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Beneath the jocular tone, there was a note almost of pleading.

Hazel had stood for a moment, speechless, gazing up at him, then she’d clasped Gemma’s arm. “I— We’d better turn in. We’ve a big day tomorrow.”

“You’ll need a good night’s sleep to tackle John’s porridge in the morning,” agreed Louise, with such deadpan delivery that Gemma wasn’t sure she’d meant it as a joke.

Gemma took the opportunity to bid everyone good night, then steered Hazel firmly out the door, determined to get her friend on her own. Their feet crunched on the gravel as they crossed from the house to the barn.

The crisp air smelled of pine and juniper, and the mist rolling in from the river held the earthy dampness of marsh.

Hazel halted just outside the door to their room and tilted her head back. “Donald was right,” she said softly.

“The sky’s like black velvet. I’d forgotten . . .” She shivered convulsively.

“Come on, before you catch your death.” Gemma pulled Hazel into the room and shut the door. “We can stargaze some other time. Right now you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on between you and Donald Brodie.”

“It was the summer after I left university,” said Hazel.

She’d stalled, pacing, until Gemma had thrust a mug of hot Horlicks into her hands and pointed at the armchair.

“I needed a break,” Hazel went on slowly. “And I wanted to see the Highlands again. Cooking was the one thing I could do, so I got a job catering for shooting and fishing

parties.” Making a rueful face, she blew across the top of her drink.

“Go on,” urged Gemma, settling herself at the head of one of the beds. Their room was small but pleasant, with dark beams in a whitewashed ceiling, and snowy puffs of duvets on the beds. “Was it hard?”

“I’d no idea how primitive some places still were, the shooting lodges. There were days I had to use the floor for a chopping block. It gave me confidence, though—

after that I knew I could cook anything, anywhere.”

“And Donald?”

“Donald was a guest at a lodge near Braemar, where I was cooking. One day he stayed in from the moor to help me, when I had more guests than planned and not enough food to go round. After that we were—he was—” Hazel shook her head. “I never believed in love at first sight until that day. We were giddy from then on, consumed by it. I stayed months longer than I’d intended, missing the start of the Christmas term for my second degree. We were so sure that we were meant for each other,” she added, her voice wistful.

“And then when Donald found out who I was, who my family were, that clinched it. It was to be a dynastic union; I was the ideal queen of his little empire.”

“I don’t understand,” said Gemma. “What had your family to do with it?”

“Whisky,” Hazel said shortly, sipping at her Horlicks.

“Everything comes back to whisky, in case you hadn’t noticed. My family had owned a distillery, almost as long as Donald’s had owned Benvulin, and Donald knew he would take over Benvulin when his father retired. He saw us as the merger of two great names, two traditions.”

“That doesn’t sound such a bad thing.”

“Oh, but that’s when it got complicated.” Hazel’s laugh held no humor. “It turns out our families were the Scottish version of the Montagues and the Capulets. Donald had some idea—only he hadn’t bothered to tell me—but I hadn’t a clue. I had wondered why he seemed so reluctant to introduce me to his father.”

“His father didn’t approve?”

“You could say that.” Hazel’s lips formed a tight line, and she resumed her pacing.

“But surely you could have worked something out, given time—”

“No. The distillery meant too much to Donald. And my family . . . When I told my father, he was appalled. But he wouldn’t explain why there was such bad blood between the Brodies and the Urquharts, and he died not long afterwards.”

“Oh, Hazel, I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, feeling an ache of sympathy.

Hazel sighed and sat lightly on the edge of her bed.

“We left Carnmore when I was fourteen. My father sold off the stock and equipment and took a job managing a brewery in Newcastle. I never knew him all that well, really. They sent me away to school, in Hampshire—that’s where I met Louise—and they cut themselves off from everything Scots, including family here.”

“And your cousin, Heather?” asked Gemma, thinking of the woman’s obvious antipathy towards Hazel.

“Heather’s father was my dad’s younger brother; he works for a whisky distributor in Inverness. Heather was just a year younger than I am, both of us only daughters.

She loved Carnmore with a passion, and she idolized me.

I don’t think she ever forgave me for leaving, or Dad for letting Carnmore go.”

“If Donald’s father disapproved of the Urquharts so strongly, how did Heather end up working at Benvulin?”

“Having your only son marry an Urquhart was a far cry from hiring an Urquhart as menial office help, which is how Heather started there. I even suspect it gave Bruce Brodie a sense of satisfaction to have an Urquhart in his employ.”

“What did you do—after you and Donald—”

“I came back to London, took my second degree. I met Tim, and after a bit we got married. We were . . . comfortable . . . together, and I told myself that was the basis for a good marriage, that what I’d had with Donald wouldn’t have lasted. By the time I started to doubt my judgment, Holly had come along, and I—well, you make the best of things, don’t you?”

Gemma gazed at her friend in astonishment. “Why did you never tell me any of this? I thought we were close, and I never dreamed you were unhappy!”

“I’m sorry,” Hazel told her, coloring. “I suppose it was partly therapist’s habit—you get used to listening, not confiding—and partly that I couldn’t stop paddling. If I stopped making my life true, every day, I was afraid I would drown.”

“But— How could you— You have everything, the ideal life—”

“Everything but someone to talk to. Tim didn’t—Tim doesn’t want to hear about my childhood, my life before I met him. I felt as if I’d lost a part of myself, the piece that held all the links together.”

“And then Donald came back into your life?”

Hazel nodded. “I bumped into him one day, literally, at the organic market in Camden Passage. It only seemed natural that we should go to lunch, catch up on our lives.

Just for old times’ sake. And after that—”

Gemma realized that in spite of her suspicions at dinner, she hadn’t really believed it until that moment. “All this time, you’ve been having an affair—”

“No!” Hazel stood, hugging herself as if her chest ached. “I haven’t slept with him! We just—he’d ring me and we’d talk. It made me feel alive again, truly alive, for the first time in years. We’d meet for a coffee or lunch whenever Donald came to London on business . . . It wasn’t— We never talked about— This weekend is the first time—”

“You were going to see what you were missing? And use me as a safety net in case you decided you didn’t want to go through with it? Or as an alibi if you did?”

Gemma was surprised by the strength of her own anger.

She felt used, betrayed.

“Oh, Gemma, I’m so sorry.” Hazel’s dark eyes filled with tears. “I should never have come. And I should never have asked you, hoping you’d protect me from myself. I’ve made a dreadful mistake. Tomorrow, I’ll tell Donald it’s no good. We can get the train back—”

“No.” Gemma felt suddenly, enormously, weary. “You had better be sure of what you want, really sure. There’s no point in going back divided—you’ve too much at stake to live it halfway.”