At dinner they were greeted by the extraordinary sight of Duff’s newly shaven face. The upper part was tanned, and the lower part was dead white, giving the impression that he was somehow sporting the features of two entirely different people. Also, his unruly gray and white locks had been severely cut, and were—Alasdair squinted in disbelief—smoothed flat with pomade. And if that weren’t enough, Duff was wearing formal evening clothes that had obviously been in storage for some time, the scent of mothballs adding a pungent top note to the sickly-sweet fragrance emanating from his hair.
The change, to say the least, was extraordinary, and Alasdair struggled to tamp down a juvenile desire to burst into raucous laughter. But it was more than that, he realized uncomfortably. He was surprised to notice that he actually resented what Duff had done. What the hell was the matter with Duff?
And what was the matter with him?
He looked away from Duff’s strangely bare face, and accepted from a servant a delicately poached chicken breast. He turned his attention to that. For years their mother had said to him and Gavin, If you can’t say anything polite to each other, don’t say anything at all, which of course only egged them on the moment her back was turned.
No: he wasn’t going to think about Gavin.
Or about walls or fences.
He was going to focus on the delicious meal set in front of him.
It wasn’t until the third course arrived—a grilled salmon and sweet mashed carrots piped into decorative swirls—that finally Duff said, in a loud aggrieved voice:
“Are you all blind, for the love of Christ?”
Alasdair glanced at him. “Your new look, Uncle?”
“Aye, damn it!”
“It’s, ah, very noticeable.”
“Noticeable? Is that all you can say, lad?”
“Give me a minute. I’m trying to think of a different adjective.” Alasdair signaled for another glass of wine, hoping that his tone was light and playful, and not, as he feared, a trifle mean-spirited. Surely it was beneath him to begrudge what Duff had done.
Wasn’t it?
Silence fell once again, heavy with Duff’s displeasure. It was only broken when Isobel said, timidly, “I think you look very distinguished, sir.”
“At last! Le mot juste! Thank you, madam!”
“And I think,” said Fiona, “you look years younger, Uncle.”
Mollified, Duff ran a hand across his chin. “Well, that’s two compliments, at least.”
Stubbornly, Alasdair only took a sip of his wine, and refused to meet his uncle’s gimlet eye.
When dinner ended, Duff ostentatiously escorted Isobel to the Great Drawing-room and sat near her as she opened up her work basket.
“And what is that you’re sewing, Miss Isobel?”
“Oh, it’s—well, it’s only a stuffed doll,” replied Isobel, flustered and fluttery. “I made one for little Sheila, for her birthday, you see,” and continued in her meandering way about the upcoming birthday of Lister’s niece, and how she had asked Isobel so very nicely for a doll of her own, and how she had, after an intensive search, managed to find a piece of fabric that very nearly matched the little girl’s own dress.
At first listening only to keep his back turned to his unappreciative nephew, Duff nodded perfunctorily, but as Isobel went on, found his interest in the project was piqued, and even made a few helpful suggestions which Isobel immediately championed with enthusiasm.
“Of course, my dear sir! How right you are! Yellow yarn for the hair! It will match dear little Erica’s locks to a nicety! Only look—I’ve just the thing!” Isobel pulled an untidy ball of yarn from her work basket to show Duff, and promptly dropped it.
Duff picked it up and handed it to her with a courtly gesture that made his shoulder twinge a little, but he tried hard not to show it and was rewarded by the sight of Isobel, blushing a youthful pink, as she accepted it with a murmured word of thanks.
Alasdair, restless, oddly uneasy, opened his book, closed his book, opened it again, and just as quickly closed it. Finally he stood before Fiona.
“Madam,” he said, “I find I don’t care to wait for the tea-tray. If you’ll excuse me?”
She was looking up at him, and in her eyes was a newly kindled light. “Would you like some company, laird?”
“Aye,” he answered. “Aye, I would.”
And so they left the drawing-room together, and made their way to their bedchamber, and there found pleasure, release, oblivion in each other’s arms. And so the pattern was set, day after day, for twelve of them in total.
Fiona knew it was twelve, because she’d been counting them.