My suitcases were where Mr. Clyde had left them at the foot of the bed - I spent a few minutes unpacking, taking extra care with the small, framed photo of my grandmother that I placed on one of the windowsills. Looking at her face made me feel hopeful - she always told me to look uncertainty in the eye and face it bravely.
There was an almost comically narrow corridor leading from my room to a large bathroom that looked luxurious but extremely outdated, with fixtures that didn't appear to have been replaced since Victorian times. It took me a good few minutes to get the hang of the dual hot and cold faucets and avoid being alternately scalded and frozen as I washed off all the grime of flying and trains and travel. There was also a very generously sized clawfoot bathtub which promised a good, long soak with a book and a glass of wine when I had the time.
When I felt presentable I ventured down the twisting stone staircase that I'd hardly noticed the night before - it was the kind of architectural feature that makes you think of people in long nightgowns carrying half-melted candles on little trays.
"Ah, Jennifer! We thought we were going to have to come and drag you out of bed ourselves!" It was Mr. Clyde. "Mrs. Clyde will get you some grub if you're hungry - she'll be in the kitchen."
Mr. Clyde pointed me in the direction of the kitchen as it dawned on me that I was, in fact, completely starving, having not had anything to eat since a positively awful lettuce and cheese sandwich at Heathrow airport that had cost the equivalent of ten dollars.
I sat down at a long table in the cavernous kitchen and watched Mrs. Clyde bustling about as she made me something to eat - I offered to get something for myself but she was insistent that it wasn't my job to be doing any cooking so I was happy to sit and wait as the smell of frying bacon and eggs filled my nostrils and made the rumbling in my belly worse.
"A proper Scottish breakfast," she smiled at me before placing a large plate of food down on the table, "even if it is almost tea time."
I looked down. Some of the things on the plate were familiar. Well, two things. Eggs and sausages. There was something that looked like ham, but when questioned Mrs. Clyde said it was bacon. When in Rome.
"And this?" I pointed at what looked like a pile of thin, dark biscuits.
"Black pudding."
Black pudding? What was that? It was black, but it didn't look like any pudding I'd ever seen. I made the mistake of asking Mrs. Clyde what it was.
"It's delicious, Jennifer. You must give it a try. It's made of pig's blood."
I was in the middle of trying to figure out how to politely refuse the Scottish delicacy when a deep, amused male voice called out from behind me:
"Go on, then! I can't have my daughter looked after by someone who doesn't like blood pudding."
I turned around to get a look at who was speaking and noticed Mrs. Clyde looking flustered as well.
"Laird! We weren't expecting you until Sunday! There's not been any trouble in London has there? Where is the little one?"
"Calm down Mrs. Clyde, everything is fine. A little trouble with Diane in London so I'm back a day early, Cameron will be up tomorrow."
I didn't pay much attention to the conversation between the Laird and Mrs. Clyde, due mostly to being helplessly dazzled by the Laird himself - but if I had I would have caught the ominous undertones in both of their voices.
The Laird, though. The Laird. He was one of those men that made it very difficult not to stare. The sun was shining through the high windows of the kitchen, catching his thick blonde hair and giving it a coppery tinge. He had high, wide-set cheekbones and a straight Roman nose. I could see about a day's worth of beard growth scattered across a jawline that matched the rest of his face in its general, broad masculinity. The most striking thing of all about the Laird, though, was his eyes. Deep-set under a prominent brow and arrestingly blue, I actually felt my heart skip a beat when he turned them towards me, smiling so they crinkled slightly at the corners.
"You must be Miss Robinson. Welcome to Scotland - I trust the Clydes have helped you settle in?"
I got to my feet feeling slightly awkward at the juxtaposition of the domestic surroundings of the kitchen and the fact that the Laird was my employer. He shook my hand and then looked down at the plate sitting in front of me.
"Go on, have a wee bite. The name is much more gruesome than the taste."
And damn if I didn't sit right back down and do exactly what the Laird was asking me to. Even then in the first few moments with him some part of me seemed compelled to do what he wanted. He watched me lift the fork to my lips and then laughed as I chewed slowly for a few moments. It didn't taste like blood at all - in fact it didn't even taste like meat, it was surprisingly mild - almost bland.