“Solicitor?” Kit sat up, his face going pale beneath its rosy flush.
“She sent a copy to Ian as well. It seems she thinks you’d be better off in her care. She—”
“You mean live with her?” Kit was already shaking his head, his breath coming fast. “I won’t! You know I won’t.
I’d rather—”
“Hold on, Kit.” Kincaid put a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let me finish. Yes, that’s what she wants, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. You know I want you here with me—with us—always. But in order to ensure that, we’re going to have to plan our response, and that means talking things out. Okay?”
Kit nodded, slowly, but his eyes were still wide with shock.
“Okay. Good lad.” Kincaid smiled at him. “I rang Ian last night.” He’d sat up late at the kitchen table, rereading Eugenia’s letter and drinking too many cups of tea from Gemma’s teapot. His ex-wife’s mother had always been difficult, but after her only child’s murder her behavior seemed to disintegrate beyond reason. Although she claimed to have Kit’s interests in mind, she tormented the boy mercilessly, blaming him for his mother’s death, and both Kincaid and Ian had severely limited her visitations.
Vic’s father, Robert Potts, was a mild-mannered man who
seemed unwilling—or unable—to stand up to his wife’s bullying. Now it seemed Eugenia was prepared to carry out the threats she’d been making for months.
Although Kincaid had been sorely tempted to ring Gemma, in the end he’d decided there was no point in spoiling her weekend with worry when there was nothing she could do.
When the hands on the kitchen clock crept round to midnight, he had picked up the phone and called Ian McClellan in Canada, catching him just home from his classes at the university. Kincaid explained the latest development, then, when Ian had finished swearing, he’d asked, “Could you write a letter giving Kit permission to live with me, and stating your reasons? You might have it notarized for good measure.”
“I can do that,” Ian agreed, “although I don’t think any halfway decent family judge would give Eugenia the time of day. I’m sure at Kit’s age his wishes would be considered paramount. Still . . .”
“You think we should consult a solicitor? We’ll have to act together on this.” Kincaid and Ian had developed an odd but workable relationship over the past year, rather like ex-spouses sharing custody of a child. Except, of course, that Kincaid had no legal rights.
“I think we’ll have to,” Ian said with a sigh, leaving Kincaid wondering if he were replying to the question or the statement. “Look, Duncan . . .” Ian paused for a long moment. “We’ve tiptoed around this for a good while, but I think now we’re going to have to talk about it. Vic and I never did. We just let it fester, and I wish—well, things might have been different if we’d got it out in the open.
What I’m saying is—it’s not that I don’t want to take responsibility for Kit, but if you were to prove paternity, there’d be no question of Eugenia interfering.”
Of course, Kincaid had considered the possibility of testing but had been unwilling to subject Kit to the emotional stress such a procedure would entail, unless it was absolutely necessary—but that seemed to have come to pass.
Now, he said, “Kit, there is one simple way we could put a stop to this. We can prove you’re my son.”
“You mean . . . a test?”
At the look of horror on the boy’s face, Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s painless. They just take a bit of saliva, a swab from inside your cheek—”
“No. I don’t want to do it.”
“It’s nothing, I promise—”
“No, it’s not that. I—I wouldn’t want Ian to think I—”
“It was Ian’s suggestion, Kit. He wants what’s best for—”
“No,” Kit said again, shaking his head more emphati-cally. He rose into a crouch, like a runner in starting position. “I’m not having any test. And I’m not going to live with the old witch. I’ll run away first. Tess and I could manage on our own.”
Kincaid tried to push aside the sudden vision of Kit living on the street, dirty and emaciated, curled up on a curbside blanket with the dog, but his worry and exasperation got the better of him. “Kit, don’t be ridiculous.
It’s not going to come to that. If you’ll just—”
“No.” Kit pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Kincaid. His mouth was set in an implacable line that reminded Kincaid very much of Vic at her most stubborn. “You’re always telling me to take things on faith,” he said. “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 sautéed 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,”