She smelled so nice, he kept turning the pages. They did not see references to James MacCallum until the fateful year of 1745. At the top of a page, all but in the margin, came the brief notation that James MacCallum, age five, died on 17 December.
“That is odd.” Davina narrowed her eyes on that line, then turned back several pages, then examined it again. “It is almost as if it were added there later.”
It did look that way, at least a little. Furthermore, it had been inserted above a marriage documentation, with all those signatures and such. Usually those started new pages, in order to make sure everything fit together.
Not far after that page came the one with the last baron’s death. That did receive its own page, and a bit of a flourish.Michael MacCallum, baron, owner of Teyhill manor and lands, perished at Culloden on 16 April 1746, fighting for Scotland. Buried on the field. A few other men’s deaths followed on the next page, with similar statements.
The old man was gazing at Davina again. She did not notice when she turned to him. “We would like to visit the graveyard. I believe a relative is buried there.”
“It’s on the other side of the church. Goes on a way after all these years. The newer graves are over by the big tree at the far end.”
They left him and walked around the church to the graveyard. No stone wall surrounded it. The big tree seemed to mark its current border. “I suppose it will be over there,” he said.
“Not all the way, though.” She kept her gaze on the stones while they moved down a row toward the tree. “Around here, I would think,” she said, stopping.
She went in one direction and he in another. He found the grave first. He almost did not call to her, not wanting to see her disappointment. He experienced none of the triumph he should have felt.
“It is here, Davina.”
She came over, her expression carefully set to hide her reaction. She looked at the stone with James MacCallum’s year of birth and death.
He noticed the minister had followed them out. He stared at Davina hard, his eyes squinting and his brow furrowed. Something about her clearly arrested this old man’s attention.
“If I wanted to protect a child, I would arrange for a grave lest anyone come looking,” she said. “And why is it here, and not in the family yard, if he truly died before his father? I have not seen many other MacCallums buried in this plot.”
A few weeks ago he would have disabused her of the twisted scheme she wove around this boy’s life and death. Instead, he kept noticing how the minister watched her.
“Davina, we can argue the finer points of new identities later. Right now, I think the minister wants to speak to you. If I go, he may not hold back as he does now. I will wait at the phaeton.”
He walked away, wondering if he had just handed her a sizable chunk of the estate his father had entrusted to him.
* * *
Davina walked toward the minister. “His Grace thinks you may want to talk to me.”
He palmed the air as if pushing the idea aside. “Nothing to say, really. Just wondering is all, if my mind is right or not on the memory.”
“What memory is that?”
“My eyes aren’t what they were, so I’m probably wrong. Only it seems to me that you look like him.”
“Like who?”
“Years ago, a man came to these parts. A stranger. Shared a few ales with him, and a bit of whiskey too, so I came to know him a bit. He helped the local folk for a summer, then disappeared one day.”
“My father has visited this region. I even came with him once.”
“Oh, it was long before your time. I wasn’t much more than a lad. Just taken my orders, as I recall. It was long ago.” He peered at her face. “Something about you that reminds me of him. Your smile, for sure. And this.” He drew his fingers down either side of his face. Then he chuckled. “I’m just an old man with an old memory. They’re stronger than the new ones these days.”
She judged him to be around seventy-five. The old memories had a way of moving around in time, stretching and contracting. What was remembered as five years ago actually was twenty, and vice versa. “If he was a relative of mine, I’m glad he helped the locals however he could.”
“Seemed a good man to me. I was sorry to see him go.”
“I thank you for your help today. You have been very kind,” she said by way of taking her leave. She walked through the yard and back to the carriage, where Brentworth lounged against its side.
“Did he want something?” he asked.
She let him help her into the seat. “He thought I looked like a stranger who was here some years ago. I think he meant my father, who visited this region a few times in the summers. I do resemble him.”
