Now, however, Matthew seemed to move in ever-deepening shadows. Archie hinted he had heard of him sometimes, but seemed reluctant to tell me any more, and I had not pressed him. As Deacon Gammie’s insinuations at the session two nights earlier had reminded me, Matthew’s attachment to the household of the Marquis of Huntly had never been a secret, and his crypto-Catholicism not nearly hidden enough. Only his contumacious absence in the face of repeated summonses from kirk session and presbytery, and the protection of his all-powerful patron kept him from punishments that lesser men would be forced to undergo. I asked his elder kinsman for his news.
Lumsden sucked at his lip and teeth a moment before answering me. ‘Matthew is … much busied on the Marquis’s affairs, which, thank the Lord, are not as dangerous now as once they were. Fortunately, the Marquis pays attention to his French associations, and is not so inclined, it would seem, to revive his family’s – ah –
interests
in Spain. Spain being not entirely in vogue at the moment,’ he added.
I did not need to remind Lumsden that Spain had very seldom been in vogue as far as our church or government might be concerned, regardless of the intriguing the Marquis’s Gordon forebears had so enthusiastically indulged in. That we were now at war with Spain and ostensibly the allies of France could be seen as an unusual piece of political fortune for Huntly, hereditary Colonel of the
Garde Eccossaise
, the personal bodyguard of the kings of France.
‘Matthew is in France, then,’ I said.
Lumsden inclined his head slightly. ‘I believe so. But you will understand it would not be wise for me in the current climate to show too great an interest in the politics outside our burgh.’ He appeared to hesitate before continuing. ‘I know I can speak in confidence to you, Alexander …’
I assured him that he could.
‘Then I will tell you that the time is coming when we all may have to make the type of choices Matthew has not hesitated to make. I fear we have a king in London now who understands very little of this nation and its people, listening to men such as Laud who understands nothing of us at all, and does not see why he should try to. Charles Stuart should have a great care not to impose more on his Scottish birthplace than his people are prepared to accept, or it will not just be hotheads like my young cousin who will give him pause for thought.’
‘He does not pay heed to the Privy Council?’
‘On some matters, but in others he shows little interest, and it gives lesser men their heads to play their own interests in the face of natural justice.’
‘As with Lady Rothiemay, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘I have heard it rumoured that a letter is on its way to the sheriff of Banff charging him with apprehending Katharine Forbes and bringing her before the council, over her … activities.’
‘She seeks only justice for her murdered son.’
He sighed. ‘She will not get it. I know that, and so does she. But she will bow to no one.’
Through his frustration, his admiration for the woman was evident, and I suspected that even her enemies at times were caught up in the force of her charm.
‘In you at least she has a friend and I pray God will reward you for your steadfastness, even if our present society does not,’ I said.
He looked at me strangely. ‘If we are not steadfast to our friends, Alexander, we render our pasts false and our futures empty.’ He looked as if he would say more, but the sound of female voices drifting up from the stairway at the far end of the room took our attention. I do not know whether I or the master of the house was the quicker to sit straight in his chair. In a moment Lady Rothiemay appeared, closely followed by Isabella Irvine.
‘Baillie, Mr Seaton, we have kept you waiting. Well, no matter, no doubt you have not been lost for conversation together.’
‘We have been gossiping over old acquaintance, as men will do,’ said Lumsden, standing to offer her his seat by the fire.
‘Thank you. Jamesone had me standing nigh on half an hour with enquiries after my many relatives – there is no one with whom the man is not acquainted. And as for his garden schemes, it is a wonder he ever has the time to pick up a brush.’ She removed her calfskin gloves and stretched still elegant hands towards the flames. ‘And yet I should
not grumble, for half an hour of his conversation is of greater interest than three hours’ worth from many another man.’
Lumsden raised his eyebrows at me in such a manner that I was hard put to keep a straight face. ‘And did you manage to meet with his gardener?’ he asked her.
‘What? Oh yes. An admirable fellow, Monsieur Charpentier. We shall have him out to Banffshire. He will find many commissions there amongst my friends.’
Isabella, slowly removing her outer garments, cast an eye at the walnut-panelled long clock in the corner. ‘I think, if the women are here, we should begin.’
The candidates had been waiting in Lumsden’s wife’s parlour, and were now brought before us, one at a time. There were five women, whose ages ranged from about seventeen to forty, each dressed in what could only have been her best Sabbath attire. I recognised at least three of them – two widowed acquaintances of Sarah’s and Elizabeth’s, and Christiane Rolland, the French master’s sister. Each interview followed a similar pattern to the first. Lumsden, on behalf of the council, having already scrutinized their letters of recommendation, quizzed them further on their families, the length and nature of their attachment to the burgh, and their present circumstances. He then examined their understanding of basic accounts and the clarity with which they could present them. It fell to me, less as a college regent than as a soon-to-be-inducted minister, to enquire after their morals and their knowledge
of the catechisms, before setting them to some small task that would give proof of their proficiency in letters. Isabella then questioned them closely on their facility in various tasks of household economy and practice, from the preparing of simples to the darning of a sock. Lady Rothiemay, to my surprise, said nothing at all. It was only when I caught the look in her eye as the third candidate, a narrow, joyless spinster well advanced in years, was undergoing her trial that I realised what her Ladyship’s role in proceedings was: she was deciding if she liked them.
Christiane Rolland was the last of the candidates to come before us, by which time I was thoroughly regretting the amount of Archie’s brandy I had drunk and the sleep I had not had. I had known Christiane since she had been a child of eight, and so paid little heed to her answers to Lumsden’s questions on her eligibility for the post and her connections in the burgh. I already knew of her proficiency in letters and set her only a very small task, which she completed with less competence than I would have expected – the quill in her hand shaking a little, and the handwriting being consequently less legible than I knew it to be. Her answers on the catechisms were perfect, as had been those of all the women, and had it not been for the rigid form of proceeding that had been set down in advance, I would not have troubled to ask after her morals at all. And yet I had to, for form, and it must have been as plain to the three others in the room as it was to myself that these were the questions that gave Christiane Rolland the greatest
discomfort of all. When I asked her, at the last, if she knew of any cause for which her good name and propriety of living might be called into question, she seemed for a moment at a loss for what to say. She looked down at the hands she was wringing in her lap, not, as the other women had done, directly at me. I posed the question again, as gently as I could. This time, she replied, haltingly and in a voice that was scarcely audible, ‘I trust not, Mr Seaton. I … I trust not.’
There was nothing to do then but release her, before the tears that I thought I could glimpse beginning in her lowered eyes became evident to all.
There was silence for a moment after she closed the door. It was Isabella Irvine who broke it. ‘I do not think she is well. Will I go after her?’
‘Aye, Isabella. Do that.’ Once Isabella had gone, Lady Rothiemay got up and stretched her back. ‘Not well, she may be, but it is no sickness of the body that is troubling that girl. I know Isabella has conceived a liking for her, as I have myself, and I see from your manner of questioning that you share it, Mr Seaton, but she will not do: she will not do at all.’
I could not argue with her, and Lumsden, whose stomach had been rumbling alarmingly for the last quarter of an hour, was in no humour to. ‘We’ll have our dinner brought in and once we have some sustenance in us, we’ll discuss your Ladyship’s pleasure, though I must say, the matter seems plain enough to me.’
It was. Before dishes of pickled herring, bread, mutton with beans and a mint jelly had been set before us, or our goblets half-filled, it had been agreed that there could only be one choice: Ruth Grahame, a childless widow of about thirty-five whose husband had fallen, over a year ago, with the Swedish forces at Nordlingen. Of the other candidates, Lady Rothiemay pronounced one to be too young, one to be iniquitously connected to a family with whom her Ladyship had had dealings, and the third – the older spinster – to have ‘the sourest face I ever saw this side of the Forth’. I knew Sarah would be pleased: Ruth Grahame was a friend of hers, and a woman who faced destitution if decent employment or a new husband could not be found.
Isabella rejoined us after about ten minutes. ‘The other women are down in the kitchen, but I have settled Christiane in Mistress Lumsden’s parlour.’ She looked to Lumsden. ‘I thought some rest and food might help her, and then I will take her home to her brother’s house.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Lumsden. ‘Ring that bell there and get one of the maids to take her up something, but for goodness’ sake have something yourself – you must be half-famished after this morning’s proceedings. I would a hundred times rather sit through the Treasurer’s report in Council than hear another word on the making of butter.’
An hour or so later, after the disappointed candidates had been dismissed and Ruth Grahame told her good fortune, I asked that I might have a few words in private with Christiane.
‘It would hardly be decent, I think, that such a man …’
Lady Rothiemay silenced her. ‘Such a man? Dear God, Isabella, his crime is nigh on ten years old, and a thing to be got over. He is a regent in the college, long married, and’ – here she fixed me with a shrewd stare – ‘I am
very
lately informed, soon to be inducted a minister of the kirk of this burgh. If the girl is not safe with him then there can be little hope for her.’
And so I was shown in to the warm and well-lit parlour in which Christiane had been left. The room was furnished for a woman: there were intricate crewel-work drapes at the window and an oriental rug on the floor that I was at a loss to avoid stepping upon. That Lumsden’s wife was content to have this item underfoot rather than on a wall, or at the very least, draped over a table, spoke as much for his wealth as an examination of his accounts would have done. Christiane was seated on a light walnut chair by the fireplace, a dish of sowens untouched on the small side table at her elbow. She looked only a little better than she had done an hour before, and little further from the tears that had threatened her earlier.
She was startled out of some reverie by my arrival and made a flustered attempt to stand.
‘Please, Christiane, sit back down a minute. I would like to talk to you, and then I will take you home to your brother’s.’
She swallowed. ‘There is no need, Mr Seaton … please do not trouble yourself.’
‘There is no trouble in it, although there would be from your brother, I think, if I were to allow you to make your own way home when you are plainly ill.’
I knew she was not ill, but could not think how better to begin drawing out of her whatever it was that so troubled her.
‘I … it is not that.’
‘Then what, Christiane? I have known you many years now, and your brother. Whatever you have to tell me, you will be telling to a friend, not a college regent, nor minister, or anything else I might be to the rest of the town.’
She lowered her head, disconsolate.
‘Christiane, whatever is wrong will not be mended by your misery.’
She looked at me now, with eyes that were red and tears that threatened to spill out here in the parlour. ‘Then maybe it cannot be mended.’
‘Christiane,’ I said gently, ‘I saw Louis the other night. He spoke of – problems – with two of his scholars. I may be wrong, for I am certain Louis has no idea of this, but does your distress have anything to do with Seoras MacKay?’
She nodded and dissolved into breathless sobs. When she had regained some of her composure she said, ‘I think he is following me.’
‘What?’ I had been ready for many revelations, but not this one. ‘But you know, surely, that Seoras has been missing for three days?’
‘And I think he has been watching me for three days.’
I remembered her brother’s nervousness on the night I had met him after the meeting of the kirk session, his vague suspicion that someone was watching his house. I had thought then that it might have been the recruiting sergeant; now I could not imagine what cause Archie would have had for a vigil over the French master and his sister – I could not think that he would even have known them, for Louis would have been barely nine when Archie had last set foot in Aberdeen. The idea that the unseen watcher might be Seoras MacKay had never entered my head.
‘Why do you think it’s Seoras?’
The colour rose in her cheeks and I thought I knew. ‘Seoras made advances to you?’
She gave the merest nod, never lifting her eyes from the hands that twisted in her lap.
‘You rejected him.’
‘He could not believe it. I do not think it had ever happened to him before.’
‘Did he give up?’
‘For a time. It seemed to amuse him, and then …’
‘Go on.’
‘Then I think Hugh must have said something, must have told him how – how he felt.’ She looked up, pleading. ‘I am not that sort of woman, Mr Seaton. I do not look for the attention of men.’