Eric decided a pint would be a good idea. He stopped his horse, swung off, and tied it to a post. He entered the tavern and took a place next to the window that overlooked the river.
Stratton followed a few minutes later. He regarded Eric with his dark, curious eyes while they waited for the ale to arrive.
“So?” he said after a good swallow. “Have you ever been there?”
Eric gazed out at the river and the road beside it. Stratton just waited. That was why it was Stratton who came. Langford would never be able to wait it out.
“I have not been there in many years, but I was there when my father was alive.”
Silence from Stratton. Eric eventually turned his attention to his friend. Stratton’s expression said there would be no more questions because Stratton had drawn some conclusions. Possibly erroneous ones.
“It was my inheritance, after all,” Eric added.
“Of course. Only you must have been quite young, because your current coachman does not remember. And I could not help but remember that time after university when you retreated from friends for almost a year. You were not in town for some of that period. Is that when you went north?”
Stratton was so amiable and smooth that men often underestimated him. Two had done so to their eternal regret. Eric respected this friend, especially his mind, but he wished at the moment that Stratton were not quite so sharp in his wits.
He looked out the window again.Sheep dotting the hills to the horizon. A bewitching madness. “Yes.”
“But you aren’t going to tell me about it, are you?”
Fire burning the heavy clouds. “No.”
Stratton drained his ale. “So be it. I believe the advice I shared is even better than I guessed. Unless you want half the world investigating that place and that time, come to terms with this woman one way or another.”
“The king wants me to marry her. That is a hellish solution.”
Stratton did not laugh. “If you are hiding something, that may be the best solution. Now, I am riding back. Are you joining me or wandering farther?”
Eric followed him out. Stratton had been right about one thing: It was time to come to terms with Miss MacCallum.
* * *
The dust in the chamber lay densely on the records and tomes, and every movement sent it flying like tiny snowflakes. Whenever Davina turned a page, a thin cloud formed in front of the window.
“It should be here.” Mr. Hume’s thin, long finger slid down the page. “Ah. There he is.”
His finger stopped at a name in a list of those who died at Culloden. Her great-grandfather’s name, Michael MacCallum.
“It does not refer to him as a baron,” she said while she stifled a sneeze. “It could be any Michael MacCallum.”
“Only one died there. I checked.”
“You have done this before?”
“I took it upon myself to do so, lest someone say even the source of your claim was false. Had another Michael MacCallum perished that day, someone might say you are that one’s great-granddaughter.”
“If you had told me what you found, I would have trusted you and been spared all this heavy air.” She also would have been spared the way Mr. Hume leaned in close while they examined the huge bound manuscript. He still hovered too closely, increasing her discomfort. She considered allowing the sneezes to erupt right in his face.
“Let us go, then, so your health is not affected.”
They left the War Office and began the walk home. Mr. Hume did not like to hire carriages. He said nature had given people two legs for a reason. Davina could not disagree with that, but an hour walk in each direction for no purpose did not amuse her.
“I am glad we are having this time together,” Mr. Hume said. “It gives me an opportunity to talk to you about something that has been much on my mind.”
“Is this conversation the true reason for this outing? Because while the records chamber was fascinating, I did not need to visit there.”
“You should see what evidence there is in any direction, so you can say you did when you are questioned.”
