Strange Intimacy. Anne Mather

of the Clyde wasn’t worth bothering about. ‘Does it matter? You’re not likely to have anything to do with her.’

      ‘No,’ his mother offered the grudging acknowledgment. ‘No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, they may not like living here. We can only hope.’

      ‘Mmm.’

      Rafe took the remainder of his drink across to the stone fireplace, propping one booted foot on the fender, and gazing down at the glowing logs. Although the building had a perfectly adequate central-heating system, there was enough wood on the estate to ensure a plentiful supply of fuel for the open fires his mother liked to keep about the place.

      But now, as he stared into the curling blue flames, he discovered his own thoughts were not so easy to divert. Contrary to his wishes, he was curious about Isobel Jacobson. Her cool reserve had piqued his interest, and for the first time since Sarah had died he found himself thinking about a woman with something more than mild contempt. It wasn’t that he was attracted to her, he assured himself, with characteristic candour. It was just that he felt sorry for her. It couldn’t have been easy, finding herself a widow, with a daughter like hers to contend with. In his opinion, Cory—was that really her name?—required serious attention.

      The view from the cottage windows was spectacular. Even in the fast fading light, Isobel had stood in her bedroom and stared and stared at the wonderful panorama of earth and sky spread out before her. She had seen fields, sloping down towards a vast expanse of water, with horned Highland cattle peacefully grazing in the reeds. And trees, bare in places, but in others showing the gorgeous colours of autumn. And mountains, fold after fold of dark-shrouded peaks, beneath a sky that had still been painted with the delicate shades of evening.

      The sun had already slipped behind the mountains before Rafe Lindsay had parked his dust-smeared vehicle in front of the cottage, but the amber-shredded clouds had still borne the heat of the sun’s passing. They had risen through pink and mauve to deepest purple, with here and there a prick of light that marked the appearance of a star. There was no moon, and the shadows had soon darkened into night, but Isobel had felt no sense of apprehension. It might be slightly premature, but she had already felt she could be happy here.

      Which was surprising, considering her ambivalence during the journey, particularly the latter half. But she simply wasn’t used to dealing with men on a personal basis. Not younger men, anyway. And definitely not men who looked like Rafe Lindsay. Living with Edward, who had been inclined to regard her as his property, she had got out of the habit of making friends with other men. Not that she had ever got into the habit, anyway, she admitted ruefully. After all, she had been married at eighteen. Apart from her father, Edward was the only man she had ever really known.

      And it had been kind of Clare’s brother-in-law to come and meet them, because from what she’d gleaned from his conversation with Cory her friend had been less than scrupulous with her instructions. It appeared that even if they had transferred themselves and their luggage to Queen Street Station they would have had to wait some time for their connection. And the train would have been slower, and less direct in its approach.

      Nevertheless, she knew she had been less than sociable during the drive. She had left it to her daughter to make all the overtures, and she was quite aware that Cory had taken advantage of her position. But it would have been too embarrassing to chastise the girl in front of Rafe Lindsay, and instead she had spent the journey fending off the advances of a friendly retriever, who had shown his affection by licking her face.

      Amazingly, the cottage had been unlocked, and their escort had made his departure, after depositing their luggage in the front room. Isobel had offered her thanks, albeit rather belatedly, and he had made some deprecating comment, but that was all. With a brief half-smile, he had swung back into the powerful vehicle, raising his hand politely before driving away.

      Now Isobel turned from stowing the empty cases away in the bottom of an enormous wardrobe, and found Cory standing in the doorway. The girl had done little in the way of unpacking, and her only real source of interest had been in choosing the downstairs bedroom for herself. Isobel hadn’t minded. The dormer room, at the top of the narrow staircase, might be smaller, but the view was worth it. The cottage was so overfurnished that all the rooms seemed tiny anyway. It was just as well they had put their own furniture into storage. It was certain there was no room for it here.

      ‘When are we going to eat?’ Cory demanded plaintively now, and, glancing at her watch, Isobel saw that it was after eight. She had been so intent on unpacking and putting their things away, so as not to waste what little space there was, she had forgotten all about making a meal.

      ‘Oh—whenever,’ she replied, glancing half contentedly about her. ‘Clare said she’d leave some food in the fridge. I suggest we go down and see what there is.’

      ‘I know what there is,’ declared Cory, not moving. ‘There’s some eggs, and cheese, and a pot of something that looks like yoghurt. Honestly, you’d think we were vegetarians! Why couldn’t she have bought some beefburgers or some steak?’

      Isobel’s contented air vanished. ‘You should consider yourself lucky that she’s left us anything at all,’ she retorted crisply. ‘And beefburgers aren’t good for you. They’re full of fat!’

      ‘So is butter, but she’s left us some of that,’ countered Cory, not to be outdone. ‘And there’s only brown bread. I ask you, brown bread!’

      Isobel refused to let her daughter’s attitude spoil their first evening at the cottage. ‘Brown bread won’t hurt you for once,’ she remarked, gesturing for Cory to move out of the doorway. ‘I’ll make omelettes. Cheese omelettes. And we can have the yoghurt for dessert.’

      Cory trundled down the steep narrow stairs ahead of her, grumbling about the inconveniences of living in a village. ‘I bet there isn’t even a McDonald’s within thirty miles,’ she muttered, considering that a great distance. But privately Isobel suspected the nearest fast-food establishment was a lot further than that.

      ‘How old was this Miss McLeay anyway?’ Cory asked some time later, sprawled at the scarred pinewood kitchen table, watching her mother prepare their meal. ‘I bet she was ninety if she was a day. All this old furniture! It looks like it came out of the ark.’

      ‘Well, I think it’s rather charming,’ declared Isobel, looking appreciatively through the archway that divided the kitchen from the living-room and viewing the lamplit chintz-covered sofa and chairs with some affection. There were too many occasional tables, of course, and even Miss McLeay could not have wanted all these knickknacks. But the general impression was homely, and Isobel thought it would look really cosy when the fire was lit. For the present, they were making do with an electric heater. There was an Aga in the kitchen, which she thought might heat the rather antiquated radiators she had seen, but that would have to wait until tomorrow and daylight, when she might feel more equipped to experiment.

      ‘It’s not very big, is it?’ Cory persisted, as her mother riffled through the drawers, looking for a cheese-grater. ‘Grandma said it would probably be an old crofter’s cottage. Do you think that’s what it was? Before the old lady lived here?’

      ‘Crofter’s cottages didn’t have central heating,’ retorted Isobel flatly, resisting the urge to take her mother-in-law’s name in vain. ‘Have a look in that cupboard, will you? Clare said the place was fully equipped. There must be a grater somewhere. If not, I’ll just have to crumble the cheese myself.’

      Cory got reluctantly to her feet and did as she was asked. But apart from a couple of cans of soup, which Isobel suspected must be well past their sell-by date, it was empty.

      However, she was not to be disappointed. An examination of the gas cooker solicited the fact that there was a drawer at the bottom practically filled with baking tins and utensils of all kinds. Among the clutter was a hand-held grater, and Isobel carried it to the sink to wash as Cory resumed her seat at the table.

      ‘This Clare …’ she remarked, after a few minutes, and Isobel glanced up from the cheese.

      ‘Mrs Lindsay, to you,’