by Anne Perry
“No—no we didn’t,” Hester agreed quickly, startled by Oonagh’s perception. In fact, now that she sat here in this quiet dining room with its polished table and handsome carved sideboard, she realized that the trust and responsibility, and the power to act for herself, were two of the aspects of the Crimea that she missed the most profoundly. Now so many of her decisions were trivial.
It must be even more so for a woman like Oonagh McIvor, whose responsibilities were largely domestic. What should Cook serve for dinner? How should she resolve the squabble between the kitchen maid and the laundry maid? Should she invite so-and-so to dine this week with the Smiths—or next week with the Joneses? Should she wear green on Sunday, or blue? Looking at the intelligence and the resolve in Oonagh’s features, Hester saw that she was not a woman to waste her energy on such things, which mattered not in the slightest, even today, never mind in the course of one’s life. Was it envy she could hear in the curious timbre of Oonagh’s voice?
“You have a remarkable understanding,” she replied aloud, meeting Oonagh’s steady gaze. “I don’t think I had even phrased it to myself so well. I confess that at times I have found myself almost suffocated by the necessity of obedience, when I had been used to action, simply because there was no one else to turn to and the urgency of the situation did not allow us to delay.”
Deirdra was watching her closely, her face quickened with interest, her tea forgotten.
Oonagh smiled as if the answer in some way pleased her.
“You must have seen much waste, and a fearful amount of pain,” she observed. “Of course there will always be deaths, when one is occupied with medicine, but there can be nothing like the battlefield in a hospital. That aspect of it must be a relief to you. Does one get hardened to seeing so much death?”
Hester considered for several moments before replying. This was not a person who deserved, or would accept, a trite or insincere response.
“It is not that you become hardened,” she said thoughtfully. “But you learn to govern your emotions, and then to ignore them. If you allowed yourself to dwell on it you would become so wretched you would cease to be any use to those who were still living. And while it is very natural to pity, it is also quite pointless in a nurse, where there is so much that is practical to do. Tears don’t remove bullets or splint broken limbs.”
A look of calm filled Oonagh’s eyes, as though some irritating question had been resolved. She rose from the chair, ignoring the rest of her tea, and smoothed her skirts. “I am sure you are exactly the person to accompany Mother to London. She will find you most stimulating, and I have every confidence you will be ideal to care for her. Thank you for being so frank with me, Miss Latterly. You have set my mind at rest entirely.” She looked at a fob watch hanging from a ribbon at her shoulder. “It is still some time until luncheon. Perhaps you would like to spend it in the library? It is quite warm in there, and you will not be disturbed, should you wish to read.” She glanced at Deirdra.
“Oh yes.” Deirdra stood up also, “I suppose I had better go and check through the accounts with Mrs. Lafferty.”
“I’ve already done it,” Oonagh said quietly. “But I haven’t been through tomorrow’s menu with Cook yet. You might do that.”
If Deirdra resented her sister-in-law’s assumption of household governance, there was not a shred of it in her face.
“Oh, thank you so much. I hate figures, they’re always much the same, and so tedious. Yes, by all means, I’ll speak to Cook.” And with that she smiled charmingly at Hester and excused herself.
“Yes, I should very much like to read,” Hester accepted.
It had not been precisely an invitation, but she had nothing better to do, so she permitted herself to be directed to the very gracious library, lined with books on three sides, many of them leather bound and tooled in gold. She was curious to see that several of the handsomest, as well as many bound in ordinary cloth, had been printed by Farraline & Company. They covered a very wide variety of subjects both factual and fictional. Several well-known authors were represented, both living and from the past.
She selected a book of verse and settled herself in one of the half dozen or so large armchairs and opened it to read. The room was almost silent. Through its heavy door she could not hear the sounds of the household beyond; there was only the faint crackle of a fire in the grate and the occasional tapping of a leaf as the wind caught it and sent it against the window.
She lost track of time, and was startled when she looked up to see a young woman standing in front of her. She had not heard the door opening.
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” the woman apologized. She was very slender, and quite tall, but her form was forgotten the moment one saw her face. She was one of the loveliest creatures Hester had ever seen; her features were subtle and delicate, yet full of passion. Her skin was fair with that radiance peculiar to auburn coloring, her hair thick in a wild halo around her head, the rich shades of bronzed leaves. “Miss Latterly?”
“Yes,” Hester said, gathering her wits. She laid the book aside.
“I am Eilish Fyffe,” the young woman introduced herself. “I came to tell you that luncheon is served. I hope you will join us?”
“Yes please.” Hester rose to her feet, then turned, remembering to replace the book.
Eilish waved her hand impatiently. “Oh leave it. Jeannie will put it away. She can’t read, yet, but she’ll find the place it came from.”
“Jeannie?”
“The maid.”
“Oh! I thought she was …” Hester stopped.
Eilish laughed. “A child? No—at least, yes. I suppose so. She’s only one of the housemaids. She’s about fifteen, she thinks. But she is learning to read.” She shrugged as she said it, as if to dismiss the subject. Then she smiled dazzlingly. “The children are Margaret and Catriona, and Robert.”
“Mrs. McIvor’s?”
“No, no. They’re Alastair’s. He is my eldest brother, the Fiscal.” She pulled a slight face as she said it, as if she had been in awe of him until very lately. Hester knew just how she felt, thinking of her own elder brother, Charles, who had always been a trifle forbidding and had far too little sense of the absurd. “Alec and Fergus are away at school. They are Oonagh’s sons. I daresay Robert will be going soon.” She opened the library door into the hall. She made no mention of her own family, so Hester presumed that as yet she had none. Perhaps she had not been long married.
Luncheon was not a heavy meal, and the family present were all assembled as Eilish led Hester into the dining room and indicated the chair she was to occupy. Mary Farraline sat at the head of the table, Oonagh at the foot. On the far side were Deirdra and an elderly man who so resembled the portrait in the hall that Hester was taken aback so much she found herself staring. But it was only coloring and feature, the same fair hair, now thinning drastically, fair skin, and the refined nose and sensitive mouth. The inner man was utterly different. He too had wounds of the spirit, but he gave Hester no sense of uncertainty as the portrait had done, no ambiguity; there was a sharp knowledge of pain which had overwhelmed him, and he had lost to it, while knowing exactly what it was. His blue eyes were sunken and he gazed ahead of him at no one in particular. He was introduced as Hector Farraline, and spoken of as Uncle Hector.
Hester took her seat and the first course was served. Conversation was polite, and generally meaningless; it served the purpose for which it was intended, to convey goodwill without costing any thought or distracting from the meal. Discreetly Hester looked around at their faces, which had so much in common and which circumstance and character had stamped so differently. The only ones not born Farraline were Deirdra and Mary. Where they were slender and fair and well above average height, she was small and dark and inclined to stockiness. Yet there was a fierce inner concentration in her face, a sense of controlled excitement, which gave her a warmth the others lacked. She answered when civility required it, but she did not gene
rate any remarks. Her own thoughts apparently consumed her.
Eilish spoke sporadically, as if prompted by good manners, and in between her thoughts also filled her mind. Hester found herself looking at Eilish repeatedly, possibly because she was so beautiful it was natural to stare, but also because of a sadness she thought she could see through the thin mask of courtesy and interest.
It was left to Oonagh and Mary to raise one agreeable, uncontentious subject after another.
“How long does your journey take, Mother-in-law?” Deirdra asked, turning to Mary as soon as the main course was served.
“About twelve hours,” Mary replied. “Although most of it I shall spend asleep, so it will feel much shorter. I think it is an excellent way to travel, don’t you, Miss Latterly?”
“Indeed,” Hester agreed. “Although the little I saw of Scotland on my way here, I should imagine it is very beautiful to look at, especially at this time of the year.”
“You will have to go back during the day on your return next time,” Mary suggested. “Then you can look out of the window all the way. If it doesn’t rain, it should be really very nice.”
“I don’t know why you’re going,” Hector Farraline said, speaking for the first time. He had an excellent voice, rich in timbre, and even though a few of his words were slurred, one could tell that when he was completely sober his diction would have been beautiful—and with the faint lilt of the northern Scots, not the flatter Edinburgh accent of Mary’s speech.
“Griselda needs her, Uncle Hector,” Oonagh said patiently. “It’s a very emotional time for a woman when she is expecting her first child. It is not unusual to feel unwell and a trifle apprehensive.”
Hector seemed confused. “Apprehensive? Of what? Won’t they have the best possible care for her? I thought they were well-to-do … socially prominent family. That’s what young Connal said to me.”
“Socially prominent! The Murdochs?” Mary said with sharp amusement, her silver eyebrows rising high, giving her face a startled look. “Don’t be absurd, my dear. They come from Glasgow. Nobody who matters has ever heard of them.”
“They’ve heard of them in Glasgow,” Deirdra put in quickly. “Alastair says they are prominent, and certainly have a great deal of money.”
Eilish flashed a smile at Hector, then lowered her eyes. “Mother said nobody who matters,” she said quietly. “I rather think that excludes all of Glasgow, doesn’t it, Mother?”
Mary blushed very slightly, but she did not retreat. “Most of it, perhaps not quite all. I believe there are some quite agreeable areas a little to the north.”
“Just so.” Eilish smiled down at the plate.
Hector frowned. “Then why doesn’t she come home to have her child, where we can look after her? If there’s nobody who matters in Glasgow, what is she doing in London?” After that piece of eccentric logic he turned and looked at Mary, his eyes soft, his face confused and on the verge of anger. “You should stay here, and Griselda should come home and let her child be born in Scotland. Why doesn’t what’s-his-name—” His face creased up. “What is his name?” He looked at Oonagh.
“Connal Murdoch,” she supplied.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That’s right! Why doesn’t Colin Murdoch—”
“Connal, Uncle Hector.”
“What?” Now he was totally confounded. “What are you talking about? Why do you keep interrupting me and then repeating what I say?”
“Have a glass of water.” Oonagh suited the action to the word and poured a tumbler for him, passing it across.
He ignored it and sipped at his wine again. He did not continue. Hester had the strong impression he had forgotten what he was going to say.
“Quinlan says they are going to reopen the Galbraith case,” Deirdra said in the silence, then almost immediately her face tightened as if she wished she had chosen some other subject of conversation.
“Quinlan is Eilish’s husband,” Oonagh explained to Hester. “But he is not involved in the law, so I don’t know how reliable his information may be. I daresay it is merely gossip.”
Hester expected Eilish to come to his defense and insist that he was correct, or that he did not listen to, much less repeat, gossip. But she remained silent.
Hector shook his head. “Alastair’ll not be pleased,” he said dourly.
“No one will.” Mary looked unhappy, a frown puckering her brow. “I thought that was over and done with.”
“I expect it is,” Oonagh said with conviction. “Don’t think of it, Mother. It is just idle talk. It will die away when nothing comes of it.”
Mary looked at her gravely, but did not reply.
“I still wish you weren’t going to London,” Hector said to no one in particular. He looked sad and aggrieved, as if it were a personal blow to him.
“It’ll only be a few days,” Mary replied, her face surprisingly gentle as she looked at him. “She needs reassurance, my dear. She really is very troubled, you know.”
“Can’t think why.” Hector shook his head. “Lot of nonsense. Who are these Munros? Won’t they look after her properly? Doesn’t Colin Munro have a physician?”
“Murdoch—” Oonagh’s lips thinned in impatience. “Connal Murdoch. Of course he has a doctor, and no doubt midwives. But it is how Griselda feels. And Mother will only be gone a week.”
Hector reached for more wine and said nothing.
“Have they new evidence in the Galbraith case?” Mary asked, turning to Deirdra, a pucker between her brows.
“Alastair didn’t mention it to me,” Deirdra replied, looking surprised. “Or if he did, I don’t remember. I thought he said there was not sufficient evidence and threw it out?”
“He did,” Oonagh said firmly. “People are only talking about it because it would have been such a scandal if Galbraith had come to trial, being who he is. There will always be those who are envious of a man in his position, and whose tongues will wag, whether there is anything for them to wag about or not. The poor man has had to leave Edinburgh. That should be the end of it.”
Mary glanced at her, as if to speak, then changed her mind and looked down at her plate. No one else added anything. The rest of the meal passed with only the odd remark, and after it was finished, Oonagh suggested that Hester might like to rest for a few hours before the commencement of the return journey. She might go up the main stairs to the bedroom set aside for her use, if she cared to.
Hester accepted gratefully, and was on her way up the stairs when she encountered Hector Farraline again. He was halfway up and leaning heavily on the banister, his face filled with sorrow, and beneath it a deep anger. He was staring across the checkered expanse of the floor at the portrait on the far wall.
Hester came to a stop on the stair behind him.
“It’s very fine, isn’t it,” she said, intending it as a form of agreement.
“Fine?” he said bitterly and without turning to look at her. “Oh yes, very fine. Very handsome, was Hamish. Thought himself quite a fellow.” His expression did not change, nor did he move, but stood clinging to the banister rail and leaning half over it.
“I meant it was a fine portrait,” Hester corrected. “Of course I didn’t know the gentleman to comment upon him.”
“Hamish? My brother Hamish. Of course you didn’t. Been dead these last eight years, although with that thing hanging there, I don’t feel that he’s dead at all—just mummified and still with us. I should build a pyramid and pile it on top of him—that’s a good idea. A million tons of granite. A mountain of a tomb!” Very slowly he slid down until he was sitting on the tread, his legs sprawled across the stair, blocking her way. He smiled. “Two million! What does a million tons of rock look like, Miss—Miss—” He looked at her with wide, unfocused eyes.
“Latterly,” she offered.
He shook his head. “What do you mean, girl, latterly? A million tons is a million tons! It’s always the same. Latterly—formerly—anytime!” He blinked.
&nbs
p; “My name is Hester Latterly,” she said slowly.
“How do you do. Hector Farraline.” He made as if to bow, and slid down another step, bumping against her ankles.
She retreated. “How do you do, Mr. Farraline.”
“Ever seen the great pyramids of Egypt?” he asked innocently.
“No. I have never been to Egypt.”
“Should go. Very interesting.” He nodded several times and she was afraid he was going to slide down ever farther.
“I will do, if I should ever have the opportunity,” she assured him.
“Thought Oonagh said you’d been there.” He concentrated fiercely, screwing up his face. “Oonagh’s never wrong, never. Most unnerving woman. Never argue with Oonagh. Read your thoughts as another man might read a book.”
“I’ve been to the Crimea.” Hester retreated another step. She did not want him to knock her over if he should lose his balance again, which he looked to be in imminent danger of doing.
“Crimea? Whatever for?”
“The war.”
“Oh.”
“I wonder…” She was about to ask him if she might pass, when she heard the discreet steps of the butler, McTeer, coming up behind her.
“Why would you go to a war?” Hector refused to let go of the puzzle. “You’re a woman. You can’t fight!” He began to laugh, as if the idea amused him.
“Now Mr. Farraline, sir,” McTeer said firmly. “You go up to your room and lie down a while. You can’t sit here all afternoon. People need the stairs.”
Hector shook him off impatiently. “Go away, man. You’ve got a face like a chief mourner at a funeral. You couldn’t look worse if it were your own.”
“I’m sorry, miss.” McTeer looked apologetically at Hester. “He’s a bit of a nuisance, but he’s no harm. He’ll no bother ye, except for prattlin’ on.” He took hold of Hector under the arms and hauled him to his feet. “Come on now, ye don’t want Miss Mary to see you behaving like a fool, do ye?”
The mention of Mary’s name sobered Hector dramatically. He gave one more venomous glance at the portrait across the hall, then allowed McTeer to assist him properly to his feet and together they made their way slowly up the stairs, leaving room for Hester to follow unhindered.
