The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘Alex—’

  ‘Leave me alone, Lochlan,’ she said, pushing past him. ‘We’re done.’

  Everyone stood on the front steps, waving, their hair flying back and upwards in the downdraught of the blades as the helicopter tenderly rose into the air. They had swapped mobiles and email addresses but as Alex smiled her fake smiles, she knew she would never see any of them again; as much as she liked them, they were his friends, his allies.

  They changed direction, Borrodale at their backs, and gained height quickly, the lights flashing in the endless darkness as the garden became mere space and the land became a map.

  They didn’t talk. Instead, she looked down at the cities below them – the long lines of street lights delineating motorways and residential streets, floodlights picking out football stadiums and tennis clubs, tail lights and headlights marking out journeys being taken, lives being lived.

  He flicked a few switches and she felt his glance bounce her way every few moments. She could hear his breath in her headset. She looked out of the window even harder, the Cairngorms crumpled at their feet. It was a long time before either of them spoke.

  ‘Alex.’

  She pointedly turned away, the silence that swirled round the cabin louder than the drone of the blades.

  ‘Alex, I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know I crossed the line last night and I was a jerk back there earlier. I’m sorry, okay? But just listen to me: you haven’t lost your job. And the reason I know you haven’t is because I haven’t lost mine. He can’t fire me. All I’ve really done is jump the gun. He’ll be pissed off, yes, but he can’t kick me out.’

  She turned back to him. There it was again – that cocksure arrogance that he was untouchable. How could he not see the consequences of his actions? ‘You’ve just given him the perfect opportunity to raise a motion of no confidence.’

  He blinked. ‘And if he does, there’s still no legal imperative on me to resign as a result of it.’

  ‘But how can you possibly hope to continue without any shred of support or respect if that happens?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t know why you can’t see how doomed your position is.’

  ‘I’m sticking it out because I have to, not because I want to.’

  ‘Why? Why do you have to stay? How can you live like this?’

  He was quiet for a long time. ‘. . . Because I’m the only thing stopping the distillery from being closed down.’

  Alex stared at him, baffled. ‘Wha— Why should it close down?’

  ‘Because they want to sell.’

  ‘The Ferrandor deal?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I know you torpedoed the deal a few years ago.’

  ‘Damn right I did.’

  She waited for an explanation, having to prompt him when none came. ‘Because . . . ?’

  ‘Look, you know enough about Kentallen by now. You know we don’t buy anything in and we don’t sell anything out – we don’t distribute our maturing malts to another distillery for them to use in their blended whisky; we own and manage our own peat bogs on the island, we buy barley from the local farmers, like Mr Peggie; we store and bottle everything on the island . . . We may not be competing with the production capacity of someone like Glenfiddich or Macallan, but we’re still the biggest single employer on Islay.’

  ‘And why would selling to Ferrandor change that?’

  She saw the ball of his jaw pulse. ‘Because they’d take practically everything off the isle – they’d move the bottling and warehousing to Speyside, take branding, marketing and advertising in-house, ship in the barley, ship in the peat . . . They’d basically mothball operations here and kill the Islay infrastructure.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ she said quietly, thinking of Mr Peggie; his family had farmed that land and supplied the distillery for almost a century. She looked out and saw that they were crossing over the Northern Channel already, the hulk of Jura and behind it Islay, like a giant’s stepping stones in the sea.

  ‘Wouldn’t they? Would you still be so loyal to them if you knew that when my father was dying, when he was literally on his deathbed, delirious and out of his mind on medication, they brought him the contracts and tried to get him to sign them?’ He glanced over at her, fire in his eyes. ‘Are you hearing what I’m telling you? They tried to manipulate and deceive a dying man, for their own profits. If I hadn’t happened to come in and stop them—’ His voice broke and he fell silent.

  Was that really true? Sholto had tried to con a dying man? Alex stared at him, at the determined set of his jaw as he surveyed the dark skies. ‘Torquil told me the deal was off the table.’

  ‘Torquil says a lot of things.’

  ‘He said it would create three supply-chain jobs for every direct-line operative employed.’

  ‘Ha. Did he now?’

  She couldn’t stop looking at him, so defiant even in profile. ‘So you think that if you go, they’ll push the sale through?’

  ‘I don’t even need to go. Their current plan is paving the way for a hostile takeover, with or without me at the helm.’

  Alex looked at him in bewilderment, hardly able to keep up. He was paranoid. Properly paranoid. He had to be. ‘Current plan?’ she questioned, thinking back to what Torquil had told her in his office that day. ‘You mean the move into white spirits?’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Trust me, they have absolutely no interest in diversifying into spirits and growing the company.’

  ‘Yes, they do. It was sanctioned at the AGM. Torquil said it was the first time everyone’s been in agreement with your proposal in years.’

  ‘Only because it greases the wheel for their real ambition.’

  ‘Which is?’ she pressed. The lights of Port Ellen flickered ahead of them like the flames of hurricane lamps in the dark.

  ‘In order to fund growth for a move like that, we have two options: either reinvest our profits – as I want to do – or release more equity, which they’re pressing for. But it’s a Trojan horse. They know that issuing more shares would mean my holding becomes diluted and my majority erased; they also know that all my money’s tied up in the Scotch Vaults venture at the moment so I can’t buy more to protect my stake. And once they’ve neutralized my majority, it’s a straightforward proxy fight.’

  Alex stared at him. It tallied with what Torquil had told her and she knew perfectly well what a proxy fight was: the acquiring organization persuaded key shareholders to use their proxy votes to install new management who could approve the sale.

  Alex caught her breath as she realized what this meant. If what Lochie was saying was true, Sholto wasn’t merely the antagonist in this dog fight but a mole too, there to connive in the best interests of a hidden third party. And she had been working for them. She was his deadliest weapon.

  She felt suddenly sick. Sickened by herself.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘No one who believes me. Peter and Doug for starters. I’ve tried telling them. Mhairi, I’m not sure – I think she has her doubts. As for my many cousins, there’d be no point—’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘They couldn’t give a damn what goes down, so long as they get their paycheques every quarter.’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m only telling you this because . . . well, I think you might actually be the only person who does get it. Maybe you really are the only one in my corner – and I don’t want what happened last night to drive you away.’

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ she replied hotly, resenting his words and the implication that she’d run. Like Skye.

  ‘Like you said, it was a . . . heat-of-the-moment thing,’ he said, looking dead ahead. ‘We were drunk, that was all.’

  Did he really believe that? She looked out of the window as they lost height, as though being dropped on a rope. Beneath them, the giant copper still in the courtyard gleamed under the security night lights, the plush Christmas tree a contrast to the thin black ribs of the maltings’ charred rafters. The
place was locked up and deserted, the weekend almost over.

  His concentration on the landing was absolute now and she didn’t say another word until the power had been cut and the blades began to slow.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ she mumbled, undoing her harnesses and taking off the ear defenders. ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, watching as she reached back to retrieve her small carry bag from the space behind the seat.

  She twisted back and stilled at the sight of him. He was staring at her, his body tense, his face unmasked, and she had that feeling again – almost violent in its intensity – that she got whenever they were too close, those brown eyes the dice that could ruin her future – or make it?

  She blinked, refusing to let the moment bloom to its natural conclusion, and turned away, getting ready to jump out.

  The snow hadn’t budged over the weekend; if anything there had been fresh falls, the staff footprints in the car park all but obscured under the crisp new cover, and it took Lochie several minutes to heat up the car and clear the windscreen as she sat in the passenger seat, blowing on her hands.

  ‘I can’t believe the difference in temperature,’ she said as he finally got back in, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

  ‘Aye, it’s bitter,’ he said, blowing on his hands too. He turned on the ignition and the car started up first time.

  ‘You really don’t have to do this. I’m more than happy to wait for Jack to drop me back.’

  Lochie snorted. ‘With his leg? It’d be a long bloody wait. They’d find you as a frozen statue when they came to unlock the gates tomorrow morning. Besides, I’m passing anyway.’

  They pulled away and she tipped her head back against the headrest; the buttermilk leather was as soft as her new Connolly gloves, the smell reassuringly expensive and reminding her of her real life, the one to which she actually belonged, even though it had receded from sight the first moment she’d stepped off the ferry in that approaching storm. It was this world here that wasn’t real: him, Callum, the Peggies, Skye . . .

  Her hands fell to the seats, gripping them lightly as they wound their way along the slippery country lanes, her thumb rubbing against leather. Maybe she would buy herself one of these when this job was all done and behind her – a memento, a souvenir, a private joke in which she was laughing at herself for the many errors of judgement she’d made on this tiny isle.

  They rounded the steep hillock and she saw the lights of the handsome farmhouse set back from the road, the only inhabited building for the next two miles. It looked as though Mrs Peggie had another guest in the green room, not that she cared about making small talk tonight. She couldn’t eat anyway. She wanted bath, bed and a bloody great pillow. She needed to think, to regroup. Nothing and no one was as she had thought and she felt dangerously adrift.

  He pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition, jumping out to get her suitcase and gun before she could stop him.

  ‘Here, it’s icy,’ he said, holding out his arm, as unthinkingly chivalrous as his cousin had been a few nights before.

  She took it and together they trod carefully along the path, her heart already hammering in anticipation of what would happen at the door, in remembrance of what had happened at last night’s door. Was he thinking it too? Did their kiss prey on his mind as it did hers? To her dismay, she saw Mrs Peggie had trussed up a hearty bunch of mistletoe too. It was like some sort of conspiracy!

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ she said, trying to sound brisk, her hand already on the door knob.

  ‘Alex, wait—’

  She turned, sure he must be able to hear the blood pounding through her veins like raging rapids.

  ‘I just wanted to say that . . . in spite of everything, I’m glad you came this weekend.’

  ‘Oh.’ She tried not to acknowledge the massive flood of disappointment as he made no move to step closer to her. ‘Yes. Me too. It was fun.’ Fun?

  ‘And I know I’ve behaved badly. Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of throwing beautiful women out of my office—’

  He thought she was beautiful?

  ‘But I guess what I’m saying is I know I can trust you now. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize it. I’ve been an arse.’

  ‘Yes. You have,’ she said, her mouth drying up as she realized she had manoeuvred him – finally, accidentally – to exactly where she’d wanted him. Only now . . . everything had changed. The players had changed roles.

  ‘So, as of tomorrow, you’ll get the full charm offensive, I promise.’

  Her smile slipped. She wasn’t sure she could manage that.

  He grinned. ‘Who knows, perhaps you really can help me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ How could she do what had been asked of her, knowing what she knew now?

  For a moment, his gaze caught hers, scooping it up and holding it high, and she felt her stomach contract just as it had in that moment before he’d kissed her last night, just as it had in that moment in the helicopter before she’d leapt out. He grinned again and began to walk backwards up the garden path.

  ‘Maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me.’ He chuckled suddenly, as light-hearted as he had been with his friends. ‘Maybe you’re my wonderwall, Alex Hyde.’

  Alex watched him, wanting to cry. Wrecking ball was more like it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Islay, 14 March 1918

  Everything was coming back to life again. The trees were in bud, crocuses and primroses dotting the banks like spots of sunshine as she wheeled past, her hair flying off her shoulders. The highland cattle were grazing the ocean-side fields, their low, reverberating moos swaying through the gently tossed air as the sun began its slow descent.

  Part of her wanted to stop and pick flowers – their colour and scent would cheer the ward; she wanted to bring spring in with her. But to stop was to lose time and that was the one thing she never had enough of now. Her day in the field had been arduous. With the ground softening and the daylight hours growing more numerous, they were working for longer trying to sow the crops; on the other hand, her father would not hear of her returning home in the dark. She was squeezed at either end, the long day and the equally urgent night rushing towards each other and leaving her scant time to see him, to read to him, to hold his hand.

  He had only begun taking food in the past week and was now almost as slight as she; the delirium from the influenza had taken weeks to pass and numerous times, Matron had braced her to prepare herself ‘for the worst’, to not ‘become too attached’, but she didn’t understand. No one did.

  She, Clarissa, had saved him. He had been more dead than alive on those rocks, almost hidden from sight, the tide fast rushing in towards him again, and his survival – against all the odds – had reawakened her own urge to live. Her fiancée was dead. Her beloved brother was dead. Death defined life for the living now – everyone was marked by it – and she had grabbed at this soldier’s survival as though it was her own. For there had to be more to being alive than sleeping with the sun and waiting for the post as she had done, passing the small, quiet hours with worrying hands and a knitted brow; there had to be hope of beauty and peace, of laughter and love.

  So she had read to him as he languished and held his hand while he slept, feeling every day his grip growing stronger in hers, seeing the colour return to his flesh as the virus died back, his broken bones knitting together strongly as the soup and the rest and the warmth of a soft bed played their parts.

  She sped into the town, seeing from the angle of the sun that she had an hour at best before she would have to leave again. She rang the bell gaily before rounding the corner into the main street.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs McPhee,’ she called as she appeared at speed, her petticoats flashing her stockinged legs.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Clarissa,’ the woman called back, stepping out of the way with a shake of her head and a smile as the girl streaked past the General Stores and conti
nued on apace to the Port Ellen Hotel, which had been given over as a temporary hospital.

  She threw her leg over the bar and freewheeled, standing on the pedal for the last fifty yards, almost throwing the bike against the wall as she hurried in, smoothing her skirts.

  Matron cocked an eyebrow at her flushed cheeks and wild hair, her eyes shining brightly – too brightly – as she hurried over for today’s news.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He managed a few steps today—’

  Clarissa gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘But it has depleted him, Miss Clarissa. He needs to rest.’

  ‘Is he . . . is he sleeping?’ She strained to see in through the glazed doors to the makeshift ward that had once been the lobby. ‘Can I see him?’

  Matron sighed. ‘He’s in there. He’s been asking for you. But he is still very weak—’ she called, as the girl burst into another sprint. ‘Only ten minutes!’ she said, the doors already swinging open and closed, open and closed in diminishing returns.