The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘Wait . . . you’re saying my great-grandmother pretended to adopt her own child to cover up the fact that she’d had her American soldier’s baby?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘Yes! That’s why there’s no paperwork for it. Back then an illegitimate child, born to the best family in the area, would have been an absolute scandal.’

  ‘But how? How did she do it? A pregnancy isn’t an easy thing to hide.’

  ‘Precisely. Which is why she disappeared from public view. Her housekeeper, Mrs Dunoon – who had herself only just been widowed – agreed to pretend she was with child and together they left the island, supposedly on account of Clarissa’s grief. They travelled to the Peak District where no one knew them; Clarissa gave birth and then she came back to Islay with the baby, pretending she had adopted him after Mrs Dunoon had succumbed to the Spanish flu. But she hadn’t.’

  He looked baffled. ‘And you know that because . . . ?’

  ‘Because Mrs Dunoon was Mrs Peggie’s aunt; and that picture –’ she pointed to the pastel – ‘which she painted and signed, is hanging in my bedroom, dated nine years after she supposedly died. I think Mrs Dunoon stayed out of the way in Cumbria, and Clarissa in return paid her an income for the rest of her life. After all, it’s no secret if three know it.’

  Lochie looked stunned. She knew it was a lot to take in. It had fried her brain at first too.

  ‘So . . .’

  She watched him try to unravel the theory, refusing to believe yet what she was telling him, and what it meant.

  ‘So why put the baby stuff in the cask? What’s that about?’

  ‘I’m not certain, but I think she needed to hide anything that could link the baby with its father. Mrs Peggie told me Edward Cobb’s mother came over to the island in 1932 as part of the Gold Star Pilgrimage. Now, if she met Clarissa and her grandson – your grandfather – well, either Clarissa could have told her the truth outright, or she might have seen a likeness in him? George would have been thirteen by then, so who knows? He could have been the spit of his father. But whether or not Dorothy Cobb learnt the truth, Clarissa wouldn’t have been able to take any chances with anyone else finding out. Her friendship with Ed was already well known; if she was seen getting close to his mother, people might have begun to wonder and talk . . . She would have wanted to hide the only physical proof that linked him to his father? One of the first things Skye said to me was that the best thing about being a blender is that if you mess up, it’s a generation before anyone finds out. Well, guess what? Here we are, only finding out three generations later. She did well.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Until you came along.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she smiled.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She watched him as he looked down at the jumbled photos, the letter – the truth. ‘Lochie, you may not believe me, but I was going to send all this information on to you. I just had to allow for a little distance first.’

  He shot her a look. ‘Whilst the payment went through, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. The terms of my agreement with Sholto were that I had to get you to resign and think it was your own idea. And I did that. It wasn’t anything to do with me if you then came into possession of information clarifying the truth about the so-called adoption.’ She arched an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re one scary woman, Alex Hyde.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  They locked eyes again and she began shuffling the papers back into a neat pile. ‘So, what are you going to do? Sholto hasn’t announced your resignation yet, has he?’

  ‘No, he said he was going to wait until after Christmas; the distillery’s closed for the festive break now anyway.’ Lochie sighed, sinking onto the desktop and crossing his ankles. ‘But technically I’ve resigned, he didn’t throw me out; regardless of the adoption legalities, it was a voluntary decision to step down. He’s not obliged to rehire me.’

  Alex felt a chill of panic. She hadn’t anticipated that; she’d thought she had all the bases covered. ‘But what about the company?’ Skye had moved on, of course, but she thought of Bruce and Hamish, the Peggies . . . ‘If you don’t go back, Sholto can command the proxy shares to facilitate the takeover. They’ll close it down.’

  Lochie looked at her consideringly for a moment and she could see he was debating whether to share something with her. ‘. . . Not necessarily,’ he said finally. ‘I have a feeling Sholto isn’t going to want to enforce my termination contract when he sees what I’ve got in my possession.’

  She watched as he walked over to the window and crouched down, picking up the broken shards of glass on the floor. ‘Which is?’

  He glanced back at her, the shards cupped in his grazed hand. ‘The fire report came back just before I left for the party on Thursday night. It wasn’t an accident. It was arson.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘Oh my God. Do they know who?’

  ‘No. But I do.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘Sholto?’ she gasped, and then when he raised an eyebrow, ‘Torquil?’

  ‘I think it’s all part of his and Sholto’s plan to destabilize the Islay operations, in preparation for the Ferrandor deal. It’s a lot easier to shut down a distillery if part of it’s already out of action and razed to the ground.’

  Alex couldn’t believe what she was hearing. To have seduced Skye to provoke him was one thing, but arson?

  ‘How do you know it was him? Did he confess?’

  Lochie smiled at the very thought. ‘No, but I’ve known it was him since the day I got out of hospital, long before that report came in . . . I have the CCTV tapes.’

  Alex frowned. ‘But – the CCTV isn’t working. I was in the meeting. You and Torquil were fighting over the cost of getting it repaired.’

  He rose to standing and carefully deposited the broken shards in a neat pile on a high shelf, out of harm’s way. ‘Exactly. Which meant they went unchecked after the fire. A while back, when the fuse tripped – and that’s all it was; no one else bothered to check – I thought it might come in handy one day to have a backup surveillance hidden in plain sight. It’s amazing what people will do when they think they’re not being watched.’

  She laughed in spite of herself, the motion moving her body like a wave. ‘Lochie! And you say I’m scary!’

  ‘Well, they were playing dirty so . . .’ he shrugged.

  ‘Are you going to have him arrested?’

  ‘That depends on Sholto. I could be persuaded to keep the information to myself if he and his son resign with immediate effect. Obviously I’m going to be pretty tied up with Scotch Vaults in London but if I was to come back as non-exec chairman . . .’

  London? She watched him as he walked back over to her. ‘But that’s blackmail.’

  ‘You say blackmail, I say that’s how families do business.’ He grinned. ‘Things need to change from the top – a new board with more external candidates, more women . . .’ He arched an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve just shown me you care about the company’s welfare and I already know that even just for the Peggies alone, you’d want to protect its links with the community. Besides, it’s only a few days’ work a year. I’m thinking Callum can come in as CEO. He’s done a good job in the wealth management division.’

  ‘Callum?’

  ‘I know, we’ve had our differences but he and I were always on the same page about the things that matter.’ He took a step closer to her, grabbing her hand suddenly and pressing it to his lips. ‘Same taste in women, for one thing.’

  The touch of him made her stomach flip, her skin dance, but she pulled back. ‘Lochie . . .’

  ‘What?’

  She swallowed. ‘Too much has happened. Don’t you think we’ve ruined it? Any idea of “us” was jinxed from the start.’

  He nodded. ‘Before this, I’d have agreed. But things are different now. You know me, but now I know
you too. I want you, Alex, and I know you want me.’

  ‘But wanting it isn’t enough. There’s a million reasons why it won’t work.’

  He smiled, getting cocky, getting clever, getting closer, his hands on her hips and his head bent. ‘Ah, but you see, a wise, scary, very beautiful woman once told me something.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she whispered, unable not to smile and feeling her resolve weaken as his hands brushed up her waist.

  ‘We only need one reason why it will.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘I’ve got nothing to wear.’

  ‘Great. Wear that.’

  She laughed, falling back on the bed, one arm slung over her face. ‘Lochie, I’m serious! Of all the things I didn’t think to pack—’

  ‘You mean, apart from for working, shooting, dancing . . . ?’

  She threw a lacy cushion at him, which he caught. ‘A toga was not one of them.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid Ambrose and Daisy do like their Christmas Eve plays. There’s no getting out of it. It’s a tradition.’

  ‘But I didn’t know that,’ she said, grinning as he tossed the cushion on the floor and came back to the bed, crawling on hands and knees over her. They had been supposedly ‘unpacking’ for two hours already, the freezer downstairs now rammed with several magnums of champagne which had to be blast-chilled after tonight’s original intended stock had been used up at the celebrations at lunch – although it had been drunk only after she and Lochie had managed to get their own back on the others by escaping through the windows and enacting a dramatic chase scene on the lawns, which had just about given them a collective heart attack.

  ‘No, you didn’t know because you thought you could break my heart and get away with it. Well, we have ways of making you pay. My friends are sick like that.’ He kissed her once. Twice. ‘Don’t worry. It’s less Antony and Cleopatra, more Carry On Up the Tiber.’

  ‘I’m going to have to use a sheet.’

  ‘Good idea. You can use this one,’ he said, suddenly ripping away the Egyptian cotton bed linen that was the only thing protecting her modesty and making her shriek. He met her eyes with a wolfish grin. ‘It’s not like we’re going to be needing it.’

  Borrodale House, Perthshire, Christmas Day 2017

  The table was as dressed up as they were – the men back in their trews and jewel-coloured velvet jackets, the women in their best black (except for Elise, naturally, who was in red). The candles cast a warm, flickering glow that flattered everyone – including the deer heads on the walls – and was complemented by the noisy fire that danced and fussed on the stone hearth.

  Rona, who had come over with Lochie on the train that morning, was lying in front of it, groaning in protest whenever any of the numerous crackers were pulled, but not daring to leave her post lest any falling food should require hoovering up; Alex, who had been touched by how pleased even the dog had seemed to see her here, looked down the length of the table with a feeling of peace that she hadn’t known the whole of her adult life.

  The day had been as perfect as any she could remember. They had all slept late – well, those without children – before feasting on cranachan and opening their presents around the tree as the kids played with their stocking fillers. The girls had sweetly put a stocking together for Lochie – her presence here even more unexpected than the previous weekend’s – with a miniature bottle of his favourite non-Kentallen malt from Emma, a pair of shooting socks knitted by Daisy, a framed photo of him looking incredibly gorgeous aged twenty-one from Jess, and a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People from Anna and Elise – which he’d promptly given to her. Alex’s own last-minute Christmas present to him had been a plane ticket to Geneva for the next day; his to her had been the small-scale model Aston Martin that he’d been gifted when buying his car and which reminded them both of that laughable night in the rain.

  Afterwards, they had reinvigorated their appetites with a walk over the moors – Lochie holding her hand whenever he could, Alex unable to wipe the smile from her face – before fighting for the hot water when they got back as they all rushed to run baths.

  The kids had long since left the table to go back to playing another game of Poddy 1-2-3 as Alex watched Anna absent-mindedly pull a catkin burr from Elise’s hair and Max tried to cheat at pulling a cracker with his wife; as Jess playfully attached a green plastic toy bow tie on top of Sam’s silk one and Ambrose squeezed Daisy’s waist as he planted a kiss on her cheek for producing such a successful dinner. And Lochie . . . Lochie was sitting beside her, his hand quietly resting on her thigh, their ankles interlinked beneath the table, as Sam talked to him about a biotech company he’d heard was developing an artificial uterine system to support extremely premature births.

  Lochie squeezed her thigh and glanced at her, both of them warmed by the heat between them. She felt changed from the inside out. She felt new.

  ‘A toast,’ Ambrose cried, scraping back his chair and holding his whisky glass aloft.

  The table fell silent, and Rona looked up expectantly.

  ‘I think we can all agree it’s been a pretty tough day to get through. Love’s Young Dream here,’ he said, nodding his head disparagingly towards the two of them, ‘have been absolutely disgusting to be around.’

  ‘Disgusting!’ everyone cheered as Lochie laughed and shook his head.

  ‘I busted them snogging in the pantry earlier and they’re on their final warning. House rules: such happiness in Borrodale will not be tolerated.’

  Daisy squawked indignantly, chucking a napkin at him which promptly fluttered onto the candelabra and would have caught fire had Sam not thrown his water over it, soaking Max’s lap in the process.

  ‘Hey!’ Max protested, jumping up to brush it off as everyone laughed and Rona ran around to him with high hopes.

  ‘. . . But I think I can speak on behalf of everyone here, when I say just what . . . a bloody relief it is to see our old pal Lochie here with someone far, far better than he! Alex, you must be a madwoman to be taking him on, but we’re certainly grateful you’re taking him off our hands and out of my cellars. He’s the best of men but life’s given him a pretty good kicking up till now and though honey may be sweet, no one licks it off a briar. Am I right?’

  Everyone cheered as Lochie groaned. Alex leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘But if he’s met his match in you, Alex, I have a hunch you’ve met yours in him too. As my beloved mother always used to say when she was roundly beating my father in an argument, “Hot water will quench fire.” So frankly, you deserve each other.’

  Alex laughed.

  ‘So I’m going to say to all of you, our wonderful friends, the toast my father always saved for this day – and bear with me, it’s a translation from the Gaelic, after all.’ He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest.

  ‘May the best you’ve ever seen, be the worst you’ll ever see.

  May the mouse never leave your pantry, with a tear-drop in his eye.

  May you always keep healthy and hearty, until you’re old enough to die . . .’

  He turned to Alex and Lochie with a face full of emotion.

  ‘And may you always be just as happy – as we wish you now to be.’

  Welcome to the family, Alex,’ he winked, before straightening his arm like Robert the Bruce with a claymore, droplets of whisky flying through the air. ‘Happy Christmas, you crazy bastards! Now let’s tear up the house!’

  Epilogue

  Islay, 30 April 1932

  The two women sat on the bench, looking out over the great expanse of silver sea that linked their countries like a glass sheet. They were quiet now, their initial frenzy of questions answered and peace settling over them like a cloak. There was comfort to be had in sitting here together, watching the wind dance as it stroked the long grasses and tickled the sea’s skin, listening to the puffins hopping just out of sight on the rocky cliffs, their roosting calls like the groans of creaky do
ors. For this was Scotland, the land that had saved him, and these were the people who had loved him.

  ‘Ed loved to sit here. It was his favourite spot,’ Clarissa said, tucking another tendril of hair behind her ear as the sun moved out from behind a cloud and white sunbeams tap-danced on the water. ‘When he was getting back on his feet again, we would walk up here together as part of his daily exercise and take our rest here. I think it made him feel closer to you.’

  ‘Bless you.’ Dorothy reached for her hand and held it in her own. ‘He’d never even seen the sea before he set sail for France; he said it was one of the good things about signing up – he would be getting to see the world.’

  But what a world it was, she thought – where men were saved only to be sent to their deaths; where love and loyalty had nothing to do with happy endings. Had it been worth it?

  Her eyes fell to the beautiful dark-haired boy, lanky and golden-skinned, sitting cross-legged on the grass before them and whittling a stick. He was thoughtful and composed for one so young, with a kind nature and his father’s gentle smile. He had greeted her with a hard-clutched embrace, as though he’d been waiting for her, as though he’d known she would come.

  She smiled through her veil of tears and nodded; she was an old woman now, but she still believed what she’d been brought up to believe as a girl: that where God takes away with one hand, he gives back with the other. So perhaps it had been worth it, in the end. Her own child had loved. And he had lost.

  But he lived on.

  Acknowledgements

  Some stories you have to dig for; they’re so elusive and hidden away, it’s like mining for coal with a spoon. Others simply land in your lap like a ripe peach, and I’m happy to declare that this was the case here – so I’d like to offer my biggest thanks to that dear, shall-remain-nameless friend who told me an anecdote over a customary bottle of champagne last summer and then watched, laughing, as I ran around with it for six months.