“Another ten miles. Often in winter you can’t get from Tomintoul to the Braes. And the stretch of road that runs through the Lecht Pass, between Tomintoul and Cock-bridge, is the first in Scotland to be blocked by snow every winter.” This said Hazel with the native’s pride in extreme weather.
Gemma took the turn Hazel indicated, and within moments, the village disappeared from her rear view as if it had never been. “Didn’t you go mad, snowed in for months at a time?”
“No. I loved it, to tell the truth. It’s as if the world shrinks . . . everything seems more focused somehow . . .
Life can be hard here, but people are amazingly tough and self-reliant—at least until you uproot them. My father—” Hazel shook her head. “It wasn’t so bad for my mother when they left here; she came from Braemar, near Balmoral. But my father had spent all his life in the Braes. I watched him wilt and die, and I swore that would never happen to me.”
“Is that why you were so determined to sever your connections, why you didn’t keep in touch with Heather, or come back to visit?”
“Poor wee girl,” Hazel said softly. “She was always intense; even as a child, she took things to heart. And she loved Carnmore with a passion rare in a child, even more than I did, I’m afraid. I don’t think she ever forgave my father—or me.”
“But if your father had no choice—”
“Adult choices don’t mean much to a child. And choice is relative, isn’t it? There was a slump in the whisky industry, yes, but my grandfather, Will, survived much worse without giving up.”
Glancing at her friend, Gemma said, “You never forgave your father, either.”
Hazel considered this. “No, I suppose I didn’t. We Scots are notorious for holding grudges.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you refer to yourself as a Scot.”
Hazel didn’t meet her gaze. “Here’s the Pole Inn, the last outpost of civilization as you enter the Braes. You’ll turn to the right.”
A beckoning wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the pub, but Gemma obeyed Hazel’s direction. They entered a single-track road that wound round a conifer-covered hill, then followed a bubbling stream through farm pastures and into the small hamlet of Chapeltown.
There was a scattering of houses, a church that Gemma assumed gave the village its name, and a whitewashed distillery. Pointing, she said, “Is this—”
“No. That’s Braeval. Built by Chivas Regal in the seventies, to make whisky for their blends. Unlike Carnmore, they could weather the changes in the market, with corporate might behind them.”
“And the church?”
“Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. Built on an old site around the turn of the century. This was a Catholic stronghold,” Hazel explained. “A haven for Jacobites and smugglers.”
“Smugglers?” asked Gemma, intrigued. “What did they smuggle?” The paved road had come to an end, and at Hazel’s affirmative nod, she nervously eased the car
along a rutted track that seemed destined to dead-end in the hills rising before them.
“Illegal whisky. These are the Ladder Hills; they’re honeycombed with smugglers’ paths. We used to follow them in the summer . . . Heather and I, always hoping to find a working still. It was our version of cowboys and Indians—smuggler and excise man.”
“Were your family Catholic, then?” asked Gemma, thinking about what Hazel had told her.
“Nominally, yes. But my grandfather Will didn’t hold with religion, so my father wasn’t brought up in the church, and my mother was Presbyterian.”
“Did you know your grandfather?”
“No. I wish I had. But he married late, and my father and uncle weren’t born until he was in his fifties. He died before I was born.”
They passed farms, their yards filled with rusting implements, as the track twisted and turned, following the curve of the hill.
Then, as they rounded a bend, a house and outbuildings appeared before them, white-harled, tucked into the fold of the hill Hazel said was called Carn More. “There it is,” she whispered now. “Carnmore.”
Gemma climbed out of the car, looking curiously about her. On closer inspection, she saw that both the house and the distillery buildings behind it were unoccupied. No smoke came from the chimneys; broken windowpanes gaped like eyes; nettles covered what had once been a neatly cobbled yard.
Hazel stood staring at the desolation, hugging herself as if she were cold. “I’d no idea it would be so bad.” She sounded appalled. “Donald and I came here once, but my father was still alive then, and the house was rented.”
“Your father didn’t sell the property?”
“People don’t move into the Braes,” Hazel said dryly.
“If they’ve any sense, they move out.”
Gemma turned to her in surprise. “Hazel, do you still own this place?”
“Oh, God. I suppose I do. I never went through all the papers when mother died . . . I couldn’t face it. Tim took care of things—” She saw Gemma’s look and shook her head. “Tim couldn’t have sold it without my knowledge, if that’s what you’re thinking. And besides, it’s not worth anything.”
“Except to you.”
Hazel gave a rueful shrug. “I’d never have admitted that . . . until now.” She tried the door of the farmhouse, found it still locked, then peered in the windows. “There’ll be water damage, at the least.”
“What about the distillery?” Unlike Benvulin, the buildings looked basic and uncompromising, built for the work they were meant to do without thought for aesthetic appeal. There were no charming, pagoda-roofed kilns here.
“Dad sold off all the equipment to other distilleries, and the stock, of course. These buildings are just husks now, without any heart. Donald had dreams, I think, that when we were—that if we were married, we might restore it together.” Hazel walked slowly towards the distillery, and Gemma followed.
The sun peeped in and out of a building bank of cloud, making shadows race across the hills, and birds called out in the heather. Hazel stopped by a rowan tree that stood midway across the yard, fingering the leaves. “I always loved the rowans, especially in the fall.”
“Hazel, you said Donald’s father didn’t approve of your relationship. It sounds as though you and Donald talked of marriage—Were you actually engaged?”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Hazel with an effort at irony,
but her eyes reddened. “For a day, a glorious day, ring and all. Then Donald took me home to meet his father.
“Bruce Brodie’s temper was notorious, with good reason. Not only did he tell me quite literally never to darken his doorstep again, he told Donald he’d disinherit him if he went through with the marriage. It was more than bluster—he meant it, and Donald saw that he meant it.”
“And then?” Gemma prompted gently, when Hazel didn’t continue.
“Donald hesitated. I saw the terror in his face—I knew what it would mean to him to lose Benvulin. And I knew that if I forced him into such a choice, he would never forgive me. I couldn’t live with that.” Hazel turned to Gemma, a plea in her voice. “You can see that, can’t you?”
“You left, didn’t you?” said Gemma, understanding.
“You never gave him the chance to choose.”
“I felt I couldn’t bear it either way. To be rejected outright, or to cost him what he held most dear. But he told me—” Hazel stopped and took a breath. “Donald told me, on Saturday night, that he had refused his father. He told Bruce to go to hell, and he came after me, but I was gone. If I had—”
“No.” Gemma took Hazel by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Don’t go there. You can’t know what might have been. You did what you thought best at the moment.” As she thought back over the time she’d spent with Donald Brodie, she added, “And for what it’s worth, I think you were right. Donald may not have been happy without you, but he wouldn’t have been whole without Benvulin, either. It was his father that was at fault, not you or Donald. But what did Bruce Brodie have against you, against your family?”