Strange Intimacy

‘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,’ she corrected swiftly, and then winced as her knuckles connected with the grater.

‘All right.’ Cory pulled a face. ‘Mrs Lindsay, then. Is she married to Rafe’s brother?’

‘She’s married to Mr Lindsay’s brother, yes.’ Isobel brushed the last of the cheese from her fingers, and turned back to the pan. ‘I expect you’ll meet her tomorrow. She said she’d pop by to see how we’re settling in.’

Cory shrugged, evidently not impressed by this prospect. ‘I wonder if—if he’s married?’ she mused, reverting to her previous topic. ‘You know: Rafe. Oh, all right.’ She gave an exaggerated sigh at her mother’s expression. ‘Mr Lindsay, then. He’s really cool, isn’t he? Did you notice how long his eyelashes were?’

‘I noticed you had a little too much to say for yourself,’ responded Isobel, choosing not to get into a discussion about Rafe Lindsay’s attributes, and Cory pulled a face.

‘Well, at least I said something, instead of sitting there like a dummy,’ she retorted cheekily. ‘You didn’t even cut a smile when he apologised about the dog.’

‘I hardly know the man, Cory.’ Isobel found herself on the defensive once again. ‘Just because he was kind enough to offer us a lift doesn’t mean I have to like him. I thought he was rather arrogant, actually. I don’t think your father would have liked him.’

‘Oh, well——’ Cory’s response to that was revealing ‘—Dad wouldn’t like any man who looked twice at you. He’s—he was—terribly old-fashioned.’ She rubbed an impatient hand across her eyes. ‘I was always telling him so.’

‘Yes.’

Isobel surveyed her daughter with an unexpected rush of emotion. Even though it was nearly a year since Edward’s accident, they could both be caught by an unwary comment, and the remonstrance she had been about to offer died unspoken in her suddenly tight throat. But today had been a rather traumatic day, in more ways than one, and she could only hope that in these new surroundings they might both find it easier to adapt.

‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’ Cory’s terse question hid a wealth of uncertainty, and with a determined effort Isobel shook her head.

‘No.’ She paused, before continuing deliberately, ‘But I don’t think you should talk about your father like that. He wasn’t old-fashioned. Not really. He was just—not interested in current fads and fancies.’

‘That’s for sure.’ Cory gathered confidence from her mother’s calm response. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re already middle-aged. I mean, you’re not young. But you’re not old either.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘And you must have noticed how attractive Rafe was.’

‘Cory, how many more times do I have to tell you—I’m not interested in any other man, attractive or otherwise? Now, did you decide if you wanted cheese in your omelette or not?’

The impromptu meal was far better than even Isobel could have anticipated. The milk Clare had left for them was rich and creamy, and without the means to make filter coffee they had to make do with instant. But instant coffee made with fresh milk, and not the half-skimmed variety Isobel had usually bought at home, was almost an indulgence, and they were sitting enjoying their second cup when someone knocked at the door.

Not surprisingly, Isobel was loath to answer it. Beyond the faded floral curtains, the night was as black as pitch, and, although common sense told her they were far from the reach of thieves and muggers, old habits died hard.

‘Aren’t you going to see who it is?’

Cory was looking at her a little apprehensively now, and, realising she was in danger of alarming her daughter, probably unnecessarily, Isobel got to her feet. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, pretending an indolence she was far from feeling. But then Clare called,

‘Isobel! It’s only me!’ and all her anxieties vanished.

Reaching the door in two strides, she turned the key and threw it open. And Clare came into the room on a cloud of French perfume. Her rich cream fur and long boots looked out of place in the shabby living-room, but, Isobel reflected, her own attire suited it to a T. The lady of the manor, calling on one of the peasants, she mused drily. But that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Clare’s fault that she had not bothered to change.

‘Isobel, darling!’ Clare exclaimed now, kissing the air beside her friend’s ear with the smoothness of long experience. ‘And this must be Cory! Hello, dear. Your mummy didn’t tell me you were so grown-up!’

She went towards Cory, and Isobel saw her daughter draw back in some alarm. But happily, Clare didn’t embarrass either of them by attempting to kiss her too. Instead, she contented herself with bestowing a charming smile on her, before turning back to her friend.

‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘What do you think of this place? Isn’t it cosy? Have you got everything you need?’

‘I think so.’ Isobel answered her last question first. ‘I’ve unpacked, and we’ve had supper, and we were just dawdling over our coffee. Would you like a cup? I can easily——’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Clare lifted her hand in denial, as if the very idea was anathema to her. ‘Colin and I have just got back from having supper with the Urquharts—Robert and Jessica Urquhart, that is—and I couldn’t drink another drop.’ She gave a rather girlish giggle. ‘They’re such a lovely couple. He’s the local sheriff.’

‘I see.’

Isobel nodded, and, as if realising she was being rather indiscreet, Clare glanced about her. ‘I must admit, I’m amazed at the amount you’ve accomplished. And in such a short space of time, too. I quite expected to find you in the middle of things. The train must have been on time for once. Did Mr MacGregor collect you from the station? Well, of course, he must have done.’ she smiled again. ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

‘Mr MacGregor?’

Isobel felt slightly confused. Who was Mr MacGregor? She was sure the man had said his name was Lindsay. Well, of course he had. Cory had used that name earlier, when she had been berating her mother for not talking to him.

But, before she could say anything more, Cory chimed in. ‘He picked us up in Glasgow,’ she said, giving her mother a look of sly complicity. ‘He said the trains aren’t usually reliable. That’s why he came to meet us.’

Clare turned to the girl now, a frown drawing her sandy brows together. ‘Tom MacGregor drove all the way to Glasgow——’ she began, a look of consternation marring her pale sculpted features, and Cory offered her mother a wicked grin.

‘I think he said his name was Rafe,’ she declared, with the careless skill of a seasoned campaigner. ‘Yeah, it was definitely Rafe, wasn’t it, Mum? And not MacGregor—Lindsay.’ She tilted her head. ‘Hey—that’s your name isn’t it?’

Isobel knew at once what her daughter was up to. It was obvious she resented Clare, and the vaguely condescending air she had adopted since her arrival. And, without her mother’s inhibitions, she had jumped deliberately into the fray, enjoying the success of defeating the enemy.

Clare’s jaw had dropped. ‘Rafe,’ she echoed faintly. ‘Rafe met you in Glasgow! But——’ her dismay was evident ‘—he doesn’t know you, does he?’ She caught her breath. ‘You must be mistaken. Rafe would never——’

‘I’m afraid that was what he said his name was,’ put in Isobel unwillingly, quelling any further outburst from her daughter with a baleful look. She licked her lips. ‘He did say he was your brother-in-law, Clare. I assumed you knew all about it.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’ For a moment, Clare was too upset to guard her feelings. ‘I can’t believe it. Why would he do such a thing?’ She looked angrily at Isobel. ‘How did he know who you were?’

Isobel wrapped her arms about her midriff, feeling an unpleasant sense of distaste. Clare was over-reacting. There was no earthly need for her to behave as if she and Cory had solicited the ride for themselves. Good heavens, it was obvious what had happened. Rafe Lindsay had had to go to Glasgow for some reason, and he had decided to do his sister-in-law a favour and meet her friend. Only Clare wasn’t behaving as if Isobel was her friend; she wasn’t even behaving as if Isobel had a right to be here. Her whole attitude was one of outrage, as if Isobel had dared to impinge on her territory.

‘I think he was just trying to be kind,’ Isobel said now, aware that her voice was much cooler than it had been before. ‘We were practically the last passengers to leave the platform. You hadn’t explained that we had to change stations, as well as trains, and he came to our assistance. As I say, I assumed you knew.’

‘No.’ Clare took a deep breath, evidently trying to calm herself. ‘No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t——’ She broke off, and when she spoke again it was softly, almost to herself. ‘I doubt if Colin or his mother knew anything about it either. But that’s typical of Rafe. He’s always been a law unto himself.’

‘Yes, well——’ Isobel wished Clare would just go now. Maybe in the morning she would be able to view what had just happened with an objective mind, but at this moment all her earlier doubts were rampant. ‘I’m sorry if you think we’ve been presumptuous. It wasn’t intentional. But now, if you don’t mind, we are rather tired——’

‘Of course.’ With a rapid change of mood, Clare twisted her lips into a thin smile. ‘Of course you must be tired. And I must be going. Colin will be wondering where I’ve got to. I promised I’d only stay a minute.’