‘The roses are a Stuart symbol,’ Winifred says. ‘King James and his sons. The true heirs to the crown.’
Grizel looks appalled. ‘Lord, Saoirse, what have you got us into?’ she demands.
‘My dear, as James and his sons are long dead, I’ve got you into nothing at all,’ Winifred snaps back. ‘We’re following an ancient trail. Almost a hundred years old, in fact.’ She peers at the curlicues round the roses. ‘The Bonnie Prince famously plucked a white rose at Fassfern. Here the flowers are framed, as a picture.’
‘Is there such a picture? Of James and his sons?’ Araminta enquires. ‘Or the prince picking the rose perhaps?’ It seems whimsical.
‘Hundreds,’ Winifred declares. ‘Every Jacobite with means will have had something of the sort.’
‘Was such a thing not treasonous?’
‘The treason, of course, was in saying that the Stuarts were the rightful heirs to the throne. Not the possession of an image. James was noble. A cousin to the Hapsburgs. How could it be treasonous to have a picture of a member of the nobility? Some were afraid, however, of prosecution, and as a result there were many symbols for the rebellion, such as these three flowers which folk used to hide their allegiance. Thistles. Roses. Bears.’
‘Did Berenice own anything like that?’
‘I’ve not seen a picture of the Stuart royals anywhere among our things, though there used to be a set of brandy glasses engraved with thistles in the dining room.’
Araminta sighs in frustration. She grips the edge of the padded quilt on Winifred’s bed. ‘I don’t understand why Berenice made it so impossible,’ she says.
‘The times,’ Winifred lets out. ‘She must have been terrified. But much of this will have seemed more obvious to her than it does to us today.’
Araminta thinks the times feel dangerous enough now, with Thom in pursuit. But if Berenice had to bear it, she decides she must too. ‘Is there a monument to the Stuarts?’ she asks.
Grizel lets out a ‘pah’ and looks as if she might choke.
Measured, Winifred continues. ‘A painting in a private residence is one thing, a miniature kept amongst one’s things, but a dedicated monument would have been a place to mass. There’s nothing I can think of though I’ve seen these roses on old graves. And there’ve always been rumours of folk gathering at Culloden on the anniversary of the battle but there’s nothing there. It’s only a moor.’
‘This isn’t a gravestone.’ Araminta indicates her drawing. ‘It’s a frame, as you said. I think I should return to Glenfinlas Street. Perhaps there’s a print in the library. A picture need not be in oils.’
Grizel rises. ‘I’ll send to the magistrate to say you’ve been found, Mrs Moore.’
‘Yes,’ Winifred chimes. ‘We’d best call them off.’
‘I wish you’d come with me,’ Araminta cuts in. ‘We have men at Glenfinlas Street. Mr Brodie, Davey and Douglas. We could arm them.’
Winifred says nothing but thinks that the men at Glenfinlas Street are rather the problem.
‘I cannot be moved, dear,’ she says. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
Grizel doesn’t say that the doctor specifically said that Winifred might move as long as she was careful.
‘Very well,’ Araminta concedes. ‘Where was the place the prince picked the flower?’
‘Fassfern,’ Winifred repeats. ‘In the north. There’s little there.’
‘I’ll check the maps. You never know. And I’ll look out for the glasses with the thistles. Perhaps there’s something nobody’s noticed.’
‘And Thom?’ Winifred checks.
‘I think it’s unlikely he’ll find this clue. He knows I was on the roof of St Giles’, that’s all.’
‘You climbed onto the roof?’ Winifred is shocked. Somewhere among Araminta telling her the story, she hadn’t realised this.
‘Like my great great grandmother before me,’ Araminta points out. It strikes her that such acrobatics no longer seem particularly unusual to her, though she was afraid. She bends to kiss her great aunt on the cheek before leaving with Eleanor.
Downstairs, they decide it’s too dangerous to walk the mile home in the dark. Mr Campbell sends for a hired cab and dispatches a note to Mr Neill to call off the search though the detectives must still catch Harry Thom. He’ll be charged, no doubt, when they do. But at least, as Mr Campbell puts in the note, the lady is safely recovered.
Back at Glenfinlas Street, Douglas attends the women. Mr Brodie, he says, is out. Agnes, appearing from below stairs, seems relieved when the mistress heads upwards with Eleanor to change her clothes. The fussing over corsets hasn’t suited her.
