The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

of the sofas, her long slim legs extending from below an oversize Aran sweater. He let the phone go on ringing, enjoying the sight. There was something composed and graceful about her, yet coupled with it was a restrained energy, rather like a thoroughbred ready to shoot out of the gate. To his utter discomfort he suddenly imagined what her eyes would look like when filled with deep emotions, such as pleasure.

      He gave himself a good mental shake and hung up abruptly.

      “It seems old MacFee isn’t home. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could try again in a few minutes.”

      “Of course. In the meantime, would you like some tea?” The invitation lacked enthusiasm.

      “Thanks. That’d be great.” Truthfully, he didn’t like tea, but perversely he accepted.

      “Mummy’s writing is awful,” India remarked, reaching for the pad, a sad little smile curving her lips as she sat down on the sofa near the blazing fire. “Shove over, Angus, you take up far too much room. There’s a perfectly good rug for you to lie on.” She gave the dog a gentle nudge and Angus slid reluctantly to the floor, where he stretched out lazily before the fire.

      India scrutinized the phone pad. “I’m afraid the other taxi service from Pennickuik isn’t on here. Anyway, I can’t remember the man’s name.” She looked up and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “If worse comes to worst I’ll drive you back. It can’t be far.”

      “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He settled back comfortably into the sofa and laid one leg casually across the other knee, in no hurry to leave, determined to discover more about this fascinating house and it’s beautiful inhabitant.

      India poured carefully from the large silver teapot and cast a surreptitious glance at the man sitting opposite, wondering how long she’d have to entertain him when there was so much she needed to deal with before tomorrow. He looked far too at ease, as though he planned to stay for a while. She tried to think who he reminded her of. Perhaps a taller, broader, American version of Pierce Brosnan. She laid down the pot, conscious that the pale yellow cashmere sweater and olive cord pants suited him rather well, and wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, she reckoned, handing him a cup and looking at him full face.

      Maybe it wasn’t Pierce Brosnan after all, she decided, reaching for the milk, but his face seemed somewhat familiar.

      “How long are you staying at Dalkirk?” she asked, wishing she’d rung for the taxi herself. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number.

      “A few more days. I come here from time to time. Peter Kinnaird and I are partners and friends.”

      “I suppose you must be in the hotel business, then?”

      “Yes, I am. Say, I’ll take some more of that tea, it’s very good.” His fingers touched hers lightly as he handed her back the cup. “Peter and I merged some of our interests a few years ago. Asia and South America mainly. Instead of competing we’ve joined forces.”

      “How productive.”

      “Yes, it is. I also happen to like Peter quite a bit, so we have a good time doing business. What do you do?”

      “I’m an interior designer.”

      “Really? Private or commercial?” Jack asked, giving her his undivided attention, the force of his gaze making her shift her eyes quickly to the tray.

      “Both, but mainly hotels. I did one of Peter’s, actually. The Jeremy in London. Perhaps you know it?”

      “I sure do. I was at the opening, but I don’t recall you being there.” His eyebrows came together in a thick dark line over the ridge of his nose, giving him a severe look, and India got the feeling he’d be a difficult client.

      “Unfortunately I couldn’t go. One of my closest friends chose that same weekend to get married.”

      “Most unfortunate.” He shot her a quick smile. “You did a great job on the hotel. That statue in the hall, so linear and sleek in such a traditional setting, created an amazing effect. I like that look of understated luxury. You salvaged all the original architectural quirks, too, yet behind the scenes you created a modern hotel running like clockwork. That’s a hell of a challenge.”

      India blushed under his gaze, aware that, for some strange reason, his praise meant something to her. Carefully she stirred her tea before answering. “I enjoy it. I could get lost in it if I’m not careful. There’s always a new challenge, and the fine line that has to be maintained when placing modern elements in classical surroundings is half the fun.”

      “Peter told me the design company was out of Switzerland. Do you work for them?”

      “No, I live in Switzerland. La Dolce Vita is mine.”

      “I thought you lived here.” He raised a surprised eyebrow.

      She hesitated a moment, then decided to tell him. “Dunbar belongs—rather, belonged to my mother.” For the last couple of hours she’d managed to put the strain and sorrow of the past few days aside. Now it returned in a torrential rush, reality pounding her once more.

      “How come you say belonged? Has she sold it?”

      “No.” India looked away. “She died, four days ago.”

      In the silence that followed she folded the small linen napkin deliberately, determined to wink away the tears that pricked her eyes.

      “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his expression dramatically altered, “I shouldn’t have asked—” The nonchalance was gone, replaced by deep consternation and compassion.

      “It all happened very suddenly. She had a heart attack. Mercifully she didn’t suffer or have a long illness, and I’m awfully thankful for that,” she added, trying not to think how much she would miss Lady Elspeth.

      “I’m sorry,” he repeated again softly.

      For a short while they sat, the silence broken only by the crackling of a log shifting in the fire and Angus snoring faintly before the hearth.

      Then India rose, her face shielded by her hair as she kneeled down next to the fire and removed the fireguard. She reached blindly for a log, trying desperately to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.

      Jack moved swiftly to her side. “Let me do that.” He reached out, placed his hand over hers and took the log gently from her.

      “It’s fine, don’t worry,” she mumbled, her voice quivering, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.

      After placing the log down on the hearth, Jack reached out his thumb and gently brushed away the tears. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll leave and let you rest.” For an instant their eyes met and sorrow gripped him at the intense pain he saw written in hers. “It’s hard to lose someone you really love. It takes time,” he said quietly.

      She nodded. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, I just…”

      “You don’t need to explain, I understand.” He slipped a hand over hers, squeezing it before getting up. Then he took a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently before leaning forward and placing the log on the fire. He picked up the poker and prodded the fire, the flames picking up again. “It took me a very, very long while to recover,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself.

      India rose and stood next to him, her face pale. “Was it one of your parents, too?”

      “My wife.” He gave a vicious jab with the poker. A log fell at an odd angle and the flames rose higher once more. “She died twelve years ago today.” He placed the instrument carefully back on its stand, and for a while they stood next to each other, staring into the flames, each lost in their own world, but bonded by their grief.

      The magic of the moment receded into the shadows when she turned away and sat down. He sighed, understanding her inner battle to come to grips with her feelings. He wished there was something he could