A Finer End

“He’s been dropping little hints. ‘Wouldn’t you like to learn to ski, Kit? How’s your French coming, Kit?’ ”

Kincaid felt a rush of panic. After everything that had happened, all that they had been through, he would not lose Kit now. As calmly as he could, he said, “You don’t want to go?”

Kit glanced at him, then away, with studied nonchalance that didn’t quite come off. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“It would mean leaving Grantchester and living here in London.”

“I know. Would the Major mind Tess having a run in the garden sometimes?”

Kincaid smiled. “I think you might persuade him.” Trust Kit to think of the ragamuffin terrier first, rather than new schools, friends, and all the other logistics that boggled the mind. And nothing, of course, would be possible without Ian’s consent; he was still Kit’s legal guardian.

Ian McClellan’s behavior had never been predictable. First he had left Kit’s mother to run off to France with a graduate student; after Vic’s death he’d refused to take any responsibility for Kit. Then, a few months ago he had come back from France, determined to make amends, and moved Kit back into the cottage in Grantchester. Now it seemed the man was itching to be off again. How would Ian feel about leaving Kit behind?

For that matter, how would he fare as a single parent? It would further complicate things with Gemma, he could see that, but he knew Kit had to come first.

“Would you … You wouldn’t mind, would you? If I came to stay with you.” This time Kit met Kincaid’s eyes.

“There is nothing,” Kincaid answered truthfully, “that I would like more.”

Winnie made it a point to have lunch with Fiona Allen at least once a month, sometimes at the Vicarage in Compton Grenville, sometimes at Fiona’s home on Bulwarks Lane, below the Tor. Today they’d chosen Fiona’s house, due to Winnie’s commitments in Glastonbury, and Fiona had set out a salad Nicoise in her pale Scandinavian kitchen.

“I hate August in Somerset,” groaned Winnie, sliding into a chair and pulling her sticky blouse away from her damp skin. “It’s like living in soup.”

“You can’t fuss as long as you insist on riding that bike,” admonished Fiona as she laid plates on the table.

“You sound just like Jack. At least I get a breeze on the bike. The car’s a traveling oven.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Fiona shook her head, smiling. “How is the supposedly delicious Jack? I’m beginning to think you’re conspiring to keep me from meeting him, so that I can’t judge for myself.”

“I’ll give a dinner party. Soon, I promise. It’s just that all our spare time seems to vanish these days.”

“The automatic writing? How is that going?” Fiona was the one person outside the group in whom Winnie had confided.

“It’s fascinating—the material itself, I mean.”

“This can’t be comfortable for you.”

“Ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?” Winnie teased in a fair parody of Fiona’s Scottish brogue. Then she continued more soberly. “You know, it’s odd, but somehow Edmund seems too real to be a ghost. Too human. And I suppose I’ve got used to it.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s giving you the pip?”

“Too much experience with committees gone sour, I suppose,” Winnie said with a sigh. “The group dynamics seem to be changing, and that doesn’t bode well.”

“I thought it was all sweetness and light and save-the-world enthusiasm.”

“It was, in the beginning. But we’ve not had any luck finding out just what it is that Edmund wants, so all that energy is finding other outlets. Nick—the young man from the bookshop—is besotted with Faith—”

“Your pregnant teenager.”

“Right. Faith, on the other hand, seems totally oblivious. The girl has something about her that inspires devotion. She’s quite self-contained in a way I’ve never seen … and yet there’s something vulnerable about her.”

“Family trauma?” mused Fiona.

“I don’t know. I’d like to help her, but I haven’t been able to find a chink in her armor.”

“There’s more,” Fiona prompted, nibbling on a shiny black olive.

“Nick is terribly jealous of Simon—understandably so. I think Nick saw himself as a necessary part of the equation; then he introduced Jack to Simon Fitzstephen—”

“And now Jack’s spending more time with Fitzstephen than Nick, and Nick feels abandoned.”

“Classic, isn’t it? Damn Simon. I suspect he’s playing up Jack partly out of spite towards me and you can bet that whatever other motives he has aren’t unselfish. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And then there’s Garnet—”

“Garnet Todd?” Fiona’s hazel eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me Garnet was part of your group.”

“Didn’t I? Do you know her?”

“Who doesn’t? Garnet’s a fixture round here. She always had a talent for stirring things. I take it that hasn’t changed?”

“She seems to have taken a dislike to Nick,” admitted Winnie.