The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

ye’ve eaten much finer dishes in those fancy hotels ye and Sir Peter are forever running around in. It seems to me neither of ye ever sit doon te’ breathe.”

      “Fancier perhaps, Mrs. MacC., but certainly not finer.”

      She shook with laughter and then stood still, listening. “Is that a car I hear? Who the de’il could be coming here at this hour?”

      The dogs were barking near the door. “I’d better gae and see. You get on wi’ yer pudding.”

      “I’ll come with you. I’ve just about finished anyway,” he said, laying the napkin aside, not liking the idea of her going alone.

      Mrs. MacClean laughed. “Och, dinna’ worry, I’ll be fine. There’s nae criminals in these parts, Mr. Jack. This isna’ America.”

      A knock sounded at the side door. Whisking off her apron, she hurried to answer.

      “I’ll be off, then. Good night, Mrs. MacC., and thanks. That was one great dinner.”

      Jack headed down the corridor to Peter’s study. He pushed aside some papers and brochures on the desk, making space for himself. His eyes wandered around the busy room filled with old relics, faded photographs and ancient weapons that lay strewn amongst the paraphernalia and stacks of books. Peter was a hoarder, he remarked, smiling to himself as he watched Felix, the older of the three retrievers, scratching the threadbare hem of the drapes. “Hey, don’t do that, Felix, that’s destruction of property,” he chided. Felix paid no attention.

      He suddenly remembered that evening five years ago, in Hong Kong, when he’d sat with Peter at the bar of the Penn, celebrating their partnership. The two men had liked each other from the start. There was something frank and straightforward in Peter’s ruddy face. The man stood straight as a ramrod when he was on the job, his military days in the Black Watch not forgotten. Jack’s instinct had told him he was dealing with a straight shooter, and time had proved him right. Both their business and friendship had prospered.

      Jack rose and poured himself a brandy from the decanter before selecting a Cohiba from the humidor. He gently rolled the tip in the amber liquid, Cuban style, before lighting it. The smoke spiraled up, climbing slowly on its narrow path toward the ceiling as he recalled their dinner at Gaddi’s and the strange atmosphere of the evening. Both men had been subdued rather than elated, as though aware they were stepping into a new era. Suddenly Peter had turned to him and said, “Why don’t you visit us at Dalkirk, Jack. I think you’d enjoy Scotland. We’ve some fairly decent shooting and fishing, and I’d like you to meet my wife, Diana, and the girls.”

      Jack’s thoughts were brusquely interrupted when the door burst open and Chloë entered, wrapped, like a snow queen, in a three-quarter-length sable coat and hat.

      “Hello, Yank. I didn’t know you were here.” Diana’s lovely young sister threw her Vuitton tote on the leather armchair, and removed her coat, then came over and gave him a hug.

      “What brings you here out of the blue?” he asked, watching, amused, as she slowly wound down. Chloë was like a fashionable pixie, short and dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that sparkled mischievously in a pert face. It always surprised him how someone so small could have so much energy. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

      “Oh lovely! G and T please, I’m exhausted. I’m here on an emergency,” she added, her expression suddenly sad. “Where are Peter and Di?”

      “At your mother’s for the girls’ half-term break.”

      “That’s right, I forgot. Why didn’t you go?” She eyed him curiously.

      “I didn’t feel like it.”

      “Sorry, I just asked. I had a rotten journey by the way. There were no taxis at Turnhouse, so finally I rented a car, which I’ll have to leave at the airport on the way back. But I had to come.” She gave a heavy sigh.

      “I’ve gathered that, but you still haven’t told me why,” Jack said patiently, handing her the drink before retreating once more behind the voluminous desk.

      “Funeral.” She grimaced, looking distressed. “My best friend’s mother died. We’ve always been there for each other since boarding school. I popped up on the shuttle, and I’ll leave tomorrow night or early the next day.”

      “Do you mean India’s mom?”

      “Yes…but how do you know that?” Chloë asked in astonishment.

      “We’ve met.”

      “You didn’t!” She laid the glass of gin and tonic down and leaned forward, herself once more. “You must tell me all about it.”

      “Nothing much to tell. I met her in the glen. She almost got herself shot. Should have been paying more attention.”

      “Are you telling me someone almost shot India?”

      “I’m telling you I almost shot India.”

      “What on earth would you want to do that for?” She frowned blankly.

      “Jeez, Chlo, it was a mistake, dammit.” It irritated him even to think about it.

      “Golly. What on earth did you do? What did she do?” Her bright blue eyes sparkled, rampant with curiosity, her romantic streak clearly at work.

      “Threw her on the ground and raped her,” he replied sarcastically.

      “Don’t be so rotten-tempered. Tell me the truth. I’ll bet she was livid.”

      “She was—told me to get lost, said I was trespassing.”

      “That’s India for you. Very much the grande dame when she sets her mind to it. Go on,” she egged, her sadness momentarily swept aside.

      “You’re too darn nosy.”

      “No I’m not, I’m a journalist,” Chloë replied with dignity. “It’s my business to acquire information and relay it truthfully to the public.”

      “Chlo, you’re a society gossip columnist, for goodness’ sake. Next, you’ll even have me believing you.”

      She ignored him and frowned. “So India left in a huff, I suppose, and then what?”

      “And then she fainted, and I took her back home. How’s that?”

      “India, fainting?” Chloë shook her head in amazement, then said sadly, “It’s probably due to all the strain she’s going through, poor darling. But isn’t she gorgeous?”

      Of course she was, Jack acknowledged privately, but he was darned if he was about to admit it. “She’s okay,” he replied casually. “Not my type though, so don’t start scheming. I don’t need complications in my life now—or ever, for that matter. I’m fine the way I am,” he said, pushing back his chair with a shove. For some reason, he didn’t want to talk about the moments he’d spent with India—he was still trying to figure them out for himself.

      “Poor, darling Indy. I can’t believe you don’t think Indy’s gorgeous, all men do. She keeps them at arm’s length, though.”

      “What’s she doing with a best friend like you then?” he asked, taunting.

      Chloë eyed him darkly and shook a finger at him. “Now I know why you’re not married. Nobody could stand that obnoxious streak of yours. I’m getting myself another drink.”

      Jack grinned in response and gazed into the fire while Chloë poured herself a generous gin and tonic. He felt good at Dalkirk. It was perhaps less perfect in style than Dunbar, the house having been added to over the years with more attention paid to comfort than aesthetics, but it was very homey. There were lots of nooks and crannies where the little Kinnaird girls loved to play hide-and-seek. Diana’s presence and good taste could be felt throughout in the small details, like the bowls of heather-scented potpourri or a small vase of flowers on a Chippendale table.

      The