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After a few moments of silence, Angus gently prodded Grant’s knee. “Go on. Tell us what happened.”
“I remember that everyone had scattered after dinner.”
“Da was in a particularly foul mood that night,” Graeme said. “We all wanted to get away from him.”
“Yes, but I followed him to the library.”
Unfortunately, none of Grant’s usual tactics had worked. His father had sat at his desk, pouring whisky down his throat while his state of mind grew bleaker and bleaker.
“I thought if I got him away from the whisky, he would calm down,” he added. “So I suggested we go out to the stables. One of the mares had just foaled, and I said I wanted to see the newborn.”
Graeme nodded. “Da was usually better around the horses.”
But once they’d checked on the mare and her foal, Da had made the impulsive decision to go riding. Grant had tried to talk him out of it, since night was falling and his father was drunk. More drunk than usual.
“The head coachman and the grooms were in the servants’ hall, having supper,” Grant said. “There was just one stable boy left on duty, and he’d only been working at Kinglas for a few months. Da told him to saddle Big Red.”
Graeme winced. “And that poor lad was not been about to argue with the Laird of Arnprior.”
“No.”
When his father then ordered Grant to go back to the house, for once, he’d disobeyed him.
“After Da rode out, I asked the boy to help me saddle one of the mares. I knew my pony could never catch up. Then I sent the lad to find our coachman and tell him what happened.”
“Ye were a brave lad, even back then,” Angus said with pride.
“Grandda, I was scared to death,” Grant ruefully replied.
“Aye, but ye didna let it stop ye.”
Grant had spotted his father cantering toward a stand of woods east of Kinglas. “It was daft to be riding into the woods, especially with night coming on so fast. So I called out to him, and he stopped and waited for me.”
“What happened when you got there?” Graeme asked. “How did he react?”
“He gave me a good tongue-lashing.”
“Of course his did.” His twin sighed.
“You suffered worse.”
“Yes, but that was not the last conversation anyone would wish to have with his father.” Graeme’s gaze was full of understanding.
“It was what I said next that truly upset him.”
“What was it, son?” Angus gently asked when Grant paused for a few moments on the horrible memory.
“I called him a mean old man and said he was scaring everyone. I told him that if he didn’t stop it, I would never talk to him again.”
Graeme covered his eyes. “Poor, poor lad.”
Angus sighed and again patted Grant’s arm. “The laird did not take that well, I reckon.”
“He cursed at me and told me to go home. Then he lashed out at Big Red. The poor horse was already jittery from all the yelling, so when Da hit him with his crop, he reared and almost went right over on his back. It was a miracle he didn’t.”
What happened next wasn’t a miracle, though. As his father pitched off the horse, one foot caught in the stirrup. Big Red bolted and dragged him for several dozen yards over the rocky ground before he came free. Grant threw himself from the mare and ran to his father, who was motionless, his face covered with blood.
Grant had shrieked at him to open his eyes, to get up, even move a hand. Over and over again, he’d begged his father not to leave him. The only answer had come from the wind, a hollow cry that echoed his boyish sobbing.
