Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

Chapter Four

O what lies younder north of Tweed?

Monsters and hillmen, hairy kneed And music that wad wauk the deid!

To venture there were risky O!

The fearsome haggis haunts the snaw The kelpy waits—your banes to gnaw There’s nocht to eat but oatmeal—raw BUT I’M STILL TOLD THERE’S WHISKY O!

—anonymous scottish poet

Carnmore, November

By morning, the wind had died, and the world outside the farmhouse lay encased in a rippling blanket of white. This Will knew only from peering out the front windows, as the back of the house was completely blocked by drifts.

He had spent the remainder of the night dozing in the parlor armchair, waking periodically to stoke the fire, watching his mother minister to his increasingly restless and delirious father. By daybreak, Charles had begun

muttering and clutching at his throat, as if it pained him, and seemed soothed only by spoons of hot water with whisky and honey.

As the cold morning light crept into the room, Will saw that his mother’s face was gray with exhaustion. Her thick, dark hair had escaped from its knot in wayward tendrils, and he noticed, for the first time, a single thread of silver.

“He’s burning with fever,” she said softly, resting the backs of her fingers fleetingly against his father’s forehead.

“Mam,” Will whispered, “let me look after him. You get some rest now.”

She shook her head. “No, Will. I’ll bide here. There’s porridge in the kitchen for you, and then you’d best see if you can get to the beasts.”

With a last glance at his father’s flushed face, Will left the parlor. The kitchen was bitterly cold, in spite of the stove, and he shivered as he ate his breakfast. Then he wrapped up as well as he could and, taking the shovel they kept handy in the porch, ventured out the front door.

His boots sank into the powdery snow—a bad sign.

Once an ice crust formed over the top it would be easier walking, but for now he’d have to wade or shovel his way through the drifts to the barn and distillery buildings. Beyond the near field Carn More, the hill from which the distillery took its name, rose steeply, its rugged granite face softened by the white icing of snow.

As he watched, the sun rose, gilding the march of the Ladder Hills with a glistening rose as delicate as his mother’s best satin gown. The air was so still it felt charged with silence, as if the world were waiting for something to happen.

Will held his breath for a moment, listening, then picked up the spade and dug in.

It took him almost an hour to reach the barn. Wiping a hand across his sweating brow, he stretched his shoulders and contemplated the drifts that reached all the way to the eaves. He could hear the animals moving restively about inside, and he felt a moment’s stab of despair at the enormity of the task before him.

Not that it was the first time Carnmore had been snowed in, but always before, he and his father had managed together. He pushed away the unbidden thought of his wee sister, Charlotte, taken from them by a fever at less than a year old. But his father was older and stronger—surely he would be all right.

Will began digging with renewed energy, trying to blot out his fear with the thunk of the spade. Once he’d cleared the snow from the barn door, he was glad to slip into the relative warmth of the stone building. He moved among the shuffling beasts—his father’s prize dairy cows, his father’s horse, and the pack ponies that carried Carnmore whisky down to the coast—filling troughs and lining the stalls with fresh hay.

Although some of the Speyside distilleries now had their own railway lines, ponies remained the only reliable way to get whisky out of the Braes, even in good weather. The paths the smugglers had used to move whisky down through the Ladder Hills now carried a le-gitimate product. As for supplies, they warehoused enough barley to last the season, water flowed freely year-round from the Carn More spring, and the peats came from their own moss.

When he’d finished in the barn, Will cleared a path to the distillery easily enough, as the buildings themselves had blocked the worst of the snow. But once inside the

main production house, he stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Distilling was a continuous process, made up of many interrelated steps. Barley lay soaking in the steeps, waiting for the maltster to determine when it had absorbed just the right amount of moisture; then the barley was spread on the mesh floor of the malt barn to germinate, after which it would dry in the peat fires of the kiln.

Once dried, the malt was ground into grist in the mill, and from there it was funneled into the enormous wooden mash tuns, where hot water would release the sugar from the grains. From the mash tuns the sugary liquid, called wort, ran into the great fermenting vessels.

This was the brewer’s domain: it was he who added the yeast, he who decided when the wash was ready for distilling. Then the stillman would take over, running the wash into the wash charger, and from it into the first of the great copper stills.

Carnmore used three stills rather than the traditional two, one wash still and two spirit stills. His father claimed that it was this further distillation that gave Carnmore whisky its smooth, light taste, and it was a su-perstitious practice among most distillers that nothing which gave a whisky its distinct character should be changed—not a cobweb swept away nor a dent repaired in the copper stills.

From the final still, the whisky ran through the glass cabinet of the still safe, where it was carefully monitored by both the stillman and the distillery’s excise officer.

This was raw, colorless stuff, not yet deserving of the name Scotch whisky. It would take at least five years of aging in oak casks in the earthen-floored warehouse before it would be bottled under the distillery’s name, or sold to blenders, and some was kept to age longer. It gave

Will pause to think that he would be near his father’s age before some of the whisky now being casked was ready to drink.

Each of these processes had its own time schedule, and each required several men as well as a skilled supervisor.

How, Will wondered, was he to manage on his own?

He could make a start, at least, by lighting the office fire. Going in, he lit the oil lamp on his father’s desk, then quickly arranged peats and sticks in the fireplace. As the flames caught, he sat for a moment, warming himself and taking comfort from the familiar objects. The great leather-bound ledger lay open on the desk, his father’s reading spectacles resting atop it. Along one wall, oak shelves held ranks of bottles covered with a fine layer of dust. The carriage clock ticked loudly in the silence.

Since he had left the Chapeltown school at fourteen, Will had chafed at the limited life of the distillery, dreaming of going to Edinburgh to study medicine like his Grant grandfather. But his father had believed him too young to go so far from home; nor had Charles been willing to give up his own dream of Will continuing in the family business.

Now, as Will recalled the helplessness he’d felt that morning when faced with his father’s illness, he wondered if he really was suited for the pursuit of medicine.

Then he thought of his father’s whispered entreaty to take care of the distillery, and he stood, leaving the old office chair rocking. He could at least turn the germinating malt on his own, and ready the peat fires for the kiln and the stills.

Stepping out into the alleyway between the production house and the malt barn, he stopped, listening, and relief flooded through him. He heard voices, carrying clearly in the still air. Will waded to the rise above the track that led

down to the village and shaded his eyes with his hand. A dozen dark specks moved against the whiteness; it was a good half of the distillery crew, shoveling their way up the track.

Will shouted and waved, a voice shouted something unintelligible back, and Will began digging his way to meet them.

The men made good progress and soon met Will, with much slapping of arms and thumping of shoulders. It was all the men from Chapeltown—those who lived outside the village would have a more difficult time of it.

“Aye, it’s only a half day’s work lost,” said Alasdair Smith, the stillman, as they swung down their spades again to widen Will’s path. Smith, a large, burly man with a red beard, was no relation to the Smiths of The Glenlivet but always made a point to tell new acquaintances that he had just as good a nose for whisky. “No self-respecting Hielander would let a bittie snow get the better o’ him,” he added, his teeth showing white against his beard as he grinned.

“It’s a bad omen,” said John MacGregor, the excise man, “I’m telling ye, such a blow this early in the year.”

MacGregor was a sharp-nosed, precise man, and kept his distance from the others, as was usually the case with the government officers. But Will had always found him kind, in his fussy way, and MacGregor had never minded taking the time to answer a boy’s questions. Now, he said more quietly to Will, “It’s a good thing your faither’s safe in Edinburgh, laddie. He’d ha been in a right bother this morning—”

“But he’s not in Edinburgh,” interrupted Will, and the other men fell silent as he told them of his father’s arrival in the night. “And now he’s burning with a fever,” Will added, “and his throat paining him somethin’ fierce.”

Seeing the look Smith shot at MacGregor, he said,

“What is it?” When the men hesitated, he barked, “Tell me!” The note of command in his voice surprised him—

for a moment, he had sounded like his father.

“Och, laddie, it’s nothing to worry ye,” said Smith, but his eyes didn’t meet Will’s. “It’s just somethin’ I heard up at the Pole—seems there’s a fever going round in Edinburgh . . .” The Pole Inn was the nearest public house, at the head of the Braes.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Will pushed him, knowing the answer even as he spoke.

Smith turned to his assistant, Kenneth Baxter. “You, Kenny, go back to the village, quick now, and fetch the nurse here. And you, Will,” he continued, this time meeting Will’s gaze, “you get back to the house. Your mam’ll be needin’ ye.”

Gemma climbed slowly from the depths of sleep, shed-ding the disquiet of her dreams like layers of skin. Then, full consciousness arriving with the disorientation that often accompanies the first night spent in a strange place, she sat up.

Innesfree. The barn conversion. Hazel. The pieces clicked together, and she looked towards the other bed.

There was no tousled dark head on the pillow, no sound from the bathroom. Hazel must have already dressed and gone out.

When Gemma had come in from her walk the previous evening, Hazel had been in bed, her light out. Although doubting that her friend was asleep, Gemma had been relieved not to talk further until she’d had a chance to sort out her reactions to Hazel’s revelations. She’d rung Kincaid, hoping to talk with him, but much to her surprise, the line had been engaged.

Now she pushed her hair from her face and swung her legs out of bed, curling her toes against the chill of the tiled floor. What had she been thinking last night, to encourage Hazel to pursue her relationship with Donald Brodie? It was not just mad, but dangerous. Not that Tim Cavendish would ever hurt Hazel, Gemma told herself in an effort to still the sudden thumping of her heart, but she’d seen marriages disintegrate too often to take the possibility of violence lightly.

Glancing at the clock, she saw that there was still an hour to breakfast. She had plenty of time to talk some sense into her friend.

Showered and dressed, Gemma stepped out and looked around her. Yesterday, she had only seen the property in the fading light of early evening. Now, it lay before her, golden and gleaming in the morning sun. It was still cool, wreaths of mist drifted up from the river, and birdsong trilled up and down the scale. The air had a fresh, evergreen scent to it, and when Gemma breathed, it felt like wine slipping down into her lungs.

There was no one visible in the garden, and on an impulse, Gemma turned away from the house and took the path leading towards the river. The track ran along the outer edge of the pasture that lay between the river and the road, winding through a stand of birch and rowans. It was still and silent beneath the trees, and after the first few yards, the thicket enclosed Gemma in a green and dappled world. Looking down, she saw the tightly curled fronds of fiddlehead ferns, and a stand of bluebells. Enchanted, she knelt to examine the flowers more closely.

The rich scent of damp earth tickled her nose, and a closer inspection of the ground revealed a shiny beetle making its determined way over a fallen log. Kit would

love this, Gemma thought as she rose, and was struck by a wave of longing for her family.

That thought brought back her concern for Hazel in full force, and as she walked on, Gemma mulled over what she might say to her friend. The woods gave way to heather and tussocks, then the path angled sharply to the right to follow a lightly wooded fence line towards the river.

Here the Spey widened in a gentle curve, and the shallow water near the shore grew thick with reeds and marsh grasses.

As Gemma stepped gingerly up to the bank, a duck took flight from the cover of the reeds with a sound like a shot. Gemma started reflexively, jumping back and stepping in a boggy spot. She’d begun to laugh at her own case of nerves when she caught a glimpse of motion off to the right. Two people stood farther down the shore, half-hidden by a clump of trees. Hazel, and Donald Brodie.

They stood a foot apart, their heads bent towards each other, and as Gemma watched, Donald raised his hand to Hazel’s cheek. The murmur of their voices reached her, carried by a shift in the wind. Hazel shook her head and stepped back; Donald reached for her but didn’t pull her closer.

Gemma hesitated, torn between her desire to call out—

to stop Hazel being such a fool—and reluctance to interrupt such obvious intimacy. Then Donald bent down, taking Hazel’s face in his hands and pressing his mouth to hers. After a moment, Hazel’s arms slipped round his neck.

Feeling the blood rise to her cheeks, Gemma turned away and started back to the house, all pleasure in the day forgotten.

*

When Gemma reached the B&B, she found Louise Innes in the vegetable and herb garden at the back, snipping sprigs of thyme into a basket.

“For the breakfast plates,” explained Louise, indicating her handiwork, “and mint for the fruit.” She straightened up and tucked her clippers into a pocket in the apron she wore beneath her cardigan. “Did you have a nice walk?”

“Yes, thanks,” answered Gemma, looking round at the neat garden. The smell of frying bacon drifted enticingly from the house, but she’d lost her appetite.

Louise studied her, then gestured towards the toolshed at the bottom of the garden. “You look a bit peaky. We’ve a few minutes before breakfast. Come and have a cuppa.”

“What? Out here?” asked Gemma, puzzled.

“It’s my retreat.” Louise led her into the shed. A small window set in each side provided filtered morning light, benches held tools and potting equipment, and on a camp stove, a kettle bubbled merrily. “That’s the downside to running a B&B, I’ve discovered—lack of privacy. Even though we don’t open our bedroom to the guests, we’re still always on call. This gives me at least the illusion of getting away.”

“It’s like a doll’s house,” Gemma said delightedly.

“And I’m honored to be invited.” She looked away from the intricate spiderweb decorating one corner, repressing a shudder.

Louise took two mugs from a shelf, wiped them out with a corner of her apron, and removed two tea bags from a canister. While the bags were steeping, she pulled a stool from beneath the bench and overturned a pail.

“You take the elegant seat,” she said, motioning Gemma to the stool. “It’s a bit primitive, but then I don’t usually entertain out here.”

Gemma accepted a mug as she watched Louise tip the

tea bags directly into a compost pail. “Did you garden before you came here?”

“Not in Edinburgh. We lived in a tenement building, where the most I could manage was a pot of geraniums in the kitchen window. But I helped my mum when I was a child.”

Gemma thought of her own parents’ flat above the bakery in Leyton. Her mother had never even managed a pot of geraniums. “You’re English?”

“Yes, from Kent, originally. But my parents divorced when I was thirteen, and I went to boarding school in Hampshire. That’s how I came to know Hazel.”

Gemma came to a decision. “Louise, I’m really worried about Hazel. I know you’re old friends—”

“You’re talking about Donald, aren’t you? I didn’t approve of this arrangement, if that’s what you mean. Home wrecker is generally not part of my job description.”

Some of the previous evening’s edge had returned to Louise’s voice.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t criticizing you. I just thought you might have been able to discourage her, if you knew—”

“I’ve had nothing from Hazel in ten years but a scrib-bled note on a Christmas card. I don’t think my opinion would have counted for much. And besides, we can’t afford Donald Brodie’s ill will. He’s too—”

A distant crack reverberated in the still air. This time Gemma had no doubt it was a gunshot. She jumped up, spilling her tea. “What—”

“It’s just someone potting at rabbits,” Louise said, but she stood and poured out her mug. “This is shooting country, after all, and one has to keep in trim for the Glorious Twelfth.” Seeing Gemma’s blank expression, she added, “The Twelfth of August. The beginning of grouse season.”

“Oh, yes,” Gemma murmured, still listening for an outcry, or another shot. She stepped outside and Louise joined her. “It’s just that in London—”

“You’ll get used to it,” Louise assured her. “People here basically shoot anything that moves. Grouse, pheasant, ptarmigan, deer—”

John Innes came out the back door, looking around in visible agitation. “Louise!” he called, spotting them.

“I’ve guests at the table, and the plates not ready.”

“Sorry,” Louise said to Gemma as she picked up her abandoned basket. “Duty calls.”

When Louise had followed her husband into the house, Gemma stood alone in the garden, listening for the sound of another shot.

Saturday dawned clear and fair, and after a fitful night’s sleep, Kincaid set about trying to make the best of the day for the boys. He prepared boiled eggs with soldiers, which Toby loved, and coffee with steamed milk, Kit’s special Saturday treat. Although Toby happily dunked the toast strips into his egg, Kincaid caught Kit studying him as if puzzled by his industrious cheer.

When they’d finished the washing up, they all trooped outside for the promised game of football.

Their tiny back garden backed up to a gated communal garden, an advantage they could not ordinarily have afforded in London, if not for their good fortune in leas-ing the house from his guv’nor’s sister. Both boys and dogs had spent many hours playing under the spreading trees, and there was enough lawn to lay out sticks for their football goalposts.

They chose sides, Kincaid against the boys, and for half an hour, he was able to lose himself in running and shouting, and in expending some of his anger in vicious

kicks at the ball. The dogs ran alongside them, barking excitedly. At last a particularly fierce scramble for the ball brought them all down in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Toby, spying a friend at the other end of the garden, jumped up and raced off with a four-year-old’s energy, while Kincaid and Kit lay panting in the sun.

Knowing he must grab the opportunity, Kincaid plunged in. “Kit, I’ve had a letter from your grandmother—or rather from your grandmother’s solicitor.”

“Solicitor?” Kit sat up, his face going pale beneath its rosy flush.

“She sent a copy to Ian as well. It seems she thinks you’d be better off in her care. She—”

“You mean live with her?” Kit was already shaking his head, his breath coming fast. “I won’t! You know I won’t.

I’d rather—”

“Hold on, Kit.” Kincaid put a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let me finish. Yes, that’s what she wants, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. You know I want you here with me—with us—always. But in order to ensure that, we’re going to have to plan our response, and that means talking things out. Okay?”

Kit nodded, slowly, but his eyes were still wide with shock.

“Okay. Good lad.” Kincaid smiled at him. “I rang Ian last night.” He’d sat up late at the kitchen table, rereading Eugenia’s letter and drinking too many cups of tea from Gemma’s teapot. His ex-wife’s mother had always been difficult, but after her only child’s murder her behavior seemed to disintegrate beyond reason. Although she claimed to have Kit’s interests in mind, she tormented the boy mercilessly, blaming him for his mother’s death, and both Kincaid and Ian had severely limited her visitations.

Vic’s father, Robert Potts, was a mild-mannered man who

seemed unwilling—or unable—to stand up to his wife’s bullying. Now it seemed Eugenia was prepared to carry out the threats she’d been making for months.

Although Kincaid had been sorely tempted to ring Gemma, in the end he’d decided there was no point in spoiling her weekend with worry when there was nothing she could do.

When the hands on the kitchen clock crept round to midnight, he had picked up the phone and called Ian McClellan in Canada, catching him just home from his classes at the university. Kincaid explained the latest development, then, when Ian had finished swearing, he’d asked, “Could you write a letter giving Kit permission to live with me, and stating your reasons? You might have it notarized for good measure.”

“I can do that,” Ian agreed, “although I don’t think any halfway decent family judge would give Eugenia the time of day. I’m sure at Kit’s age his wishes would be considered paramount. Still . . .”

“You think we should consult a solicitor? We’ll have to act together on this.” Kincaid and Ian had developed an odd but workable relationship over the past year, rather like ex-spouses sharing custody of a child. Except, of course, that Kincaid had no legal rights.

“I think we’ll have to,” Ian said with a sigh, leaving Kincaid wondering if he were replying to the question or the statement. “Look, Duncan . . .” Ian paused for a long moment. “We’ve tiptoed around this for a good while, but I think now we’re going to have to talk about it. Vic and I never did. We just let it fester, and I wish—well, things might have been different if we’d got it out in the open.

What I’m saying is—it’s not that I don’t want to take responsibility for Kit, but if you were to prove paternity, there’d be no question of Eugenia interfering.”

Of course, Kincaid had considered the possibility of testing but had been unwilling to subject Kit to the emotional stress such a procedure would entail, unless it was absolutely necessary—but that seemed to have come to pass.

Now, he said, “Kit, there is one simple way we could put a stop to this. We can prove you’re my son.”

“You mean . . . a test?”

At the look of horror on the boy’s face, Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s painless. They just take a bit of saliva, a swab from inside your cheek—”

“No. I don’t want to do it.”

“It’s nothing, I promise—”

“No, it’s not that. I—I wouldn’t want Ian to think I—”

“It was Ian’s suggestion, Kit. He wants what’s best for—”

“No,” Kit said again, shaking his head more emphati-cally. He rose into a crouch, like a runner in starting position. “I’m not having any test. And I’m not going to live with the old witch. I’ll run away first. Tess and I could manage on our own.”

Kincaid tried to push aside the sudden vision of Kit living on the street, dirty and emaciated, curled up on a curbside blanket with the dog, but his worry and exasperation got the better of him. “Kit, don’t be ridiculous.

It’s not going to come to that. If you’ll just—”

“No.” Kit pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Kincaid. His mouth was set in an implacable line that reminded Kincaid very much of Vic at her most stubborn. “You’re always telling me to take things on faith,” he said. “Well, now you can take me on faith, or not at all.”

*

The group gathered after breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen, a large room that John Innes had equipped with a commercial range and a spacious center work island.

Open racks on the walls held plates, the original cast-iron sink was set beneath the windows, and bunches of Louise’s dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Between the kitchen and the back door was a scullery, with a glass-fronted gun case on one wall, while shelves on the other wall held Louise’s flower baskets and a row of muddy boots.

The kitchen was a pleasant room, with space for the class to work comfortably together. John had divided them into pairs; Gemma with Hazel, Heather with Pascal, leaving Donald partnered with Martin Gilmore. If Brodie was unhappy with the arrangement, he concealed it, joking with Martin as they strained the broth John had put on to simmer the night before.

They were to prepare the first and last courses for that evening’s dinner. First, a Brie and celery soup, a combination of ingredients that made Gemma wrinkle her nose in doubt, but John assured them it would be delicious.

Beside her, Hazel chopped celery with quick efficiency.

“This soup is usually made with chicken stock,” John explained, “but in deference to Hazel, we’re using a veg-gie stock today.”

Louise, passing through the kitchen on her rounds of tidying, gave him an I told you so look.

Shrugging, John said, “Och, the wee woman’s always right. She told me yesterday to be prepared for vegetarian guests, and I paid her no mind.”

“Oh, I find that women are occasionally wrong.”

Brodie’s teeth flashed in his red beard as he smiled. “And it’s the poor wee lads that suffer the consequences.”

Hazel flushed, her fingers tightening on the knife.

“You do eat fish, don’t you, Hazel?” put in John, with a quick glance at his friend. Looking relieved when she nodded, he added, “Tonight we’re going to make it up to you. A grilled salmon with basil and red pepper pesto; mange-tout, blanched, then sautéed in a garlic butter sauce; scalloped red potatoes with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese.” John’s usually sallow complexion had taken on the glow of enthusiasm. “This is wild salmon, of course, caught just this morning. Wouldn’t dream of using farm-raised.”

“Farm-raised salmon provides jobs,” interjected Martin, who obviously wasn’t letting the acceptance of his brother’s hospitality interfere with his freedom of expression. “Not just sport for the rich.”

“It’s not just the tenants who fish the rivers,” corrected John. “It’s the local folk as well.”

“Martin does have a point,” Donald said mildly, looking up from the onion he was now dicing. “How many stretches of the river can you name that aren’t leased for the season?”

John scowled at him, unmollified. “Nevertheless.

We’re talking about cooking, and the farm-raised salmon has no taste.” He unwrapped the large wedge of Brie he’d pulled from the fridge. “We’ll remove the rind and cube the cheese,” he told the group, “but we won’t add it to the soup until just before serving.” He sliced a chunk of butter into a large pot. “Onions and celery in now, please,”

he directed them when the butter began to bubble. “And the herbs,” he added, nodding to Heather, who had been chopping fresh thyme and marjoram from the garden.

Heather Urquhart had exchanged last night’s sleek, black suit for jeans and a pullover, and had tied back her hair with a businesslike cord. “Yes, sir, please, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes at John as she scraped the herbs into

the pot with the flat of her knife. “I’ll just be tugging my forelock, sir.”

“That’s the first rule of the kitchen,” replied John, good-naturedly. “The chef expects absolute and immediate obedience from the staff. But seeing as I’m a benevolent despot, I’ve arranged a lunchtime outing for ye.”

“You have?” queried Donald, his eyebrows raised.

“Well, with a wee bit cooperation from Donald,” admitted John. “But I did the food myself—a cold pheasant pie—for a picnic at Benvulin. And Hazel, I didn’t forget about ye. I’ll put together something special for you before you go.”

“It’s all right, John,” Hazel assured him, with the first smile Gemma had seen all morning. “I’ll be just fine with an apple and a biscuit. Now what do we do?” She gestured at the pot.

John instructed Pascal to stir a few tablespoons of flour into the sautéed vegetables, before slowly adding stock.

Then he gave them a challenging look. “Now, while that simmers for a bit, we’re going to make pastry.”

“Highland whisky crèmes,” John had pronounced, gazing at them expectantly.

Gemma, looking round at the blank expressions on the others’ faces, ventured, “Whisky in a dessert? Is this a traditional Highland thing?”

“Highlanders can put whisky in anything,” Donald Brodie said with a chuckle, “but I’ve no idea what this particular beastie might be.” Brodie wore a kilt in muted greens and blues rather than the brilliant red Brodie tartan he’d worn the previous evening, with a woolen pullover that looked more suitable for stalking in the heather than cooking.

“It’s shortbread, topped with an ice cream made with fresh cream and flavored with whisky and honey—local honey, of course.” John sounded a bit put out at their ignorance. “Now we’ll be starting with the shortbread—”

“We’re going to make shortbread?” interrupted Heather, whose earlier patience seemed to be evaporat-ing. “Why on earth would we make shortbread when Walker’s is just down the road?”

“Because there’s no comparison between shortbread made in a factory, however good it may be, and pastry made by hand,” John admonished her briskly, setting out a bag of flour and several sticks of butter on the slab of marble set into the work island. “That’s like asking why you would drink single malt whisky when you could have a blend.”

“Ouch. That’s vicious, lass,” said Donald, grinning at Heather, and Gemma saw Hazel give her cousin a sharp glance. Were Donald and Heather more than business associates? But if so, why the elaborate scheme to get Hazel here? Although, Gemma mused, that might account for Heather’s obvious animosity towards her cousin.

“The secret to good pastry is to handle it gently,” continued John as they creamed butter and sugar together, Heather grumbling under her breath all the while. “Unlike a woman,” he added, “the less you touch it, the more tender it will be.”

“But is that true?” asked Donald, with a glance at Hazel that made her blush and look away.

“Theoretically,” said John, seemingly unaware of the sudden rise in tension. “But in practice, I wouldn’t take a wager on it.”

By the time the shortbread was cooling on racks, and the ice cream safely stored in the freezer, Gemma was more

than ready to break for lunch. Cooking, she’d found, was harder on the feet than walking a beat.

Donald had organized the transport to Benvulin; Pascal and Martin with Heather, Gemma and Hazel in his Land Rover, along with the picnic baskets. The early morning mist had cleared, and the day was fine and warm. John and Louise stood on the back steps of the B&B to see them off, like proud parents waving their children off to school, but just as the picnic party reached their cars, Hazel stopped and put a hand on Gemma’s arm.

“Gemma, I think I’ll stay behind,” she said softly. “I—

I’ve a headache.”

Keys in hand, Donald turned, his kilt swinging.

“But—”

“I’m sorry. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

Hazel didn’t meet his eyes. “But I just don’t think— I’m really not up to it.”

Donald took a step towards her, then seemed to realize they had a rapt audience. He gave a curt nod to Heather, who shrugged and herded her contingent into a black Audi. When the car had pulled out of the drive, Donald turned back to Hazel. “Aye, dinna fash yerself, hen,” he told her, putting on the broad Scots. “We’ll bring you a dram, for auld times’ sake. You take care of yourself, have a nice lie-down.”

“Hazel, I can stay with you,” offered Gemma. “I don’t mind—”

“No. It’s all right. I wouldn’t have you miss this, and I’ll be fine.” She gave Gemma the ghost of a smile. “I promise.”

In Hazel’s absence, Gemma found herself in the passenger seat of the Land Rover by default. Glancing sur-

reptitiously at Donald as they drove, she was aware of his large, capable hands on the wheel, and of the strong profile of his nose above his bearded lips.

“Bloody hell,” she swore under her breath. The man radiated a woolly sort of sexual magnetism. And if she weren’t immune, she could imagine what Hazel must be feeling.

“Sorry?” said Donald, having—thankfully—not understood her muttered curse.

“Um, your kilt,” Gemma blurted out as he glanced over at her curiously. “I was wondering about your kilt. I thought the one you wore last night was your clan tartan.”

“This is Hunting Brodie. The hunting tartans are never as bright.”

“Sort of like camouflage?”

“Exactly. The hunting tartans usually replace the background color of the tartan with blue, green, or brown.”

“Have you always worn the kilt?”

“Oh, aye. Fits the image, you see, of the owner of an ancient distillery.” His tone was lightly mocking. “And as a rule, I find the kilt more comfortable than breeks.”

“There’s no real tradition, then?” asked Gemma, genuinely interested now.

“I’d not like to disappoint ye.” Donald smiled at her, and her pulse leapt. “There is a tradition, right enough, but it owes more to Sir Walter Scott and the Victorians than to authentic clan history. There’s not even real evidence that early tartans were associated with specific clans. And as for the kilted Highlander marching into bat-tle,” he added, warming to his subject, “the original kilt was merely a belted plaid, and most of the time the soldiers took it off for ease of movement when fighting.”

“A plaid is different from a tartan?” she asked.

“A plaid is just a woolen fabric. The early plaids were

long rectangles of cloth, about sixteen feet by five. A man would lay it out on the ground, pleat it, then lie on top of it and belt it on.”

“It sounds very awkward,” Gemma admitted. “And not the least bit romantic.”

“Och, well, I’ll try not to spoil all your illusions.

Look.” Donald pointed as he slowed the Land Rover.

“There’s Benvulin.”

If Gemma had imagined an industrial site, similar to breweries she’d seen near London, she had been very much mistaken. Before them, an emerald green field rolled down towards a broad sweep of the Spey. In the foreground, a dozen shaggy Highland cattle raised their massive heads to stare at them as they passed. Beyond that, the distillery buildings clustered at the edge of the bluff overlooking the river.

The buildings were weathered gray stone, and in the center rose the distinctive twin-pagoda roofs of the kilns, complete with rustic waterwheel.

“Oh,” breathed Gemma. “It’s like a storybook.”

“It is, arguably, the prettiest distillery in Scotland,”

Donald admitted. “Tho’ I am a wee bit biased.”

He pulled the car up in front of the house that sat to one side of the distillery complex. Heather’s Audi already sat empty in the drive. “Come on; we’ll join the others,”

he said, pulling the baskets from the back of the Land Rover.

“This is your house?” Gemma slid out of the car without taking her eyes from the prospect. Built of the same weathered gray stone as the distillery, the house was a conglomeration of gables, turrets, and rooflines that echoed the pagoda shape of the kilns. It should have been hideous, she thought, but somehow it wasn’t.

“Neo-baronial excess,” said Donald, following her gaze. “Built by my great-great-grandfather in .”

Gemma followed him as he headed, not towards the front door, but around the side of the house. “I think it’s marvelous.”

“You don’t have to pay the central heating,” Donald answered lightly, but she thought he was pleased.

As they came round the corner, Gemma saw a green lawn flanked by rhododendrons and, at its edge, the bluff overlooking the river.

The rest of the party had already spread traveling rugs on the lawn, and Heather called out, “Hurry it up, then.

We’re famished.”

Donald and Gemma joined the group, and as they un-packed the picnic baskets and tucked into their lunch, Gemma watched Heather Urquhart curiously. The other woman seemed relaxed, without the sharpness Gemma had noticed in Hazel’s presence, and her exchanges with Donald had the easy familiarity Gemma had noticed earlier.

Along with the fruit, cheese, and the wedges of cold pheasant pie provided by John, Donald had brought a bottle of whisky and a half-dozen squatty, tulip-shaped glasses. The bottle, however, carried not the Benvulin logo that Gemma had already come to recognize, but a simple paper label with a handwritten number.

“This is a single cask whisky,” Donald explained as he handed round the glasses and poured a half-inch in each.

“Do you know the distinction?”

She shook her head. “That’s different from a single malt?”

“A single malt comes from one distillery,” put in Heather, with more patience than Gemma had expected.

“But the whisky is drawn from many different casks, to

achieve a uniformity of taste—a style. A single cask, on the other hand, is just what it sounds, a whisky bottled from one single cask. Each cask is wonderfully unique, and once it’s gone, it can never be replicated exactly.”

“It’s also very strong,” cautioned Donald, “and so should be drunk with care.” He held up his glass. “First, look at the color. What do you see?”

“It’s a pale gold,” Gemma ventured. “Lighter than the amber one we drank last night.”

“That pale color means it was aged in American bour-bon oak. The darker colors usually mean the whisky has spent some time in a sherry cask. Now”—he nodded towards Gemma’s glass—“sniff.” He demonstrated by holding his own glass under his nose. “What aromas jump out at you?”

Gemma inhaled gingerly. “Um, a sort of spicy vanilla.”

“Verra good. Now take a tiny sip—you don’t want to burn your tongue.”

Complying, Gemma found that although her nose prickled, her eyes didn’t tear as they had last night. “It’s sharp, acid. With a sort of burnt-sugar taste.”

“Brilliant. Now we’re going to add some water, and taste again.” Donald pulled a bottle of spring water from the basket and poured a few drops into her glass.

Gemma sipped, holding the liquid on her tongue and frowning in concentration before letting it slide down her throat. “It’s much more flowery now,” she said in surprise. “With a hint of . . . could it be peaches? And honey—it definitely tastes like honey.”

“That’s very good.” Donald beamed at her as if she were a prize pupil. “And the more you taste, the more complexities you’ll be able to discern. We’ll turn you into a whisky connoisseur yet.” He splashed water into the other glasses, then raised his own. “Slàinte.”

This time, Gemma took a more generous swallow and felt the warmth work its way down into her belly, then out towards her fingers and toes.

They finished their drinks in companionable chat, and although Martin stretched out and promptly went to sleep, Gemma found that rather than experiencing the groggy sleepiness often induced by wine, she felt vi-brantly alive and alert. “Could we see the distillery?” she asked.

“Of course,” replied Donald. “We’ll take a wee tour.”

“I think I’ll pass,” said Heather, lazily. “That’s too much like work.”

“And I, as well,” echoed Pascal, pouring himself another finger of whisky and lying back on his elbow.

“Right, then. I don’t think we’ll disturb young Martin.”

Donald stood and held out a hand to Gemma, pulling her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a thistle.

She snatched her hand back and rubbed it against her jeans as she followed him across the lawn, trying to dispel the lingering warmth of his touch.

Donald turned back to her as they reached the distillery buildings. “The kilns and the mill are just for show now, of course. The gristmill has been steam-powered since the turn of the century, but my father restored the mill wheel to working order. It impresses the visitors.”

“And the kilns?” asked Gemma, admiring the twin pagodas.

“Almost all Scottish distilleries now buy malt from professional maltsters, although each distillery specifies the amount of peat smoke required.” He led her into the large building behind the kilns. “We do still grind the malt here—that’s the gristmill,” he added, pointing at a large, steel box with a funnel-shaped bottom. He lifted a handful of barley grains from a bowl on a display table.

“The barley goes in like this”—dipping into a second bowl, he held out what looked like coarse-ground oatmeal—“and comes out like that. Grist.”

Gemma touched the coarse meal with a fingertip, then followed Donald upstairs onto a steel mesh catwalk.

They stopped before an enormous vat with a wooden cover.

“The grist is conveyed up here into the mash tun, where hot water is added to it.” He lifted a section of the cover, and Gemma peered in. The vat was half filled with a frothy liquid that smelled good enough to eat.

“What is this?”

“It’s called wort. The successive washes of hot water leach the sugars from the barley, leaving a sweet barley water. As children, we were given it as a treat. It’s nonal-coholic at this stage.”

“And over there?” Gemma gestured towards the series of smaller tubs she could see across the room.

“Those are the washbacks. That’s where yeast is added to the wort, and it begins to ferment. The brewer in my grandfather’s day used to say it was nae whisky if ye didna chuck a rat in the wash to give it a boost, but we don’t do that these days.”

“Rats?” Gemma couldn’t repress a shudder, although she was sure he was teasing her.

“Aye, the vermin were everywhere, living off the malt.

There were always a few wee cats on the distillery pay-roll.” This time the twinkle was unmistakable.

“Well-fed cats, I should think,” Gemma rejoined.

“As well as well-watered staff. The distillery crew was allowed three drams a day, straight from the still. Must have had cast-iron stomachs, those lads.”

He led her back down the stairs at the far end of the platform, into a large, high-ceiling room that appeared

dwarfed by the four huge, copper stills. “Once it’s fermented, the wash goes into the wash stills—that’s the pair in the front—then into the spirit stills. Those are the smaller stills in the back. The middle portion of that second distilling goes into the cask; the rest is re-distilled.”

“It’s all very neat, isn’t it?” said Gemma, gazing up at the graceful copper swan necks.

“Aye, if by that you mean tidy. The treacly residue from the kilns is mixed with the leftover barley to make animal feed—many distilleries used to have prize-winning cattle herds. But then the Scots have always had to be frugal. And patient. There’s a good deal of waiting involved in the making of a good malt whisky.”

“You’ll be no stranger to that, then,” said Gemma, thinking of Hazel.

Donald gazed at her a moment, as if considering his reply, but said merely, “Let me show you the warehouse.”

They crossed the lawn to a stone building with high windows, and Donald unlocked the door. “There are two more buildings behind this one, actually, but this is the original.”

Gemma beheld a long aisle lined with rows of casks above an earthen floor, and the air held a heady perfume.

“Oh, what a lovely smell,” she said, closing her eyes and inhaling again. There were notes of oak and alcohol, along with more subtle scents she couldn’t identify.

“Up to thirty percent of the contents evaporate over the life of a cask. It’s called the angels’ share. Hazel loved this—she said she could never enter a warehouse without being instantly transported to her childhood.”

Gemma jumped at the opening he’d given her. “Donald, look. I know you and Hazel have a history; she told me a bit of it last night. But do you realize what she’s

risking by seeing you? Her marriage, her child, a lovely home—”

“Aye, I know that. But if she were happy, she’d nae have come—”

“She’s confused, and you’re taking advantage of that—”

“Gemma, Hazel belongs here,” he broke in, shaking his head. “It’s that brought her back, as much as any feeling for me.”

“If that’s true,” Gemma countered stubbornly, “why has she never talked about it? She’s hardly mentioned Scotland in all the time I’ve known her.”

“Because it would have been like opening the lid on bloody Pandora’s box—all that longing—”

“And now you’ve let it out.”

“Aye.”

They stared at each other, stalemated. After a moment, Gemma said, “It will pass, if you’ll let her go.”

“And that’s what you’d want for your friend, to be half alive? Half the person she was meant to be?”

“I-It’s you who doesn’t know her as she really is.”

Memories of all the cozy times spent in Hazel’s kitchen came back to Gemma with a rush, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. Hazel had been the calm anchor in a turbulent world, and only now did Gemma realize how much that had meant to her.

“It’s yourself you’ll be thinking of,” said Donald, with unexpected acuity. “Not that I can blame you, but that’s hardly fair, now, is it?”

Unwilling to admit he’d come so near the mark, Gemma changed tack. “Donald, if Hazel was willing to see you at Innesfree, why did she refuse to come here?”

He looked away from her, gazing at the tiered casks as if they might provide an answer. At last, he sighed and

said, “It was here we told my father we meant to marry.

He would nae hear of it. He told her never to set foot on Benvulin land again. And—” He hesitated again.

“And what?” prompted Gemma.

“And he said he would cast me out if she did.”