But Flora’s eye was drawn to a brooch pinned to the dress. It was far less opulent than the rest of the costume, a simple silver depiction of an anchor surmounted by a crown, set in a wreath of acanthus leaves.
Lady Helen noticed Flora looking at it. ‘It’s rather pretty, isn’t it? It’s a Royal Navy sweetheart brooch, given by my father to my mother. He served in the Great War. I know it doesn’t quite go with the rest of my get-up, but it’s far more precious to me than these diamonds.’ She gestured to the hair clasps, the rings on her fingers sparkling as their facets caught a ray of evening sunlight that glanced through the window behind her.
She reached for the heavy serving plate on which Flora had arranged the salmon, decorated with thin slices of cucumber to look like fish scales. But as she tried to lift it, she winced with pain.
‘Are you all right?’ Flora asked.
‘Silly me – I sprained my wrist a few days ago and it still doesn’t seem to be working properly.’ Lady Helen gently probed her arm with her fingertips. Flora noticed that it was swollen, and the delicate skin on the underside was discoloured with an angry-looking purple bruise.
‘Shouldn’t that be strapped up?’ Flora asked. She’d done some first-aid training as part of her ambulance driving course and was eager to try out some of her newly acquired skills. So far she’d only been able to practise on Mairi and Bridie, but here was what looked like a bona fide injury.
‘It’ll be fine, Flora dear, really, I don’t want to make a fuss.’ Lady Helen waved her away.
‘Well, at least let me carry that through,’ Flora said, picking up the platter. ‘You need to rest that wrist to let it heal. And you don’t want to risk spilling anything on your gown.’
In the dining room, the conversation was already animated, the guests having whetted their appetites with generous drams of whisky and glasses of sherry in the drawing room. A quick glance around the table told Flora that Diana wasn’t there, although Mrs Kingsley-Scott was holding forth about the difficulties of planning a wedding at the family estate in the Borders with the war on.
The talk among the men was of the day’s fishing, with speculation as to the weight of a salmon landed by Sir Charles and tales of other fish caught on other rivers.
One of the men boomed across the table, ‘That ghillie of yours isn’t exactly a talkative chap, eh, Charlie? Bit of an old curmudgeon, what? But he knows his stuff, I’ll give him that.’
Lady Helen shot Flora an apologetic smile before quietly saying, ‘Set it on the sideboard, dear. I’ll get Alec to help me serve.’
He had already pushed his chair back from the table and was quickly at her side, taking the heavy platter from her. ‘You should be seated next to me, not having to wait on us,’ he muttered.
She smiled at him in gratitude, but shook her head and hurried away, preferring the peace and quiet of the kitchen, thankful for the green baize door which deadened the racket from the dining room.
She took the meat from the oven, setting it to rest on a warmed platter, then began to make the gravy with the juices in the pan.
It was bubbling nicely, and she was just draining the vegetables and putting them in their dishes when Alec appeared, carrying a pile of fish plates. He set them on the table and put his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked, reaching to fill the gravy boats.
‘They loved the salmon. Absolutely delicious. Here, let me carry the venison through – save you the ordeal of having to listen to their inanities.’
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. I’ll bring the rest,’ she said, setting things on to a tray.
‘Alec!’ Sir Charles’s voice was sharp and harsh, making Flora jump so that she almost spilled the gravy. She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing in the doorway. ‘Get back into the dining room at once. It’s extremely rude of you to neglect our guests.’
‘But Father, Flora can’t manage everything on her own.’
‘Nonsense. The girl’s perfectly capable of serving a meal. What she doesn’t need is you hindering her in her duties.’ He stood to one side and gestured for Alec to leave the kitchen, turning abruptly and following on his son’s heels.
Flora’s cheeks burned with a mixture of the heat from the stove and the humiliation of the laird’s words. But she picked up her tray and walked through the baize door with her head held high, setting the dishes on the dining table and shooting Alec a reassuring smile as she did so. He was sitting back in his place between two of the female guests, looking utterly miserable as they chattered across him about Mr Churchill, the new prime minister, and his wife, who wore the most beautifully tailored coats and such very elegant hats.