Carnmore, November
Livvy stood in the distillery office, her father’s letter dangling from her nerveless fingers. She had been found out, her undoing a mere slip of the tongue by the banker, sharing a midday dram with her father. The banker, assuming her father privy to her affairs, had casually mentioned her withdrawal of funds from her account, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.
She’d felt a nagging sense of foreboding for some weeks, but she’d put it down to the time of year. It was more than the upcoming anniversary of Charles’s death; she hated the dark, the closing in of the days, the interminable nights with nothing but her few books and a bit of sewing to keep her thoughts occupied. Not even to herself had she
been willing to admit how much she dreaded the curtailing of Rab’s visits, which would inevitably follow on bad weather.
The shooting season had brought Rab frequently to Carnmore’s door, as he was on friendly terms with the duke of Gordon and was often invited for a day’s sport at the duke’s lodge in Tomintoul. Their tea and conversation at her kitchen table had quickly become her cornerstone, the events round which revolved the rest of her existence.
It was no more than Highland hospitality, she told herself, ignoring the whispering of her neighbors, as she did Will’s increasingly obvious dislike of Rab. She prided herself on her status as Rab’s friend, and she’d listened to his tales of Benvulin’s troubles with increasing distress.
Other distilleries were suffering, she knew; some had already closed their doors, and as the weeks went by she became more and more worried that Benvulin would share that fate. If the same thing were to happen to Carnmore, she and Will could at least fall back on her father—
Rab had nothing. She’d wished desperately for some way to help him, but it was not until her autumn visit to her father in Grantown that she’d conceived a plan.
Both she and Rab had attended a recital at the home of a Grantown dignitary. Aware of Rab’s absence during the dinner buffet that had followed the musical performance, she’d slipped away from the dining room to search for him. When she’d found him at last, he’d been sitting alone in the small conservatory, his head in his hands.
He looked up at the sound of her entrance. “Livvy! You shouldn’t be here. People will talk.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, going to him as he stood.
“Rab, what is it?”
He’d touched her cheek. “You’re too kind, Olivia, do
you know that? I’ve no intention of spoiling your evening with my troubles. Go back to the buffet, before someone notices your absence.”
“Not until you tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Blackmail, is it?” he said, giving her a crooked smile.
“Well, I suppose I might as well tell you, as everyone will know before long. I don’t think I can keep Benvulin going any longer, Livvy. I’ve had a hint of a buyer for some of the stock, from a grocer in Aberdeen who’s selling his own blend—”
“But, Rab, that’s good news—”
“It would be, except that it will take several months to complete the arrangement—if it materializes at all—and in the meantime, I can’t pay the men’s wages. Not that it’s likely another distillery can take them on, but they can at least try to find some sort of work that will feed their families. I can’t see that I have any choice but to close the doors.”
“Rab, what about your family?”
“Margaret has gone back to her uncle’s in London—
leaving the sinking ship, I fear—although I don’t know how long he will keep his patience with her spending habits. I’ve kept the children here, but it looks as though I’ll have to let the governess go soon, as well.”
“And your sister?”
“Helen will stand by me until the bloody end, I think.
She loves Benvulin almost as much as I do. And she has nowhere else to go.”
“Rab . . .” Gazing at him, Livvy realized the seed of an idea had been germinating for weeks. “Is there any way you can hold out a bit longer?”
“I could sell some of the pictures, and the silver, I suppose, but if I do, there may be nothing else to keep us.”
“Do you trust me?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. You’ve been a good friend these last few months, Livvy. If things were different . . .”
It was the first time either of them had spoken of what lay between them. She swallowed and glanced away.
Wishful thinking would get them nowhere, and she couldn’t let it distract her from what she could do.
She had money, left to her by her mother. It was hers to do with as she wished, but she knew Rab would never agree to take it if she told him what she meant to do.
“Rab, promise me you won’t take any action yet. Wait just a bit longer, even if it means selling a punch bowl or two.”
He smiled at that but quickly sobered, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Do you mean to work miracles, Livvy? I fear that’s not possible.”
“Wait and see,” she had told him, and slipped back to the party.
It had taken some maneuvering on her part to remove the money from the bank without Will’s or her father’s knowledge, but on the evening of the harvest-home given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants, she had pulled Rab aside and presented him with the banker’s draft.
He had looked up from the paper he held, his usually ruddy complexion gone pale with shock. “Livvy, you can’t be serious. I can’t take this.”
“You can,” she said earnestly. “It’s not for you, Rab, it’s for Benvulin. Consider it a loan. You can pay it back as soon as things improve.”
“I—”
“Don’t ye argue with me, Rab, my mind’s made up. It’s my money, and I want to help you. It will be our secret.”
And so it had remained, until now. Her father’s outrage had leapt from the page in the quick, bold strokes
of his handwriting. She had betrayed his trust, he said; she had compromised her family, and he meant to take steps to learn exactly what she had done with the funds.
Livvy’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She very much feared that her father would have no trouble coaxing further indiscretions from the banker . . . and that meant she’d have to find some way to warn Rab before he faced the onslaught of her father’s wrath.
Gemma could think of no innocent reason why Tim Cavendish would have been in Aviemore over the weekend. Nor had she been able to offer much comfort to a stricken Hazel, who had at first
