‘My God.’
‘Madam,’ Eleanor says by way of enquiry, but Araminta ignores her.
Instead, she kneels on the pale-green carpet, the shape of ferns woven into the plush, and pulls out an ancient bible, bound inthick leather and fastened with a brass buckle. Opening it, she’s breathless. The family tree inside runs over two pages, fourteen generations. Fourteen. She counts them twice. ‘My family,’ she murmurs, as she reads Gaelic names she can hardly pronounce; Beairtle and Irial and Lachtna; Neasa and Eithne and Derbhille. She thinks this book may help her to identify the people in the drawing room portraits – the dates of their clothing will guide her. Reading on, the women she notices often die young, her mother among them. And there, at the bottom, is her own name and date of birth. She’s the only child of her generation. She casts back to last night at the church, when Sister Winifred asked if she had daughters and here, at the bottom, she realises there’s a place for her children, as yet unborn. If she’s lucky enough, they’ll appear in the Moore bible and now also have this legacy of people with unpronounceable names alongside Johnathan’s steady, English relations, called Thomas and Mary and John.
Eleanor helps her up and together they lay the book on the dressing table.
‘All these people,’ Araminta gets out. There are tears in her eyes. ‘I didn’t know.’
Eleanor peers at the dog-eared pages. The writing looks as if a spider has walked across the parchment, the iron-ink shades of black, fading to brown. Araminta passes a finger over her family motto. Help the Queen. She mouths the names of her ancestors out loud. They seem less odd that way, related by sound to names she recognises. Sean and Darragh and Kenzie. The women keep their surnames on marriage. An old tradition. And then, in the mid-1600s beside some of the women’s names there’s a symbol; a diamond like in a pack of cards, but coloured black. Her fingers trace downwards, progressing through the eighteenth century to Grainne, her mother and then her own name. Diamonds beside both. That’s when she realises that unlike her husband’s family bible this family tree follows thefemale line. It’s the record of her foremothers. It’s the strangest feeling. Written up the side of the page, in a different hand, the wordsAd libertatumare so small she has to squint to make them out. Towards freedom. She senses this means something important and ancient. Something that along with the house and the paintings is her birthright. She has no idea what it is, other than, because of this book, she knows where she comes from. She has somewhere she is included by right. Somewhere to belong.
Chapter Eight
The morning of Eilidh McKenzie’s funeral, the household removes to St Cuthbert’s. Miss McKenzie’s coffin is loaded into a smart ebony hearse drawn by two black mares, their coats slick with oil, which Mr Drummond arranged according to Eilidh’s instructions. Araminta rides in the coach behind with Eleanor. The rest of the household staff follow on foot, led by Brodie. It takes a slow twenty minutes, the neighbours standing on the pavement, bowing to pay their respects as the carriage passes. At the corner of Queensferry Street, three infants crowd a first-floor window, waving at the procession before being pulled back by a nanny. When the solemn line reaches the church, a larger crowd than Araminta anticipated has gathered in the graveyard. Perhaps eighty people. Stepping down she notices Mr Drummond, Dr Anderson and Colonel Fraser with two other officers. She wishes she’d thought to wear a veil, for without one she must catch the eyes of the mourners, most of whom, she realises, probably knew Aunt Eilidh better than she did. Her hands begin to tremble.
Eleanor comes down behind and recognises two more, unexpected faces. She’s shocked to see Mr McGhie on the fringes and beside him the gentleman from Kew, who she realises must have followed the mistress to Scotland only shortly after her departure from London. McGhie nods and flicks his eyes to the area behind the church. Eleanor draws herself up and dutifully follows her mistress, the assembled party falling into a wide procession. Halfway along the path to the grave, Eleanor steps out and draws a handkerchief to her face as if she’s crying. She avoids acknowledging Cook or Brodie or anyone else asthey pass. Then, slowly, she backs away, round the side of St Cuthbert’s where the men are waiting under a sycamore tree.
‘Sir,’ she greets the gentleman from Kew leaning on his cane like a dandy.
‘Well, well,’ he says, his tone too cordial. ‘Fancy meeting you here, Miss Thrale. Mr McGhie was just saying that he hasn’t heard a peep from you the whole of the last day.’
‘I didn’t know you were in Edinburgh, sir,’ Eleanor replies, bobbing a curtsey.
‘I am. Waiting for you.’
‘I couldn’t get away. My mistress has needed me.’
McGhie shakes his head. ‘That won’t do, girl. We must know what she’s up to.’
Eleanor feels intruded upon, if not on her own behalf then on Araminta’s. ‘My lady is bereaved, sir. She’s been sorting through her great aunt’s things.’ She does not add that the mistress is behaving erratically.
‘What things is she sorting through?’ McGhie snaps.
Eleanor grinds her heel into the ground to stop herself stepping away from these disconcerting gentlemen, for she feels if she backs off they will pursue her like terriers. ‘Her family’s things,’ she gets out. ‘Old paintings from the house that she wants sent to London. The poor lady is in mourning, sir.’
‘For an older relation she never met?’
‘Miss McKenzie was Mrs Moore’s only family.’
McGhie lets out a snort. ‘After a fashion,’ he says, and Eleanor does not ask what he means.
‘Who’s called at Glenfinlas Street?’ he demands.
‘Colonel Fraser called yesterday but Mrs Moore has admitted no other, though cards have been left. The colonel is stationed at Edinburgh Castle.’
The gentlemen look at each other as if this information may be important.
‘You’ll come tomorrow and every day to Princes Street,’ Mr McGhie says. ‘If you cannot come during trading hours, you must present yourself at the rear entrance on Rose Street Lane after dark. You’ll tell us who calls, where she goes, if mail is received. Everything. Do you understand?’
Eleanor’s fingers feel weak. She wants to run, but she does what she considers the next best thing. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says, plucking up her courage. ‘I don’t feel this is right any longer.’
The gentleman from Kew lets out a short bark, perhaps a laugh. His dark eyes dance. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Thrale, if you don’t do exactly as we say I’ll make sure your mistress knows of the arrangement I’ve had with you these last three years. That you’ve spied on her since you joined her household. You’ll be dismissed. You’ll never get another position. I hope you’ve been saving your shillings. If you don’t do as you’re told, you’ll need them.’
Eleanor feels sick. From the other side of the graveyard the assembled mourners sing a hymn, unaccompanied. The noise makes her jump. ‘You wouldn’t,’ she says.
McGhie grasps her wrist. ‘You’d be in the workhouse inside of a month,’ he spits. ‘Now, you’ll come tomorrow, like a good girl, and tell us everything.’
Tears well in Eleanor’s eyes. ‘Are you going to turn over the mistress’s belongings? I’ll not help you thieve her, poor lady.’
