The girl strides downhill through the mud and returns with a contented brown duck under her arm. ‘Their eggs are bigger than a hen’s,’ she says knowledgeably. ‘But we mun keep them penned cause of foxes.’
Araminta wonders where Berenice might have left a clue in such a place. Gardens change, even if this was once a well-ordered, grassy slope with apple trees and lavender, only a fool would expect it to stay so. Hoping that something will catch her eye, she continues round the boundary wall which is built of roughly hewn sandstone mortared in irregular shapes. The wall is ordinary and at the rear of the steep garden the view is a fetching vista of the New Town, though in Berenice’s day, Araminta thinks, it would have been open fields.
‘Do you know who this house was built for?’ she asks.
‘It was a Maitland woman lived here,’ the girl says, pointing back towards the crest. ‘Fancy folk. I’ll show you.’
With the duck still under her arm, she strides back up the garden and through the door, leading Araminta to the first floor, where the apartment is open.
‘Do you live here?’ Araminta asks.
The girl shakes her head. ‘The Lindsays,’ she pronounces. ‘They’re helping at the printers. Mr Lindsay sets the press,’ she adds. ‘He gets an extra sixpence when it’s busy to bring more hands.’
Inside, the apartment smells of melted tallow. Laundry hangs from a rack attached to the wooden ceiling, and through the still-damp petticoats and stockings Araminta can see a faded, painted frieze. The wooden fireplace is carved with sheaves of barley and a motto in Latin,Consillio et Animis– ‘By Spirit and Skill’. There isn’t much furniture, but a small pile of pamphlets lies on a shelf near the window. Not surprising, she thinks, given Mr Lindsay’s occupation. The apartment overlooks the church. The girl follows Araminta’s gaze. ‘That’s the Tron Kirk. The salt tron was nearby, ken, but no now.’
‘Tron?’ Araminta enquires.
‘You know. To stop folk getting swindled.’
‘Ah.’ The penny drops. There are markets nearby, Araminta recalls, the butchery block and poultry. A tron must be the standard of weighing apparatus. ‘Is the word Gaelic?’ she asks.
‘Our folk are no Gaels,’ the girls snaps. She pulls the duck upwards, as if steeling herself against a slur.
‘My family are,’ Araminta admits, smiling because a fortnight ago she had no idea. ‘Highland folk,’ she adds. ‘I don’t speak the tongue.’
The girl looks surprised. ‘Is there anything else, ma’am?’
Araminta shakes her head and deposits another penny into the child’s free hand.
Outside, Davey’s smoking a stinking cheroot. He stubs it out as she emerges and shoves it into his pocket. ‘It’s a bad habit, I know, ma’am,’ he apologises for Cook is a holy terror to all the staff.
‘I don’t mind,’ Araminta says, as he opens the carriage door.
Davey glances back at the Maitland house.
‘Who were you visiting?’
‘None of your business,’ Araminta snaps, but adds, ‘it’s a dead end anyway. This part of town is...’ she wants to say ancient, she supposes, but can’t get it out. Perhaps the word is interesting, or historic or sad.
‘My folk live on the Canongate.’ Davey motions down the hill. ‘By the brewery.’
‘That’s the smell of hops then?’
‘Reminds me of home, miss.’
‘So you know it round here?’
‘Aye. Yes,’ Davey corrects himself for Mrs Moore, he knows, is English.
‘Do you know this house?’ She indicates the door she’s just left.
‘Not really. But the house next door is where the Act of Union was signed.’ Davey stops himself from adding the famous Robert Burns quote that people normally tack onto this fact.Boughtand sold for English gold.There were riots outside while the deed was done.
Araminta perks up. This sounds more notable. ‘Do you think I might see it?’
Davey shrugs. He closes the carriage door and disappears into a booth on the ground floor next to the wool shop.
He gestures when he returns. ‘They’re sick of people asking but the man says he’ll show you for sixpence.’
