confidence even in his good intentions. “Oh, no,” she whispered, heart quailing. “What’s he done now?”
“It took me a while to pry it out of him. Apparently, he realized he’d made a royal cock-up of things, after Kit hung up on him. First, he told Kit that the cottage in Grantchester had sold, which I think Kit could have dealt with, given a bit of time. He was expecting it, after all.
“But then Ian dropped the real bomb. He told Kit that he’s getting married again, in July, and he canceled Kit’s visit because he’s going to be on his honeymoon.”
“Married?” repeated Gemma, wondering if she’d heard correctly.
“Married. To a twenty-something Toronto socialite, one of his graduate students. Not that Ian doesn’t have the right to get married again,” Kincaid added, “but he could have broken the news to Kit a little more gently, and taken his feelings into consideration when he made the arrangements.”
Gemma sat up in bed and pushed her hair from her face.
“That’s much too charitable. He’s a bastard. Doesn’t he realize that Kit’s been planning this visit since Ian left for Toronto in December? To snatch that away from him would have been blow enough, after the letter from Eugenia, but to add marriage and a new stepmother on top of that—”
“I asked him if he could rearrange the wedding around Kit’s visit, but he said Melinda’s family had already made their plans.”
“Melinda?” Gemma squeaked. “God, I hate her already. What are we going to do?”
“What can we do? We have no control over Ian—”
“We have to get legal custody of Kit,” interrupted Gemma, with the decisiveness born of fury. “Ian has done enough damage; we have to make sure he can’t suddenly decide he wants to impress this Melinda by moving Kit
to Canada, or something equally daft. We have to insist on the DNA testing. Doesn’t Kit realize we only want what’s best for him?”
“Can you blame Kit for not trusting us, after twelve years with Ian?” Kincaid turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow so that he could look at her.
“Gemma—you don’t have any doubt, do you? That Kit is my son, and not Ian’s?”
The moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face clearly and revealing a vulnerability he seldom expressed. His hair fell across his brow in a familiar question mark. Gemma reached up and brushed it back with a fingertip. “No. You can’t see what I see, when the two of you are together. And it’s not just the physical resemblance—it’s in a gesture, a movement, an expression.”
He nodded, once, then frowned. “But why should it make any difference? I don’t mean for the obvious reasons, the custody issue, but in the way I feel. Why does it matter so much to me?”
“Maybe it’s just human nature,” Gemma said softly.
“The desire for connection.”
“Yes.” He reached for her, pressing her back until her head touched the pillow, then rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I’d agree with that.” There was an unexpected hint of laughter in his voice.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Taking her face in his hands, he brushed his lips down her cheek until he reached the corner of her mouth. “But I do.”
From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, November
If I have neglected this journal in these past few weeks, my justification lies in the events that have
overtaken the household. Margaret has once again taken to her bed, although the doctor can find no ailment. When he reproved her for feasting on sweetmeats rather than nourishing foods, she sent him away in a fit of pique, calling him useless—a case, I must say, of the pot calling the kettle black.
It is not so much that Margaret contributes to the household when she is up and about, but that her malingering causes much extra work and disruption for everyone else, particularly the servants.
And then there are the children. Since poor little Miss Andrews left so precipitously for London last summer, they have been without governess or tutor, allowed to run wild about the estate without discipline or routine. Little Robert had begun to show signs of temper, and Meg of aping her mother’s vapors.
At last, I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, and have hired a governess, a young woman of good family from Edinburgh, with whom I am well pleased. She has instituted a schedule of study for the children, with set times for lessons, music, drawing, and play. The change has been little short of miraculous. Within the space of a fortnight, the children have begun to show an improvement in character.
Rab, of course, seconded my decision, although he could not be pressed into taking the matter in hand himself. To give him his due, he has been much occupied with the distillery. Despite his frequent trips to Edinburgh and Glasgow in search of profitable connections, our situation has steadily worsened. Although our own barley harvest this autumn was more than sufficient to keep up pro-
duction, our stock sits in the warehouses, unsold.
The loss of Pattison’s distribution has been a devastating blow, and I fear that before the winter is out we will be without the funds to pay even the distillery workers.
I cannot help but wonder at the sudden blossom-ing of friendship between Rab and Olivia Urquhart. Not that I would suspect my brother of an ulterior motive, but I know how much he both admires and envies the manner in which Carnmore has weathered this financial storm.
It is, perhaps, a blessing that Margaret felt herself unable to attend the Hallowe’en festivities given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants yesterday evening. Livvy and her son had come down from Carnmore for the night, taking advantage of the fair weather for one last sortie out of the Braes before inclement weather closes them in.
Adults and children alike participated in the reels and apple dooking and crowdie supping with much hilarity. Amongst all the activities, there was much sharing of glances and touching of hands for those inclined to flirtation.
Margaret, for all her indolence, is sharp-eyed, and she could not have failed to notice the attrac-tion between Livvy Urquhart and my brother. Petty vengeance is certainly within Margaret’s capacity, and she does possess the social connections required to set such retribution in motion.
Of Rab’s reputation I have no fear—men of our station have always regarded widows as fair game.
Livvy Urquhart, however, seems an innocent, unaware of the precipice looming beneath her feet.
She has not the social position or the élan to carry
off such an intrigue and would, I fear, reduce herself to the pathetic. And what of her son? What will it do to his prospects if his mother compromises herself?
Or are these only idle fancies brought on by the lateness of the hour, and given rein by the self-indulgence of expressing myself within these pages.
Why should I, after all, begrudge my brother a bit of happiness, inside or out of the social conven-tions? Is it merely the sour envy of a spinster turned nearly forty years of age, with all hope of such companionship behind her?