“You came on the train? What about Gertrude?”

“Oh, she drove me to the station,” said Roger. “It was quite an affecting goodbye, considering she had just refused to marry me.”

“You asked her to marry you?”

“I did,” said Roger. “Unfortunately, I was the second bidder and my terms were not up to par.” He pushed his tea away and slumped his chin into his chest in defeat. “You see, she’s going to marry Ferguson.”

The Major listened in some disbelief as Roger told them how Gertrude had quite won the day in Scotland. It sounded as if she had taken over the place, charming Ferguson’s estate manager into agreeing to most of the useful modernizations that Ferguson had proposed and even getting the head ghillie to agree to a restocking plan for the grouse moor. She had found a new cook at short notice through the ghillie’s wife, and together they had produced a bountiful menu of feasts and lunches such as Loch Brae Castle had not seen for years.

“On our second day shooting, Gertrude made Ferguson show up in some of the rummiest old tweeds you’ve ever seen and one old ghillie started crying and had to be given a flask of Scotch and a good slap on the back,” said Roger. “Gertrude got them from the attics and apparently they were worn by the thirty-seventh baronet, who shot at Balmoral with the King. He told Ferguson he was the spitting image of the old master and you should have seen Ferguson’s face.”

“If that’s the end of the line of shooting clothes,” said the Major, “we will all owe Gertrude a debt of gratitude.”

“I suppose it was just her competence,” said Roger miserably, “but she seemed to get prettier as the week went on. It was positively weird.”

“And Mr. Ferguson?” asked Jasmina. “Did he think she was pretty?”

“He was dumbfounded, I think,” said Roger. “She’s not even tall or anything, but she strode around in her boots and her mackintosh like she’d been living there forever and she got more done in a week than he’d been able to get them to do in a year. It was quite funny to see him jump when some old retainer, who had refused to speak to him ever, suddenly came up and thanked him for ‘the red-haired lady.’ After a few days, he took to following her around so she could introduce him all over again to his own people.”

“She found the right setting,” said the Major. “A place where she belongs.” He could see her quite clearly walking thigh-deep in heather, her paleness perfect for the misty gray light of the north, her hair curling in the persistent mist and the slight stockiness of her figure perfectly proportioned for the low rugged landscape.

“I really blew it,” said Roger. “I should have gotten in right away, but she was so besotted with me I thought I could take all the time I wanted.”

“And she fell in love with someone else,” said the Major. “I did warn you love was not to be negotiated.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re in love. That’s what stings,” said Roger. “It’s a mutual understanding. She gets to stay in the country and run the estates, which is what she really wants, and he gets the acceptance he was looking for and I’m sure he’ll feel free to do as he likes in town as long as he’s discreet about it.” He sighed. “It’s quite brilliant, actually.”

“But if you loved her,” said Jasmina, “that would have been the better choice.”

“People like us can’t win against people like them,” Roger said bitterly. “They have all the money, they have the right name. Telling her I loved her, even if it’d been true, wouldn’t have helped.”

“What about the guns?” asked the Major.

“I told Ferguson he couldn’t have them,” Roger said. “He got the girl. He canceled the Edgecombe deal like he was canceling an order for curtains. He took everything. I’d be damned if I was going to give him the last little piece of me. If Jemima wants to sell her dad’s gun, she can do it herself.”

“He’s not building in Edgecombe?” asked Jasmina. “Wouldn’t marrying Gertrude just make the building easier?”

“Now he’s marrying Gertrude, he fancies a long line of his heirs being lords of the manor here.” Roger sniffed. “Suddenly it’s sacred ground and to be protected at all costs.”

“But he already has a title,” said Jasmina.

“A Scottish title isn’t really the same thing at all,” the Major said.

“Especially when you buy it over the Internet,” added Roger.

“I can’t believe it,” said the Major. “This is wonderful news. I must say, I wasn’t looking forward to having to choose sides as that awful project became public.”

“It was hardly a difficult choice,” said Jasmina. “I know you have such a love for this village.”

“Of course, one would have had to do the right thing,” said the Major, but he felt a relief that he would not be called upon to do so.

“Glad you’re happy,” said Roger. “But what about me? I was going to get a big fat bonus out of being in charge of this deal, but right now I doubt I’ll keep my job.”

“But you came home to Edgecombe St. Mary,” said Jasmina. “Why did you come?”

“I suppose I did,” said Roger, looking around the kitchen as if surprised. “I felt so low I just wanted to go home and I guess—I guess I always think of this as home.” He looked bewildered, like a lost child discovered under a bush at the bottom of the garden. The Major looked at Jasmina and she gripped his hand and nodded.

“My dear Roger,” said the Major. “This will always be your home.” There was a moment of silence in which Roger’s face seemed to work through a range of emotions. Then he smiled.

“You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that, Dad,” he said. He stood up and came around the table to envelop the Major in a fierce hug.

“It goes without saying,” said the Major, his voice gruff to hide his happiness as he patted his son’s back. Roger released him and appeared to wipe away a tear from the corner of his eye. He turned away to leave the room and then looked back to add, “So do you think maybe we could get Mortimer Teale to put something in writing?”

It took the Major a fraction of a second to understand the scene as something other than a mere impediment to his own car’s forward passage. An ambulance with its lights flashing stood open and empty at the front door of the village shop. Parked next to it, across the road to block traffic, a police car also flashed its lights, its doors flung open and a young redheaded policeman speaking with urgency into his radio.

“Something has happened,” said Jasmina and she jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped and ran to the policeman. By the time the Major caught up she was pleading with him to let her in.

“We’re not sure what’s going on, ma’am, and my sergeant said to not let anyone in.”

“Is George in there? What happened to them?” said Mrs. Ali.

“For God’s sake, she’s the owner of the place,” said the Major.

“Who’s hurt?”

“A lady and her son,” said the policeman.

“I’m the boy’s auntie,” said Jasmina. “The girl is to marry my nephew today.”

“We’re looking for an auntie,” said the policeman. He caught Jasmina by the arm. “Where were you half an hour ago?”

“She was with me at Rose Lodge all afternoon, and she’s been with me for the past two days,” said the Major. “What’s this about?” Just then an older policeman, a sergeant with eyebrows as unkempt as a hedge but a kindly expression, came out holding George, who had a large bandage on his left arm and was crying. He was accompanied by Amina’s aunt Noreen, who was dressed in a shalwar kameez of white and gold embroidered about the neck with many jeweled brooches and ruined with a large bloodstain and several smudged bloody handprints about George’s size. George saw Jasmina and let out a wail.

“Auntie Jasmina!”

“This is her family’s doing,” said Noreen, pointing at Jasmina. “They are criminals and murderers.”

“Is this lady the one who hurt you and your mother?” asked the policeman who was holding Jasmina. George shook his head and held out his arms to Jasmina. The policeman released her and she stepped forward to take him but Noreen put out a hand to stop her.

“He has to go to the hospital, ladies,” said the sergeant.

“What happened here?” asked Jasmina. “I demand to know.”

“As if you didn’t know,” said Noreen. “You betrayed us with your plans and your lies.”