“Besides,” Paterson grumbled, picking up the reins, “the boy tells good stories. I have ne’er been entertained so well. Today, he promises to finish the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”
It was the longest speech Arabella had heard from Paterson in their two-day acquaintance.
Alasdair handed Arabella into the carriage, and they sat opposite each other, as they had when Maggie had been with them.
Arabella did not know if this arrangement was best. Yes, she had had wicked thoughts about what she might do if she were seated next to him, but now, in this position, facing him, unchaperoned, even looking at him had become tinged with danger.
She stole a glance at him. The bit of sunburn on his nose. Where had he gotten that? His mouth. His green eyes, the left one hidden by that lock of his hair. And then if she looked down, she saw his long legs, his gloved hands with those long fingers holding one of his medical journals. She turned her eyes to the window, suddenly shy.
Fewer than two-dozen words were exchanged between them in the first hour of their journey that day.
Arabella abruptly stood and turned around and sat next to Alasdair.
“I just needed a change,” she said.
And their new positions relative to each other, seated side by side, where they did not have to look into the face of the other, did seem to free both of them to talk.
He commented on Maggie’s sister’s situation.
“’Tis good she has Mrs. Gunn with her.”
“Yes, Maggie will sort it out, what can be sorted out, that is. But it is horrid for that man to leave them with no money, no word of where he is. He has condemned those children to poverty.”
“But ’tis good that the children have their mother. To have one parent who loves ye, ’tis important.”
Arabella remembered then that Alasdair had been orphaned at a young age and raised by an aunt and uncle until they too died.
“As ye had yer mother,” he said. “When yer father died.”
She shifted on the seat. She did not wish to speak of her mother.
“Where did you go when you left Bailebrae when you were a boy, Dr. Andrews?”
“I went to Edinburgh. I dinnae ken why. I was ten or so. I must have heard something to make me pass Inverness and keep going. I walked. It took over a fortnight.”
“Only ten years of age? To make your way so far.” In her mind’s eye, Arabella suddenly saw a slender, redheaded boy walking on this very road. Alone. She had to blink rapidly.
“I was lucky. ’Twas a very dry and warm September. But I remember wanting to eat very badly.”
And the solitary, quiet boy had been hungry, too. She made her gloved hands into fists and willed herself to betray no emotion in her voice, since, after all, he could not see her face as they sat side by side. “What did you find to eat?”
“I cannae remember what I ate while walking. But I do remember the first thing I ate in Edinburgh. A carrot. Dr. Murray’s wife saw me climb the wall to steal some carrots from their garden. She came out of the house and I was frightened and started climbing the wall to get away and she said, ‘Let me wash those for ye.’ Meaning the carrots I had in my hand.”
“Dr. Murray is the teacher Harry mentioned in her letter to me?”
“Aye. He and his wife took me in. And he helped me gain entrance to study with the Edinburgh Medical Faculty.”
“Harry said he was ill?”
“He died just before I came to ye.”
“I am very sorry.” She paused and thought how important this man must be to him. “It must be a very great loss to you. Were you with him when he died?”
“Aye.”
“I am glad of that for his sake. And his wife?”
“Mrs. Murray died when I was still in training.”
