February 2013
Angus, the 17th Earl of Dunroamin, opened his eyes to another day. Despite the fact that it was late Spring and fast running down towards Summer, his breath still hung in a mist before him. The thick stone walls were past masters at retaining the chill of the northern night air and transmitting it like a vast cold radiator throughout the castle with an efficiency most modern refrigerators would be proud to achieve. The antique wrought iron radiators in his room were so far removed from the boiler in the basement that they seldom ever felt the comfort of even tepid water flowing through their ornate pipes.
But inside Angus' bed it was toasty warm. He had insisted upon a modern bed, as the original was so old that the mattress, filled with an anonymous wad of either horse hair or kapok, had settled into an uncomfortable series of ridges and troughs which no amount of beating could ever restore to a smooth surface again. Beneath it, the ancient springs had long since congealed into an un-springy mess with little or no 'give' left within them. But now, the massive four poster columns sat squarely around a modern King size divan with a top of the range, 'luxury thick' mattress and a super-efficient electric blanket which, on tick-over, maintained a comfortable environment throughout the bitterest cold the Winter nights could throw his way.
But today was the final fitting for his black Tuxedo and dress kilt and this was a good enough reason to relinquish the sub-tropical heat of his bed this morning.
It was also Thursday, and on any other Thursday it would be Maths Tutor day – one of the highlights of his week – and Duncan's lessons were one of the few bright things in Angus' dull life. Duncan was a typically dour Scot who had never been blessed with a sense of humour, but had an encyclopaedic mind where Mathematics was concerned and shared the miracle of numbers with such infectious passion that it was impossible not to be sucked into his magical world with him.
Alone in this vast castle – because he could never class the seventeen servants as companions – numbers were his only constant friends, and over the years of Duncan's fervent tutelage he had come to rely upon their solid dependability. Numbers were invariable, reliable: you could put a number down and it would still be there, exactly where you left it the following morning, faultless and pristine in its simplicity. Numbers would never be dismissed from the house when it was deemed that they were becoming too intimate with the master; numbers would never walk out on the family for the dubious pleasures of the aerobics instructor; numbers would never die and leave you to take over the Earldom while you were still a minor.
Yes, Angus loved numbers with a burning passion.
His favourite number, which was hardly surprising, was the seventh prime number – 17. He was the 17th Earl of Dunroamin and, with his impeccable connections, was 17th in the line of succession for the throne. The Earldom had existed from the 17th Century when the first Earl, Robert, had built Dunroamin Castle on a massive granite promontory on the east side of Loch Ness. Last month, when surveyors were preparing ground for a new seventeen stall stable block, Angus had persuaded one of the engineers to bring his theodolite down to the loch's edge and he was pleasantly surprised when he discovered that the castle stood precisely 17 metres above the water's surface.
Of course he had been born on the 17th of May 1961. If you were to count the preceding year then May would be the seventeenth month, and the individual numbers which comprised 1961, when added together, also made seventeen.
He was the youngest Earl this century and, in three days time, would be celebrating his 17th birthday. On his birthday a Society Ball was being thrown in his honour and he was determined to propose to Annabelle Marshall, whose name, coincidentally, contained seventeen letters. They had met on the golf course at the 17th tee; while he was searching the rough for his lucky No. 17 ball; her party had asked to play through and he had been smitten in an instant. He had asked her many times before, but he was certain that she could no longer reject his proposals now that he was finally the Earl.
He threw himself into the preparations for the ball with a great deal more enthusiasm than normal – everything had to be just right. His new Tuxedo and his dress kilt fitted him like a glove. He admired himself in the bespoke tailor's full length mirror from every angle and knew that no woman alive could resist him on his special day.
When the great night finally arrived he could hardly contain his excitement. He mingled with the early arrivals, carefully selected from the upper strata of Scottish society, feigning interest, being polite, because there was but one thing on his mind tonight . . . and she was late.
He checked his gold fob watch every few minutes; surely she should have been here long before now. He was worried that she might have cried off at short notice. As quarter past five arrived a light bulb illuminated within his mathematical mind; unbelievably, in two minutes time it would be 5.17 – or in the 24hr clock seventeen seventeen, on the seventeenth of May on his seventeenth birthday!
He ran to the door, his kilt swirling around his flying legs, just as Annabelle swept gloriously into the Great Hall. She was as pretty as a picture – as pretty as the portrait he would commission for their wedding day. She was wearing a blood red dress cut low at the neckline, revealing fourteen diamonds on a chain around her neck, which, together with the two affixed to her ears and the one she would soon be wearing upon her finger would make seventeen.
It was as if all of the world's tectonic plates had slipped simultaneously into alignment beneath his feet at the same wonderful moment. The hands on his watch slipped forward to 17.17 and he dropped to one knee, producing from his pocket a small black box. He flipped open the lid and held out the ring with the massive stone to her. 'Miss Annabelle Marshall, would you make my life complete, make me the happiest man alive, do me the honour of becoming my wife?'
Annabelle smiled down at him and shook her head. 'Dear sweet Angus, this is the seventeenth time you have asked me . . . and the answer is still no.'
He stared up at her in disbelief . . . he could not believe the words he had just heard . . .
But then her face broke into a mischievous grin. 'Only joking, Angus – of course I will!'