He walked briskly down the steep incline of West Bow, coming to an abrupt halt as he reached the Grassmarket, taken aback by the clamour, which was raucous even for Edinburgh. Coaching inns lined one side of the wide thoroughfare. He’d arrived at one himself, but he had forgotten there was a cattle market at the far end. He’d never find Constance here. Deciding to make one quick circuit before cutting his losses and heading back up to their rendezvous at St Giles’, he walked passed the White Hart and the Black Bull inns, where dray horses pulling carts loaded precariously with barrels fought for space with mail coaches and post chaises. Fighting his way across at King’s Stables Road and the entrance to the market, he took a breather on the corner of West Port, and that’s where he spotted her.
Constance was leaning against the railings of one of the steep sets of stairs that climbed up the outside of the tenements. A smaller building next to where she was standing housed a bookshop, with living quarters above it. He couldn’t see her face, for she was standing side-on to the street, and something about her stance made him wary of approaching her. She was wearing a grey dress with a shawl of indiscriminate hue draped around her shoulders. Her gown looked to him far too warm for the muggy day, and it also looked, he had to admit, rather worn as well as outmoded. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how she managed for money, but it must be a struggle for her. The arrangement with Mrs Winston sounded suspiciously like charity. What stopped her from teaching? One of the many things he’d never know about her now.
She was carrying a stack of papers, and rummaging about now, in her pocket in search of something. Inevitably, the papers fell to the filthy pavement. As she cried out in dismay, he ran to help her.
‘Here, let me.’
‘Grayson! Where did you come from?’
‘I was early, I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘Leave those. Please, I can manage. I didn’t realise I—leave them!’
Her face was tear-streaked. ‘Constance, what on earth is wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She scrubbed her cheeks with her hand. ‘It’s nothing. I’m perfectly fine. I simply need to—give me those. I should have left them with Paul.’
‘Your bookseller friend? What, has he let you have sight of another of Walter Scott’s odes to tartan?’ He meant it as a joke, for he couldn’t put his arms around her, which was what he wanted to do. ‘“Flora MacDonald’s Alternative Etiquette Guide for the Inhabitants of Edinburgh Upon the Occasion of His Majesty’s Visit,”’ he read. ‘What is this? Who is this Flora MacDonald? It certainly can’t be the woman who rescued the Young Pretender all those years ago, she is long dead.’
‘It’s a nom de plume. I meant to leave this document with Paul.’ She grabbed the bundle from him and charged into the bookshop next door, emerging scarlet-cheeked and damp-eyed a few seconds later. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Constance.’ He tried to take her arm, but she shook him off. ‘For heaven’s sake.’ He caught her again, pulling her into the entrance of a close and wrapping her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder. Her silent sobs made his heart ache. Turning his back to the thoroughfare to shield her, he smoothed her back until she calmed enough to face him, handing her his handkerchief to mop her face.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry. Paul said—but I know he’s wrong, I know he is.’ She folded his damp kerchief up and handed it back to him. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’
‘No, but if you want me to go and sort this Paul character out, I’d be happy to.’
She laughed weakly. ‘I’m not sure precisely what you mean by sorting him out, though I can guess by the tone of your voice, and it would make me very unhappy. Paul is—I am—do you mind if we take a walk, it will give me time to recover.’
* * *
To Constance’s intense relief, Grayson agreed. Her only consolation was that Paul remained unaware of the extent of her distress. She’d managed to quit the shop before her tears smarted. When she returned to leave her latest work, having inadvertently taken it with her in her distressed state, he’d been in the basement where the press was, so she’d left it on the desk in his office. She couldn’t imagine what Grayson made of it. She had never planned to tell him, but she knew she wouldn’t have the heart to lie to him, and right now, she really could be doing with a sympathetic ear. She was exhausted with the effort of keeping her secret, and if she could attribute her tears entirely to Flora, then all the better. Though she was fairly certain Grayson had guessed the depth of her feelings for him, and equally certain that she knew how he felt, it would be much easier for both of them if they remained unacknowledged.
Aware of him casting her sidelong glances as they climbed up West Bow, she ventured a smile. ‘Slow down a bit, we’re not trying to catch a mail coach.’
‘A Highland lass like yourself should be used to climbing hills,’ Grayson retorted, looking only marginally relieved.
‘Would you be devastated to learn that I can’t dance a Highland reel, for I’ve two left feet, and if you put a spinning wheel in my hands, I’d not know whether to play it or spin wool with it.’
‘Please reassure me that you do know how to make porridge?’
‘My one redeeming talent.’ They paused for a moment, surveying the crush of the Lawnmarket. ‘My goodness, it’s busy here, isn’t it.’
‘The world and his dog is heading down to the palace to take a look at the preparations, by the looks of it. Stay close, keep to the inside.’
The High Street gave way to the steep descent of the Canongate, which was lined on either side by the ubiquitous tall, narrow tenements of the Old Town. ‘There’s some parkland beside the palace over there.’ Constance pointed. ‘We can take a seat there. I can hardly hear myself speak for the noise of the traffic here.’
Her heart was thumping by the time they reached the welcome green space, Grayson leading the way to a grassy patch under a tree. ‘This looks dry enough.’
She dropped carelessly down beside him, aware of his concerned gaze. ‘Paul is a friend, but he’s also my employer. I write for him. For the New Jacobite Journal.’
It was depressingly clear from Grayson’s expression that he’d never heard of it.
‘I’m Flora MacDonald. I mean, that’s the name I use for my writing.’
‘Flora MacDonald and the New Jacobite Journal.’ Grayson’s puzzlement was giving way to a deeper frown. ‘You write political tracts?’
‘I suppose you could call it that. Lately, I have been...’
‘Taking the p—satirising Walter Scott? With materials supplied by your bookseller friend, I presume?’
‘Yes, though that has only been my latest—Flora’s latest tactic.’
‘You’ve been writing these articles for a while, then?’
Grayson was tight-lipped, all trace of concern gone from his face, and there was no sign of the sympathy she had been longing for. ‘Four years,’ Constance answered warily. ‘I know you’ve wondered at my lack of occupation.’
He swore viciously. ‘Does your friend Mrs Winston know she’s harbouring a rabble rouser?’
‘I’m not a rabble-rouser!’
‘Then what are you?’
Her courage faltered under that look he gave her. For the first time, she saw in him the formidable and ruthless Glaswegian shipbuilder. A stranger. As she stammered and stuttered her way through a precis of her four years as a political sketch writer, he said barely a word. By the time she had finished, she was wishing fervently that she had not begun in the first place.
‘So what you’re telling me,’ Grayson said slowly, after an agonising silence, ‘is that for the last four years you’ve been producing politically radical articles, but when the King visits you’re planning on marking the occasion by writing and publishing genuinely treasonable articles? Are you out of your mind? Have you even considered the consequences? Y
ou could end up in gaol.’
‘That is one thing I don’t need to worry about,’ she retorted, stung, ‘because according to Paul, the only function my writing will serve is as kindling. Anyway, it’s not treason to point out tragic truths that everyone is turning a blind eye to.’
‘I can’t believe what you’ve told me. I feel as if I don’t know you. Constance, it’s dangerous, you’re playing with fire.’
‘I don’t care! Can you not see that these people need a voice? They are not peasants, too ignorant to know what is best for them as some say, or too lazy to work hard enough to make their lands pay. They are honest, hard-working people, who simply want to carry on crofting on the same patch of ground their families have occupied for generations.’
‘But you have given them a voice, and what you’re saying is that it’s made no difference.’
‘Then I need to try harder.’ Hot tears stung her eyes. ‘I’ll prove Paul wrong. I’ll find a way to make people listen. This visit...’
‘Constance, this visit, as far as most people are concerned, it’s the chance to dress up and have a bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘I thought you’d understand.’
‘I thought—I wondered what you did with your time. I was baffled as to why you were so determined to hide yourself away. I couldn’t fathom why you stayed in Edinburgh with Mrs Winston, and had no inclination to seek out your mother’s relatives. And most of all, I couldn’t understand why someone who so clearly loved teaching isn’t a teacher any more. But I never thought for a moment that this would be the reason for all of it.’
‘After what happened to me and what I witnessed, I had to do something. How can I go back to teaching while this is going on under our noses? I can’t give up until I know I’ve done everything possible. Don’t you see?’
He caught her hands, gripping them tightly. ‘I can’t bear the thought of you wasting your life like this.’
‘I’m not wasting it and even if I was, it’s my life to waste.’
‘What will you do when the King has left Edinburgh and this journal you write for has been closed down?’
‘I can’t contemplate that at the moment. Look over there,’ she said, a little desperately. ‘Holyrood Palace has been going to rack and ruin for years, yet they’re suddenly spending an arm and a leg refurbishing it from the public purse. Scotland must have a palace fit for a King, even if the King chooses to live and rule elsewhere.’
‘Is that another scandal Flora MacDonald will highlight? I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of your pen.’
‘I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Usually I—but I can’t. I thought you were angry, but now?’
He got to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up. ‘Yesterday was perfect, wasn’t it? We both knew we should have left it at that, didn’t we? I did any road.’
She didn’t want to see the look in his eyes. It made her heart feel as if it was being squeezed. She tried to capture his hand, but he shook his head, turning away. ‘Tomorrow is my birthday. We agreed—you said—’ She broke off, seeing the answer on his face. ‘Why? Is it because you imagine that after yesterday I have expectations...?’
‘No, it’s because I’ve just realised that I might be the one developing expectations, and after what you’ve told me!’ He swore again, softly and viciously. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, for I’ve made a point of not telling you,’ he said heavily. ‘Do you know, my first thought, when you told me about this writing of yours, was that you were putting yourself in harm’s way.’
‘I’m no more likely to end up in gaol now than I have been for the last four years.’
‘My second thought was, that you were wasting your life. And my third thought,’ he continued, before she could interrupt him again, ‘was for how my association with you might impact on my family. My third thought, Constance, not my first. Until I met you, they’ve always come first. I can’t have that.’
‘What on earth has my work got to do with your family?’
Grayson shrugged impatiently, his expression troubled. Whatever he was working himself up to telling her, this would be their last conversation, and the fact that she couldn’t bear to think about that, told its own story. ‘I just wanted a bit more time,’ Constance whispered.
‘So did I.’ He pulled her briefly into his arms, hugging her tightly. ‘But it would be a mistake,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Look, I think we both need to calm down and regain some perspective. Why don’t we take a walk over to the palace as we planned and have a look at what they’re doing?’
Chapter Ten
Holyrood Palace lay in the imposing shadow of Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat. A two-storey gatehouse flanked by two huge towers with conical roofs led to the main palace building itself. The principal entrance was flanked by heavy stone columns, the doorway itself topped by the Royal Arms of Scotland carved into the stone mantel above, the whole topped by a clock tower high above which, two obviously new flags were flying. A constant stream of carts pulled up, laden with building supplies, floorboards and mouldings, glass, slate and iron. The clank of metal on stone echoed around the inner courtyard, as masons worked to make the main rooms watertight. There were a number of men wandering boldly about the rooftops, replacing slates and repairing guttering.
The whole proceedings were being supervised by one man clutching an extremely long list, standing atop two crates by the door. Pots of paint, rolls of carpet and wall coverings, stood in the shelter of one tower, while over at the other, a huge heap of mouldering tapestries and drapes, broken furniture and empty picture frames was growing larger by the moment. There were piles of rubble and tools everywhere, picks and rakes, hammers, chisels, and barrows.
Constance stood beside Grayson at the edge of the yard, their eyes fixed on the hive of activity, the tension between them palpable. Had he been implying he was in love with her? Her mind skirted away from confronting the possibility. He was leaving today. Their affair, if that is what it had been, was over. His going back to Glasgow would leave a chasm in her life. She had so quickly become accustomed to his company, to having someone to share her thoughts with, to laugh with, to simply be with. To imagine what could have been would be torture, plain and simple, especially since it could not be. He had his life. She had hers, and she would not think about what that would entail after the King’s visit had ended.
‘Sorry?’ Constance jumped, finding Grayson’s eyes not on the building works but on her face. ‘I was miles away.’
‘I was wondering if they were rebuilding the entire palace?’
‘I don’t know. It certainly looks like it, from here. I know they’re making a receiving chamber out of what was the picture gallery, and presumably making some of the other main rooms fit to be used as antechambers. I have no idea what else they’re doing, though it looks like they are also about to completely repave the courtyard. Oh, yes, and as well as ridding the palace of rats, they are evicting the people who have been staying in the grace-and-favour apartments. One of them is a veteran of Culloden.’ She was babbling, but at least she was managing a semblance of a conversation, and Grayson seemed to appreciate it.
‘It must all be costing a King’s ransom, if you’ll pardon the pun,’ he said. ‘Look, a new road is going to be built over there, according to the newspaper I was reading this morning. It will apparently shorten the King’s journey from Dalkeith House, where he’s staying for the duration, to Holyrood. They’re going to install gas lighting the whole way too, and you can see, they’ve made a start on placing more lights around the palace. Even the man in the moon will know when the King arrives and all these are lit. More grist to Flora’s mill, I reckon.’
‘Perhaps, though you probably agree with Paul, that she’d be flogging a dead horse.’ Utterly deflated, Constance turned away, heading b
ack towards the bottom of the Canongate.
‘You mustn’t be thinking that I don’t understand what’s driving you.’
He offered his arm. She resisted for a fraction of a second before succumbing to the temptation to walk beside him. ‘Then you’ll know that I can’t give up now.’
‘I do know that, and I know I’ve no right at all to counsel you otherwise, though I want to. You’re such a brave, strong woman. You’ve suffered so much, yet here you are, coming out fighting. Isn’t it time you fought for your own interests, put yourself first for a change?’
‘I could ask the same thing of you.’
‘It’s not the same thing.’ They walked on up the hill, the noise from the palace receding. ‘Maybe it is,’ Grayson admitted grudgingly. ‘Whatever, we’ve both made too many sacrifices along the way to change course now.’
* * *
At the Canongate Kirk, the burial ground opened out, giving a view over to the Greek folly atop Calton Hill. A few steps on, Grayson slowed by a coffee shop in the arcade below the row of tenements next to the kirk. ‘Will we stop for some refreshment? I reckon I owe you an explanation.’
She nodded, casting him a nervous smile that almost stopped him in his tracks. She was bracing herself. As he was himself. The few customers were intent on their conversations or their newspapers, and the proprietor didn’t bat an eyelid as he showed them to a quiet booth at the back of the room, while a maidservant brought them a pot of coffee.
‘I had a letter from Shona this morning,’ Grayson said, pouring two bowls of surprisingly fragrant coffee. ‘She was asking me when I was coming home.’
Constance nodded, attempting a smile that she quickly gave up on.
He drained his coffee cup, topped it up and drank the refill back in one gulp. ‘I’m not speaking only for myself when I say we got more than we bargained for, these last six days, am I?’
A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Page 13
