“And I, as well,” echoed Pascal, pouring himself another finger of whisky and lying back on his elbow.
“Right, then. I don’t think we’ll disturb young Martin.”
Donald stood and held out a hand to Gemma, pulling her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a thistle.
She snatched her hand back and rubbed it against her jeans as she followed him across the lawn, trying to dispel the lingering warmth of his touch.
Donald turned back to her as they reached the distillery buildings. “The kilns and the mill are just for show now, of course. The gristmill has been steam-powered since the turn of the century, but my father restored the mill wheel to working order. It impresses the visitors.”
“And the kilns?” asked Gemma, admiring the twin pagodas.
“Almost all Scottish distilleries now buy malt from professional maltsters, although each distillery specifies the amount of peat smoke required.” He led her into the large building behind the kilns. “We do still grind the malt here—that’s the gristmill,” he added, pointing at a large, steel box with a funnel-shaped bottom. He lifted a handful of barley grains from a bowl on a display table.
“The barley goes in like this”—dipping into a second bowl, he held out what looked like coarse-ground oatmeal—“and comes out like that. Grist.”
Gemma touched the coarse meal with a fingertip, then followed Donald upstairs onto a steel mesh catwalk.
They stopped before an enormous vat with a wooden cover.
“The grist is conveyed up here into the mash tun, where hot water is added to it.” He lifted a section of the cover, and Gemma peered in. The vat was half filled with a frothy liquid that smelled good enough to eat.
“What is this?”
“It’s called wort. The successive washes of hot water leach the sugars from the barley, leaving a sweet barley water. As children, we were given it as a treat. It’s nonal-coholic at this stage.”
“And over there?” Gemma gestured towards the series of smaller tubs she could see across the room.
“Those are the washbacks. That’s where yeast is added to the wort, and it begins to ferment. The brewer in my grandfather’s day used to say it was nae whisky if ye didna chuck a rat in the wash to give it a boost, but we don’t do that these days.”
“Rats?” Gemma couldn’t repress a shudder, although she was sure he was teasing her.
“Aye, the vermin were everywhere, living off the malt.
There were always a few wee cats on the distillery pay-roll.” This time the twinkle was unmistakable.
“Well-fed cats, I should think,” Gemma rejoined.
“As well as well-watered staff. The distillery crew was allowed three drams a day, straight from the still. Must have had cast-iron stomachs, those lads.”
He led her back down the stairs at the far end of the platform, into a large, high-ceiling room that appeared
dwarfed by the four huge, copper stills. “Once it’s fermented, the wash goes into the wash stills—that’s the pair in the front—then into the spirit stills. Those are the smaller stills in the back. The middle portion of that second distilling goes into the cask; the rest is re-distilled.”
“It’s all very neat, isn’t it?” said Gemma, gazing up at the graceful copper swan necks.
“Aye, if by that you mean tidy. The treacly residue from the kilns is mixed with the leftover barley to make animal feed—many distilleries used to have prize-winning cattle herds. But then the Scots have always had to be frugal. And patient. There’s a good deal of waiting involved in the making of a good malt whisky.”
“You’ll be no stranger to that, then,” said Gemma, thinking of Hazel.
Donald gazed at her a moment, as if considering his reply, but said merely, “Let me show you the warehouse.”
They crossed the lawn to a stone building with high windows, and Donald unlocked the door. “There are two more buildings behind this one, actually, but this is the original.”
Gemma beheld a long aisle lined with rows of casks above an earthen floor, and the air held a heady perfume.
“Oh, what a lovely smell,” she said, closing her eyes and inhaling again. There were notes of oak and alcohol, along with more subtle scents she couldn’t identify.
“Up to thirty percent of the contents evaporate over the life of a cask. It’s called the angels’ share. Hazel loved this—she said she could never enter a warehouse without being instantly transported to her childhood.”
Gemma jumped at the opening he’d given her. “Donald, look. I know you and Hazel have a history; she told me a bit of it last night. But do you realize what she’s
risking by seeing you? Her marriage, her child, a lovely home—”
“Aye, I know that. But if she were happy, she’d nae have come—”
“She’s confused, and you’re taking advantage of that—”
“Gemma, Hazel belongs here,” he broke in, shaking his head. “It’s that brought her back, as much as any feeling for me.”
“If that’s true,” Gemma countered stubbornly, “why has she never talked about it? She’s hardly mentioned Scotland in all the time I’ve known her.”
“Because it would have been like opening the lid on bloody Pandora’s box—all that longing—”
“And now you’ve let it out.”
“Aye.”
They stared at each other, stalemated. After a moment, Gemma said, “It will pass, if you’ll let her go.”
“And that’s what you’d want for your friend, to be half alive? Half the person she was meant to be?”
“I-It’s you who doesn’t know her as she really is.”
Memories of all the cozy times spent in Hazel’s kitchen came back to Gemma with a rush, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. Hazel had been the calm anchor in a turbulent world, and only now did Gemma realize how much that had meant to her.
“It’s yourself you’ll be thinking of,” said Donald, with unexpected acuity. “Not that I can blame you, but that’s hardly fair, now, is it?”
Unwilling to admit he’d come so near the mark, Gemma changed tack. “Donald, if Hazel was willing to see you at Innesfree, why did she refuse to come here?”
He looked away from her, gazing at the tiered casks as if they might provide an answer. At last, he sighed and
said, “It was here we told my father we meant to marry.
He would nae hear of it. He told her never to set foot on Benvulin land again. And—” He hesitated again.
“And what?” prompted Gemma.
“And he said he would cast me out if she did.”
Chapter Five
—anonymous
Carnmore, November
“Catarrh,” pronounced Nurse
