Elise was disheveled. She hadn’t bathed since her fall into the fountain, she explained, and out of spite Bruno had hidden her suitcase. The first thing she did at Pascal’s was head for the bathroom for a hot shower. He checked the bedroom. Merle wasn’t there. He looked in the orchard, on the patio, but she wasn’t there. He called her mobile phone. She didn’t answer.
On the kitchen table a mess of paper and pens and dirty wine glasses and plates lay in jumbled heaps. A mess unlike Merle, he thought, a little worry beginning. He looked at the open notebook covered with scribbling, dense sentences in her terrible handwriting about someone named Odette. Was this a case she was working on? But she didn’t do that sort of law, did she?
He waited impatiently for Elise to clean up. When Pascal had met her at the door that morning they searched the apartment for her suitcase. They found it in a back closet, hidden under a pile of old linen. Why Bruno had to further humiliate her by keeping her filthy and smelling of pond scum was a mystery. Perhaps the sisters were right, he was perverted.
Elise emerged from the bath with wet hair and a smile on her face. She wore white slacks and a red blouse and looked more rested than he felt. The drive from Avignon was longer than he recalled.
“That was heavenly,” she said. She looked around the house, the kitchen in disarray, the bed with a lump of blankets, the underwear on the floor. “Where’s Merle?”
“Come. Let’s take a walk.”
* * *
When they entered the barn they paused to let their eyes adjust. Pascal whispered, “Merle?” but there was no answer. He stepped farther in, Elise at his heels.
Irene had told them she was in here. She’d been a bit mysterious about it though. Both Irene and her daughter were drinking espresso in the kitchen so it appeared there no ongoing births. Unless they were leaving that to Merle already.
They found her curled into the straw in a stall, a small goat in her arms, the nipple of a bottle in his mouth. Both of them had their eyes closed, sleeping like, well, babies. Elise bumped into Pascal when he stopped to stare down at them. She gave a little gasp.
“Oh my god, that is precious,” Elise whispered. She pulled out her mobile phone, also recovered in her suitcase, and snapped a photo of her sister cuddling a goat. She covered her mouth, giggling.
Pascal squatted down, sitting on his heels. Merle looked so peaceful, her hair hanging over half her face, her lips fluttering in a light snore. The kid, a buff and white little beast, all knobby knees and kitten ears, opened one brown eye and twitched. He sucked fiercely on the nipple and squirmed. Merle patted his back, eyes still shut. “It’s okay, Henri. Je suis ici.”
The little goat relaxed at her voice then spied Pascal again.
“Moi aussi,” Pascal whispered. He touched the kid’s soft nose. Merle opened her eyes then.
“You’re back,” she said sleepily, jostling the kid in her arms. She blinked up at Elise. “You too. Oh, thank god. Here.” She handed the goat to Pascal and stood up. He took Henri, juggling him and his bottle like a basket of bones. “Careful,” she warned. “He’s just a baby. Two days old.”
Merle hugged Elise. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Elise put on her brave face but it cracked a little. “What a wanker, as they say.”
“But you’re not hurt?” Merle turned her, checking all sides. “Or here?” She patted her heart.
“Just feeling stupid.” Elise grimaced.
“How did you find her?” Merle asked Pascal who was now nuzzling the goat to his own nose. “Where were you?” she asked Elise.
They looked at each other as if pondering the tale. Elise said, “He called me. I was in Paris, locked into an apartment but I had no idea where. I sent a text to Francie and Pascal was able to trace it. We had to use signals.” She smiled sadly. “At least he didn’t have to wear a blue coat and march me down the aisle.”
Merle crossed her arms, smiling at the Lydia reference, Pride and Prejudice always with them, one of the touchstones of their lives. Were they somehow acting out their destinies in the shadows of those fictional sisters? Merle was pretty sure she and boring, sanctimonious Mary had nothing in common. But just in case she made a quick promise to be less judgmental. Elise had escaped her French Wickham. It was enough.
“Pascal is no Mr. Darcy anyway,” Merle said.
“Are you sure?” Elise smirked. “But what have you been up to? Nursemaiding baby goats?”
“Just kidding.” Merle smiled. “That’s a joke. Kidding is like lambing, but for goats.”
Elise knelt down and took Henri from Pascal’s arms. “He’s adorable. Is he yours?”
“No. I guess he could be. Irene only keeps the females, for the milk, for cheese. She sells the males. Isn’t he adorable? I’m in love.”
Pascal stood up and watched the women fawn over the kid. It was the hormones, he guessed. Maternal instincts. He didn’t tell them that Irene sold her male goats to a farmer who raised them for restaurant fare. Let them love for awhile.
Merle showed her sister where the other kids were hanging out in the pasture, dancing in the spring sunshine, where some of the bique-chevreau, mother-baby pairs were isolated, bonding in sheds. Henri was returned to his mother who sniffed him but appeared disinterested, munching grass as if nothing had happened. She had another young one. Perhaps she was overwhelmed.
Back in the farmhouse Merle introduced her sister to Irene and Louise and they accepted a small cake to take home. Elise exclaimed about the blooming fruit trees, buzzing with insects, all the way back to the cottage. It was as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t been held against her will. Pascal didn’t understand women but he understood putting evil behind you and moving forward.
They stepped into the kitchen and Merle immediately began apologizing for the mess. “I’ve been working on something. I went at it all night, like a fever, then I went over to help at Irene’s.”
She was gathering up her papers, putting glasses in the sink. Pascal touched her arm. He repeated her words, softly: “It’s okay. Je suis ici.” She stopped, turning to him as he gently placed her arms around his neck. She glanced at Elise, a little embarrassed, as he kissed her. He whispered, “I missed you, chérie,” in her ear.
They ate the cake, a classic quatre quarts pound cake, dense and sweet, as Elise told the story of her three days in Paris. It wasn’t a pretty one but she endured the telling of it until she asked Pascal how he had known she was in Paris. He was vague but she kept asking. Eventually he showed her the photo on his phone, her dripping in the fountain, lingerie on display. Merle snatched it from her, staring.
Elise’s face reddened. “How the hell?”
“The Tuileries,” Pascal said.
“It’s a public garden,” Merle said gently. “Anyone can take a photo. But what a bastard, whoever posted it.”
“What website is that?” Elise demanded, recovering from her shock.
Pascal clicked his phone off. “I don’t know. Someone sent it to me.”
“What happened?” Merle asked. “There. At the fountain.”
Elise bit her lip. “It was our first day in Paris. It was okay for a while then he started teasing me. Holding my purse over the water. He climbed up on the wall of the fountain and threatened to throw it in. It was ruined, you know. By the water. I had to throw it away.”
“Was it real Hermès?” Pascal couldn’t help but ask.
“Are you kidding? No. Still it cost fifty bucks. Stasia got it for me in New York. Anyway I got up on the edge too, in heels, to get my purse back. My passport was in there, credit cards, everything. He wouldn’t give up. He just kept swinging it close then pulling it away.”
“Like a child,” Pascal muttered.
“Finally he lets go, flings my purse up in the air, like somehow I could catch it. I reach for it and— splash. In I go.”
“What a creep,” Merle said. “Good riddance.”
Pascal pondered telling the women that
Bruno worked for the Police Nationale, but it was too ridiculous. Even as an informant it gave all of them a black eye. He would never get that image out of his mind, Bruno laughing at Elise, giving the crowd permission to demean and shame her. With any luck Pascal would get him fired.
“Were you worried about me? I should have stayed with you in Scotland. I shouldn’t have run off. I didn’t want you to try to discourage me. It seemed so exciting. I hate being told not to do things. You remember. It makes me just want to do it all the more.” Elise rubbed her face, hunched into a kitchen chair. “It was stupid, I know. But I just wanted some fun, you know? A few days in Paris, with a hot Frenchman. You understand, Merle.” She glanced at Pascal then back at her sister.
Merle took her hand. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that every girl wants a few days in Paris with a hot Frenchman.” She winked at Pascal. “You just have to be choosy.”
* * *
They all took long midday naps. Pascal and Merle curled together on the bed as the day warmed outside, still in their clothes, hers smelling of hay and goat. Elise stretched out on the lumpy sofa, fast asleep in seconds. The phone call woke Merle. She checked the time: 3 pm.
“Stace?”
“Hi. How are you?” She sounded nervous, causing Merle to sit up in bed.
“Fine. Elise is here. Pascal rescued her from that creep.”
“Good news.” She sounded distracted. “Listen, you guys need to come back here. Now.”
Merle rubbed her eyes. “My flight isn’t until Sunday. I’m helping feed baby goats and— ” She almost said ‘writing a novel’ but swallowed the words.
“Get back here in the morning. Can you do that? Bring Pascal and Elise.”
“Wait. Tomorrow? We’re out in the country somewhere, Stasia. Not close to an airport or anything.”
“So are we, remember? Just— can you do it?”
“What’s going on? Is it Daddy?”
Pascal rolled over and looked at her. Merle whispered, “It’s Stasia.”
“No, Daddy’s fine. We’re all healthy. Except for Oliver who hurt himself throwing bowling balls on the grass but he’s fine. Just a broken finger. You have to come tomorrow, Merle. Seriously.”
“Why are you being so adamant and so mysterious at the same time?”
She sighed. “Because I’m hopeful— but not one-hundred-percent positive.” She lowered her voice. “About our favorite couple.”
Merle gasped. “Really?”
“And Francie got that Jinty girl off. She retracted her confession. Francie is high as a kite. In a good way.”
“Wow. Any other news?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until I see you tomorrow. Now get off this call and make reservations.”
Stasia clicked off, leaving Merle staring at her phone. “We’re supposed to go back to Scotland tomorrow. General Stasia’s orders.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Can you go? She says I should bring you with me.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “Is it a wedding?” He groaned. “Not again.”
38
The Highlands • Friday
Annie arrived at Kincardie House at ten in the morning. She and Callum had promised each other a hike into the hills, to one of his favorite childhood spots hidden away somewhere. There was talk of exotic flowers and clear mountain lochs. The day was bright and clear with hardly a breath of wind. It felt like a gift after all the rain.
So today was the day. She stood in the yard, reluctant to go inside, to leave the warmth of the sun, and watched the taxi back out and rumble over the metal bridge. The new bridge didn’t have the charm of the old one, not the looks of it or the sound. This one could be in a city somewhere, all industrial and cold. Still it had gotten her back with Callum and whatever happened next.
He emerged from the coach house, wearing a jacket, green khaki trousers, and hiking boots and carrying a backpack. Every day he was in Scotland he looked more Scottish to her: ruddy, wind-blown, hardy. Nothing like the big city investment banker he impersonated in New York. Even his accent came back, thick and amusing.
“I was looking for Mr. Craigg,” Callum explained, his smile drooping with worry. “He still hasn’t returned, or else he popped in and left again.”
“That seems unlikely.” The man was more tortoise than hare.
Callum nodded. “Just talking to Killian, the chauffeur. He hasn’t seen him for days. I tried to find Gunni but he was up and out before dawn.”
“He knows the hills. He wouldn’t be lost, would he?” Annie asked.
“Knows ‘em like the back of his hand.” Callum shouldered the backpack. “He would take the sheep out for months at a time, in the bygane.” He laughed at himself. “Back in the day. Sounding more like a native every day.”
Annie wore hiking boots too, and old jeans, a waterproof jacket, and a small pack with a water bottle and granola bars. She jammed her canvas hat on her head and they strode out, over to the gate leading to the pastures then on to the wildness beyond.
They walked for nearly an hour, up through the grassy pastures, cleared centuries before for livestock, on through low woods under-grown with bluebells and glossy green ground covers. The sun dappled the ground as it cut through the new leaves on the low-growing trees. They emerged on top of a ridge, skirted it, and climbed more in the open, on rocky outcroppings and ledges of limestone. Heather grew low and prickly, blooming pink and white.
As they descended the other side the going got easier and they could talk. Callum took her hand. At last she felt relaxed enough to broach the subject.
“I’m glad you told me about your father,” she said. “Now I understand your mixed feelings about coming home.”
He nodded, still skittish about the subject, she thought. She squeezed his hand, encouraging him. “There’s more,” he said finally.
“More?” she asked, stopping on the trail.
“About the disease. It’s genetic. Inherited.”
“Callum, I know. I read all about Huntington’s after you told me about your father.”
His head whipped toward her, questioning. “You know about the genetics?”
“I looked it up.” Annie dropped his hand and stepped closer to him. “That’s why Hugh and Davina have no children. Of course. But you and Hugh have been tested, right?” Her voice was gentle, reassuring.
“Both of us were tested when I was nineteen. The test had just come out.”
“And what are your CAGs?”
He looked her in the eye, surprised. “You did look it up.” She smiled. “I have 32 repeats. Hugh has 29. We won’t get Huntington’s. Below 40 repeats is good. But that middle range, where Hugh and I are, means we could pass it on.”
“Your children might have the full disease?”
He nodded. “It’s a horrible thing, the suffering, the decline. Like Alzheimers and Parkinson's and ALS, all at the same time. I watched my father. It was agonizing, even as a child. I could never take the chance.”
“Was that why you broke it off with Davina?”
Callum frowned. “God, no. We were young and I wanted to go to Philadelphia. Just as I said.”
She nodded. “Then I can tell you that if I wanted to have children I would had them by now. So we’re on the same page there.”
He took her hand again and they walked in long, hopeful strides down the hill, past an old crenelated castle, a ruin with a miniature moat and drawbridge. Over stiles and through pastures, past houses small and grand. No one cared if you walked through, Callum said, as long as you didn’t let the livestock out. At the far end of one pasture, off in one corner, stood a couple shaggy golden brown Highland cows with wide, pointy horns like Texas Longhorns and heads like buffalo. Their heavy bodies and long hair were impressive but not particularly frightening. They chewed slowly, staring intently at the two hikers.
“Don’t look at them,” Callum said, scampering up the stile’s steps and offering her a hand. “They’re c
urious, and mean devils. One caught me in the pants and threw me up in the air when I was a boy.”
“That must have caused a scratch.”
“Couldn’t sit down for weeks.”
She slapped him where the horn must have hit and they both laughed.
“So where is this fabled loch?” Annie asked.
“Around the next hill,” he promised. “You’ll see.”
They ate lunch along the shores of the loch, hidden away in the high country surrounded with bog orchids and heather. Callum spread their feast on a large, flat rock and poured wine, cut cheese, and fed Annie olives. They dozed in the sunshine until Callum’s watch began to buzz, signaling time to head back. He was more the planner than Annie was, thank goodness. They gathered everything into the packs and found the trail again.
“Did I tell you my mother has fired the chauffeur and is determined to get a modern automobile? She’s got her eye on a red Range Rover.”
Annie looked surprised. “Wow. What happened to spur that on?”
“Seems Killian’s been stealing petrol and selling it in the village. That’s why there was no fuel for the generator after the storm.”
“But she could have gotten a new chauffeur.”
Callum smiled. “That was my doing. I told her the Rolls was too much trouble to keep maintained, which is true. That a new vehicle would be cheaper in the long run. And that having a chauffeur is bloody expensive. Pinching pennies is the way to Mother’s heart.”
They took a different route back to Kincardie House, over a hill east of the shimmering loch. It was steep but Annie kept up with Callum, pausing near the summit to admire the view and catch her breath.
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