Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “Kidnapped,” Kit answered. “We have to read it for class, but it’s bloody good.”

  “Don’t say bloody,” Kincaid reminded him. “Unless you mean it literally. But I’m glad you like the book.” Smothering a smile, he reached out to scratch Tess, whose small, pink tongue was lolling in a pant. “Is that why you’re not down helping Wes?”

  Looking away, Kit seemed to draw into himself. “I don’t need minding, you know,” he muttered after a moment. “I’m not a child.”

  “Did someone say you were?” Kincaid asked, making an effort to conceal his surprise. Kit and Wesley were the best of mates, and Kit usually nagged Wesley to stay longer.

  Kit gave a grudging shrug. “Wes and Toby were waiting for me when school let out. Some of the kids said I had a baby-sitter.” He uttered the term with loathing.

  Kincaid hesitated a moment, wondering how best to navigate the dangerous waters of a twelve-year-old’s humiliation at the hands of his peers. “Kit, I’m sure Wes and Toby went to meet you after school because Toby was anxious to see you, especially with Gemma gone for the weekend. We can ask Wesley to bring Toby straight home, if you’d rather.” He smiled ruefully. “I suppose having an adoring four-year-old brother doesn’t exactly give you street cred, does it?”

  Kit had the grace to blush but still protested. “Why does Wes have to stay, anyway? I can look after Toby—I’ve done it lots of times. Don’t you trust me?”

  “You do a great job with Toby,” Kincaid assured him. “And we appreciate your looking after him as much as you do. But we also don’t think it’s fair that minding Toby should be your job. What if you needed to stay late for a project at school, or do something with your mates?”

  When Kit didn’t answer, it occurred to Kincaid that perhaps it was the other way round, and responsibility for Toby gave Kit a defense against a lack of after-school invitations. While he was still trying to work out how to address the issue, Toby came thundering up the stairs to announce that dinner was ready.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Kincaid said, giving Kit a pat on the shoulder as he stood. “But in the meantime, you might want to compliment Wesley on his chicken.”

  He followed the boys downstairs slowly, musing on the conversation. They’d known, when they’d moved Kit to London last Christmas, that it might be a difficult adjustment for him. Since his mother’s death the previous spring, Kit had been living near Cambridge with his stepfather, Ian McClellan, and spending weekends in London with Duncan and Gemma.

  Although Ian had been separated from Vic when she died, he was still Kit’s legal guardian. Kincaid had allowed the arrangement to stand because he’d been unwilling to disrupt his son’s life any more than necessary, and he and Ian had gradually come to amicable terms. But all that had changed when Ian had decided to take up a teaching post in Canada at the New Year. Kincaid had wanted Kit with him, and Ian had been willing to let him stay. Ian had put the cottage in Grantchester, where Kit had spent his childhood, up for sale, and Kit had come to live with Duncan, Gemma, and Toby.

  All very well, but had he fooled himself into thinking Kit had made the transition easily, just because he hadn’t complained? He would do better, Kincaid resolved; spend more time with the boy, find out what was going on at school.

  But when Wesley had left for the café, and Toby had been put to bed with a story, Kit refused the much-anticipated action video, saying he wanted to finish his book. Kincaid found himself alone in the kitchen, his good intentions thwarted, and suddenly at a loose end.

  Of course, he had novels to read, projects to finish…there was the telly to watch—something of his own choosing, for a change. But without the comfort of Gemma’s presence somewhere in the house, all prospects seemed to pall.

  Kincaid snorted at the irony of it: he, who had always been so self-sufficient, reduced to mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. He’d have to get a grip on himself.

  Idly, he picked up the post from the kitchen table and leafed through it. There were bills and credit card applications, the usual circulars, and at the bottom of the stack, a thick, cream-colored envelope. Opening it curiously, he unfolded a sheaf of legal-looking papers. He read the document once, then again, the words sinking in.

  The letter came from a firm of solicitors representing his former mother-in-law, Eugenia Potts. Kit’s grandmother was suing for custody.

  3

  The hue of Highland rivers

  Careering full and cool,

  From sable onto golden,

  From rapid on to pool.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “To You, Let Snow and Roses”

  Carnmore, November 1898

  LIVVY ROUSED HER son with a touch on his shoulder. He came instantly awake, sitting up and groping for his trousers. “What—”

  “It’s your father, Will. Come and help me.” Her teeth chattered so hard she could barely speak, and her sodden clothes dripped upon the bed, but Will asked no more questions. Quickly, he pulled on his boots and coat and followed her down the stairs.

  The snow had half-buried Charles in the few moments Livvy had been gone, but together she and Will managed to pull him into the kitchen and close the door.

  “Blankets,” Livvy gasped. “We’ll need blankets. And make up the fire in the parlor, Will. That’s the warmest room in the house.”

  When Will had gone she knelt over her husband and began trying to remove his wet clothing. Charles roused a bit, pushing himself up and fumbling at the buttons of his overcoat. She stilled his hand, pressing it to her breast to warm it. Relief flooded through her. “Oh, Charles, you’re all right. I thought—”

  “Livvy…” His voice was a thread. “The storm came on so quickly. I was past Tomintoul. I’d no choice…The carriage…I had to leave it—”

  “Hush. It’s all right, love. Don’t try to talk.” She eased him out of his coat. “We’ll get something warm into ye, as soon as you’re dry.”

  Letting his head fall back against her arm, he whispered, “I can’t feel my feet.”

  “Hush, now,” she said again, knowing sensation would return soon enough, and that when it did the pain would be intense. “We’ll just get these boots off.”

  Will came back into the kitchen, carrying a pile of blankets. Together they stripped Charles of the remainder of his clothing and wrapped him in heavy wool, then they half-carried him into the parlor and installed him on the settee. The peats were blazing in the hearth, and the room had already lost some of its chill.

  “What about Elijah, Father?” asked Will. “Should I—”

  “In the barn,” Charles murmured, blinking. “He’ll be all right. Don’t go out until the storm breaks, Will. Too dangerous…” His eyes closed.

  They covered him warmly, and when the kettle boiled, Livvy fed him hot tea laced with whisky while Will supported his shoulders. Charles struggled to push himself upright, a faint color flushing his thin cheeks. “Livvy, I found a buyer in Edinburgh,” he said urgently. “A firm of blenders. Not Pattison’s. Whatever happens, you mustn’t sell to Pattison’s.”

  It had been a bad year for whisky. The industry had overproduced and overexpanded in the boom of the early 1890s, and now supply had inevitably begun to exceed demand. Rumors had been flying that Pattison’s, one of the biggest blenders in all of Scotland, was on the brink of financial collapse, and Charles had journeyed to Edinburgh in hopes of finding another market for the distillery’s stock.

  Livvy felt the jolt of fear in her breast, saw the panic flare in Will’s eyes. “Of course not, love,” she murmured soothingly, easing him down again among the blankets. “Ye can tell us all about it tomorrow, when you’ve had a wee bit rest.”

  But Charles tossed his head from side to side, more agitated, shivering. “Tomorrow—the men won’t be able to get here. You’ll have to manage, you and Will. The distilling—we can’t afford…”

  “Ye’ll be back on your feet by then,” she told him, stroking his forehea
d. “No need to worry, now.”

  Her words seemed to calm him, and after a few moments she felt the tension leave his body as he lapsed into a chill-wracked sleep.

  “He’ll be all right, won’t he?” croaked Will, meeting her eyes as she smoothed the blankets.

  “Aye, of course he will,” Livvy said sharply, knowing it was herself she sought to reassure as much as her son. “It’s no but a chill.” She thought of her physician father, snug in his bed in Grantown, and wished desperately for his advice.

  But in this weather, Grantown-on-Spey, only fourteen miles away, was an impossible journey. Nor would the doctor be able to come from Tomintoul. The Braes of Glenlivet in a snowstorm were as isolated and godforsaken as the moon. There would be no help until the storm broke—even then it might take days to clear the roads.

  But she had some skill, and more determination, and she was damned if she’d let this bloody place defeat her. Blinking against the sting of tears, she smiled at her son.

  “Och, your father’s made it home, Will, when many a man wouldn’t. That’s enough to be thankful for, till the morning.”

  “I’ve always said you were a wee bit daft in the heid, Callum MacGillivray, and now I know it’s so.” Callum’s aunt Janet stood in the door of the stable, her hands on her hips, glaring at him. She was a formidable sight at the best of times, a square, blunt-featured woman, with her graying hair cut short and a face permanently scoured by the Highland winds. Angry, she looked even fiercer, and Callum found himself struggling for a coherent reply.

  He was never very good at expressing himself aloud, although he did well enough in his own head, and with the murmured singsong understood by the horses and dogs. Touch, however, was another matter altogether. The lightest grip on the reins told him what a horse was thinking, let him communicate his wishes to the beast; the delicate quivers on a rod and line translated to him the language of fish, the deep, slow rhythm of the salmon, the quicksilver music of the trout.

  “It canna be helped, Auntie Jan,” he said now, knowing he sounded surly, and that it would aggravate her even further. “I’ve something else to do.” He reached down automatically to stroke Murphy, his black Labrador.

  “Something more important than keeping this stable on its feet? You know we’ve had this weekend’s riding party booked for months—and how did you think I would manage without your help?”

  “Ye can take the party yourself,” Callum offered. “Let Dad drive the van.”

  Janet greeted this with the snort of contempt it deserved. “That would be a fine thing, your father in the jail for drink driving and all the tourists’ baggage along with him.”

  The MacGillivray stables were a family concern, but Callum’s father, Tom, had for years been more a liability than an asset. Tom MacGillivray drank, and not even decent whisky but gin, a cheap habit learned during his days in the army. This meant he could be counted on for helping with the morning round of chores, but by midday he was uselessly maudlin and had to be kept out of sight of the customers. By suppertime they had to pry him out of his chair in order to feed him, after which, somewhat revived, he would meander down the road to the pub until closing time.

  The stable visitors who did encounter Tom were apt to find him quaint, with his worn tweeds and flat cap, unless they got close enough to smell him.

  “Aye.” Callum agreed with his aunt reluctantly. “That’s true enough. But I still canna take out the riding party.”

  Tomorrow morning they were expecting a group of six for an easy ride along the Spey valley, with an overnight stop near Ballindalloch. Although the stables still taught the occasional riding class for novices, most of their business had come to depend on the trekking trade. Guided by Callum, a dozen sturdy hill ponies carried riders on jaunts that varied from overnight to a full week, taking in local scenery as well as historic sights. Janet had ongoing arrangements with a number of bed-and-breakfasts that provided accommodation for the guests as well as stabling facilities for the horses, while she ferried the baggage from place to place in the stables’ large, green van.

  It was a division of duties that she and Callum had perfected, and for a number of years they had worked together as a smoothly oiled unit, a partnership. She stared at him now in consternation, squinting a little against the evening sun. In the merciless light, he could make out new lines around her eyes, and the smears of stable muck on her old jacket.

  “Callum, lad,” she said more gently, “are ye no feeling well? Is there something wrong with ye?”

  He felt ashamed at her concern, but there was no way he could possibly confide in her. “No, Auntie, I’m well enough. It’s just that I have some…personal…things to see to.”

  Janet’s stubby hands balled into fists again. “If by personal, ye mean that blond trollop in Aviemore—”

  “It’s naught to do with Alison, and she’s no a trollop,” he snapped back at her, his own temper rising. “And I’ll thank ye to keep your opinions of my friends to yourself.”

  They glared at each other in a standoff until he sighed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Och, I don’t blame ye for being angry with me. I’ve put ye in a difficult position. How would it be if you took the party out, and I drove the van?” That at least he could manage, without abandoning his own plans. “It’d do you good to get a wee bit fresh air,” he added, daring her to smile.

  Janet snorted and shook her head at him. “You’re incorrigible, lad,” she said, with exasperated affection. “You’ll drive some woman mad, you mark my words. All right, I’ll take the ride tomorrow, but you can finish up the evening rounds on your own.”

  “I don’t mind,” Callum said honestly. “Thank ye, Auntie Janet.”

  He watched her fondly as she stumped off towards the house, then he went into the barn to finish giving the horses their evening feed. Murphy settled in the straw with a groan of contentment, and the horses rustled in their stalls, watching him expectantly. Dust motes sparkled like glitter in the slanting sunlight; the air smelled of warm horse and fresh hay, with a faint note of dung and the syrupy ripeness of feed. To Callum, the combination of scents was heaven and had been as long as he could remember.

  When he had finished the chores, he went out into the stable yard and stood, gazing at the copper ball of the sun as it dropped beyond the river. Smoke rose lazily from the farmhouse chimney and a light glowed in the kitchen window. Beyond the barn, the ancient cow byre he’d converted into a cottage cast a long, low shadow, and farther still, the pasture sloped gently to a row of birches that shimmered at the water’s edge. As he watched, a heron took flight from the reeds.

  It was a small world, and for twenty-nine years he had thought it perfect and complete. He’d felt no lack of companionship; he had listened to the guests he guided chatter of children and spouses and lovers with an amused detachment, and he’d taken the wee cuddle when it came his way with nary a thought of commitment. More fool he, he thought now, his lips curving in a wry smile.

  He’d drive a woman mad, his auntie had said. How could he tell her it wasna a woman he wanted?

  Late again. Alison Grant slammed the door of Tartan Gifts and locked it behind her. Tartan Tat, she called the shop when she was feeling uncharitable, which was most of the time. Mrs. Witherspoon, the witch, had made her stay to take inventory on a Friday night, of all times, her excuse being that they needed to get things sorted before the Saturday rush.

  Except that there was no Saturday rush—Tartan Gifts not being the sort of shop that ever had customers trampling down the door. The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Witherspoon, with her violet, permed hair and mustached upper lip, thought being shop manager made her God, and that she had it in for Alison in a big way.

  Having spent the last two hours on her knees in the shop’s back room, among dusty boxes filled with thistle-enameled thimbles, tartan teacups, and refrigerator magnets bearing the simpering likeness of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Alison was very tempted to tell Mrs. Withersp
oon to stuff it.

  She could have a Saturday morning lie-in for a change, watch the telly, maybe do a bit of shopping herself. Alison lit a cigarette and indulged the fantasy for a moment as she took a deep drag, but by the time she exhaled, reality had reared its ugly head. First of all, she had nothing to go shopping with. And she had rent to pay. And then, of course, there was Chrissy.

  Alison tugged up her tights where they’d bagged at the knees, eased the strap of her shoulder bag, and started down the hill towards her flat as the lights of Aviemore winked on in the dusk. The road was quiet, except for the traffic in and out of the supermarket. Most shops had closed for the day, but it was still too early for what nightlife the town boasted.

  When she reached the forecourt of the flat, she stopped to finish her cigarette before grinding it into the pavement with her heel. She had no place to smoke these days; Chrissy complained if she smoked in the flat, Mrs. Witherspoon would have a coronary if she even thought about smoking in the shop, and Donald…The thought of Donald made her grimace.

  Around Donald, she washed her hands to get rid of the smoke smell, and sprayed her hair with perfume. He said tobacco kept you from distinguishing the finer points of a whisky, though personally she couldn’t tell one of the bloody things from the other, cigarettes or no. Not that she’d tell him that, mind—she’d learned to smile and mumble about “sherried oak” and “herbal bouquets” with the best of them.

  She had met Donald Brodie at a party three months ago. He wasn’t part of her usual set—but that night he had come with a friend of a friend, slumming, she supposed he’d been, and rattling on to the uneducated about the merits of different whiskies. But he was different, and bonnie enough, and to her surprise she’d found she rather liked listening to him. When he’d noticed her, she had let him pick her up. He’d taken her home to his house by the distillery, and that evening Alison’s life had changed forever.