She fumbles in her reticule as she follows him back inside. It’s a leather shop and strips of hide are slung over hooks mounted along the back of a workbench.
‘Aye, it was here,’ the man says, as he removes the coin from Araminta’s gloved fingers. ‘This way.’ He leads her into a dilapidated basement. ‘They were ashamed,’ he adds by way of explanation. ‘A crowd gathered outside the kirk. Folk were agin the union.’ The basement shows no sign of its illustrious history and looks worse the further she enters into it. The walls are pockmarked stone. A bed comprising a stuffed sack of straw is set under the stair. There’s a small fireplace with a bucket of water to one side and a greasy-looking chair on the other.
‘Here?’ she confirms, hardly able to believe it.
The man nods. ‘’Twas a kitchen in those days, mebbe.’
Araminta doubts it. The fireplace is too small to accommodate either roasting or baking. She doesn’t argue, instead drawn to the back door. The window beside it is caked with soot. ‘What’s out there?’
The man opens up. She steps out. This garden is even steeper than the one next door. Quickly she walks along the boundary and inspects the wall, which is, she thinks, the only thing out there that Berenice could reasonably have expected to last. The rough-hewn sandstone is peppered black with soot and there’s no carving. She sighs.
Back in the carriage, feeling like a failure, she directs Davey home. In Glenfinlas Street the hallway is full of light by comparison to the Maitland house. It doesn’t surprise Araminta that high society moved away from the low-ceilinged Old Town to these bright, airy houses. She has an appointment to meet Sister Winifred this evening at St John’s Kirk and wanted to have made progress. She hopes the triangulation she’s uncovered will make sense to her great aunt. She imagines Winifred poring over a velum map, coming out with abstruse facts from Scottish history. ‘There must be an octagonal stone, the mark of the Scottish royals. A unicorn, my dear. From there if you take a compass and mark ten paces to the north you’ll come to the seat of the McKenzie jewels. Freedom for women! Didn’t they teach you anything in London?’
The idea makes her giggle.
Brodie appears as she enters the drawing room.
‘I’ll have white soup. And cold meat with mustard,’ she says.
Before the old butler acquiesces, he hovers next to the sopha.
‘What is it?’ Araminta asks.
Brodie’s blue eyes soften. ‘The staff are wondering your intentions, ma’am. How long you might stay in Edinburgh?’
‘The staff?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Are we about to lose someone?’
‘No, ma’am. I don’t think so.’
‘My great aunt, before her death, mentioned that Cook might be enticed down south,’ Araminta says, realising that when Aunt Eilidh posited this, London had seemed more important than Edinburgh. Her world has shifted and she now has doubts.
‘I’ve no idea, ma’am,’ Brodie replies. ‘Would you like me to enquire?’
Araminta gives a non-committal shrug. Brodie continues to linger. The way he puts his head to one side feels somehow too familiar as if he’s watching her not like a butler, but like a man.
‘I’ve made no plans,’ Araminta snaps. ‘I can’t say what I’ll do.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Send up Eleanor, would you?’ she adds brusquely.
Brodie pauses. ‘Thrale went out an hour ago, madam,’ he says. ‘I can have one of the maids see to you if it’s urgent.’
Araminta checks the timepiece on the mantle. It’s three of the clock. Eleanor, she thinks, has been gone a good deal longer than an hour, but she doesn’t want to get into that with the butler. ‘It’s all right. That’ll be all.’
As Brodie leaves, she rises and stares up the hill, to the garden on the square. She lets out a tutting sound. Where on earth has the girl got to?
Chapter Seventeen
Earlier in the day, before Araminta called him the second time, Davey drove Eleanor along Princes Street and dropped the young maid at the final block. It didn’t take much effort to bring the lad round for the coachman has no fancy ambitions, unlike the Moore’s coachman in Richmond who is always on the make. As far as Eleanor can ascertain, Davey mostly likes cheap cheroots and porridge, the latter of which Cook sends round daily to the mews in a lidded tin, topped with a knob of butter and a slick pool of honey. Davey likes his job though he’s welcomed Mr McGhie’s extra shillings. He’s especially pleased at the prospect of more on the way; now he knows Eleanor has extracted two per visit. ‘We’ll have to get them up a bit,’ she says, cementing herself as a firm friend. ‘And, Davey, the mistress looks after her staff. These men are a short-term sting, but you can back the right horse here and have more in the long run,’ she adds and watches her words sinking in.
‘It’s London the mistress is from?’ he enquires, adding, ‘the big city,’ to the end of the question. From this Eleanor understands a great deal.
‘She’s said she’ll take some of the staff when she goes,’ she tells him. This isn’t a lie though it’s Cook, of course, who’s attracted Mrs Moore’s interest.
