Выбрать главу

She turned, and he saw from her expression that it was too late to salvage the argument, or the evening. “What’s got into you, John?” she spat at him. “How could you pos-

sibly have thought I’d approve of your conspiring to sabotage another woman’s marriage?”

As the train sped north, the fields of Northumberland and the rolling hills of the Scottish Borders yielded to granite cliffs and forests, and, at last, to the high, heather-clad moors. Gemma gazed out the glass, entranced by the patterns of dark and light on the moor side, as if someone had laid out a child’s crude map of the world across the hills.

“They burn the heather,” Hazel explained when Gemma asked the cause of the odd effect. “The new growth after the burning provides food for the grouse.”

“And the yellow patches?”

“The deep gold-yellow is gorse. Lovely to look at but prickly to fall into. And the paler yellow”—Hazel pointed at the blooms lining the railway cutting—“is broom.”

“All this you remember from your childhood?”

Gemma asked. Hazel had told her she’d lived near here as a small child, before her parents moved to Newcastle.

“Oh.” Hazel looked disconcerted. “I worked here for a bit after university.”

Before Gemma could elicit particulars, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea trolley, and shortly thereafter they drew into the doll’s house of Aviemore station.

Gemma eyed the Bavarian fantasy of gingerbread and painted trim with astonishment as Hazel laughed at her expression. “It’s by far the prettiest building in Aviemore,” Hazel said as they gathered their luggage from the overhead racks. “The station raises great expectations, but Aviemore’s a ski and hiking center, and there’s not much else to recommend it.”

They picked up the keys for their hired car from the Europcar office in the railway station, then emerged into the evening light. At first glance, Gemma found Hazel’s assessment to be accurate. The High Street was lined with mountain shops, restaurants, and a new supermarket complex; to the left the stone block of the Hilton Hotel rose from a green slope; to the right, beyond the car park, lay the Aviemore Police Station. But to the east, behind the railway station, rose mist-enshrouded mountain peaks, gilded by the sun.

“Is that where we’re going?” Gemma gestured at the hills as they chucked their bags into the boot of the red Honda awaiting them in the car park.

“The guest house is in the valley that runs along the River Spey. But you’re never out of sight of the mountains here,” Hazel added, and Gemma thought she heard a note of wistfulness in her voice.

Ever more curious, Gemma asked, “You know the way?” as they belted themselves in and Hazel shoved the car hire map into the glove box.

“I know the road,” Hazel said, pulling into the street,

“but not the house itself.”

In a few short blocks, they’d left Aviemore behind and turned into a B road that crossed the Spey and dipped into evergreen woods. “We’re running along the very edge of the Rothiemurchus Estate,” Hazel explained. “That’s owned by the Rothiemurchus Grants—they’re quite a force in this part of the world.”

“Grants?” Gemma repeated blankly.

“A famous Highland family. I’m— Never mind. It’s complicated.”

“Related to them?”

“Very remotely. But then most people in the Highlands are related. It’s very incestuous country.”

“Do you still have family here, then?” Gemma asked, intrigued.

“An aunt and uncle. A cousin.”

Gemma thought back over all the hours they’d spent chatting in Hazel’s cozy Islington kitchen. Had Hazel never mentioned them? Or had Gemma never thought to ask?

In the time Gemma had lived in Hazel’s garage flat, they had become close friends. But on reflection, Gemma realized that their conversations had centered on their children, food, Gemma’s job, and—Gemma admitted to herself rather shamefacedly—Gemma’s problems.

Gemma had thought that Hazel’s easy way of turning the conversation from her own life was a therapist’s habit, when she had thought of it at all. But what did she really know about Hazel?

“When you came back after university . . . ,” she said slowly. “What did you do?”

“Cooked,” Hazel answered grimly. “I catered meals for shooting parties, at estates and lodges.”

“Shooting? As in the queen always goes to Balmoral in August for the grouse?”

Hazel smiled. “We’re not far from Balmoral, by the way. And yes, it was grouse, as well as pheasant and deer and anything else you could shoot with a bloody gun. I had enough of carcasses to last a lifetime.” Slowing the car, Hazel added, “We should be getting close. Keep watch on the left.”

Gemma had been absently gazing at the sparkle of the river as it played hide-and-seek through pasture and wooded copse, trying to imagine a childhood spent in such surroundings. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“A white house, set back from the road. I’m sure there will be a sign.” Hazel slowed still further, her knuckles

showing pale where she gripped the wheel. Odd, thought Gemma, that Hazel should be so anxious about missing a turning.

They traveled another mile in silence, then rounding a curve, Gemma saw a flash of white through the trees.

“There!” A small sign on a gatepost read INNESFREE, BED

& BREAKFAST INN.

Hazel braked and pulled the car into the drive. The house sat side-on to the road, facing north. Its foursquare plainness bespoke its origins as a farmhouse, but it looked comfortable and welcoming. To the right of the house they could see another building and beyond it, the glint of the river.

The sight of smoke curling from the chimney was a welcome addition, for, as Gemma discovered when she stepped out of the car, the temperature had dropped considerably just since they’d left Aviemore. Hazel shivered in her sleeveless dress, hugging her arms across her chest.

“I’ll just get your cardigan, shall I?” asked Gemma, going to the boot, but Hazel shook her head.

“No. I’ll be all right. Let’s leave the bags for now.” She marched towards the front door, and Gemma followed, looking round with interest.

The door swung open and a man came out to greet them, his arms held out in welcome. “You’ll be Hazel, then? I’m John, Louise’s husband.” He took Hazel’s hand and gave it a squeeze before turning to Gemma. “And this is your friend—”

“Gemma. Gemma James.” Gemma shook his hand, taking the opportunity to study him. He had thinning dark hair, worn a little longer than fashion dictated, wire-rimmed spectacles, a comfortable face, and the incipient paunch of a good cook.

“We’ve put you in the barn conversion—our best room,” John told them. “Why don’t you come in and have a wee chat with Louise, then I’ll take your bags round.” He shepherded them into a flagstoned hall filled with shooting and fishing prints and sporting paraphernalia; oiled jackets hung from hooks on the walls, and a wooden bin held croquet mallets, bad-minton racquets, and fishing rods. In contrast to the worn jumble, a table held a perfect arrangement of spring flowers.

A woman came towards them from a door at the end of the hall. Small and blond, with a birdlike neatness, she wore her hair in the sort of smooth, swingy bob that Gemma, with her tangle of coppery curls, always envied.

“Hullo, Hazel,” the woman said as she reached them, pecking the air near Hazel’s cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you. I’m Louise,” she added, turning to Gemma.

“Why don’t you come into the parlor for a drink before dinner? The others have walked down to the river to work up an appetite, but they should be back soon.”

She led them into a sitting room on the right. A coal fire glowed in the simple hearth, the furniture was upholstered in an unlikely but pleasant mixture of mauve tartans, a vase of purple tulips drooped gracefully before the window, and to Gemma’s delight, an old upright piano stood against the wall.