I clicked.
Hi, Rowan! Thank you so much for your application, and apologies for taking so long to get back to you. I have to admit, we were slightly taken by surprise at the volume of applications. Your CV was very impressive, and we would like to invite you to interview. Our house is rather remote, so we are happy to pay your train fare and can offer you a room in our house overnight, as you will not be able to make the trip from London in one day.
However, there is one thing I must make you aware of up front, in case it affects your enthusiasm for the post.
Since we bought Heatherbrae we have become aware of various superstitions surrounding the house’s history. It is an old building and has had no more than the usual number of deaths and tragedies in its past, but for some reason these have resulted in some local tales of hauntings, etc. Unfortunately, this fact has upset some of our recent nannies, to the extent that four have resigned in the past fourteen months.
As you can imagine, this has been very disruptive for the children, not to mention extremely awkward for myself and my husband professionally.
For that reason we wanted to be completely honest about our predicament, and we are offering a generous salary in the hopes of attracting someone who can really commit to staying with our family for the long term—at least a year.
If you do not feel that is you, or if you feel at all concerned about the history of the house, please say so now, as we are very keen to minimize further disruption to the children. With that in mind, the salary will be made up of a basic stipend, paid monthly, and then a generous year-end bonus on the anniversary of employment.
If you are still keen to attend the interview, please let me know your availability for the forthcoming week.
Best wishes, and I look forward to meeting you.
Sandra Elincourt
I closed down the email and for a moment just sat there staring at the screen. Then I got up and did a little silent scream, punching the air in jubilation.
I had done it. I had done it.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
I had done it, Mr. Wrexham. I had cleared the first hurdle. But it was only the first hurdle. I had to get through the interview next—and without slipping up.
Almost exactly one week after I had opened the email from Sandra Elincourt, I was on a train up to Scotland, doing my very best impression of Rowan the Perfect Nanny. My normally bushy hair was brushed to a shine and tamed into a neat, jaunty ponytail, my nails were buffed, and my makeup unobtrusively on point, and I was wearing my best “approachable yet responsible, fun yet hardworking, professional yet not too proud to get down on my knees and clear up vomit” outfit—a neat tweed skirt and a white cotton fitted shirt with a cashmere cardigan over the top. Not quite a Norland nanny, but definitely a nod in that direction.
My stomach was flipping with butterflies. I had never done anything like this before. Not the nannying, I mean. Obviously. I had done that for nearly ten years, though mostly in nurseries rather than private homes.
But . . . this. Putting myself on the line. Setting myself up for rejection like this.
I wanted this so much. So much that I was almost scared of what I was going to find.
Much to my annoyance, the train was delayed, so it took nearly six hours to get to Edinburgh instead of the time-tabled four and a half, and when I got off the train at Waverley, stiffly flexing my legs, I found it was past five o’clock, and I had missed my connection by a good hour. Fortunately there was another train due, and while I waited, I texted Mrs. Elincourt, apologizing profusely and warning her that I would be late into Carn Bridge.
At last the train arrived—much smaller than the big intercity, and older too. I settled myself in a window seat, and as the train headed north I watched the countryside change from rolling green fields to the smoke-blue and purples of heathered moors, mountains rising behind, darker and bleaker with every station we passed. It was so beautiful it made me forget my irritation at being late. The sight of the huge hills rising inexorably around us somehow put everything else into perspective. I felt the hard lump of trepidation lodged in my gut start to soften. And something inside me began . . . I don’t know, Mr. Wrexham. It was like I began to hope. To hope that this could truly be real.
I felt, in some twisted kind of way, like I was coming home.
We passed through stations with half-familiar names, Perth, Pitlochry, Aviemore, the sky growing darker all the time. At last I heard “Carn Bridge, next stop Carn Bridge,” and the train pulled into a little Victorian station, and I got out. I stood on the platform, jumpy with nerves, wondering what to do.
Someone will meet you, Mrs. Elincourt’s email had said. What did that mean? A taxi? Someone holding up a sign with my name?
I followed the small straggle of travelers to the exit and stood awkwardly while the other passengers dispersed to cars and waiting friends and relatives. My case was heavy, and I set it down by my feet as I looked up and down the dusky platform. The shadows were lengthening into evening, and the fleeting optimism I had felt on the train was starting to fade. What if Mrs. Elincourt hadn’t got my text? She hadn’t replied. Perhaps a prebooked taxi had come and gone hours ago and I’d been marked up as a no-show.
Suddenly the butterflies were back—and badly.
It was early June, but we were pretty far north, and the night air was surprisingly cold after the fuggy summer warmth of London. I found I was shivering as I pulled my coat around me, a cool wind whipping down from the hills. The platform had emptied, and I was all alone.
I felt a strong urge for a cigarette, but I knew from experience that turning up to an interview stinking of fags was not a great start. Instead, I looked at my phone. The train had arrived exactly on time—at least, exactly at the revised time I had told Mrs. Elincourt in my text. I would give it five minutes and then call her.
Five minutes passed, but I told myself I’d give it just five minutes more. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot, badgering them if they were stuck in traffic.
Five more minutes ticked away, and I was just digging in my bag, looking for the printout of Mrs. Elincourt’s email, when I saw a man walking down the platform, hands in pockets.
For a moment something seemed to stutter in my chest, but then he got closer and he looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and I realized, it couldn’t possibly be him. He was much too young. Thirty, thirty-five at the outside. He was also—and even in my nervousness I couldn’t help but clock it—extremely good-looking, in a scrubby unshaven kind of way, with tangled dark hair and a tall, lean frame.
He was wearing overalls, and as he came up to me he took his hands out of his pockets and I saw they were grained with something—soil, or engine oil, though he’d made an attempt to clean them. For a moment I thought perhaps he was an employee of the railway, but as he drew level with me he spoke.
“Rowan Caine?”
I nodded.
“I’m Jack Grant.” He grinned, his mouth curling disarmingly at the edges, as though appreciating a private joke. His accent was Scottish but softer and more distinct than the Glaswegian girl I’d worked with after school. He pronounced his surname with a lilt, to rhyme with ant, not the longer English aunt. “I work up at Heatherbrae House. Sandra asked me to pick you up. Sorry I’m late.”
“Hi,” I said, suddenly shy for no reason I could pin down. I coughed, trying to think of something to say. “Um, it’s fine. No problem.”