‘Not the crown? The honours?’
Eleanor takes a punt that whoever has been spying on Mrs Moore was not able to follow them inside the castle’s walls, else what is she doing here? ‘No, sir,’ she says.
Mr McGhie grabs the neck of the only upright bottle and takes a swig. ‘I don’t trust her,’ he snarls, pointing at Eleanor, then slams down the Bordeaux. The other gentleman clearly agrees but remains silent. ‘I’m minded to beat it out of her. You just watch me, Harry.’
Eleanor doesn’t flinch. She knows how to take a beating for she suffered the minister’s endless swipes with the tawse.
‘Was there no talk of jewels, Miss Thrale? Be careful to consider your reply,’ the gentleman says, his tone colder than the weather beyond the back door.
Eleanor holds her ground. ‘My mistress does not have a deal of jewellery, sir. She dresses plainly. There’s her wedding ring, I suppose, and her mother-of-pearl combs. And a jet mourning brooch. You said you weren’t planning to rob her.’
‘We’re not. And you’ve not answered my question. Was there talk of the honours?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by the honours, sir.’
‘The crown, you stupid girl,’ McGhie cuts in, slapping his hand on the table.
Eleanor bites her lip and the wine merchant, frustrated, lunges at her, but he’s slow in drink and she dodges him; the nimble remnants of growing up around brothers. The other gentleman interposes himself. Both men glare, one holding back the other, she realises, because if she’s to be beaten, he wants to order it.
‘Get out,’ he spits. ‘You’ll come again tomorrow.’
Eleanor doesn’t need to be told twice and runs for the door. As she does so she hears them bickering. ‘Dear God, McGhie,’ the gentleman bursts out. ‘You’ve no control.’
‘Damn you, Harry Thom,’ McGhie parries. ‘The girl is hopeless. Why did you choose her?’
In seconds Eleanor is back on the freezing lane and it’s only then she realises the gentleman didn’t pay her shillings nor fetch a cab and she must trudge empty-handed the mile back to Glenfinlas Street. At the first junction, three children outside a public house play hopscotch by the light of a tallow lamp. She glances over her shoulder. The gentlemen have not pursued her. Accordingly, she slows her pace and wonders if Mr McGhie plans to murder her. He said so in the graveyard. The way he swooped round the table’s edge was violent. But the other gentleman, she realises, is violent too, only he masks it better. They are bullies. She doesn’t want to go back tomorrow or any other day. Her mistress, as far as she can see, is blameless.
As she reaches Charlotte Square, flickering yellow light is cast onto the wide pavement through cracks in the curtains. These slices afford views of toffs at long dining tables in rooms with blood-red walls. At the kerb, carriages wait. Two drivers warm their hands on a brazier set on the flagstones at the far south corner. Beyond, she can see the top of Glenfinlas Street. It’s odd how accustomed she’s become to Edinburgh. She can find her way in the dark.
In the basement area of the McKenzie house, the two maids-of-all-work giggle under the entrance stair. It’s the most sound Eleanor has heard the girls make since she arrived. As she descends the shallow stone stairs, one fumbles to hide a white clay pipe they’ve been sharing.
‘You don’t need to shift that. I won’t tell,’ Eleanor smiles. ‘Do they mind you smoking?’
‘Cook says it’s an ungodly habit,’ one of the girls admits. The other brings the pipe back out and puffs on it, passing it good-naturedly to Eleanor.
‘Thanks,’ Eleanor says. The girls move along the wooden bench and she sits and takes a long, slow puff of the golden shag.
‘Where’ve you been, Thrale?’ one asks.
Eleanor of course cannot say. ‘Exploring the city. The castle is beautiful. Are you from here?’
‘Liberton,’ the second girl says. ‘It’s only a village.’
‘I’m from a village too. Wimbledon,’ Eleanor admits. She thinks how nice it would be to be in Wimbledon, rather than in this awful fix.
All three young women sit for a few seconds, contemplating what they have in common.
‘Won’t your lady need you?’ the first girl asks.
Eleanor shakes her head. ‘There’s little for me to do. I’ll help her pack, I suppose, when she’s done.’
‘What was the castle like?’
‘Full of soldiers,’ Eleanor says, feeling better.
There is a pause and all three of them laugh uproariously.
‘Cook would especially hate that, wouldn’t she?’ Eleanor adds.
