They are both glad when Brodie returns carrying a mahogany tray inlaid in ivory with the same crest as on the wall downstairs. He sets everything down. Araminta peers at the words.
‘Gaelic,’ Aunt Eilidh explains as she pours. ‘It’s our family motto.Cuidich a’ bhanrigh. Help the queen. That’s our family duty. In the old days McKenzies were ladies-in-waiting at the royal court over many generations.’ The old woman takes a blue glass flacon from her pocket and adds four slow drops to her cup. ‘Medicine,’ she confides. ‘It’s an experimental distillation made from coffee beans and coca leaves. I’m far worse without it.’
Araminta helps herself to a slice of flan which she nibbles gingerly. The crust is buttery and the mushrooms seasoned expertly with shallot, parsley and lemon. Unexpectedly delicious, it melts in her mouth. ‘Mmm,’ she lets out and takes a sip of the tea which is peppery and an excellent pairing. After the workaday fare on the voyage, it tastes especially delicious.
‘My preferences have changed lately and I can no longer abide meat, but Cook is most accomplished, thankfully. You’ve come for my legacy, perhaps she will agree to run your kitchen once I’ve gone,’ the old lady chortles. ‘If you can tempt her to London. You never know.’
Araminta lays down her plate. ‘I shouldn’t like you to think that I’m only here for an inheritance,’ she says.
Aunt Eilidh’s eyes dance. ‘There’s a bit more to it than Cook. A few hundred years of history. Nonetheless, you should try the cake.’
Araminta complies. For a moment she feels confused. Thyme is not a sweet herb and yet the cake is moist, fragrant and delicious with a distinct flavour of orange peel and almonds. She sits back and returns the old lady’s smile.
‘You’ve a great deal to learn,’ Aunt Eilidh says. ‘They educated you in table manners, I see. Do you love your husband, girl?’
Araminta nods.
‘Day and night, if you take my meaning?’ the old lady pushes.
Araminta nods again and dismisses the flash of Johnathan’s bare thigh that passes through her mind. A drop of his sweat landing on her stomach. The linen rumpled.
‘McKenzie women do well between the sheets, though our family honour comes first. Or at least it should. My mother used to say, women can have it all. A worthy ambition.’ Aunt Eilidh brings her back to reality. The comments are made with a practical air and Araminta wonders how a spinster might have any idea. She certainly only had the vaguest notion before she married, though she quickly picked up what was required. More than that. Aunt Eilidh chortles again. ‘Lass,’ she says dismissively and turns her attention to her own slice of flan. ‘If you’re not here for the money, what is it you desire?’
Araminta feels a wave of anxiety crash on some distant shore. ‘I couldn’t leave you alone. Being ill, I mean. I know nothingabout the McKenzies, but I think you’re my closest relation. My only relation. I hope you can tell me about our family. Where do we come from?’
Aunt Eilidh licks her fingers. ‘It’s good you’re interested in history. I’ve a great many tales,’ she says. ‘Our men have always been solid, loyal types. Reliable. Battle-worthy.’ All this in a dismissive tone. Then Aunt Eilidh leans forward. ‘But the women have greater nuance.’
‘My mother?’ Araminta ventures, her heart beating a ragged, heightened tattoo.
‘Grainne was clever. Imaginative too. The accident was a tragedy.’
‘Her horse, wasn’t it?’
‘She was an accomplished rider,’ Aunt Eilidh adds. ‘A daredevil. We’d high hopes for her.’
‘We?’
‘Her mother and I...’ Eilidh pushes away the plate.
‘Her mother was... my grandmother,’ Araminta reasons. ‘Your sister.’
‘Of course.’
Araminta feels a dunce. These unthought-of relationships lie between the two women like tangled silks in a sewing basket. She never expected to have the opportunity to straighten things out and is only now realising the extent of the knotted threads.
‘What was my grandmother’s name?’
‘Aoife,’ Aunt Eilidh says. ‘Eve – in English,’ she adds.
‘But Aoife in Scots?’
‘No, dear. Gaelic,’ the old lady sighs. ‘We are Highland quines. Three sisters. Aoife, Saoirse and me.’ She gets up and extracts an atlas from a shelf, flicking through the pages. ‘Here. Your great grandfather was from Cromarty.’
‘A reliable, battle-worthy man?’ Araminta checks.
‘He was. Sandy-haired till the day he died. A great breeder of cattle.’
‘And my great grandmother?’
