Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  Tim felt an icy calm settle over him. He pocketed the card, returning the photo to its hiding place. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, and in the silence he heard the pumping of his own heart.

  He knew now what he had to do.

  “What if they don’t eat meat?” Louise Innes stood at the kitchen sink, filling vases for the evening’s flower arrangements. Although her back was turned to her husband, John knew her forehead would be puckered in the small frown that had begun to leave a permanent crease. “Did you not think to ask?”

  “I assumed someone would have said, if there was a problem,” John answered, keeping his voice even but whisking a little harder at the batter for the herb and mushroom crepes that would serve as that night’s starter. Although the kitchen was his province, the house Louise’s, she didn’t mind questioning his menu choices.

  “And venison, especially—”

  “Och, it’s a Highland specialty, Louise. And Hazel Cavendish is your old school friend—I should think ye’d know if she didna eat meat.”

  “This weekend was a bad idea from start to finish,” Louise said pettishly. Her English accent always grew more precise in proportion to her degree of irritation, as if to repudiate his Scottishness. “I haven’t seen Hazel since the summer after university, and I don’t approve of the whole business. She’s married, for heaven’s sake, with a child. You’ve always let Donald Brodie talk you into things you shouldn’t.” His wife pulled half a dozen roses from the pail of flowers John had brought from Inverness that morning, laid them across a cutting board, and sliced off the bottom inch of the stems with a sharp knife. The ruthlessness in the quick chop made him think of small creatures beheaded.

  Louise had taken a flower-arranging course the previous year, attacking the project with the efficiency that marked all her endeavors. Although she could now produce picture-perfect bouquets that drew raves from the guests, he found that the arrangements lacked that certain creative touch—a last blossom out of place, perhaps—that would have made them truly lovely.

  “If that’s the case, perhaps ye should take some responsibility,” he snapped at her. “It was you introduced me to Donald, ye ken.” He knew he was being defensive, because he’d allowed Donald to wheedle him into taking Hazel and her friend without charge, and this meant they’d turned away paying guests on a weekend at the beginning of their busiest season. But then, he had his reasons for keeping on Donald Brodie’s good side, and the less Louise knew about that, the better.

  Louise’s only answer to his sally was the eloquent line of her back. With a sigh, John finished his batter and began brushing mushrooms with a damp tea towel. It was no use him criticizing Louise. The very qualities that aggravated him had also made this venture possible.

  Two years ago, he’d given up his Edinburgh job in commercial real estate and bought the old farmhouse at the edge of the Abernathy forest, between Coylumbridge and Nethy Bridge. The house and barn had been in appalling condition, but the recent property boom in Edinburgh had provided him with the cash to finance the necessary refurbishments.

  Louise, at first unhappy over the loss of her job and circle of friends, had in time thrown herself into the project with her customary zeal. While he did the shopping and the cooking, she took reservations and did the guests’ rooms, as they could not as yet afford to hire help.

  Resting the heel of his hand on his knife, he quartered the mushrooms before chopping them finely. A glance told him Louise still had her back to him, her head bent over her flowers. He felt his temper ease as he watched her. She might not have approved of the arrangements for the weekend, but she would do her best to make sure everything went smoothly.

  “You’ll be glad to see Hazel again, will ye not?” he asked, in an attempt to placate.

  Louise’s shoulders relaxed and she tilted her head, her neat blond hair falling to one side like a lifted bird’s wing. “It’s been a long time,” she answered. “I’m not sure I’ll know what to say.”

  “I’m sure Donald will fill in the gaps,” he said lightly, then cursed himself for a fool. Louise would never be able to resist such an opening.

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She turned towards him, a spray of sweet peas in her hand. “Donald always fills in the gaps, and never mind the consequences. He’s as feckless as his father, if not more so. Heather’s livid, and we have to get on with her once this weekend is over.”

  “I don’t see why it should make any difference to Heather,” he said stubbornly. “Hazel’s her cousin, after all. Ye’d think she’d be glad to—”

  “You don’t see anything!” Spots of color appeared high on Louise’s cheekbones. “How can you be so dense, John? You know how precarious things are at the distillery just now—”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with your friend Hazel coming for a weekend.” He added a clove of garlic to his board and chopped it with unnecessary force.

  Louise turned her back to him again just as the sun dipped low enough in the southwest to catch the window above the sink. She stood, backlit, the light forming an aureole around her fair hair, as if she were a medieval saint.

  “Why are you suddenly so determined to defend a woman you’ve never met?” Her voice was cold and tight, a warning he’d come to recognize. If he didn’t put an end to the argument now, it would spill over into the evening, and that he couldn’t afford.

  “Listen, darlin’—”

  “Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.” She stood very still, her hands cupped round the finished vase of flowers.

  “Don’t be absurd, Louise. Why wouldna I have told you, if I’d met the bluidy woman?”

  “I can think of a number of reasons.”

  Scraping the mushrooms and garlic into the melted butter waiting in a saucepan, he considered his reply. He’d never learned how to deal with her in this mood, having tried teasing, sarcasm, angry denial—all with the same lack of success. But the longer he delayed, the more likely she would take his silence for an admission of guilt. “Louise—”

  She turned, and he saw from her expression that it was too late to salvage the argument, or the evening. “What’s got into you, John?” she spat at him. “How could you possibly have thought I’d approve of your conspiring to sabotage another woman’s marriage?”

  As the train sped north, the fields of Northumberland and the rolling hills of the Scottish Borders yielded to granite cliffs and forests, and, at last, to the high, heather-clad moors. Gemma gazed out the glass, entranced by the patterns of dark and light on the moor side, as if someone had laid out a child’s crude map of the world across the hills.

  “They burn the heather,” Hazel explained when Gemma asked the cause of the odd effect. “The new growth after the burning provides food for the grouse.”

  “And the yellow patches?”

  “The deep gold-yellow is gorse. Lovely to look at but prickly to fall into. And the paler yellow”—Hazel pointed at the blooms lining the railway cutting—“is broom.”

  “All this you remember from your childhood?” Gemma asked. Hazel had told her she’d lived near here as a small child, before her parents moved to Newcastle.

  “Oh.” Hazel looked disconcerted. “I worked here for a bit after university.”

  Before Gemma could elicit particulars, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea trolley, and shortly thereafter they drew into the doll’s house of Aviemore station.

  Gemma eyed the Bavarian fantasy of gingerbread and painted trim with astonishment as Hazel laughed at her expression. “It’s by far the prettiest building in Aviemore,” Hazel said as they gathered their luggage from the overhead racks. “The station raises great expectations, but Aviemore’s a ski and hiking center, and there’s not much else to recommend it.”

  They picked up the keys for their hired car from the Europcar office in the railway station, then emerged into the evening light. At first glance, Gemma found Hazel’s assessment to be accurate. The Hi
gh Street was lined with mountain shops, restaurants, and a new supermarket complex; to the left the stone block of the Hilton Hotel rose from a green slope; to the right, beyond the car park, lay the Aviemore Police Station. But to the east, behind the railway station, rose mist-enshrouded mountain peaks, gilded by the sun.

  “Is that where we’re going?” Gemma gestured at the hills as they chucked their bags into the boot of the red Honda awaiting them in the car park.

  “The guest house is in the valley that runs along the River Spey. But you’re never out of sight of the mountains here,” Hazel added, and Gemma thought she heard a note of wistfulness in her voice.

  Ever more curious, Gemma asked, “You know the way?” as they belted themselves in and Hazel shoved the car hire map into the glove box.

  “I know the road,” Hazel said, pulling into the street, “but not the house itself.”

  In a few short blocks, they’d left Aviemore behind and turned into a B road that crossed the Spey and dipped into evergreen woods. “We’re running along the very edge of the Rothiemurchus Estate,” Hazel explained. “That’s owned by the Rothiemurchus Grants—they’re quite a force in this part of the world.”

  “Grants?” Gemma repeated blankly.

  “A famous Highland family. I’m—Never mind. It’s complicated.”

  “Related to them?”

  “Very remotely. But then most people in the Highlands are related. It’s very incestuous country.”

  “Do you still have family here, then?” Gemma asked, intrigued.

  “An aunt and uncle. A cousin.”

  Gemma thought back over all the hours they’d spent chatting in Hazel’s cozy Islington kitchen. Had Hazel never mentioned them? Or had Gemma never thought to ask?

  In the time Gemma had lived in Hazel’s garage flat, they had become close friends. But on reflection, Gemma realized that their conversations had centered on their children, food, Gemma’s job, and—Gemma admitted to herself rather shamefacedly—Gemma’s problems. Gemma had thought that Hazel’s easy way of turning the conversation from her own life was a therapist’s habit, when she had thought of it at all. But what did she really know about Hazel?

  “When you came back after university…,” she said slowly. “What did you do?”

  “Cooked,” Hazel answered grimly. “I catered meals for shooting parties, at estates and lodges.”

  “Shooting? As in the queen always goes to Balmoral in August for the grouse?”

  Hazel smiled. “We’re not far from Balmoral, by the way. And yes, it was grouse, as well as pheasant and deer and anything else you could shoot with a bloody gun. I had enough of carcasses to last a lifetime.” Slowing the car, Hazel added, “We should be getting close. Keep watch on the left.”

  Gemma had been absently gazing at the sparkle of the river as it played hide-and-seek through pasture and wooded copse, trying to imagine a childhood spent in such surroundings. “What exactly am I looking for?”

  “A white house, set back from the road. I’m sure there will be a sign.” Hazel slowed still further, her knuckles showing pale where she gripped the wheel. Odd, thought Gemma, that Hazel should be so anxious about missing a turning.

  They traveled another mile in silence, then rounding a curve, Gemma saw a flash of white through the trees. “There!” A small sign on a gatepost read INNESFREE, BED & BREAKFAST INN.

  Hazel braked and pulled the car into the drive. The house sat side-on to the road, facing north. Its foursquare plainness bespoke its origins as a farmhouse, but it looked comfortable and welcoming. To the right of the house they could see another building and beyond it, the glint of the river.

  The sight of smoke curling from the chimney was a welcome addition, for, as Gemma discovered when she stepped out of the car, the temperature had dropped considerably just since they’d left Aviemore. Hazel shivered in her sleeveless dress, hugging her arms across her chest.

  “I’ll just get your cardigan, shall I?” asked Gemma, going to the boot, but Hazel shook her head.

  “No. I’ll be all right. Let’s leave the bags for now.” She marched towards the front door, and Gemma followed, looking round with interest.

  The door swung open and a man came out to greet them, his arms held out in welcome. “You’ll be Hazel, then? I’m John, Louise’s husband.” He took Hazel’s hand and gave it a squeeze before turning to Gemma. “And this is your friend—”

  “Gemma. Gemma James.” Gemma shook his hand, taking the opportunity to study him. He had thinning dark hair, worn a little longer than fashion dictated, wire-rimmed spectacles, a comfortable face, and the incipient paunch of a good cook.

  “We’ve put you in the barn conversion—our best room,” John told them. “Why don’t you come in and have a wee chat with Louise, then I’ll take your bags round.” He shepherded them into a flagstoned hall filled with shooting and fishing prints and sporting paraphernalia; oiled jackets hung from hooks on the walls, and a wooden bin held croquet mallets, badminton racquets, and fishing rods. In contrast to the worn jumble, a table held a perfect arrangement of spring flowers.

  A woman came towards them from a door at the end of the hall. Small and blond, with a birdlike neatness, she wore her hair in the sort of smooth, swingy bob that Gemma, with her tangle of coppery curls, always envied.

  “Hullo, Hazel,” the woman said as she reached them, pecking the air near Hazel’s cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you. I’m Louise,” she added, turning to Gemma. “Why don’t you come into the parlor for a drink before dinner? The others have walked down to the river to work up an appetite, but they should be back soon.”

  She led them into a sitting room on the right. A coal fire glowed in the simple hearth, the furniture was upholstered in an unlikely but pleasant mixture of mauve tartans, a vase of purple tulips drooped gracefully before the window, and to Gemma’s delight, an old upright piano stood against the wall.

  As soon as Gemma and Hazel were seated, John Innes brought over a tray holding several cut glass tumblers and a bottle of whisky. “It’s Benvulin, of course,” he said as he splashed a half inch of liquid amber into each glass. “Eighteen-year-old. I could hardly do less,” he added, with a knowing glance at Hazel.

  “Benvulin?” repeated Gemma.

  After a moment’s pause, Hazel answered. “It’s a distillery near here. Quite famous.” She held her glass under her nose for a moment before taking a sip. “In fact, the whole of Speyside is famous for its single malt whiskies. Some say it provides the perfect combination of water, peat, and barley.” She drank again, and Gemma saw the color heighten in her cheeks.

  “But you don’t agree?” Following Hazel’s example, Gemma took a generous sip. Fire bit at the back of her throat and she coughed until tears came to her eyes. “Sorry,” she managed to gasp.

  “Takes a bit of getting used to,” John said. “Unless you’re like Hazel, here, who probably tasted whisky in her cradle.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that.” Hazel’s tight smile indicated more irritation than amusement.

  “Is that a Highland custom, giving whisky to babies?” asked Gemma, wondering what undercurrent she was missing.

  “Helps with the teething,” Hazel replied before John or Louise could speak. “And a host of other things. Old-timers swear a wee dram with their parritch every morning keeps them fit.” Finishing her drink in a swallow, Hazel stood. “But just now I’d like to freshen up before dinner, and I’m sure Gemma—”

  Turning, Gemma saw a man standing in the doorway, surveying them. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick auburn hair and a neatly trimmed ruddy beard. And he was gazing at Hazel, who stood as if turned to stone.

  He came towards her, hand outstretched. “Hazel!”

  “Donald.” Hazel made his name not a greeting but a statement. When she made no move to take his hand, he dropped it, and they stood in awkward silence.

  Watching the tableau, Gemma became aware of two things. The first was that Hazel, standing wi
th her lips parted and her eyes bright, was truly lovely, and that she had never realized it.

  The second was the fact that this large man in the red-and-black tartan kilt knew Hazel very well indeed.

  2

  It was like the worst of the Scottish Highlands, only worse; cold, naked, and ignoble, scant of wood, scant of heather, scant of life.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “Travels with a Donkey”

  Carnmore, November 1898

  BRACING HER SHOULDER against the thrust of the wind hammering at the kitchen door, Livvy eased up the latch. But her slight body was no match for the gale, her preparation futile. The howling wind seized the door and flung it back, taking her with it like a rag doll.

  She lay in a heap on the stone flags, the frigid air piercing her lungs. Levering herself up on hands and knees, she edged round the door’s flimsy shelter. The snow flew at her, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, but she crawled forward, her head down, her gaze fixed upon the dark huddle beyond the stoop. “Charles?” she called out, her voice a croak snatched by the wind, but there was no answer.

  The humped form resolved itself as she drew nearer: man-sized, man-shaped, the darkness a coat, rime-crusted. She dug her way through the heaped snow that had drifted against the sill, frantic now.

  He lay against the step, curled in a fetal ball, his head hidden by his arms. “Charles!” Livvy tugged at him, pulling him half onto his back so that she could see his face, and pushed back his wet, cold hair. His skin was blue, his lashes frozen with tiny ice crystals, but she thought she saw his lips move.

  “Inside. We’ve got to get ye in the house,” she shouted, trying to lift him. But he was limp, a deadweight, and with the wind buffeting her she couldn’t get enough leverage to haul him over the stoop. Pushing and tugging, she exhorted him, but she grew clumsier as she began to lose the sensation in her hands and feet.

  At last she sat back. “Charles, oh, Charles,” she sobbed, wiping at the tears turning to ice on her cheeks. Then she swallowed hard, her resolve hardening. He had made it home, God knew how, with the last of his strength, and now it was up to her.