savagely.
“Och, she’s the image of you, Henry,” Billy said.
“Until she smiles. Then she’s all Beattie.”
Billy glanced at Beattie, his eyes drawn to her nightdress.She drew together her robe tightly at her neck. He smiled cruelly—in truth, she’d seen no other kind of smile from him—and held out an empty whiskey glass. “Drink?”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“It will help you sleep.”
Beattie didn’t answer. Her gaze skimmed the mantel. The letter was still unopened.
Henry put Lucy down and said, “Will you sing a wee song for Uncle Billy? The one about the birdies that you made up?” He turned to Billy. “She’s a clever lass, Billy, you wouldn’t credit it.”
Beattie intervened. “She really should be sleeping, Henry.”
“I want to stay up with Daddy.”
Henry conceded. “Your mother’s right. I’m just so happy to see you, my chick.” He stroked her hair gently. “Go on, off to bed with you. You can sing for me in the morning.”
Beattie took Lucy back to bed and tucked her in. By this stage, the child was wide-eyed and restless, and Beattie doubted she would sleep.
“Just close your eyes,” Beattie said. “Off to dreamland. I’ll meet you there under the big chestnut tree. We’ll have a picnic.”
Lucy smiled. “Can we have cake?”
“Yes, cake with jam in the middle.”
The little girl mimed eating a giant slice, then turned over and screwed her eyes shut. Beattie left her, closing the door quietly, then paused in the threshold of the sitting room. Henry was more subdued now, but Billy was screeching withlaughter over some wild joke. She waited for him to quiet, then smiled politely. “Have you news of your brother, Billy? Did Cora have the baby yet?”
“Yes, yes, Teddy’s a proud father. A wee boy they named Frank. They’ve moved to Edinburgh, bought a house with a garden. Domestic bliss.”
Beattie found it hard to fight her jealousy. “Give them my best, won’t you?” She turned her eyes to Henry. “And Henry, there’s a letter up there for you.” She nodded toward the mantel. “Might be important. I’m off to bed.”
She turned, heart thudding, and returned to her room. Closed the door all but a crack and peered out. A long quiet. He was reading it.
“What’s wrong, MacConnell? Bad news?”
“It’s nothing,” Henry said quickly. She saw him cross the room to the fire. He was going to burn the letter. “Just some nonsense. Another drink?”
Beattie got into bed and closed her eyes. He burned it. That meant he didn’t want it. That meant everything was all right. Didn’t it? Sleep eluded her. Within half an hour, Billy had clattered out the front door and Henry was sliding into bed next to her, quiet, trying not to wake her.
She turned to him. “Henry, the letter—”
“Don’t ask.”
“But what did she want? What—”
“I said don’t ask!”
he shouted, and it was so loud in the dark quiet that her whole body twitched in shock.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask for reassurance, butdidn’t want him to shout again. He’d burned it. He wanted to forget it. That would have to be enough.
Sometimes, Henry thought, it was better to take care of things himself. It didn’t matter how many times he’d told Beattie that she must go down to the general store and negotiate with them; she insisted she couldn’t, that the two hard-faced women who ran the store would not extend their credit another penny. Henry didn’t believe that for a second. Beattie was a mite lazy and a mite too worried about what other people thought. So he’d put on his hat and marched down there, Lucy clinging firmly to his hand, to make Jean and Lesley see sense. He couldn’t pay, not just yet, though he anticipated a windfall soon. His luck was bound to change at the card table. Frankly, it couldn’t get any worse.
“Daddy, you’re walking too fast.”
Henry slowed, giving her soft hand a squeeze. “Sorry, my dearie.”
“Mummy lets me
“Och, she’s the image of you, Henry,” Billy said.
“Until she smiles. Then she’s all Beattie.”
Billy glanced at Beattie, his eyes drawn to her nightdress.She drew together her robe tightly at her neck. He smiled cruelly—in truth, she’d seen no other kind of smile from him—and held out an empty whiskey glass. “Drink?”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“It will help you sleep.”
Beattie didn’t answer. Her gaze skimmed the mantel. The letter was still unopened.
Henry put Lucy down and said, “Will you sing a wee song for Uncle Billy? The one about the birdies that you made up?” He turned to Billy. “She’s a clever lass, Billy, you wouldn’t credit it.”
Beattie intervened. “She really should be sleeping, Henry.”
“I want to stay up with Daddy.”
Henry conceded. “Your mother’s right. I’m just so happy to see you, my chick.” He stroked her hair gently. “Go on, off to bed with you. You can sing for me in the morning.”
Beattie took Lucy back to bed and tucked her in. By this stage, the child was wide-eyed and restless, and Beattie doubted she would sleep.
“Just close your eyes,” Beattie said. “Off to dreamland. I’ll meet you there under the big chestnut tree. We’ll have a picnic.”
Lucy smiled. “Can we have cake?”
“Yes, cake with jam in the middle.”
The little girl mimed eating a giant slice, then turned over and screwed her eyes shut. Beattie left her, closing the door quietly, then paused in the threshold of the sitting room. Henry was more subdued now, but Billy was screeching withlaughter over some wild joke. She waited for him to quiet, then smiled politely. “Have you news of your brother, Billy? Did Cora have the baby yet?”
“Yes, yes, Teddy’s a proud father. A wee boy they named Frank. They’ve moved to Edinburgh, bought a house with a garden. Domestic bliss.”
Beattie found it hard to fight her jealousy. “Give them my best, won’t you?” She turned her eyes to Henry. “And Henry, there’s a letter up there for you.” She nodded toward the mantel. “Might be important. I’m off to bed.”
She turned, heart thudding, and returned to her room. Closed the door all but a crack and peered out. A long quiet. He was reading it.
“What’s wrong, MacConnell? Bad news?”
“It’s nothing,” Henry said quickly. She saw him cross the room to the fire. He was going to burn the letter. “Just some nonsense. Another drink?”
Beattie got into bed and closed her eyes. He burned it. That meant he didn’t want it. That meant everything was all right. Didn’t it? Sleep eluded her. Within half an hour, Billy had clattered out the front door and Henry was sliding into bed next to her, quiet, trying not to wake her.
She turned to him. “Henry, the letter—”
“Don’t ask.”
“But what did she want? What—”
“I said don’t ask!”
he shouted, and it was so loud in the dark quiet that her whole body twitched in shock.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask for reassurance, butdidn’t want him to shout again. He’d burned it. He wanted to forget it. That would have to be enough.
Sometimes, Henry thought, it was better to take care of things himself. It didn’t matter how many times he’d told Beattie that she must go down to the general store and negotiate with them; she insisted she couldn’t, that the two hard-faced women who ran the store would not extend their credit another penny. Henry didn’t believe that for a second. Beattie was a mite lazy and a mite too worried about what other people thought. So he’d put on his hat and marched down there, Lucy clinging firmly to his hand, to make Jean and Lesley see sense. He couldn’t pay, not just yet, though he anticipated a windfall soon. His luck was bound to change at the card table. Frankly, it couldn’t get any worse.
“Daddy, you’re walking too fast.”
Henry slowed, giving her soft hand a squeeze. “Sorry, my dearie.”
“Mummy lets me
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