Graham said, ‘You should have woken me, as well.’
‘I figured you could use the rest.’
‘Did you, now?’ His grey eyes met mine, laughing, making me blush. ‘After all my exertions last night, d’ye mean?’
‘Well…’
‘I’m not such an old man as all that,’ he said, and came over to prove it. He leant with both hands on the arms of my chair and bent down for the kiss, and it still stole my breath. And he knew it. He drew back and smiled, looking boyishly rumpled and happy. ‘Good morning,’ he said again.
Somehow I managed to answer. ‘Good morning.’
‘Want coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
Graham straightened, and crossed to the kitchen. The cups I’d set out for us yesterday still sat untouched on the counter, beside the full kettle. We’d never gotten round to it. Five minutes through the door I had been standing where he stood right now, with my back to the sitting room, nervously chattering on like an idiot, and the next thing I’d known he had been there behind me, his arms coming round me to turn me towards him, and then he had kissed me, and I had been lost.
It had been, in a word, unforgettable. And it would not have surprised me at all if the memory of what I had just shared with Graham survived me as strongly as Sophia’s memories of her night with Moray.
I was watching his back and the way that he moved, when he asked, ‘Did you get a lot written?’
‘I did, yes. I finished the scene.’
‘Am I in it?’
He’d meant that, I knew, as a joke, but I answered him honestly. ‘Sort of.’
Graham half-turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow. ‘Oh, aye? Who am I, then?’
‘Well, it isn’t you, exactly, but he looks a lot like you.’
‘Who does?’
‘John Moray.’
‘Moray.’ He seemed to be searching his archive of knowledge.
‘He’s a soldier in the Regiment of Lee, in France. They sent him over here with Hooke, to get the nobles ready for the king’s return.’
‘A soldier.’ Graham grinned, and turned back to his coffee making. ‘I can live with that.’
‘He was an officer, actually. A Lieutenant-Colonel.’
‘Even better.’
‘His big brother was the Laird of Abercairney.’
‘Ah, those Morays,’ Graham said, and gave a nod. ‘From Strathearn. I don’t ken too much about the family, other than that one of the later Lairds, James Moray, was famously kept from the field at Culloden – his manservant scalded his feet so he couldn’t go fight along Bonnie Prince Charlie – but he’d have been only a lad, at the time of the ’08.’
I wondered in silence if that later Laird might have been ‘the wee lad not yet eighteen months of age’ whom Moray had been speaking of that day he’d first gone riding with Sophia, and who, he had complained, would not have known him from a stranger.
‘I’ll have to read up on the family,’ said Graham, ‘and see what sort of character you’d be giving me. John Moray, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what’s the part that he plays in your book?’
‘Well…he’s kind of the hero.’
The kettle was boiling, but Graham ignored it. He looked round again, eyes warm. ‘Is he, now?’
I nodded.
‘I thought you were writing everything around Nathaniel Hooke.’
‘Hooke wasn’t here much. He was off around the country, meeting nobles. Moray stayed at Slains all through the month of May, and into June.’
‘I see.’ The kettle clicked off, sullenly, as though it somehow knew we wouldn’t want it this time either. Graham turned to fully face me, leaning back against the counter, arms folded comfortably over the unbuttoned shirt. ‘And just what did he get up to, your John Moray, in the time that he was here?’
‘Oh, this and that.’ I didn’t blush this time, but from his knowing eyes I knew I might as well have done.
‘Is there a woman in all this?’
‘There might be.’
‘Well, then.’ His intent was clear before he’d straightened from the counter, but that didn’t stop me laughing when he lifted me, as easily as if I had weighed nothing, and cradled me warm to his half-bare chest.
‘Graham!’
His arms tightened. ‘No, you’ve said already that you like your writing to be accurate.’ He headed for the bedroom. ‘And my Dad did say,’ he added, with a wicked smile, ‘that I should help ye any way I could, with your research.’
The phone was ringing.
Barely conscious, I rolled over on the bed, my body weighted by the tangled sheets and blankets. I could see the indentation on the pillow where Graham’s head had rested close beside mine while we’d slept. But he was gone.
I had a recollection, vaguely, of his leaving. Of his kissing me, and tucking in the blankets, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what he’d said. And I had no idea, now, what time it was, what day it was. The room was nearly dark.
The phone kept ringing, from the front room, and I rose and went to answer it.
‘Oh, good. You’re there,’ my father said. ‘I tried to call you earlier, but you weren’t home. Where were you?’
I could hardly tell him where I’d really been, or why I had ignored the phone the first time it had rung, just after lunch. And I was glad he wasn’t in the room to see my face when I said, ‘Oh, just out.’
‘More research?’
It was a good thing he couldn’t see my face then, either. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, dear, it’s time for us to talk. I’ve had a call from Ross McClelland.’
Bracing myself for the coming questions, I said, ‘Yes?’
‘He found a burial for Anna Mary Paterson, in August, 1706. Not far outside Kirkcudbright. In the country.’
‘Oh.’
‘So now, I think it’s time you told me where you’re getting all of this.’
‘I can’t.’
That threw him off. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Sweetheart.’ I could hear the dryness of his tone across the line. ‘Do you remember when you first got published, and I asked you where you got your stories from, and you said you just heard the voices talking in your head and wrote down what they were saying?’
I remembered.
‘Well,’ he told me, ‘if I didn’t pack you off to the asylum then, what makes you think I’ll—’
‘This is different.’
‘Try me.’
‘Daddy, you’re an engineer.’
‘And what does that mean? I can’t have an open mind?’
‘It means you don’t believe in things that can’t be proven.’
‘Try me,’ he repeated patiently.
I took a breath and told him. For good measure, I threw in the bits of information Dr Weir had scrounged for me, in hopes they’d make things sound more scientific, but the essence of it was, ‘And so I seem to have inherited her memories, and my being here at Slains has somehow called them to the surface from wherever they’ve been stored.’
A pause. Then he said, ‘Interesting.’
‘See? You think I’m crazy.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You don’t have to. I remember your reaction when Aunt Ellen said she’d seen a ghost.’
‘Well, a ghost is one thing. This is DNA,’ he said. ‘And anything is possible, with DNA. You know they use it now, in genealogy, to trace specific lineages? If Ross McClelland and I had our blood tested, we’d show the same markers on our DNA, because we’re both descended from the same man.’
‘David John McClelland’s father,’ I said, frowning.
‘That’s right. Hugh. He had two sons, David John and William, but he died when they were young, and both the boys wound up in Northern Ireland somehow. Sent to be raised up by their relatives, I guess. The Scottish Presbyterians had settled into Ulster
by that time, but they still liked to send their sons across to Scotland to find wives, and likely that’s why our McClellands came back over to Kirkcudbright. William found his wife, and never did go back to Ireland. And David found Sophia.’
If I didn’t answer right away, it was because I didn’t want to be reminded that Sophia hadn’t ended up with Moray. I had gotten so caught up in their romance, I didn’t like to think of any ending for them but a happy one.
‘It’s too bad,’ said my father, not quite serious, ‘you didn’t get David’s memory. I’d love to find out anything about his early years in Ireland, before he got married. The family Bible doesn’t start till then.’
I said, reacting to his tone of voice, and not his words, ‘I knew it.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Honey, whether I believe or not, it doesn’t matter. I can’t offer any explanation of my own, how you came up with all those names and dates from nowhere, so I guess that your genetic memory theory makes about as much sense as anything.’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘I mean, I’d hoped it was a book you’d found, or something.’
‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘You haven’t disappointed me,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me back two generations on the Patersons. And like I said, I’ll keep an open mind.’
I knew my father well enough to know he’d keep that promise, and that if I passed on any other details I ‘remembered’ from Sophia’s life, he’d search for documenting evidence, the same as he’d have done if I were finding information in a book.
But I didn’t choose to tell him, yet, that it might just be possible Sophia’s marriage to our own McClelland hadn’t been her first; that three years earlier, she might have bound herself by handfast to a young Lieutenant-Colonel in the French king’s service.
That was knowledge that I wanted to hold closely to myself a while longer.
There was nothing that my father could have found to prove it, anyway, and even if there had been, something deep within me wanted me to keep Sophia’s secret, as she’d kept it for herself, those many years ago.
And I obeyed the instinct, though I knew it was irrational. I had already written down the scene, and when the book was published there’d be other people reading it, and nothing would be secret. But for this small time between, I felt responsible to Moray and Sophia to protect their hour of happiness, to help them hold it just a little longer…though I knew that like the beach sand that had slipped between Sophia’s fingers, it could not be held.
X
It was, Sophia thought, like waiting for the headsman’s axe to fall.
It had been but a day since Colonel Hooke had made a safe return to Slains, looking ill and weary from his days of horseback travelling among the Scottish nobles. And this morning, shortly after dawn, Monsieur de Ligondez’s French frigate, the Heroine, had reappeared in full sail off the coast, having kept strictly to his earlier instructions to remain three weeks at sea.
Sophia’s heart felt like a stone within her chest. She could not look at Moray, who sat now in his accustomed place across the dinner table, for she would not have him see the wretched nature of her misery. It was as well, she thought, that all the others were so focused on their conversation that they took no notice of the fact she had no appetite for any of the fine food Mrs Grant had set in front of them – oysters and mutton and wildfowl in gravy, a swirl of rich smells that would normally stir her, but which, on this day, failed to tantalise. Pushing the meat round the plate with her fork, she listened while the Earl of Erroll questioned Hooke about his meetings with the other chieftains.
‘Nearly all,’ said Hooke, ‘have signed their names to a memorial whereby they pledge King James their swords and loyalty, and lay out their requests for arms and aid, to guard his person when he lands. If you will sign it for yourself, and for those others who did give you leave to sign for them, then I will gladly carry it with me to Saint-Germain, and give it by my own hand to the king.’
The earl was sitting back, his keen eyes deep with thought. ‘Who has not signed?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said, “nearly all” had signed. Who did not choose to put their name to this memorial?’
‘Ah.’ Hooke searched his memory. ‘None but two. The Duke of Gordon and the Earl of Breadalbane, though both did pledge me their support. The Duke of Gordon said he could not in good conscience sign a document that calls upon King James to come to Scotland and so put himself in danger.’
The young earl glanced along the table to where Moray sat, and in a calm, impassive voice, reminded Hooke, ‘I know of many in this country who do risk as much, for lesser gain.’
Hooke nodded. ‘And I’m well aware of that. I tell you only what the Duke of Gordon said to me. ’Twas my opinion that both he and Breadalbane would not sign more from caution than from any great concern about the king.’
The earl shrugged. ‘Aye, well, Breadalbane has kept his head and health for eighty years, and in that time I do not doubt he’s grown too canny to affix his name to anything except his correspondence.’
‘You may be right.’ Hooke cocked a look towards the earl. ‘Do you then share his cautious nature?’
‘If I did,’ the earl said, ‘you would not be here, nor would there be a French ship anchored now below my castle. Do you honestly suppose that, in these times, no one has whispered to Queen Anne of our involvement? It is sure she knows, or does suspect, and only my position keeps our lands from being forfeit. Yet for these past years my mother and my father, heaven rest his soul, and now myself, have ventured all to aid our king however we are able.’
‘And I do know the king is duly grateful.’ Hooke said hastily, as though he realised he had pressed the younger man too firmly.
It was true, Sophia thought. If it had not been for the countess and her son, King James would have found it more difficult sending his agents across into Scotland to raise the rebellion. At Slains they were sheltered and aided. The countess had even brought in, for Hooke’s comfort, an old Catholic priest, who could yet say the mass. For so long now, Sophia had worried for Moray, and what would become of him if he were taken. She hadn’t considered, till now, just how greatly the earl and his mother might suffer if they were to be convicted of high treason.
They would be called to pay, she thought, with more than just their lands. A noble birth had never been a guard against a sharp drop from the gallows – it but made the fall the greater.
From the head of the table, the earl said to Hooke, ‘I will read your memorial, and if I do approve its terms, I’ll sign, both for myself and for the others who do trust me.’ With that settled, he returned to eating, spearing up a chunk of roasted mutton with his knife-point. Casually, he added, ‘I confess I am surprised you did convince the Duke of Hamilton to sign.’
Hooke paused. It was the faintest wobble of his confidence, but still Sophia saw it. Then his features found their place again. He said, ‘When I did speak of those two lords who did not sign, I meant those lords among the ones I had the chance to meet, and speak with. I regret the Duke of Hamilton did not feel well enough to meet with me.’
‘And so he has not signed?’ the earl asked.
‘No.’
‘I see. Well, that,’ the earl said, smiling, ‘is no more than I expected.’ He stabbed another piece of mutton. ‘Did my mother tell you we have had a letter from the duke’s friend, Mr Hall?’
Hooke raised an eyebrow to the countess. ‘Have you, now?’
She said, ‘You must forgive me, it did come to us by night, while you were sleeping, and with the arrival this morning of Monsieur de Ligondez, it had escaped my mind. Yes, Mr Hall did write to beg a favour of me, that I tell you he is coming north, by order of the duke, to renew the negotiation with you, and that he hopes you will not leave before he does arrive, and that you will not conclude anything with the rest of us, for he is sure you will be sa
tisfied with the proposals he will bring.’
‘Indeed.’ Hooke’s eyes betrayed his interest. Thinking for a moment, he addressed Monsieur de Ligondez. ‘Well, then, I wonder if you could see fit to cruise off the coast for a few days longer?’
It must, Sophia thought, be rather wearying for the French ship’s captain, forever coming back to Slains and being sent away again, and she would not have blamed him had he told Hooke to be damned, although she privately would not have minded if the ship had kept to sea another month. Whatever thoughts de Ligondez himself might have, he kept them closely shuttered, and with one curt nod, said, ‘Very well.’ He spoke, in English, carefully and slowly, as though forced to think of every word, although Sophia guessed his understanding of the language was quite fluent. He’d been following along with ease, while they had talked – he’d laughed at the earl’s jokes, and his black eyes had shown an admiration of the clever comments of the countess.
And he’d seemed to have a great respect for Moray, who asked Hooke, ‘Ye cannot think the duke will give ye satisfaction now, when he has kept ye hanging in the hedge so long?’
Hooke said, in his defence, ‘I met the Duke of Hamilton when we were both much younger men, and sharing prison quarters in the Tower. I do know his faults, believe me, but I owe him still some measure of that friendship. If he but asks me to remain a few more days that I may hear his own proposals, I can surely do that much.’
The earl replied, ‘Perhaps the duke does fear that your design may find success without him, Colonel Hooke, for I do think that nothing but that fear could make him take such a step as to send Mr Hall to you.’
Moray had read the move differently, and said so now. ‘And has it not occurred to ye, the duke might mean no more than to delay us?’
‘To what end?’ asked Hooke.
‘His lordship has already said, there is no safety here. And many of those men whose names are signed to your memorial would pay a bitter price if that same document were set before Queen Anne.’ His level gaze met Hooke’s. ‘My brother William signed for you, as Laird of Abercairney, did he not?’