Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “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 1885.”

  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 unpacked 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 bourbon 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 vibrantly 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 nonalcoholic 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 payroll.” 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 redistilled.”

  “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 fee
d—many distilleries used to have prizewinning 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.”

  5

  There’s a surplus of bachelors in oor little glen, A’ specimens grand o’ eligible men.

  —ANONYMOUS

  Carnmore, November 1898

  “CATARRH,” PRONOUNCED NURSE Baird as she sat back from examining her patient. The rash flushing Charles Urquhart’s fair skin indicated a particularly virulent fever, and a single look at his throat had confirmed her worst suspicions.

  “He’ll be all right, then?” Livvy Urquhart asked, relief flooding her voice.

  “It’s a powerful infection, Livvy—you’ll know that,” cautioned the nurse. And the poor man was already weakened from his ordeal in the snow. Well, she would do what she could, as it would be days before the doctor could get there from Tomintoul.

  Why was it, Nurse Baird wondered, that birth, death, and illness always chose to coincide with the worst conditions?—If that were the Lord’s will, she’d have given him credit for more sense.

  At the height of the storm, she’d been helping Mrs. Stuart give birth to her ninth, and that on the heels of easing the passage of old Granny Sharp at the opposite end of the village. She had just got back to her own fireside and her cat, Sootie, when Kenny Baxter had come hammering at her door with the news that Mr. Charles was taken ill.

  Charles Urquhart had been a scrawny bairn when she’d delivered him nigh on forty years ago, in a snowstorm as fierce as this one, but he had survived. Perhaps he would show the same fortitude now.

  She added crushed willow bark and wild garlic to the pot of hot water Livvy had brought her, then set the concoction aside to steep. At least Olivia Urquhart was a sensible woman, and fortunate in possessing some medical training from her physician father. By Livvy’s directive, the room was clean and tolerably warm, and Charles had been well covered and fed warming drinks to soothe his throat.

  But if Livvy Urquhart was sensible and competent, she was also much too beautiful for the hard life of the Braes. A hothouse flower, Nurse had thought when Charles first brought her to Carnmore, with her dark curls and fair skin. Nor had Livvy faded—if anything, she had become lovelier. It was as if the births of her children and the death of her little daughter had both tempered and refined her. A rose on a steel stem, that’s how Nurse thought of her.

  She wished she had the same confidence in Charles. He’d been delicate from a lad, with a drive that pushed him past the limits of his constitution.

  Now, studying Will, Nurse thought she saw signs of the same delicacy. The boy had grown too fast, so that the skin seemed stretched too tightly over the sharp angles of his bones, and high spots of color flared in his cheeks. He was vulnerable, she thought as she filtered the herbal brew into a cup. This infection could be highly contagious—she would do well to watch the boy as well as treat the father.

  Early that morning, Callum had watched Donald and the dark-haired woman emerge from the woods and wend their way along the meadow path towards the river. Through his binoculars, he could see Donald speaking urgently, and the woman shaking her head, as if she were not convinced by his arguments. As they reached the river, someone else came out of the copse, a slender woman with a long, boyish stride. Her hair, the color of copper beech leaves, was pulled away from her face, revealing strong bones and a slightly upturned nose.

  The redhead reached the river’s edge, then, turning to survey the shoreline, gave a start of surprise as she spied Donald Brodie and his companion. She observed the couple for a moment, as if hesitating, then spun round on her heel and retraced her steps along the path.

  Callum watched a little longer, long enough to see Donald’s kiss returned in full measure. Then he slipped the binoculars back into their case and adjusted the gun strap over his shoulder. He had seen enough.

  It was past noon by the time Callum had ferried the trekker’s baggage to the B&B in Ballindalloch and finished up his chores round the stables. Then, having made sure his father was dozing harmlessly in front of the telly, he drove the van into Aviemore.

  He parked in the pay-and-display next to Aviemore Police Station and commanded Murphy to stay in the car. Ignoring the Labrador’s look of reproach, Callum started down the hill, easing his pace to accommodate the Saturday shoppers strolling the other way. It was a strolling sort of day, with the sky a clear blue behind the Cairngorms and the steam train from Boat of Garten chugging merrily into the Aviemore station. Callum had no thought for the scenery, however, as he reached Tartan Gifts and pushed open the door.

  The shop was busy, with Mrs. Witherspoon helping two well-padded women who were waffling over Bonnie Prince Charlie tea towels, while another couple browsed among the heather-filled paperweights. At the till, Alison was ringing up one customer while another queued impatiently.

  Callum waited, fingering the monogrammed bookmarks while he avoided Mrs. Witherspoon’s gimlet eye. It was stifling in the close confines of the sho
p, the air overheated and heavy with the odor of candles and Alison’s distinctive perfume. He could feel himself sweating, could smell the oily, woolly scent of his own sweater, warmed by his body.

  When Alison had finished with the second customer, he stepped with relief up to the register. “Come away outside,” he whispered. “I need a word with ye.”

  “Are ye daft?” hissed Alison. “Can ye no see I’m busy?” In a louder voice, she added, “And what can I be doing for you today, Mr. MacGillivray?”

  “Let me buy you a coffee,” he persisted.

  “That’ll not be necessary, Mr. MacGillivray.” Alison gave him a bright smile, then leaned forward to adjust something on the countertop, whispering, “Just bugger off, Callum. You’ll get me sacked.”

  “Make an excuse,” he urged softly. “This is about Donald.”

  Callum could see her hesitate, torn between irritation and curiosity. Then she jerked her head towards the door. “All right. Go on. I’ll meet you outside.”

  He did as instructed, and a few moments later, Alison came out of the shop. She hurried down the hill, her heels clicking on the pavement, until she was well out of sight of the shop windows.

  “I’ve told the auld cow I had to check on Chrissy,” she said, “so be quick about it.”

  “Where is Chrissy?”

  “She’s at home. Where did ye think she would be? And why is it any business of yours?”

  “I thought you might bring her for her riding lesson.”

  Alison shook her head impatiently. “Never mind about that now. Has something happened to Donald? Is he all right?”

  “Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?” asked Callum, enjoying an unaccustomed sense of power. “You said he told you he had a business meeting this weekend.”

  “So? What of it?”

  “It’s an odd sort of business, then. He’s staying at the Inneses’.” Seeing Alison’s blank expression, he asked, “Did he never introduce you to John and Louise Innes? They bought the old farmhouse just down the road from the stables. Turned it into a posh bed-and-breakfast.”