“Wore?” Past tense.
Isobel’s expression shuttered. “She died this June. She was in delicate health for several years, which worsened during last winter’s harsh weather, but after Lucy’s disappearance... Maman blamed herself. And the cold damp this spring...” She drew a breath, steadying herself. “I’d have seen her buried with this, had not Da bid me keep it.”
“Your mother was French?” Which fact explained Isobel’s nearly flawless French.
She looked narrowly at him.
“You called herMaman.”
“Yes. French by birth.”
“Anémigréeduring the Revolution?”
“Before, by several years. Mygrand-pèrewrote Da a letter—Da was living in Glasgow—and asked if he would look after Maman and Grand-mère until things here settled.”
“Why your father?”
“There was some old family connection dating back to the Auld Alliance. When Da was in France for a time as a young man, studying, he looked up mygrand-père.They maintained a correspondence thereafter.”
“Did your mother never return to France?”
“Never. She and Da married soon after she and Grand-mèrecame to Scotland. A marriage made initially for practical reasons but ultimately of love as well.” Her brief fond smile was soft, sad.
“And your grandfather?”
“He remained in hopes things would turn but lost his life duringLa Terreur.”
Facts he could possibly verify, with a name. “Your mother’s name?”
“Marie-Iseult Blanchet, although she used an anglicized form of her forename after she married my father. Isolde.”
“And your father?”
A spasm of grief crossed Isobel’s face. She slipped a folded paper from inside the journal’s cover, passing it carefully over.
It was a letter signed by a Robert Muir, soft and worn along the creases as though read many times, although it was dated only the second week of August.
He looked sharply up at Isobel after scanning the lines.
She anticipated his question. “Da did not take his own life. His heart had a weakness, something to do with its rhythm. But my mother’s death, so soon after Lucy’s disappearance... It was grief that carried him off, as much as his heart.”
He returned his eyes to the letter, rereading it more closely.
My dear Isobel,
By the time you read these words, I will have left you. These nine weeks past have been the longest I have been parted fromyour mother in close to thirty years, and while I rejoice in the knowledge that soon I will again embrace my beloved Isolde, I regret more than I can say that in rejoining her, I leave you alone.
I know you will do all that is possible for Lucy. My solicitor has record of the provisions I have made for you, both for that endeavor and all the years ahead of you. I must believe in my heart that you will succeed in bringing Lucy home, whether to England or Scotland. However, should you not find your sister and she is lost to you as well, I beg you,a nighean, do not remain all your life in the darkness of grief. Walk towards the light and find happiness.
Remember that night always ends and nightingales sing most sweetly as dawn is breaking.Thig crìoch air an t-saoghal, ach mairidh gaol is ceòl.Embrace joy,a spideag, for you have always been meant to sing.
I love you, daughter.
D’athair gràdhach/ Your loving father,
Robert Muir
“That line in—Gaelic, is it? What does it mean?” He couldn’t begin to guess the meaning of the non-English words.
