And the maker buried.
—robert louis stevenson,
“Bright Is the Ring of Words”
From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, March
Today, Benvulin shipped the first of many casks of our best aged whisky to the Aberdeen grocers. I have labored over the winter to keep the distillery running until this contract could be brought to fruition, and now we can only hope that this sale stimulates interest from other blenders.
None of this, however, would have been possible without the mysterious infusion of funds into our bank account. Livvy Urquhart has never admitted to the gift, and her father, when I called upon him in Grantown, avowed he must have been
mistaken. So I have incurred an unacknowledged debt that I cannot repay, and if Rab’s children have an inheritance, they will owe it to the Urquharts.
Margaret has not returned from London, even to visit the children. I will keep them here and raise them with the care I would give my own.
The thaws came early this spring, with much rain. No amount of searching, however, among the moors and tracks, has turned up any sign of my brother. I would have been content with even a button from his coat, so that I could set my mind to rest.
Benvulin, May
As the months pass without word or sign of my dear brother’s body, the doubt has grown in my heart like a cancer. What if, I ask myself, Rab did visit Carnmore on that fateful day, and some misadven-ture befell him there?
I called on Olivia Grant once again, and spoke to her like a sister. Still she denied me most force-fully, saying that Rab never came to Carnmore. But there is a change in her since the autumn, a new grimness in her countenance, a hardness to her manner. I took my leave as firmly, saying I meant to pursue the matter.
But what, in truth, can I do? I have the word of a shopkeeper in Tomintoul who thought he glimpsed my brother, cloaked and hatted, riding through the village—nothing more. What authority would give credence to such a tale told by a grieving sister?
Do I owe the survival of everything my brother
held most dear to a woman responsible for his death? Such a terrible irony seems more than I can bear. For if our life here at Benvulin has gone on as before, the light has gone from mine.
I will not forget what we owe the Urquharts, nor will I allow those who come after me to do so.
As Hazel drove, the last entries in Helen Brodie’s journal kept repeating in her head. As the road snaked over the tops of the moors, she glimpsed the snow markers and shuddered. Rab Brodie could very easily have been lost as a blizzard swept over the hills, and if so, it was highly unlikely his remains would have been found in this vast, trackless expanse of heather and bracken. His sister’s affection for him had made her imagine things, and Hazel understood the need to lay blame for the death of someone so loved.
And yet . . . the images from her dreams clung, insinuating themselves into Helen’s story like wraiths. Blood and whisky . . . a violent death at Carnmore. Will Urquhart had been her grandfather, Olivia Urquhart her great-grandmother. Was it possible that her dreams were somehow a reflection of Livvy’s experience, a translated snippet of consciousness?
She shook her head. That was nonsense, even more daft than Helen Brodie’s suspicions. And yet . . . the Brodies had taken Rab’s death at Carnmore for fact—that much was obvious. Helen had passed the story, and her diaries, to Rab’s children, and so it had come down the generations.
Donald had known it, that much was clear—perhaps not when he had first fallen in love with her, but later, after his father’s death. Was that why he had left the interest in Benvulin to her? To settle a debt? As a mark of
forgiveness for the sins her family had committed? Or both? Had he meant to tell her? She would never know.
But what she did know was that she couldn’t let it rest.
She had to go back to Carnmore, where it had all begun.
Carnmore, November
“Rab, you mustn’t stay!” Having seen him ride into the yard and dismount, Livvy had flown out of the house and clutched at the sleeve of his coat.
“Livvy, I got your note. Tell me what’s happened.”
Livvy looked round wildly; the yard was empty, but it wouldn’t remain so for long. “You must go, please, before someone tells Will—”
“Will? Livvy, I’ve ridden all the way from Benvulin in a lather. I am not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.
If this is about your father, surely we can work something out—”
“No, it’s more than that.” Realizing that Rab wasn’t going to budge, Livvy took the horse’s bridle and began urging the beast towards the back of the warehouse. The wind that had blown from the east throughout the day had died, and the peat smoke from the kilns rose to meet the bank of cloud hovering over the hilltops. “Come this way, then. We can talk in the warehouse.” Will was over-seeing a distillation run and should be occupied in the still-house for a while longer.
Livvy tethered the horse to a stunted rowan and led Rab into the warehouse through the back door. The angels’ share hung heavily in the still, cold air. She turned to him, breathing hard, her back against a rank of casks. “Father told Will, and Will—I’d no idea he would mind so much. He’s furious with me, and with you. It’s as if he’s held back everything since his father’s death, and now—”
“Livvy, I can pay back the money, with interest, in the spring. Surely, I can make him see reason.”
“No, Rab, I don’t want you to try.” The truth was that her sweet and biddable child had become a man, a stranger, and she had seen something in his eyes that frightened her. “Just give me time, I’ll talk to him, and my father. This was my idea; I won’t have them blame you.”
Rab grasped her shoulders, as he had the night of the harvest-home, and she felt a shuddering ache run through her body. “Dear God, Livvy, I’ve never seen you like this. You are so beautiful I can hardly bear it.” He plunged a hand into her hair, and she felt it tumble loose, cascading down her back. “Have you any idea how much I want you? There must be a way—”
“Rab, no.” She twisted in his grip, panic warring with desire. “We can’t— You’re married, and I—if Will—”
“You’re a grown woman, Livvy. You can choose what you want.”
“But I can’t, Rab,” she whispered. “I’ve seen that.” Yet she had stopped struggling, and when his lips came down on hers, she returned the kiss fiercely. She was lost, and she knew it. Her body had no defense against him.
“You bastard.” Will’s voice cut through the haze of her need like ice.