“I’m not giving up until I get Ian on the phone,” Kincaid told Gemma when she perched on the arm of his chair. “His secretary’s promised he’ll be back in his office within the hour. If you want to turn in, I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“No, stay, have a drink.” John, apparently having recovered enough to play the host, started to get up, but Gemma shook her head. Guessing that Kincaid meant to take advantage of the whisky-induced male bonding, she’d retired gracefully from the field.
But now, as she lay in bed, she realized how much she had missed Duncan, and how much she’d been looking forward to time alone with him.
A wave of homesickness swept over her. Earlier in the
evening, she’d called to talk to Wes and Toby, and Toby, after the momentary excitement of getting a phone call, had begun to cry. As much as he loved Wesley, he missed her and Duncan and Kit, and she was sure he had absorbed Wesley’s anxiety over Kit’s absence that afternoon. She’d done her best to reassure him, but now the sound of his small, tearful voice came back to haunt her.
Then there was Kit—was he all right at Nathan’s? And what could have prompted him to run away? He was ordinarily a thoughtful and considerate boy; he must have been dreadfully upset to do something he knew would make them frantic with worry. She wished she could talk to him, but she’d agreed with Kincaid to wait until they had spoken to Ian.
At some point in her catalog of concerns she must have drifted off to sleep, her worries over her own family mutating into a dream of Holly, calling for her mother, and of Tim, reaching out for the child with bloody hands.
She woke with a gasp to a darkened room, and the feel of Duncan sliding into bed beside her. He smelled faintly of whisky, and his bare skin was cold. “What—what time is it?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.
“Shhh. It’s late. I was trying not to wake you.” He wrapped his arms round her.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Awareness came flooding back as the nightmare images melted away. “What about Ian? Did you talk to him?”
“I did.” There was an edge of anger in Kincaid’s voice.
He rolled onto his back and stuffed a pillow under his head. “I was going to wait till morning to tell you, as I don’t think it will improve your sleep.”
Ian had never been an ideal parent, even before Vic’s death, and Gemma had learned not to place too much
confidence even in his good intentions. “Oh, no,” she whispered, heart quailing. “What’s he done now?”
“It took me a while to pry it out of him. Apparently, he realized he’d made a royal cock-up of things, after Kit hung up on him. First, he told Kit that the cottage in Grantchester had sold, which I think Kit could have dealt with, given a bit of time. He was expecting it, after all.
“But then Ian dropped the real bomb. He told Kit that he’s getting married again, in July, and he canceled Kit’s visit because he’s going to be on his honeymoon.”
“Married?” repeated Gemma, wondering if she’d heard correctly.
“Married. To a twenty-something Toronto socialite, one of his graduate students. Not that Ian doesn’t have the right to get married again,” Kincaid added, “but he could have broken the news to Kit a little more gently, and taken his feelings into consideration when he made the arrangements.”
Gemma sat up in bed and pushed her hair from her face.
“That’s much too charitable. He’s a bastard. Doesn’t he realize that Kit’s been planning this visit since Ian left for Toronto in December? To snatch that away from him would have been blow enough, after the letter from Eugenia, but to add marriage and a new stepmother on top of that—”
“I asked him if he could rearrange the wedding around Kit’s visit, but he said Melinda’s family had already made their plans.”
“Melinda?” Gemma squeaked. “God, I hate her already. What are we going to do?”
“What can we do? We have no control over Ian—”
“We have to get legal custody of Kit,” interrupted Gemma, with the decisiveness born of fury. “Ian has done enough damage; we have to make sure he can’t suddenly decide he wants to impress this Melinda by moving Kit
to Canada, or something equally daft. We have to insist on the DNA testing. Doesn’t Kit realize we only want what’s best for him?”
“Can you blame Kit for not trusting us, after twelve years with Ian?” Kincaid turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow so that he could look at her.
“Gemma—you don’t have any doubt, do you? That Kit is my son, and not Ian’s?”
The moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face clearly and revealing a vulnerability he seldom expressed. His hair fell across his brow in a familiar question mark. Gemma reached up and brushed it back with a fingertip. “No. You can’t see what I see, when the two of you are together. And it’s not just the physical resemblance—it’s in a gesture, a movement, an expression.”
He nodded, once, then frowned. “But why should it make any difference? I don’t mean for the obvious reasons, the custody issue, but in the way I feel. Why does it matter so much to me?”
“Maybe it’s just human nature,” Gemma said softly.
“The desire for connection.”
“Yes.” He reached for her, pressing her back until her head touched the pillow, then rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I’d agree with that.” There was an unexpected hint of laughter in his voice.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Taking her face in his hands, he brushed his lips down her cheek until he reached the corner of her mouth. “But I do.”
From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, November
If I have neglected this journal in these past few weeks, my justification lies in the events that have
overtaken the household. Margaret has once again taken to her bed, although the doctor can find no ailment. When he reproved her for feasting on sweetmeats rather than nourishing foods, she sent him away in a fit of pique, calling him useless—a case, I must say, of the pot calling the kettle black.
It is not so much that Margaret contributes to the household when she is up and about, but that her malingering causes much extra work and disruption for everyone else, particularly the servants.
And then there are the children. Since poor little Miss Andrews left so precipitously for London last summer, they have been without governess or tutor, allowed to run wild about the estate without discipline or routine. Little Robert had begun to show signs of temper, and Meg of aping her mother’s vapors.
At last, I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, and have hired a governess, a young woman of good family from Edinburgh, with whom I am well pleased. She has instituted a schedule of study for the children, with set times for lessons, music, drawing, and play. The change has been little short of miraculous. Within the space of a fortnight, the children have begun to show an improvement in character.
Rab, of course, seconded my decision, although he could not be pressed into taking the matter in hand himself. To give him his due, he has been much occupied with the distillery. Despite his frequent trips to Edinburgh and Glasgow in search of profitable connections, our situation has steadily worsened. Although our own barley harvest this autumn was more than sufficient to keep up pro-
duction, our stock sits in the warehouses, unsold.
The loss of Pattison’s distribution has been a devastating blow, and I fear that before the winter is out we will be without the funds to pay even the distillery workers.
I cannot help but wonder at the sudden blossom-ing of friendship between Rab and Olivia Urquhart. Not that I would suspect my brother of an ulterior motive, but I know how much he both admires and envies the manner in which Carnmore has weathered this financial storm.
It is, perhaps, a blessing that Margaret felt herself unable to attend the Hallowe’en festivities given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants yeste
rday evening. Livvy and her son had come down from Carnmore for the night, taking advantage of the fair weather for one last sortie out of the Braes before inclement weather closes them in.
Adults and children alike participated in the reels and apple dooking and crowdie supping with much hilarity. Amongst all the activities, there was much sharing of glances and touching of hands for those inclined to flirtation.
Margaret, for all her indolence, is sharp-eyed, and she could not have failed to notice the attrac-tion between Livvy Urquhart and my brother. Petty vengeance is certainly within Margaret’s capacity, and she does possess the social connections required to set such retribution in motion.
Of Rab’s reputation I have no fear—men of our station have always regarded widows as fair game.
Livvy Urquhart, however, seems an innocent, unaware of the precipice looming beneath her feet.
She has not the social position or the élan to carry
off such an intrigue and would, I fear, reduce herself to the pathetic. And what of her son? What will it do to his prospects if his mother compromises herself?
Or are these only idle fancies brought on by the lateness of the hour, and given rein by the self-indulgence of expressing myself within these pages.
Why should I, after all, begrudge my brother a bit of happiness, inside or out of the social conven-tions? Is it merely the sour envy of a spinster turned nearly forty years of age, with all hope of such companionship behind her?
Alas, it might be better so, but my heart tells me there is substance to my fears, and that we shall all rue the consequences of Charles Urquhart’s un-timely death.
“Mummy!”
Alison woke instantly, a mother’s response to a child in distress. It was still dark as pitch in the bedroom, but she could feel Chrissy shaking her shoulder. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She reached up and switched on the lamp, blinking against the sudden brightness.
Chrissy knelt beside her on the bed, fully dressed, even to her trainers. “No, it’s not me,” said Chrissy. “It’s Callum. Mummy, you have to get up.”
“Oh, Chrissy, no. Don’t ye start that again.” They’d had a huge row earlier in the evening. Chrissy had answered the phone, then come to her with some tall tale about Callum saying he was ill. Assuming this was some strategy on Callum’s part to get back in her good graces, Alison had refused to give any credence to it, and she’d been furious that he’d use such tactics on a child.
When Chrissy had added that Callum had said there
was something wrong with his whisky, and then the phone had gone dead, Alison had considered her theory proved.
She’d ignored Chrissy’s pleas and sent her to bed.
“I tried to ring him back,” Chrissy said now. “He didn’t answer.”
“Well, of course he didn’t answer.” Alison looked at the clock and groaned. “It’s past one in the morning.”
“No, I’ve been trying ever since you went to bed. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why, you wee sneak—”
“Mummy, please!” Chrissy insisted, her face pinched with misery. “I know something’s wrong. Callum didn’t sound like himself at all, and I could hear Murphy whining in the background. Please. We have to go.”
“If you think I’m going to drive out to that bloody stable in the middle of the night . . . ,” began Alison, but she didn’t finish her well-worn tirade. Doubt had begun to set in. She had never seen her daughter so adamant, and Chrissy was not one for dramatics. What if—what if there was a remote possibility that Chrissy was right?
She could ring the police, she supposed—that would be the logical thing—but what would she say to them?
That her nine-year-old daughter had told her that Callum MacGillivray had poisoned himself on bad whisky? They would think she’d gone off her head, and the same applied to ringing Callum’s aunt Janet.
“Mummy—”
“Oh, all right.” Alison peeled back the duvet and scooted Chrissy aside. She was desperate for a fag now, which meant going outside. At least a run in the car would give her a chance to smoke. “But just remember, you owe me big-time for this.”
Chrissy gulped back a sob of relief and smiled.
“Right, go get your coat, then, while I get some clothes
on.” God, she was daft, thought Alison as she hurriedly pulled on jeans and boots, as daft as Callum MacGillivray. She had not much petrol in her car, which was unreliable at the best of times; she had no mobile phone, because she couldn’t afford one; and she had to open the shop in the morning, which meant being at work a half hour early.
She was worse than daft, she was mental.
Chrissy met her at the door, bundled into her pink anorak and carrying the small torch they kept in case of power failures. “Good girl,” Alison told her, giving her a squeeze as they started down the stairs.
For a moment, she thought her old car would let her down, but the engine caught on the second try. The night had turned cold, but not so cold that Chrissy’s teeth should be chattering. As they drove north out of Aviemore on the deserted road, Alison cranked up the heater, saying, “It’ll be okay, baby. You’ll see.”
Chrissy said quietly, “Mummy, when you told that policeman that Callum killed Donald, you didn’t mean it, did you?”
“No,” Alison admitted after a moment’s thought. “I don’t suppose I’d be here if I did, not even to please you.”
“Then why did you tell them he did?”
Alison shrugged. “Because I was angry with him. And because I was angry that Donald was dead.” But . . . if she didn’t believe Callum had killed Donald, who had?
And what if that person had meant to hurt Callum, too?
He’d told Chrissy there was something wrong with his whisky—what if it had been poisoned?
Alison’s pulse began to beat in her throat, and she pushed harder on the accelerator, praying that she was wrong, that it was a hoax, after all.
The road seemed to swoop and curve endlessly
through the darkness, but at last Alison saw the stable’s sign. She turned into the drive and stopped, halfway between the farmhouse and Callum’s cottage. Both were in darkness.
“Okay, right,” Alison muttered as they got out of the car. The bowl of the sky seemed enormous above them, and the silence of the night pressed down like a weight.
Then a dog barked, a crack of sound in the darkness, and she and Chrissy both jumped.
“It’s Murphy.” Chrissy started towards the cottage, holding the torch out in front of her like a sword.
“Here. You let me go first,” hissed Alison, catching her up and taking the torch. They could hear the dog clearly now, whining and scrabbling at the cottage door, but no light appeared in the window. If Callum were all right, wouldn’t the dog have woken him?
When they reached the cottage door, Alison pushed Chrissy firmly behind her. “You stay back until I tell you.” Taking a breath, she called out, “Callum! Are you in there?” There was no response except more frantic whining from the dog.
Alison tried the latch. It gave easily, but the door only opened an inch. Something was blocking it. She pushed steadily until Murphy’s black nose appeared in the gap, and a moment later the dog had wriggled out. He jumped at them, whimpering, and Chrissy wrapped her arms around his sleek, black neck.
“Stay back,” Alison instructed her again, and eased her body through the opening. The stench hit her like a wave—vomit and whisky. She clamped her hand to her mouth, swallowing hard, and shone the torch down at the object blocking the doorway.
It was Callum. He lay on his side, his head only inches removed from the pool of vomit. “Oh, bloody Christ,”
whispered Alison. Was he dead? She couldn’t see his face.
Squatting, she grasped his shoulder and called his name. “Callum!” When he didn’t respond, she forced herself to touch the exposed skin of his neck. His flesh felt slightly warm, but he didn’t move. Alison leaned closer, listeni
ng. She thought she heard a faint, snoring breath.
“Mummy?” Chrissy called from outside.
“Hold on, baby,” Alison shouted back. Bloody hell, she had to get some light, so that she could see what she was doing. She stood, searching for a light switch, then remembered Callum hadn’t any electricity. “Daft sodding bugger,” she muttered, scanning the room with the torch.
There, on the table, was a paraffin lamp. It looked just like the one her granny in Carrbridge had had when she was a child.
She checked the lamp’s reservoir. Empty. But the beam of the torch showed her a paraffin tin near the stove, and she quickly filled the lamp. She lit the wick with the lighter she carried in her pocket and stood back as the bloom of warm light illuminated the cottage.
Callum lay with one arm beneath him, the other curled over his head. A foot from his hand, she glimpsed the metallic gleam of his phone, but when she snatched it up, she saw that the battery had died. She knew that Callum only charged it in the van.
Swearing under her breath, she hurried to the door and slipped through. “Here, Chrissy. You take the torch. Go up to the big house and wake Callum’s auntie. Tell her to ring for an ambulance.”
Chrissy stared back at her, eyes enormous in her pale face. “But— Is he all right?”
“I don’t know, love,” Alison answered honestly. “We need to get help, a doctor. Go. Hurry.”
Nodding, Chrissy started towards the farmhouse, her gait more uneven than usual over the rough ground. The dog, however, sat down by the door, accusing Alison with his gaze.
“What do ye expect me to do?” she said aloud, but she went back into the cottage. She was afraid to move Callum, afraid she might somehow make him worse. But she could cover him— that she remembered from her school first-aid lessons. Taking the tartan blanket from his narrow bed, she carefully laid it over him.
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 28