to Cat’s heart. She might not want to discuss him, but she wanted to have it confirmed that he was worthy of discussion.

When the band struck up again, James was immediately on his feet, picking up Bella’s hand as he rose. ‘Come on, Bella, it’s a St Bernard’s Waltz. You like to waltz.’

Cat wondered how he could make so confident an assertion, considering how little he knew Bella. And how brief she assumed his own acquaintance with Scottish country dancing to be. However, her friend responded, ‘I don’t like to waltz, I love it. So dreamy. But my evil sisters will tease us if we dance together all night, Jamie.’

‘You’re confusing me with someone who gives a toss. They’re just jealous. I want to waltz with a beautiful woman, but I’ll make do with you, Bella.’ His smile was impish, his words free of sting.

‘You are so bad, Jamie. Will you be OK, Cat? I don’t know where my hopeless brother has got to …’ She looked around, distracted. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.’ Without further pretence at reluctance, she followed James on to the dance floor and let him draw her close as the dance permitted.

Cat felt her shoulders slump in spite of her determination to remain straight-backed and cheerful in the face of her disappointment. Martha Thorpe leaned across and patted her arm. ‘He’ll be back soon, then you’ll be happy again. He’ll have you tripping the light fantastic again. What an adorable couple you make.’

It took her a moment to realise Martha was speaking of her son. ‘I’m fine as I am, thank you,’ she said.

‘Of course you are,’ Martha said condescendingly. ‘But you must feel deflated after enjoying John’s high spirits on the dance floor.’

Susie interrupted, saving Cat from having to find an anodyne response. ‘Did you see Henry?’

‘No, where is he?’

Susie looked around, puzzled. ‘He was with us just now, when you were talking to Bella and James. He said he was tired of lounging about and he wanted to dance. I thought he was coming over to ask you.’

Dismayed, Cat cast an eye over the dancers as they turned and glided past her. And there she saw Henry, smiling down at a frankly dumpy little woman whose dress didn’t suit her in the slightest.

Susie caught sight of him at the same moment. ‘Oh. He’s dancing with someone else.’ After a short silence, she added, ‘He really is a lovely young man.’

‘You’re so right,’ Martha chipped in complacently. ‘I shouldn’t say it about my own son, but there is not a more charming young man in the city, never mind in this room.’

Cat and Susie exchanged a look, both bursting to giggle at Martha’s misapprehension. But that was Cat’s last moment of levity for the evening. Before the dance was over, John Thorpe returned and dropped like a stone into the chair next to her. ‘Shocking hands I’ve just had to endure through there. I thought I might as well come back here and take you for another turn round the floor.’

‘That’s very kind of you. But I’ve danced enough for one evening. And my feet hurt from when you stood on them before.’

He looked dumbfounded. ‘I stood on your feet? I think it’s more like you misplaced your feet and put them where mine needed to be. Come on, let’s have another crack at it and see if you can’t manage it better this time.’

‘Honestly, I’m too tired.’

He gave a heavy, put-upon sigh. ‘OK, then let’s go walkabout and see who we can rip the piss out of.’

‘Really, I’m happy where I am. On you go, though. Don’t let me spoil your fun.’

He looked as if he was about to make another attempt, but just then his sister Jess came by and he snagged her arm. ‘Jess, let’s go and see who we can wind up. Come on, we’ll show them how to have a good time.’

For the rest of the evening, Cat skulked round the fringes of the fun. She moved between the ballroom and the supper room, trying to look purposeful. She even took a couple of selfies to post on her Facebook page so she could pretend to her sisters that she was having the time of her life.

Later, as the balmy night air filled her bedroom, she studied the photos more closely, the better to decide which to post. In the background of one, to her surprise and consternation, was the unmistakable figure of Henry Tilney, his dark inscrutable eyes fixed unswervingly on her.

9

Cat’s reaction to the photograph was not, as might be supposed, unmitigated pleasure. Instead, she was filled with an overwhelming desire to eat chocolate. Mr Allen came home towards midnight to find her working her way through the remains of a chocolate fudge cake from the fridge. ‘The raging munchies,’ he said, eyebrows raised, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Tell me you’ve not been smoking dope, Cat.’

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