A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

tipsy. “I’m calling to introduce myself and to ask if I can check your article before it’s published. Not that I think it will need changing. Sandy told me you’re an experienced journalist, but . . .”
    He blethered on, boasting of his role as arbiter of art for the Scottish nation.
    He must have heard her sigh, as he stopped and turned on the charm. “So, Joanne, I hear you’re a real writer, not just a small-town journalist.”
    â€œDon’t know about that,” she said, “but yes, I’m hoping to publish a novel.” She had no idea why she’d said this and was immediately cross with herself for sharing her ambitions. So she told him of her meeting with Alice, her delight at Alice’s home, her work, and her kindness.
    He listened, commented on her observations, and commended her appreciation of the paintings. “Not many recognize real artistic merit, especially when the artist is a woman.”
    When she put down the phone, she couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or furious. “Condescending” was one word that came to mind. And “charming.” So why she was suspicious of him she had no idea. Then telling herself not to be so distrustful, she went back to baking a Victoria sponge cake.

    That Saturday, a week earlier than Joanne had expected, an article on Alice Ramsay was published in the Herald .
    McAllister spotted it first. Breakfast finished, on his second cup of espresso made in the stovetop machine—a much-appreciated wedding present from their friends the Corelli family—he was reading the Glasgow newspaper.
    â€œSee the Forsythe character is stirring it up again: ‘neglected women artists.’ He’s right, but he leaves you wondering if he’s only out to impress his female students.”
    â€œMeow.” Joanne laughed, making a clawing gesture with her hands.
    â€œHe has a lot to say about the Sutherland trial, specially his part in defending a poor misunderstood woman artist: ‘defending her from the uneducated gossips of a small Highland community.’ That won’t go down well.”
    â€œLet me see.” She grabbed the newspaper from across the table, skim-read the piece, then, staring at her husband, exhaled loudly. “How dare he! The man is appalling.”
    â€œHis writing is a bit florid, I’ll grant you, but—”
    She scanned the article again. “He’s named her. He’s identified her, made clear where she lives. He’s stirred up the witch accusation, sensationalized the trial. All this is yet more gossip, a repetition of the ridiculous charges in the guise of defending an artist. It is everything Alice wants to avoid.” She read the piece again. “Some of these lines . . .” The newspaper was trembling. “He used me. He asked about her house, the glen, and her connection with the community. He told me he wanted a better picture of an artist’s life but only as background. I fell for it. I betrayed her. ”
    McAllister put a hand on her arm. “Joanne, it’s not your fault. You weren’t to know he—”
    She ignored him. “No. I promised Alice Ramsay I’d never identify her, never publish anything without her say-so. Reading this, Miss Ramsay will know the information came from me, know I’m just as much a gossip as those who accused her of witchcraft.”
    â€œMaybe Forsythe visited Alice after the trial and noted those details himself.”
    â€œNo, he said he’d never been to the glen. That’s why he needed me to describe it.”
    She remembered Forsythe’s charm offensive: I’ve read your work; Sandy speaks highly of you; neglected women artists; time they were recognized; my article needs a female input. And she’d fallen for it.
    â€œHe even describes the William Morris cushion covers. I only mentioned them because I wanted to buy the same