raised about her time away from the children, it had been accepted as part of a glamorous woman’s life and it had been forgiven and forgotten after her tragic death.
What none of them knew was that she probably hadn’t been alone on any of those trips away.
He’d only found out because fate had stepped in and provided the evidence and Adam had made sure that the scandalous information had gone no further.
Maybe that was the real blessing here. That the village—and therefore his children—would never know.
It was his burden and that was only fair, wasn’t it? If he’d been a better husband, Tania wouldn’t have needed anyone else. And it was a burden he was getting used to carrying. In many ways it was getting easier and he could hope that some time in the future he’d be able to cope with this particular time of year. Enjoying it was too much to ever hope for but another few weeks and things could get back to normal. A normality he would never have chosen, of course, but he could live with it.
He had no choice.
‘That English lassie was wi’ them.’ Joan only just managed to wait until Adam was removing the stethoscope from his ears. ‘I hear she’s made friends with Caitlin McMurray at the school?’
His grunt was intended to express a lack of interest in his temporary nanny’s social life. Why did some people assume that a monosyllabic response simply needed more effort on their part?
‘I hear she’s been singing.’
‘Aye.’ Adam was still having difficulty getting used to the sound of Emma singing. She did it all the time. When she was busy with some mundane task, like doing the dishes or sorting laundry, and a session of songs with the children was already a favourite part of their evening routine. She probably thought the nursery wing was far enough away from the rest of the house for him not to notice but she was wrong. He’d heard her late last night, too, well after the children were sound asleep. Alone in her room, playing her guitar and singing softly.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the sound. It was just … different. Nothing like normal.
‘She’s no’ a teacher.’ Joan clicked her tongue. ‘What’s she doing at the school every day?’
It was the tone that did it. Adam was jolted out of his automatic defence mechanisms by the unexpected urge to defend his new employee. ‘She has been a music teacher and she plays the guitar. The school’s piano is apparently broken and the children want to learn carols. Now … stand up, please, Joan. I’m going to take your blood pressure again to see if position makes any difference.’
Joan levered her ample frame out of the chair. ‘We knew about the piano. The committee’s talking about whether to use the hall fund to replace it, but if we don’t fix the hall it’s going to get condemned and what would we do without the village hall? Where would the children put on their Christmas play?’
Adam resorted to his customary grunt and put the earpieces of his stethoscope into place to signal an end to the conversation. As he held the disc over Joan’s elbow and pumped up the cuff, he took a quick glance at the clock on his wall and remembered the number of people in the waiting room.
It was going to be a long day.
The conversation stopped as soon as Emma entered the general store that was between the greengrocer and the bakery. She lifted her chin and put on her brightest smile.
‘Good morning. I’m looking for some coloured paper. Do you have the kind that’s sticky on the back?’
The blank stare made Emma reconsider her decision to shop in the village instead of driving for half an hour to get to the nearest larger town. It wasn’t easy to keep the smile on her face.
‘I want to make paper chains,’ she explained. ‘For Christmas decorations.’
The women exchanged heavily significant glances.
‘Christmas decorations?’ one of them murmured. ‘In Dr McAllister’s hoose?’
The subtext was in capital letters. You couldn’t really celebrate Christmas in the McAllister house. Not without being duly reluctant anyway. Even the children were all too aware of that and it wasn’t fair. She’d taken them to watch the big tree in the square being decorated yesterday and Poppy’s eyes had been huge.
‘I love Christmas trees,’ she’d whispered. ‘They’re so pretty.’
‘We’ll make your Christmas tree just as pretty at home, you’ll see.’
‘We don’t have a tree at home,’ Oliver had said. ‘Gran says it’s because it makes Dad sad.’
‘It makes me sad,’ Poppy had said, ‘not having a tree.’
Emma had lain awake last night, mulling this over. She was here for the children, wasn’t she? And she was here for Christmas.
And Christmas was for children.
It was a no-brainer, really. Surely she could find a way to persuade the taciturn Dr McAllister to put up with a few decorations? When Catherine had called from Canada early that morning to talk to the children before they went off to school, Emma had gathered her courage and asked quietly if it would be such a terrible thing to do.
‘It would be the best thing to do,’ Catherine had assured her. ‘It’s no guid for anyone, being stuck in the past. I’ve tried but …’ The sigh said it all. ‘Maybe you’ll succeed, pet. He can’t afford to chase you away, can he? Not before Christmas, anyway.’
The tone that suggested it wouldn’t be an easy task was being heavily underlined by the shocked look these women were now sharing.
‘It’s for Poppy and Oliver,’ Emma said firmly. ‘They’ve been making decorations at school and they want to make some at home, too. Paper chains are what I always made when I was their age.’
The mention of the children made one of the women nod. ‘Aye,’ she sighed. ‘It should be all about the bairns, shouldn’t it?’
‘The paper’s over yon,’ the shopkeeper told Emma. ‘Beside the magazines.’
The conversation didn’t stop this time as she returned to the counter.
‘Poor man,’ one was saying. ‘To lose the love of his life so young.’
‘Like a princess, she was,’ another agreed. ‘Always so well dressed.’
Emma felt the collective scrutiny of her jeans and oversized jumper beneath her puffy anorak and she was perversely delighted that she was wearing her Tibetan knitted hat with its rainbow stripes and ear covers that trailed into long tails she hadn’t bothered tying. That would really give them something to disapprove of at length as soon as she went out the door.
Her bravado faded as she picked up the guitar case she’d left by the umbrella stand at the shop door and went out into the chilly, grey afternoon, however. If making a paper chain or two was such a big deal, maybe she was only going to make things worse? How happy would the children be if their father was even more upset by someone who wasn’t prepared to spend Christmas in a kind of muted mourning?
The Christmas tree in the square had taken days to decorate but it was looking magnificent now, with big, coloured lights and enormous red and silver baubles. Despite the cold, Emma perched on a bench near the church. She had half an hour before she was due at school. Checking her watch, she made a quick calculation. They were about eight hours behind Californian time and that meant that Sharon was probably at home. She hit the speed dial.
‘Emma … I was just thinking about you. Is it snowing in Scotland?’
‘Feels like it could be any second. I’m in the village square and it’s absolutely freezing.’
‘Ohh … I’m homesick. It’s too warm to be Christmastime here. It’s