‘Of course,’ the nun replies without offering any condolence. There’s no point in making a fuss about that, Araminta thinks. Still.
‘Are you attacked often, Sister?’ she enquires.
Winifred rolls her eyes. ‘Sometimes. Not often. The place. The times. They got away with two shillings. They’re not really dangerous and perhaps they needed it more than I do. Is this your first visit to Scotland, child?’
Araminta nods. ‘I’ve read a great deal of course. Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott.’
Winifred snorts. ‘Burns will be in hell by now. He did nothing but seduce women, then abandon them. And as for Scott...’ She shudders.
‘A lothario?’ Araminta cannot believe it.
‘Oh no, dear. A crushing bore,’ Winifred says. ‘We knew each other since we were children. All those ridiculous characters.’ She puts on a strange, high voice. ‘I’m poor Meg Merilees, cross my palm and I’ll die happy... Charlie yet...’ such an awful death scene. They’re dreadful stories. No wonder he wrote the first ones anonymously. Still, he was a tolerable poet, I’d say. The great buffoon.’ She gives a gravelly laugh again and changes the subject. ‘I thought you might have need of me.’
Araminta shifts. She’s not religious though she attends church on Sundays. ‘I’m not in need of a confessor...’ she starts.
The smile that opens on Sister Winifred’s visage is warm as sunrise. She laughs again, this time like a far younger woman. ‘I’m not soliciting you for that. I was your mother’s aunt, girl.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I cannot elaborate more clearly.’
Araminta thinks the old woman probably could, but won’t.
‘Life deals many hands. Some people suffer, some people benefit, but it must balance. All nature, all life is balance. That is God’s work. We must pay our debts. Your dear mother knewthat. We hoped to have more time before we told you. We sought to spare you, Eilidh and I.’
Araminta feels a sudden surge of energy. She wonders if it’s the sherry. ‘If you’re my mother’s aunt, you’re Great Aunt Eilidh’s sister.’
Winifred grins. ‘I was Saoirse McKenzie, in my younger days. A long time ago. It’s strange to be the eldest and the last one left alive but people don’t go in the order they come and I’ve many more sisters now. Life is a messy business, but perhaps you haven’t realised that yet. Saoirse means freedom, but I became Winifred. I chose the name as a blessed reconciliation. A fresh start. Winifred means white; a blank page.’
‘You found God?’
‘God sheltered me, after all my sins.’ The old nun peers at Araminta as if she’s only now noticing her. ‘You, my dear, look exactly like your mother. Though somewhat paler. She was a marvellous woman. We had high hopes of her. From your performance outside, I see you’ve inherited the McKenzie pluck. That’ll be to the good. Where did you get the gun?’
‘It was a gift,’ Araminta says. ‘From my husband.’ It was a joke at the time. ‘A muff gun,’ Johnathan announced with delight when she opened the package. Araminta only fired it once, at an apple in the back garden. She didn’t miss and has eleven bullets left.
Winifred claps her hands. ‘You hadn’t married when I first joined the order. You were much younger, of course. Congratulations.’
Araminta’s mind is racing. She has a hundred questions about what happened between her great aunts, who clearly haven’t spoken for a decade, perhaps two. Winifred, she thinks, will be able to name the people in the portraits. Winifred knew her mother. It’s overwhelming to have her family history put within reach, snatched and then returned in so short a time.
‘Aunt Eilidh’s funeral is two days hence at St Cuthbert’s,’ she gets out. ‘The butler said it was her favourite church.’
The old nun makes a tutting sound. ‘My sister never took to church. A favourite indeed. Well, I shan’t attend. They will be watching.’
Araminta eyes the nun as if she might be mad. Who on earth declines to attend her own sister’s funeral? ‘Who’ll be watching?’ she manages.
‘She didn’t tell you anything, then?’
‘Aunt Eilidh died within an hour of my arrival.’
‘It’s just like her.’ Winifred does not sound the least bereaved. She’s more annoyed than anything else, as if her sister died on a whim. ‘Always rushing,’ she adds.
‘I’m here to close up the house,’ Araminta announces. ‘That’s why Aunt Eilidh summoned me. To wind up her estate. To bury her body and see to a gravestone. Please, I should like your assistance.’
‘Ha!’
‘What do you mean, aunt?’
‘Brodie could close up the house, don’t you think? He’s nothing if not efficient. Old Drummond, the dry stick, would have the papers in order inside a fortnight. That’s not why she called for you, girl. You’re here to do your duty.’
