The rich scent of damp earth tickled her nose, and a closer inspection of the ground revealed a shiny beetle making its determined way over a fallen log. Kit would
love this, Gemma thought as she rose, and was struck by a wave of longing for her family.
That thought brought back her concern for Hazel in full force, and as she walked on, Gemma mulled over what she might say to her friend. The woods gave way to heather and tussocks, then the path angled sharply to the right to follow a lightly wooded fence line towards the river.
Here the Spey widened in a gentle curve, and the shallow water near the shore grew thick with reeds and marsh grasses.
As Gemma stepped gingerly up to the bank, a duck took flight from the cover of the reeds with a sound like a shot. Gemma started reflexively, jumping back and stepping in a boggy spot. She’d begun to laugh at her own case of nerves when she caught a glimpse of motion off to the right. Two people stood farther down the shore, half-hidden by a clump of trees. Hazel, and Donald Brodie.
They stood a foot apart, their heads bent towards each other, and as Gemma watched, Donald raised his hand to Hazel’s cheek. The murmur of their voices reached her, carried by a shift in the wind. Hazel shook her head and stepped back; Donald reached for her but didn’t pull her closer.
Gemma hesitated, torn between her desire to call out—
to stop Hazel being such a fool—and reluctance to interrupt such obvious intimacy. Then Donald bent down, taking Hazel’s face in his hands and pressing his mouth to hers. After a moment, Hazel’s arms slipped round his neck.
Feeling the blood rise to her cheeks, Gemma turned away and started back to the house, all pleasure in the day forgotten.
*
When Gemma reached the B&B, she found Louise Innes in the vegetable and herb garden at the back, snipping sprigs of thyme into a basket.
“For the breakfast plates,” explained Louise, indicating her handiwork, “and mint for the fruit.” She straightened up and tucked her clippers into a pocket in the apron she wore beneath her cardigan. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Yes, thanks,” answered Gemma, looking round at the neat garden. The smell of frying bacon drifted enticingly from the house, but she’d lost her appetite.
Louise studied her, then gestured towards the toolshed at the bottom of the garden. “You look a bit peaky. We’ve a few minutes before breakfast. Come and have a cuppa.”
“What? Out here?” asked Gemma, puzzled.
“It’s my retreat.” Louise led her into the shed. A small window set in each side provided filtered morning light, benches held tools and potting equipment, and on a camp stove, a kettle bubbled merrily. “That’s the downside to running a B&B, I’ve discovered—lack of privacy. Even though we don’t open our bedroom to the guests, we’re still always on call. This gives me at least the illusion of getting away.”
“It’s like a doll’s house,” Gemma said delightedly.
“And I’m honored to be invited.” She looked away from the intricate spiderweb decorating one corner, repressing a shudder.
Louise took two mugs from a shelf, wiped them out with a corner of her apron, and removed two tea bags from a canister. While the bags were steeping, she pulled a stool from beneath the bench and overturned a pail.
“You take the elegant seat,” she said, motioning Gemma to the stool. “It’s a bit primitive, but then I don’t usually entertain out here.”
Gemma accepted a mug as she watched Louise tip the
tea bags directly into a compost pail. “Did you garden before you came here?”
“Not in Edinburgh. We lived in a tenement building, where the most I could manage was a pot of geraniums in the kitchen window. But I helped my mum when I was a child.”
Gemma thought of her own parents’ flat above the bakery in Leyton. Her mother had never even managed a pot of geraniums. “You’re English?”
“Yes, from Kent, originally. But my parents divorced when I was thirteen, and I went to boarding school in Hampshire. That’s how I came to know Hazel.”
Gemma came to a decision. “Louise, I’m really worried about Hazel. I know you’re old friends—”
“You’re talking about Donald, aren’t you? I didn’t approve of this arrangement, if that’s what you mean. Home wrecker is generally not part of my job description.”
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.”