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

“Well, now you can take me on faith, or not at all.”

*

The group gathered after breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen, a large room that John Innes had equipped with a commercial range and a spacious center work island.

Open racks on the walls held plates, the original cast-iron sink was set beneath the windows, and bunches of Louise’s dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Between the kitchen and the back door was a scullery, with a glass- fronted gun case on one wall, while shelves on the other wall held Louise’s flower baskets and a row of muddy boots.

The kitchen was a pleasant room, with space for the class to work comfortably together. John had divided them into pairs; Gemma with Hazel, Heather with Pascal, leaving Donald partnered with Martin Gilmore. If Brodie was unhappy with the arrangement, he concealed it, joking with Martin as they strained the broth John had put on to simmer the night before.

They were to prepare the first and last courses for that evening’s dinner. First, a Brie and celery soup, a combination of ingredients that made Gemma wrinkle her nose in doubt, but John assured them it would be delicious.

Beside her, Hazel chopped celery with quick efficiency.

“This soup is usually made with chicken stock,” John explained, “but in deference to Hazel, we’re using a veg-gie stock today.”

Louise, passing through the kitchen on her rounds of tidying, gave him an I told you so look.

Shrugging, John said, “Och, the wee woman’s always right. She told me yesterday to be prepared for vegetarian guests, and I paid her no mind.”

“Oh, I find that women are occasionally wrong.”

Brodie’s teeth flashed in his red beard as he smiled. “And it’s the poor wee lads that suffer the consequences.”

Hazel flushed, her fingers tightening on the knife.

“You do eat fish, don’t you, Hazel?” put in John, with a quick glance at his friend. Looking relieved when she nodded, he added, “Tonight we’re going to make it up to you. A grilled salmon with basil and red pepper pesto; mange-tout, blanched, then sauteed in a garlic butter sauce; scalloped red potatoes with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese.” John’s usually sallow complexion had taken on the glow of enthusiasm. “This is wild salmon, of course, caught just this morning. Wouldn’t dream of using farm-raised.”

“Farm-raised salmon provides jobs,” interjected Martin, who obviously wasn’t letting the acceptance of his brother’s hospitality interfere with his freedom of expression. “Not just sport for the rich.”

“It’s not just the tenants who fish the rivers,” corrected John. “It’s the local folk as well.”

“Martin does have a point,” Donald said mildly, looking up from the onion he was now dicing. “How many stretches of the river can you name that aren’t leased for the season?”

John scowled at him, unmollified. “Nevertheless.

We’re talking about cooking, and the farm-raised salmon has no taste.” He unwrapped the large wedge of Brie he’d pulled from the fridge. “We’ll remove the rind and cube the cheese,” he told the group, “but we won’t add it to the soup until just before serving.” He sliced a chunk of butter into a large pot. “Onions and celery in now, please,”

he directed them when the butter began to bubble. “And the herbs,” he added, nodding to Heather, who had been chopping fresh thyme and marjoram from the garden.

Heather Urquhart had exchanged last night’s sleek, black suit for jeans and a pullover, and had tied back her hair with a businesslike cord. “Yes, sir, please, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes at John as she scraped the herbs into

the pot with the flat of her knife. “I’ll just be tugging my forelock, sir.”

“That’s the first rule of the kitchen,” replied John, good-naturedly. “The chef expects absolute and immediate obedience from the staff. But seeing as I’m a benevolent despot, I’ve arranged a lunchtime outing for ye.”

“You have?” queried Donald, his eyebrows raised.

“Well, with a wee bit cooperation from Donald,” admitted John. “But I did the food myself—a cold pheasant pie—for a picnic at Benvulin. And Hazel, I didn’t forget about ye. I’ll put together something special for you before you go.”

“It’s all right, John,” Hazel assured him, with the first smile Gemma had seen all morning. “I’ll be just fine with an apple and a biscuit. Now what do we do?” She gestured at the pot.

John instructed Pascal to stir a few tablespoons of flour into the sauteed vegetables, before slowly adding stock.

Then he gave them a challenging look. “Now, while that simmers for a bit, we’re going to make pastry.”

“Highland whisky cremes,” John had pronounced, gazing at them expectantly.

Gemma, looking round at the blank expressions on the others’ faces, ventured, “Whisky in a dessert? Is this a traditional Highland thing?”

“Highlanders can put whisky in anything,” Donald Brodie said with a chuckle, “but I’ve no idea what this particular beastie might be.” Brodie wore a kilt in muted greens and blues rather than the brilliant red Brodie tartan he’d worn the previous evening, with a woolen pullover that looked more suitable for stalking in the heather than cooking.

“It’s shortbread, topped with an ice cream made with fresh cream and flavored with whisky and honey—local honey, of course.” John sounded a bit put out at their ignorance. “Now we’ll be starting with the shortbread—”

“We’re going to make shortbread?” interrupted Heather, whose earlier patience seemed to be evaporat-ing. “Why on earth would we make shortbread when Walker’s is just down the road?”

“Because there’s no comparison between shortbread made in a factory, however good it may be, and pastry made by hand,” John admonished her briskly, setting out a bag of flour and several sticks of butter on the slab of marble set into the work island. “That’s like asking why you would drink single malt whisky when you could have a blend.”

“Ouch. That’s vicious, lass,” said Donald, grinning at Heather, and Gemma saw Hazel give her cousin a sharp glance. Were Donald and Heather more than business associates? But if so, why the elaborate scheme to get Hazel here? Although, Gemma mused, that might account for Heather’s obvious animosity towards her cousin.

“The secret to good pastry is to handle it gently,” continued John as they creamed butter and sugar together, Heather grumbling under her breath all the while. “Unlike a woman,” he added, “the less you touch it, the more tender it will be.”

“But is that true?” asked Donald, with a glance at Hazel that made her blush and look away.

“Theoretically,” said John, seemingly unaware of the sudden rise in tension. “But in practice, I wouldn’t take a wager on it.”

By the time the shortbread was cooling on racks, and the ice cream safely stored in the freezer, Gemma was more

than ready to break for lunch. Cooking, she’d found, was harder on the feet than walking a beat.

Donald had organized the transport to Benvulin; Pascal and Martin with Heather, Gemma and Hazel in his Land Rover, along with the picnic baskets. The early morning mist had cleared, and the day was fine and warm. John and Louise stood on the back steps of the B&B to see them off, like proud parents waving their children off to school, but just as the picnic party reached their cars, Hazel stopped and put a hand on Gemma’s arm.

“Gemma, I think I’ll stay behind,” she said softly. “I—

I’ve a headache.”

Keys in hand, Donald turned, his kilt swinging.

“But—”

“I’m sorry. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

Hazel didn’t meet his eyes. “But I just don’t think— I’m really not up to it.”

Donald took a step towards her, then seemed to realize they had a rapt audience. He gave a curt nod to Heather, who shrugged and herded her contingent into a black Audi. When the car had pulled out of the drive, Donald turned back to Hazel. “Aye, dinna fash yerself, hen,” he told her, putting on the broad Scots. “We’ll bring you a dram, for auld times’ sake. You take care of yourself, have a nice lie-down.”