Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “You make the best of it,” Gemma said, with more certainty than she felt. If Hazel thought herself a fraud, was she a hypocrite? What if she were faced with staying with a man she didn’t love—Toby’s father, Rob, perhaps, if the circumstances had been different—or being with Duncan? Would she find her choice so easy?

  “What about Donald?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell him tonight,” said Hazel. “What else can I do?”

  When Gemma and Hazel entered the sitting room, they found the other guests assembled, except for Donald. The fire crackled, a lively Celtic air played softly in the background, and John was making the rounds with a bottle of single malt and a tray of cut glass tumblers. From the dining room came the clinking of china and cutlery—Louise setting the tables.

  “Aberlour, eighteen-year-old.” John raised the bottle towards them in greeting. “Thought everyone should taste a bit of the competition.”

  “You must be feeling very expansive tonight, John,” Heather Urquhart said with a malicious glint. She wore deep red and had chosen the chair nearest the fire. “I’m sure Donald would approve.”

  Martin Gilmore sat opposite Heather, watching her with the fierce intensity he had fixed on Gemma the previous evening. If Pascal Benoit felt threatened by the young man’s interest in Heather, he betrayed no sign of it. Wearing toast-colored cashmere, he looked relaxed and deceptively teddy-bear-like.

  “Where is Donald?” asked Gemma, taking the proffered glass from John.

  “Hung up at the distillery,” replied John. “He rang up and said he’d be along shortly. Feeling better, are you, Hazel?” he added solicitously.

  “Yes. Thanks.” As Hazel smiled up at him warmly, reaching for her drink, Louise came in. Louise froze in the doorway, as if arrested by the fleeting glimpse of intimacy between Hazel and her husband.

  Hazel’s smile faltered, dimmed. “Oh, Louise…” She took the glass from John’s hand too quickly, or he let it go too soon. Whisky sloshed over the rim, and the room smelled suddenly of fermenting pears and butterscotch.

  Pascal offered Hazel a handkerchief to mop her hand, and the awkward moment passed, but silence still hung like smoke in the room. The plaintive wail of bagpipes came clearly from the CD player.

  Martin held aloft his tumbler and leaped into the conversational breach. “Bloody good stuff, John. I could get used to this.”

  Louise gave him a look that said he’d better not bank on it, but before she could speak, the front door slammed and Donald came into the room. He brought with him the scent of woodsmoke and cold air, and beamed round at them with all the bonhomie of an auburn-bearded Father Christmas. “Started without me, have you?” He carried a bottle tucked in the crook of his arm like a baby.

  “Everything all right?” asked Heather.

  “Just had a wee root round in the cellar,” answered Donald, still standing, still cradling the bottle. Although Gemma craned forward to read the label, she couldn’t make it out. He turned to Louise. “Could you fetch us another tray of glasses, Louise? I’ve a little surprise.” Turning back to the others, he added, “Put aside whatever swill John’s seen fit to serve ye before you spoil your palates.”

  “What are you up to, Donald?” asked Heather, sitting up with an alertness that belied her sleepy-cat pose, but he merely shook his head.

  Not until Louise returned with a tray of clean tumblers did he transfer the bottle to both hands, and then his manner became suddenly hesitant. “Aye, this is a rare treat for anyone lucky enough to taste a dram, but…it’s for Hazel that this has a special meaning.” He turned the bottle outwards, and Gemma saw that the label was handwritten like the one on the bottle he had brought for the picnic. “Carnmore, 1980. A sherry cask, unusual for Carnmore. It was the last issue.”

  “Don’t tell me you bottled the Carnmore, Donald,” Heather said, her face going pale. “That cask is worth a bloody fortune. You know—”

  “Twenty-three years is long enough in the cask. And what better occasion than to mark Hazel’s return to the Highlands?” He pulled the cork from the bottle, poured a half-inch in each glass, and handed them round. “When this cask came up for sale from a private collector a few years ago, I thought it well worth the investment.”

  Gemma held the glass to her nose and breathed carefully, as Donald had taught her. Toasted hazelnuts and…was it chocolate? “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why is this so special?”

  “My family’s distillery,” Hazel said, her voice choked. “Up near Glenlivet. The last year of its operation was 1980. Donald, I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he answered gently, and for a moment the two of them might have been alone in the room. “Just drink.”

  Hazel raised the glass to her lips, and Gemma followed suit. The whisky was rich, oily, like melted butter on her tongue, and it left shimmering ripples on the inside of the glass.

  “Donald,” Hazel whispered. “You shouldn’t have done this. Not for me. I—”

  The doorbell rang, a clamor in the hushed room. Louise, whom Gemma noticed had stood with lips tight and drink untasted, disappeared. The muted sound of voices came from the hall, then Louise came back into the room.

  “Donald. There’s someone to see you.”

  “To see me?” He sounded startled.

  “You’d better go.”

  A look of apprehension crossed his face at Louise’s tone, but he smiled at Hazel and made a graceful exit. After a moment the murmur of voices came from outside, one Donald’s bass rumble, the other a shrill female counterpoint.

  The sitting room drapes were not yet drawn, although the light had faded to a pale charcoal illuminated by the pink glow in the western sky. Propelled by curiosity and a nameless unease, Gemma rose and went to the window. As she peered out, a movement at her shoulder told her Hazel had joined her.

  Donald stood in the drive, talking to a blond in a very short skirt. The woman held a small girl by the hand, the child’s face a pale blur in the dusk. Every line in the woman’s taut body shouted her fury while Donald shook his head, his hands upraised in placation.

  A movement along the driveway’s edge drew Gemma’s eye from the confrontation. Half hidden in the shadow of the hedge, a slender, kilted man stood perfectly still, watching.

  6

  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:

  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:

  Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad,

  O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

  —ROBERT BURNS,

  “Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad”

  IT WAS THE longest meal in Gemma’s memory. John and Louise had hustled them all into the dining room while Donald was still in the drive, on the grounds that the celery and Brie soup should be eaten immediately.

  “As soon as the cheese melts, that’s the secret,” John pronounced, with more urgency than any soup warranted.

  They were halfway through the first course before Donald returned. “Sorry about that,” he said, sliding into his seat beside Hazel, but his smile looked strained.

  No one gave in to the temptation to ask him the woman’s identity, nor did he offer any explanation, and the clinking of spoons against china grew unnaturally loud. Heather watched him with open speculation, Martin with frank curiosity, Pascal with a detached amusement. Hazel didn’t look at him at all.

  But when John and Louise came in to take the soup plates, Louise smiled at Hazel, touching her shoulder lightly as she reached over the table. Was there a thawing of sympathy in that quarter, Gemma wondered, now that Hazel appeared to be the party wronged?

  And was there a certain smugness to Heather Urquhart’s smile? How much did she know about Donald’s relationship with Hazel? Could she have engineered a deliberate sabotage? Not that it hadn’t been in Hazel’s best interest to see Donald in his true colors, Gemma reminded herself. But the sight of her friend’s face, tight with misery, mad
e her doubt her own judgment.

  John brought in the grilled salmon, which was indeed as good as he had promised, but Gemma, watching Hazel push her portion about on her plate, found she had lost her appetite.

  Rather to Gemma’s surprise, Martin Gilmore made a valiant effort at conversation, questioning her about her job, and Pascal about his interest in moths, with more sensitivity than she had credited him with. The atmosphere eased a bit, and Donald joined in with an occasional comment, although Gemma noticed his wine consumption was more than generous.

  “What about your kids?” asked Martin, turning back to Gemma. “You said you had boys?”

  She nodded, her lips curving up in an involuntary smile. “Kit’s twelve, and Toby’s four.”

  Martin’s eyes widened. “You can’t possibly have a twelve-year-old. You’re—” He stopped, a blush creeping up to the roots of his hair. “That sounded dreadfully rude. I only meant—”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment,” Gemma told him. “And although I could have a twelve-year-old, Kit’s my…partner’s…son.” She was never sure what to call Kincaid. Partner seemed rather stiff and formal, significant other as if he were an object in a shop, boyfriend made her feel like a giggly teenager, lover somehow didn’t seem appropriate for polite company. But whatever she called him, she wished he would ring her or answer his bloody mobile phone. She was beginning to wonder if he was deliberately avoiding her, but she couldn’t imagine why.

  “A blended family?” said Pascal. “How very modern of you.”

  Gemma shrugged. “Hectic might be a better description. I never realized how much more complicated life was with two children rather than—” Too late, she caught a glimpse of Hazel’s face and wondered if she was thinking of the woman and child who had come to see Donald. But before she could rectify her mistake, Martin compounded it.

  “You have a child, too, don’t you, Hazel? A daughter, I think you said. Have you a photo?”

  “I—She—” With a wild look at Donald, Hazel stood, rocking the table so that the wineglasses sloshed precariously. “I—I’m sorry. Not feeling well,” she blurted out, and ran from the room.

  Hazel was out of the house and into the garden, gulping cold air as if she were drowning. The light had almost gone, but the sky still glowed palely in the west.

  Fool, she told herself furiously. She’d been a fool to come here, and now she was making it worse by the minute. And Gemma, what must Gemma think of her? Why had she ever listened to Donald?

  At least he’d made leaving easy for her, the bastard. She would go now; Gemma would understand. And Donald—a door slammed and she heard footsteps behind her.

  “Hazel, will ye let me explain?”

  “You’ve no need to explain anything to me.” She tried to say it calmly, reasonably. “I came to Scotland for a weekend, and I’m going home in the morning. End of story.”

  “Hazel, we need to talk. If you’ll just let me—”

  Whirling around to face him, she found she was shaking with fury. “All right, then. Who is she, that woman?”

  “Her name’s Alison. But she’s not important—”

  “Not important! And was that your child? Some other little unimportant thing you forgot to mention?”

  “God, no.” He sounded genuinely shocked. “You think I would keep something like that from ye? Alison—she’s just someone I went out with a few times, and she took it a wee bit too seriously—”

  “Women have a habit of taking you a bit too seriously—I should know.”

  “Can ye no forget what happened thirteen years ago?” He was angry now as well, his tone no longer beseeching. “You never gave me a chance, Hazel. I told my father I didna want the bloody distillery. I walked out. Did ye know that? But you were gone, without a word, without an address. When I rang your parents, they wouldna speak to me—”

  “That was only fitting in the circumstances, don’t you think?” She knew she sounded like a shrew, but anger kept her safe, kept her from taking in his words. “So if you walked away from Benvulin, why are you still there?”

  “My father died and left his shares to me. What did you expect me to do? Go live in a bloody monastery? You’d married—”

  “How did you know?”

  “Heather. But you didna say two words to your own cousin at your mother’s funeral, and you didna ask about me.”

  “I—” The sound of voices drifted out to them from the house—the rest of their party had moved into the sitting room for coffee.

  “We can’t talk here,” Donald said urgently, as if he sensed her weakening. “Come back with me, to Benvulin.”

  “No! How can you ask that, of all things—”

  “Then walk with me.” With a feather touch on her arm, he guided her towards the path that led into the wood.”

  “Donald, no—”

  “Don’t be afraid. I know the way, even in the dark.”

  The trees swallowed them, and at the first turn of the path, the lights of the house vanished from view.

  When he stopped, she whispered the question that had consumed her. “When you learned where I was, why didn’t you come to me then?”

  “And you newly wed? I thought you’d made your choice.”

  “Then why did you change your mind, these last few months?”

  He looked away, his profile clear in the faint light that filtered through the trees. “Did you dream about me, Hazel?” he said softly. “Over and over again? Did you have to stop yourself calling out my name when you were in your husband’s arms?” When she nodded, reluctantly, he went on. “It was that way with me. And I began to see it wasna going to change, no matter how hard I tried—and I did try. We were meant to be together, whether we like it or no.”

  “It was no accident, that day in London, was it?”

  “Well, I couldna verra well ring your doorbell, could I?” He took her hand in both of his, raised her palm to his lips. “You canna deny this, Hazel. And it’s more than the flesh, whatever this is that draws us together.”

  She made a last desperate stand. “But my daughter—I can’t do this to her—”

  “What kind of life are you giving your daughter, lying to your husband and yourself? What kind of wife will you be, knowing what you felt when I kissed you this morning? And do you think I wouldna love your daughter as my own?”

  She was lost. She knew it before he pulled her to him, knew it before her body responded of its own will. She knew it as they slid to the ground, the smell of crushed ferns rising around them in the darkness.

  Carnmore, November 1898

  IT WAS WELL past midnight when Will’s mother sent him for the priest. He’d seen the look that passed between his mother and the nurse, seen his mother nod and turn her face away.

  In spite of Nurse Baird’s care, his father’s condition had gradually worsened. Charles labored for every breath, and it seemed to Will that in the last few hours the flesh had sunk away from his bones.

  It had not snowed since the storm two nights earlier, and the night was still and clear. The diamond-hard air seared his lungs as he slipped and slid his way down the track towards the village. In the sky above, the stars blazed, looking near enough to touch. God’s eyes, his mother had told him when he was small, watching over them all. The idea had frightened him, and on nights when the starlight fell upon his bed he’d hidden his head beneath his blankets.

  Now he tried to find some comfort in the idea of God looking down on his father, but it only made him wonder if God knew his father had not been a very good Catholic. Oh, he’d gone to Sunday mass, had even donated towards the building of the new chapel, but that was an expected part of life in the Braes. Had it ever been more than a social duty on his father’s part?

  Will thought of his dad as he had seen him most often, in his office at the brewery, spectacles sliding down his nose, reading the books he brought back from Edinburgh. These had not been books of which the church would approve, Will suspected—Darwin, Huxl
ey, Robert Owen, Haeckel. And once, when Will had questioned him about the Jacobites, his father had said that Catholicism was responsible for a good part of Scotland’s grief. That was the sort of opinion one kept to oneself in this part of the Highlands, when one’s family’s loyalty in the ’45 was a matter of honor, and Will had never repeated it. But God, now, what if there were no keeping secrets from God?

  The track leveled out and Will quickened his pace, more surefooted now. Would it matter if he prayed? Could he intercede for his father? And what if Father Mackenzie prayed as well?

  He ran now, into the village, down the path to the chapel house, snow flying under his boots, and slid into the door with a thump. Panting, he banged hard with his fist, the words in his mind forming a silent chant. Please don’t let him die, please don’t let my father die.

  He waited until Louise’s breathing steadied and slipped into what it would infuriate her to call a snore, then he eased out of bed. Pullover and trousers he’d left within easy reach on a chair, but he’d been careful to remove his belt and empty his pockets as a preventive against telltale jingling.

  Once dressed, John crossed to the window, taking care to step over the creaking floorboard. He cranked open the casement and perched on the sill, leaning out to light his cigarette. It was a vice he seldom allowed himself, but considering the evening, he felt he deserved some small compensation.

  A bloody disaster, the whole thing, and just when he needed Donald’s good will more than ever. Damn Callum! It must have been Callum who had told the woman where to find Donald, but why would he have done such a stupid thing?

  Not that John had ever fathomed what made Callum MacGillivray tick. He gazed down at the moonlit garden. All was still and quiet. The lights were out in the barn and the other bedrooms in the house, although he hadn’t heard Donald come in.

  Well, he’d have to chance it. He flicked his fag end into the flower bed below and drew back into the room, listening. Louise slept on, making tiny whuffling noises in her dreams. John stopped once, holding his breath as the house made an infinitesimal shift, then he slipped out the door. It was getting late, and he had an appointment to keep.