Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9

by Now May You Weep

  Some of the previous evening’s edge had returned to Louise’s voice.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t criticizing you. I just thought you might have been able to discourage her, if you knew—”

  “I’ve had nothing from Hazel in ten years but a scrib-bled note on a Christmas card. I don’t think my opinion would have counted for much. And besides, we can’t afford Donald Brodie’s ill will. He’s too—”

  A distant crack reverberated in the still air. This time Gemma had no doubt it was a gunshot. She jumped up, spilling her tea. “What—”

  “It’s just someone potting at rabbits,” Louise said, but she stood and poured out her mug. “This is shooting country, after all, and one has to keep in trim for the Glorious Twelfth.” Seeing Gemma’s blank expression, she added, “The Twelfth of August. The beginning of grouse season.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gemma murmured, still listening for an outcry, or another shot. She stepped outside and Louise joined her. “It’s just that in London—”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Louise assured her. “People here basically shoot anything that moves. Grouse, pheasant, ptarmigan, deer—”

  John Innes came out the back door, looking around in visible agitation. “Louise!” he called, spotting them.

  “I’ve guests at the table, and the plates not ready.”

  “Sorry,” Louise said to Gemma as she picked up her abandoned basket. “Duty calls.”

  When Louise had followed her husband into the house, Gemma stood alone in the garden, listening for the sound of another shot.

  Saturday dawned clear and fair, and after a fitful night’s sleep, Kincaid set about trying to make the best of the day for the boys. He prepared boiled eggs with soldiers, which Toby loved, and coffee with steamed milk, Kit’s special Saturday treat. Although Toby happily dunked the toast strips into his egg, Kincaid caught Kit studying him as if puzzled by his industrious cheer.

  When they’d finished the washing up, they all trooped outside for the promised game of football.

  Their tiny back garden backed up to a gated communal garden, an advantage they could not ordinarily have afforded in London, if not for their good fortune in leas-ing the house from his guv’nor’s sister. Both boys and dogs had spent many hours playing under the spreading trees, and there was enough lawn to lay out sticks for their football goalposts.

  They chose sides, Kincaid against the boys, and for half an hour, he was able to lose himself in running and shouting, and in expending some of his anger in vicious

  kicks at the ball. The dogs ran alongside them, barking excitedly. At last a particularly fierce scramble for the ball brought them all down in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Toby, spying a friend at the other end of the garden, jumped up and raced off with a four-year-old’s energy, while Kincaid and Kit lay panting in the sun.

  Knowing he must grab the opportunity, Kincaid plunged in. “Kit, I’ve had a letter from your grandmother—or rather from your grandmother’s solicitor.”

  “Solicitor?” Kit sat up, his face going pale beneath its rosy flush.

  “She sent a copy to Ian as well. It seems she thinks you’d be better off in her care. She—”

  “You mean live with her?” Kit was already shaking his head, his breath coming fast. “I won’t! You know I won’t.

  I’d rather—”

  “Hold on, Kit.” Kincaid put a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let me finish. Yes, that’s what she wants, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. You know I want you here with me—with us—always. But in order to ensure that, we’re going to have to plan our response, and that means talking things out. Okay?”

  Kit nodded, slowly, but his eyes were still wide with shock.

  “Okay. Good lad.” Kincaid smiled at him. “I rang Ian last night.” He’d sat up late at the kitchen table, rereading Eugenia’s letter and drinking too many cups of tea from Gemma’s teapot. His ex-wife’s mother had always been difficult, but after her only child’s murder her behavior seemed to disintegrate beyond reason. Although she claimed to have Kit’s interests in mind, she tormented the boy mercilessly, blaming him for his mother’s death, and both Kincaid and Ian had severely limited her visitations.

  Vic’s father, Robert Potts, was a mild-mannered man who

  seemed unwilling—or unable—to stand up to his wife’s bullying. Now it seemed Eugenia was prepared to carry out the threats she’d been making for months.

  Although Kincaid had been sorely tempted to ring Gemma, in the end he’d decided there was no point in spoiling her weekend with worry when there was nothing she could do.

  When the hands on the kitchen clock crept round to midnight, he had picked up the phone and called Ian McClellan in Canada, catching him just home from his classes at the university. Kincaid explained the latest development, then, when Ian had finished swearing, he’d asked, “Could you write a letter giving Kit permission to live with me, and stating your reasons? You might have it notarized for good measure.”

  “I can do that,” Ian agreed, “although I don’t think any halfway decent family judge would give Eugenia the time of day. I’m sure at Kit’s age his wishes would be considered paramount. Still . . .”

  “You think we should consult a solicitor? We’ll have to act together on this.” Kincaid and Ian had developed an odd but workable relationship over the past year, rather like ex-spouses sharing custody of a child. Except, of course, that Kincaid had no legal rights.

  “I think we’ll have to,” Ian said with a sigh, leaving Kincaid wondering if he were replying to the question or the statement. “Look, Duncan . . .” Ian paused for a long moment. “We’ve tiptoed around this for a good while, but I think now we’re going to have to talk about it. Vic and I never did. We just let it fester, and I wish—well, things might have been different if we’d got it out in the open.

  What I’m saying is—it’s not that I don’t want to take responsibility for Kit, but if you were to prove paternity, there’d be no question of Eugenia interfering.”

  Of course, Kincaid had considered the possibility of testing but had been unwilling to subject Kit to the emotional stress such a procedure would entail, unless it was absolutely necessary—but that seemed to have come to pass.

  Now, he said, “Kit, there is one simple way we could put a stop to this. We can prove you’re my son.”

  “You mean . . . a test?”

  At the look of horror on the boy’s face, Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s painless. They just take a bit of saliva, a swab from inside your cheek—”

  “No. I don’t want to do it.”

  “It’s nothing, I promise—”

  “No, it’s not that. I—I wouldn’t want Ian to think I—”

  “It was Ian’s suggestion, Kit. He wants what’s best for—”

  “No,” Kit said again, shaking his head more emphati-cally. He rose into a crouch, like a runner in starting position. “I’m not having any test. And I’m not going to live with the old witch. I’ll run away first. Tess and I could manage on our own.”

  Kincaid tried to push aside the sudden vision of Kit living on the street, dirty and emaciated, curled up on a curbside blanket with the dog, but his worry and exasperation got the better of him. “Kit, don’t be ridiculous.

  It’s not going to come to that. If you’ll just—”

  “No.” Kit pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Kincaid. His mouth was set in an implacable line that reminded Kincaid very much of Vic at her most stubborn. “You’re always telling me to take things on faith,” he said. “Well, now you can take me on faith, or not at all.”

  *

  The group gathered after breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen, a large room that John Innes had equipped with a commercial range and a spacious center work island.

  Open racks on the walls held plates, the original cast-iron sink was set beneath the windows, and bunches of Louise’s dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Between t
he kitchen and the back door was a scullery, with a glass-fronted gun case on one wall, while shelves on the other wall held Louise’s flower baskets and a row of muddy boots.

  The kitchen was a pleasant room, with space for the class to work comfortably together. John had divided them into pairs; Gemma with Hazel, Heather with Pascal, leaving Donald partnered with Martin Gilmore. If Brodie was unhappy with the arrangement, he concealed it, joking with Martin as they strained the broth John had put on to simmer the night before.

  They were to prepare the first and last courses for that evening’s dinner. First, a Brie and celery soup, a combination of ingredients that made Gemma wrinkle her nose in doubt, but John assured them it would be delicious.

  Beside her, Hazel chopped celery with quick efficiency.

  “This soup is usually made with chicken stock,” John explained, “but in deference to Hazel, we’re using a veg-gie stock today.”

  Louise, passing through the kitchen on her rounds of tidying, gave him an I told you so look.

  Shrugging, John said, “Och, the wee woman’s always right. She told me yesterday to be prepared for vegetarian guests, and I paid her no mind.”

  “Oh, I find that women are occasionally wrong.”

  Brodie’s teeth flashed in his red beard as he smiled. “And it’s the poor wee lads that suffer the consequences.”

  Hazel flushed, her fingers tightening on the knife.

  “You do eat fish, don’t you, Hazel?” put in John, with a quick glance at his friend. Looking relieved when she nodded, he added, “Tonight we’re going to make it up to you. A grilled salmon with basil and red pepper pesto; mange-tout, blanched, then sautéed in a garlic butter sauce; scalloped red potatoes with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese.” John’s usually sallow complexion had taken on the glow of enthusiasm. “This is wild salmon, of course, caught just this morning. Wouldn’t dream of using farm-raised.”

  “Farm-raised salmon provides jobs,” interjected Martin, who obviously wasn’t letting the acceptance of his brother’s hospitality interfere with his freedom of expression. “Not just sport for the rich.”

  “It’s not just the tenants who fish the rivers,” corrected John. “It’s the local folk as well.”

  “Martin does have a point,” Donald said mildly, looking up from the onion he was now dicing. “How many stretches of the river can you name that aren’t leased for the season?”

  John scowled at him, unmollified. “Nevertheless.

  We’re talking about cooking, and the farm-raised salmon has no taste.” He unwrapped the large wedge of Brie he’d pulled from the fridge. “We’ll remove the rind and cube the cheese,” he told the group, “but we won’t add it to the soup until just before serving.” He sliced a chunk of butter into a large pot. “Onions and celery in now, please,”

  he directed them when the butter began to bubble. “And the herbs,” he added, nodding to Heather, who had been chopping fresh thyme and marjoram from the garden.

  Heather Urquhart had exchanged last night’s sleek, black suit for jeans and a pullover, and had tied back her hair with a businesslike cord. “Yes, sir, please, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes at John as she scraped the herbs into

  the pot with the flat of her knife. “I’ll just be tugging my forelock, sir.”

  “That’s the first rule of the kitchen,” replied John, good-naturedly. “The chef expects absolute and immediate obedience from the staff. But seeing as I’m a benevolent despot, I’ve arranged a lunchtime outing for ye.”

  “You have?” queried Donald, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, with a wee bit cooperation from Donald,” admitted John. “But I did the food myself—a cold pheasant pie—for a picnic at Benvulin. And Hazel, I didn’t forget about ye. I’ll put together something special for you before you go.”

  “It’s all right, John,” Hazel assured him, with the first smile Gemma had seen all morning. “I’ll be just fine with an apple and a biscuit. Now what do we do?” She gestured at the pot.

  John instructed Pascal to stir a few tablespoons of flour into the sautéed vegetables, before slowly adding stock.

  Then he gave them a challenging look. “Now, while that simmers for a bit, we’re going to make pastry.”

  “Highland whisky crèmes,” John had pronounced, gazing at them expectantly.

  Gemma, looking round at the blank expressions on the others’ faces, ventured, “Whisky in a dessert? Is this a traditional Highland thing?”

  “Highlanders can put whisky in anything,” Donald Brodie said with a chuckle, “but I’ve no idea what this particular beastie might be.” Brodie wore a kilt in muted greens and blues rather than the brilliant red Brodie tartan he’d worn the previous evening, with a woolen pullover that looked more suitable for stalking in the heather than cooking.

  “It’s shortbread, topped with an ice cream made with fresh cream and flavored with whisky and honey—local honey, of course.” John sounded a bit put out at their ignorance. “Now we’ll be starting with the shortbread—”

  “We’re going to make shortbread?” interrupted Heather, whose earlier patience seemed to be evaporat-ing. “Why on earth would we make shortbread when Walker’s is just down the road?”

  “Because there’s no comparison between shortbread made in a factory, however good it may be, and pastry made by hand,” John admonished her briskly, setting out a bag of flour and several sticks of butter on the slab of marble set into the work island. “That’s like asking why you would drink single malt whisky when you could have a blend.”

  “Ouch. That’s vicious, lass,” said Donald, grinning at Heather, and Gemma saw Hazel give her cousin a sharp glance. Were Donald and Heather more than business associates? But if so, why the elaborate scheme to get Hazel here? Although, Gemma mused, that might account for Heather’s obvious animosity towards her cousin.

  “The secret to good pastry is to handle it gently,” continued John as they creamed butter and sugar together, Heather grumbling under her breath all the while. “Unlike a woman,” he added, “the less you touch it, the more tender it will be.”

  “But is that true?” asked Donald, with a glance at Hazel that made her blush and look away.

  “Theoretically,” said John, seemingly unaware of the sudden rise in tension. “But in practice, I wouldn’t take a wager on it.”

  By the time the shortbread was cooling on racks, and the ice cream safely stored in the freezer, Gemma was more

  than ready to break for lunch. Cooking, she’d found, was harder on the feet than walking a beat.

  Donald had organized the transport to Benvulin; Pascal and Martin with Heather, Gemma and Hazel in his Land Rover, along with the picnic baskets. The early morning mist had cleared, and the day was fine and warm. John and Louise stood on the back steps of the B&B to see them off, like proud parents waving their children off to school, but just as the picnic party reached their cars, Hazel stopped and put a hand on Gemma’s arm.

  “Gemma, I think I’ll stay behind,” she said softly. “I—

  I’ve a headache.”

  Keys in hand, Donald turned, his kilt swinging.

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

  Hazel didn’t meet his eyes. “But I just don’t think— I’m really not up to it.”

  Donald took a step towards her, then seemed to realize they had a rapt audience. He gave a curt nod to Heather, who shrugged and herded her contingent into a black Audi. When the car had pulled out of the drive, Donald turned back to Hazel. “Aye, dinna fash yerself, hen,” he told her, putting on the broad Scots. “We’ll bring you a dram, for auld times’ sake. You take care of yourself, have a nice lie-down.”

  “Hazel, I can stay with you,” offered Gemma. “I don’t mind—”

  “No. It’s all right. I wouldn’t have you miss this, and I’ll be fine.” She gave Gemma the ghost of a smile. “I promise.”

  In Hazel’s absence, Gemma fo
und herself in the passenger seat of the Land Rover by default. Glancing sur-

  reptitiously at Donald as they drove, she was aware of his large, capable hands on the wheel, and of the strong profile of his nose above his bearded lips.

  “Bloody hell,” she swore under her breath. The man radiated a woolly sort of sexual magnetism. And if she weren’t immune, she could imagine what Hazel must be feeling.

  “Sorry?” said Donald, having—thankfully—not understood her muttered curse.

  “Um, your kilt,” Gemma blurted out as he glanced over at her curiously. “I was wondering about your kilt. I thought the one you wore last night was your clan tartan.”

  “This is Hunting Brodie. The hunting tartans are never as bright.”

  “Sort of like camouflage?”

  “Exactly. The hunting tartans usually replace the background color of the tartan with blue, green, or brown.”

  “Have you always worn the kilt?”

  “Oh, aye. Fits the image, you see, of the owner of an ancient distillery.” His tone was lightly mocking. “And as a rule, I find the kilt more comfortable than breeks.”

  “There’s no real tradition, then?” asked Gemma, genuinely interested now.

  “I’d not like to disappoint ye.” Donald smiled at her, and her pulse leapt. “There is a tradition, right enough, but it owes more to Sir Walter Scott and the Victorians than to authentic clan history. There’s not even real evidence that early tartans were associated with specific clans. And as for the kilted Highlander marching into bat-tle,” he added, warming to his subject, “the original kilt was merely a belted plaid, and most of the time the soldiers took it off for ease of movement when fighting.”

  “A plaid is different from a tartan?” she asked.

  “A plaid is just a woolen fabric. The early plaids were

  long rectangles of cloth, about sixteen feet by five. A man would lay it out on the ground, pleat it, then lie on top of it and belt it on.”

  “It sounds very awkward,” Gemma admitted. “And not the least bit romantic.”

  “Och, well, I’ll try not to spoil all your illusions.