He heard his mother say: “Hello, Jay.”
He stood up and kissed her good morning. He had not seen her since last night, when she had damned his father and stormed off. Now she looked weary and sad. “You slept badly, didn’t you,” he said sympathetically.
She nodded. “I’ve had better nights.”
“Poor Mother.”
“I shouldn’t have cursed your father like that.”
Hesitantly Jay said: “You must have loved him … once.”
She sighed. “I don’t know. He was handsome and rich and a baronet, and I wanted to be his wife.”
“But now you hate him.”
“Ever since he began to favor your brother over you.”
Jay felt angry. “You’d think Robert would see the unfairness of it!”
“I’m sure he does, in his heart. But I’m afraid Robert is a very greedy young man. He wants it all.”
“He always did.” Jay was recalling Robert as a child, never happier than when he had grabbed Jay’s share of the toy soldiers or the plum pudding. “Remember Robert’s pony, Rob Roy?”
“Yes, why?”
“He was thirteen, and I was eight, when he got that pony. I longed for a pony—and I could ride better than he, even then. But he never once let me ride it. If he didn’t want to ride it himself, he would make a groom exercise Rob Roy while I watched, rather than let me have a go.”
“But you rode the other horses.”
“By the time I was ten I had ridden everything else in the stable, including Father’s hunters. But not Rob Roy.”
“Let’s take a turn up and down the drive.” She was wearing a fur-lined coat with a hood, and Jay had his plaid cloak. They walked across the lawn, their feet crunching the frosted grass.
“What made my father like this?” Jay said. “Why does he hate me?”
She touched his cheek. “He doesn’t hate you,” she said, “although you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.”
“Then why does he treat me so badly?”
“Your father was a poor man when he married Olive Drome. He had nothing but a corner shop in a low-class district of Edinburgh. This place, that is now called Castle Jamisson, was owned by a distant cousin of Olive’s, William Drome. William was a bachelor who lived alone, and when he fell ill Olive came here to look after him. He was so grateful that he changed his will, leaving everything to Olive; and then, despite her nursing, he died.”
Jay nodded. “I’ve heard that story more than once.”
“The point is that your father feels this estate really belongs to Olive. And this estate is the foundation on which the whole of his business empire has been built. What’s more, mining is still the most profitable of his enterprises.”
“It’s steady, he says,” Jay put in, remembering yesterday’s conversation. “Shipping is volatile and risky, but the coal just goes on and on.”
“Anyway, your father feels he owes everything to Olive, and that it would be some kind of insult to her memory if he gave anything to you.”
Jay shook his head. “There must be more to it than that. I feel we don’t have the whole story.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve told you all I know.”
They reached the end of the drive and walked back in silence. Jay wondered whether his parents ever spent nights together. His guess was that they probably did. His father would feel that whether she loved him or not she was his wife, and therefore he was entitled to use her for relief. It was an unpleasant thought.
When they reached the castle entrance she said: “I’ve spent all night trying to think of a way to make things right for you, and so far I haven’t succeeded. But don’t despair. Something will come up.”
Jay had always relied on his mother’s strength. She could stand up to his father, make him do what she wanted. She had even persuaded Father to pay Jay’s gambling debts. But this time Jay feared she might fail. “Father has decided that I shall get nothing. He must have known how it would make me feel. Yet he made the decision anyway. There’s no point in pleading with him.”
“I wasn’t thinking of pleading,” she said dryly.
“What, then?”
“I don’t know, but I haven’t given up. Good morning, Miss Hallim.”
Lizzie was coming down the steps at the front of the castle, dressed for hunting, looking like a pretty pixie in a black fur cap and little leather boots. She smiled and seemed happy to see him. “Good morning!”
The sight of her cheered Jay up. “Are you coming out with us?” he inquired.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
It was unusual, though perfectly acceptable, for women to go hunting, and Jay, knowing Lizzie as he did, was not surprised that she planned to go out with the men. “Splendid!” he said. “You’ll add a rare touch of refinement and style to what might otherwise be a coarsely masculine expedition.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said.
Mother said: “I’m going in. Good hunting, both of you.”
When she had gone Lizzie said: “I’m so sorry your birthday was spoiled.” She squeezed his arm sympathetically. “Perhaps you’ll forget your troubles for an hour or so this morning.”
He could not help smiling back. “I’ll do my best.”
She sniffed the air like a vixen. “A good strong southwest wind,” she said. “Just right.”
It was five years since Jay had last hunted red deer, but he remembered the lore. Hunters disliked a still day, when a sudden capricious breeze could blow the scent of men across the mountainside and send the deer running.
A gamekeeper walked around the corner of the castle with two dogs on a leash, and Lizzie went to pet them. Jay followed her, feeling cheered up. Glancing back, he saw his mother at the castle door, looking hard at Lizzie with an odd, speculative expression.
The dogs were the long-legged, gray-haired breed sometimes called Highland deerhounds and sometimes Irish wolfhounds. Lizzie crouched down and spoke to each of them in turn. “Is this Bran?” she asked the keeper.
“The son of Bran, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Bran died a year ago. This one’s Busker.”
The dogs would be kept well to the rear of the hunt and released only after shots had been fired. Their role was to chase and bring down any deer wounded but not felled by the hunter’s fire.
The rest of the party emerged from the castle: Robert, Sir George, and Henry. Jay stared at his brother, but Robert avoided his eye. Father nodded curtly, almost as if he had forgotten the events of last night.
On the east side of the castle the keepers had set up a target, a crude dummy deer made of wood and canvas. Each of the hunters would fire a few rounds at it to get his eye in. Jay wondered whether Lizzie could shoot. A lot of men said women could not shoot properly because their arms were too weak to hold the heavy gun, or because they lacked the killer instinct, or for some other reason. It would be interesting to see if it was true.
First they all shot from fifty yards. Lizzie went first and made a perfect hit, her shot striking the target in the killing spot just behind the shoulder. Jay and Sir George did the same. Robert and Henry struck farther back along the body, wounding shots that might allow the beast to get away and die slowly and painfully.
They shot again from seventy-five yards. Surprisingly, Lizzie hit perfectly again. So did Jay. Sir George hit the head and Henry the rump. Robert missed altogether, his ball striking sparks off the stone wall of the kitchen garden.
Finally they tried from a hundred yards, the outside limit for their weapons. To everyone’s astonishment Lizzie scored another perfect hit. Robert, Sir George and Henry missed altogether. Jay, shooting last, was determined not to be beaten by a girl. He took his time, breathing evenly and sighting carefully, then he held his breath and squeezed the trigger gently—and broke the target’s back leg.