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Sinclair was the child of my mother’s brother, Aylwyn. Aylwyn had married—far too young, everybody said—a girl called Silvia. The family disapproval of his choice unhappily proved well-founded, for, as soon as she had borne her young husband a baby son, she upped and left the pair of them, and went off to live with a man who sold real estate in the Balearic Islands.
“It won’t work, you know.” “Why shouldn’t it work?” “Because if I leave Jane here with you for any length of time, Elvie would become her home and she’d never want to leave it again. You know she’d rather be at Elvie than anywhere else in the world.” “Then for her sake…” “For her sake, I’m taking her with me.”
The loch, blue with reflected sky, was flecked with small scuds of white foam, and the mountains opposite were no longer veiled in mist, but clear and sparkling, bruised with great sweeps of purple heather, and in the morning’s crystal air, I could trace every rock and crack and corrie that led to their swelling summits.
“And do you know what our grandmother said?” “No.” “She said, ‘But, Sinclair, that’s where you are mistaken. Elvie means nothing to you except as a source of income. You’ve made a life for yourself in London and you would never want to live here. Elvie will go to Jane.’” And so this was how I came into it. This was the final piece of the jigsaw and now the picture was complete. “So that’s why you want to marry me. To get your hands on Elvie.”
It was October now, the afternoon cold and quite motionless. Not a breath of wind stirred the last few remaining leaves from the trees. The loch, reflecting the grey sky, was still as a sheet of silver, the hills beyond bloomed softly, like plums.






