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

“It’s a bad omen,” said John MacGregor, the excise man, “I’m telling ye, such a blow this early in the year.”

MacGregor was a sharp-nosed, precise man, and kept his distance from the others, as was usually the case with the government officers. But Will had always found him kind, in his fussy way, and MacGregor had never minded taking the time to answer a boy’s questions. Now, he said more quietly to Will, “It’s a good thing your faither’s safe in Edinburgh, laddie. He’d ha been in a right bother this morning—”

“But he’s not in Edinburgh,” interrupted Will, and the other men fell silent as he told them of his father’s arrival in the night. “And now he’s burning with a fever,” Will added, “and his throat paining him somethin’ fierce.”

Seeing the look Smith shot at MacGregor, he said,

“What is it?” When the men hesitated, he barked, “Tell me!” The note of command in his voice surprised him—

for a moment, he had sounded like his father.

“Och, laddie, it’s nothing to worry ye,” said Smith, but his eyes didn’t meet Will’s. “It’s just somethin’ I heard up at the Pole—seems there’s a fever going round in Edinburgh . . .” The Pole Inn was the nearest public house, at the head of the Braes.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Will pushed him, knowing the answer even as he spoke.

Smith turned to his assistant, Kenneth Baxter. “You, Kenny, go back to the village, quick now, and fetch the nurse here. And you, Will,” he continued, this time meeting Will’s gaze, “you get back to the house. Your mam’ll be needin’ ye.”

Gemma climbed slowly from the depths of sleep, shed-ding the disquiet of her dreams like layers of skin. Then, full consciousness arriving with the disorientation that often accompanies the first night spent in a strange place, she sat up.

Innesfree. The barn conversion. Hazel. The pieces clicked together, and she looked towards the other bed.

There was no tousled dark head on the pillow, no sound from the bathroom. Hazel must have already dressed and gone out.

When Gemma had come in from her walk the previous evening, Hazel had been in bed, her light out. Although doubting that her friend was asleep, Gemma had been relieved not to talk further until she’d had a chance to sort out her reactions to Hazel’s revelations. She’d rung Kincaid, hoping to talk with him, but much to her surprise, the line had been engaged.

Now she pushed her hair from her face and swung her legs out of bed, curling her toes against the chill of the tiled floor. What had she been thinking last night, to encourage Hazel to pursue her relationship with Donald Brodie? It was not just mad, but dangerous. Not that Tim Cavendish would ever hurt Hazel, Gemma told herself in an effort to still the sudden thumping of her heart, but she’d seen marriages disintegrate too often to take the possibility of violence lightly.

Glancing at the clock, she saw that there was still an hour to breakfast. She had plenty of time to talk some sense into her friend.

Showered and dressed, Gemma stepped out and looked around her. Yesterday, she had only seen the property in the fading light of early evening. Now, it lay before her, golden and gleaming in the morning sun. It was still cool, wreaths of mist drifted up from the river, and birdsong trilled up and down the scale. The air had a fresh, evergreen scent to it, and when Gemma breathed, it felt like wine slipping down into her lungs.

There was no one visible in the garden, and on an impulse, Gemma turned away from the house and took the path leading towards the river. The track ran along the outer edge of the pasture that lay between the river and the road, winding through a stand of birch and rowans. It was still and silent beneath the trees, and after the first few yards, the thicket enclosed Gemma in a green and dappled world. Looking down, she saw the tightly curled fronds of fiddlehead ferns, and a stand of bluebells. Enchanted, she knelt to examine the flowers more closely.

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?”