Seaton 01 - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

by S. G. MacLean

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Seaton, for I think that a schoolmaster who will travel fifty miles for the sake of one pupil, who takes the time to teach Greek to the sons of a small burgh such as Banff, and of whose proficiency in many disciplines I had already heard, has much to offer. If, as you say, you will never return to the pursuit of your first calling, it is a great pity that you derive little comfort from your second. For myself, I do not believe that God gives a man such gifts as you have been given only to condemn him to repeated failures.’ He did not call for his servant to show me out, but rose and accompanied me out into the quadrangle himself. ‘The trials for the bursary take place at the end of June, when I trust we will meet again. May God go with you until then.’ He turned away and I watched him disappear beyond the cloister into the darkness of the college. I walked over to the well and drew up some water. It was cool and clear, and the taste of it brought me back to this place several years ago, when the future had been a realm of possibility, and the past a thing not considered.

  I finished the ladle of water I had drawn from the bucket and was about to move on when I heard footsteps coming towards me from the college gateway. I knew those footsteps. Had I not stopped to indulge my thirst I could have been away out of this place by now – the college gateway was not ten yards from the road. Instead I was here, in the centre of my gilded past, with no means of avoiding the eye of the one man in the whole of Aberdeen, new town and old, whom I had most wished not to meet. I looked up, waiting for the reckoning to come. The face coming towards me broke into a smile of genuine joy; a hand reached out and grasped mine.

  ‘Alexander Seaton, it is truly you? I had not thought to see you here again, though I have often wished and prayed for it. What has brought you back to us? Why did you not tell me you were coming? Have you been waiting on me long? I have been kept busy the whole morning on college business with my father.’ Dr John Forbes of Corse, son of the bishop and Professor of Divinity in the King’s College of Aberdeen, the most learned man I knew, stood before me, his face filled with affection. He was a man of the deepest spirituality and had had greater hopes for me than even I had ever done. There can have been few teachers more disappointed by the failure of a pupil than he had been by mine.

  So shocked was I at the sight of him there that, for a few moments, I could find no words to answer him. Nevertheless, I think my face told him my thoughts, for his hand fell away and his smile faded. ‘Alexander, you have not come to see me, have you?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, my voice dry. ‘I had business with Dr Dun, about the bursaries, and had to come and meet him here.’ I registered the hurt in his eyes and cursed my pride. ‘I am sorry; I should have told you I was coming, but I was …’ There was little point in lying to this man who for four years had been my spiritual guide and who had kept the fervour of my calling burning within me. He deserved at least my honesty. ‘I was ashamed,’ I said.

  Dr Forbes well knew the cause of my shame. Astonishment at my failure to secure the approval of the Presbytery of Fordyce had given way to fury, and he and his father had both written to the brethren, demanding an explanation. The brethren had responded obliquely – for they had not the information to do otherwise, and had directed both the bishop and his son to myself and to my Lord Hay of Delgatie. Bishop Forbes had written then to Delgatie, his son to me. His lordship, I was given to understand, had given a plain and truthful account of the grounds of his objection to my person and to my candidature for the ministry. I had written that whatever the family of Hay should accuse me of, of that was I guilty, before God and man. Urgent letters of friendship and entreaty to turn to him for spiritual counsel had flown from the divinity professor’s rooms at the King’s College of Old Aberdeen to my attic room in the schoolhouse of Banff. None had been answered. Now here we stood, face to face, no hiding behind silence.

  Dr Forbes stood squarely before me. ‘There is a time for shame, and a time for repentance.’ His voice was measured, calm. ‘You were right to feel shame for your deeds, but to hold fast to that shame at the expense of all else is an indulgence. You were carnal – who among us has not been tempted, has not fallen? You betrayed the trust of a friend and patron. Ungrateful and graceless indeed, but who amongst us has not been guilty of ingratitude, of gracelessness in our behaviour?’

  I looked at the man. How was I to believe that he might ever have been led into such behaviour, such immorality as I had? He leant against the wall of the well, tired-looking now, his eyes searching mine for an understanding I was struggling to find. ‘You may have sinned, Alexander, but remember the words of the prophet: He waits to be gracious.’

  I felt the resilience seeping from me. ‘I have tried, believe me, doctor, I have tried. I have looked for God, called on God, but found myself only in a wilderness.’

  He spoke gently, quoting Ezekiel. ‘“For my gracious Lord was pleased to let me see, that, by leading me into this wilderness, and pleading with me there, would he bring me into the bond of the Covenant.” In all your years here, Alexander, you grappled with and mastered the most abstruse theological propositions. You could argue any point almost as well as I could myself. For all that though, God’s greatest gift in you was the pure faith with which He graced you. It was that above all that I thought would make you the finest of ministers. I have no doubt that you could still argue with insight and exactitude whichever point I might throw your way, but I fear you have forgotten the most important lesson of all, the promise of that Covenant.’

  I looked at him, expectantly. He answered my unasked question. ‘The Son of God came into this world to save sinners such as you and me. That is the great Covenant. Do not ask me ever to believe, Alexander, that you have grown so arrogant as to think your sin greater than His sacrifice.’

  I could not look at him. ‘Take thought on this,’ he said. ‘For friendship’s sake promise me that you will. Come back and see me soon. We will work on this together. Never be ashamed to call me friend.’ He clasped my hand and then left me.

  My last night with William and Elizabeth was an evening of quiet contentment. Elizabeth had, to our great relief, at length agreed to my suggestion for easing her present and coming burdens. She asked many questions, and I felt that only the whole truth, as far as I knew it, would be worth telling to her, so I did. Anger and compassion vied within her as I told her Sarah Forbes’s tale, and at the end of it it was all that William and I could do to prevent her from setting out there and then to put the matter to rights.

  ‘Alexander will see to it all on Monday,’ William assured her. ‘All will be well; only have patience.’

  I had much to prepare for the following day’s journey, and was glad, for once, of an excuse to retire early. As I lay in my bed in William’s house, my candle snuffed out and the shutters still open, I looked up at the northern stars, at the majesty of the works of God. They challenged me, as Matthew and Dr Forbes had challenged me, to leave off from my self-imposed indulgence of penitence and sloth, and to set forth once again with purpose on this earthly life. My last thought, before I was finally conquered by sleep, was that I was looking forward to the day to come.

  TEN

  Straloch

  I left Aberdeen the next day in the early afternoon. The service in the West Kirk of St Nicholas had lasted from ten until noon, and I had shared a hasty meal of broth and bread with William and Elizabeth before taking my leave of them. When I rode out from Aberdeen that afternoon it was with a new determination to be whatever it might be given to me to be. The need to free Charles from his prison was as strong as it had been from the first, not just for his sake now, though, but for my own, for I felt that I had been chosen for the task. I felt no great sorrow at leaving Aberdeen, as I had feared only two days previously that I might, and no sense of dread at the prospect of making my way back to Banff. I had not failed myself, not shamed myself or my burgh since leaving, and I had come to understand, in my few days with old friends and new acquaintances, that it was n
ot universally expected of me that I should hang my head in shame and achieve nothing.

  As I crossed the Don at the Brig o’ Balgownie, and left the two towns behind me once more, my hand went to the saddlebag and I checked the clasp once again, fearful that it might have been interfered with. My commission from Banff, the precious map, with its accompanying letter from the provost, were still there, still sealed, but now they were accompanied by not one but two other, sealed documents, whose contents remained a tantalising secret to me. There was the letter, written before my eyes, by the artist George Jamesone to the provost of Banff, and there was another, by the same hand, which had arrived by a servant at William’s door late last night, addressed to Robert Gordon of Straloch himself. Jamesone’s servant had relayed that his master very kindly asked that I might deliver this letter into the laird of Straloch’s own hand. As I had assured William, I had told the artist nothing of my business at Straloch, other than that I would bed there on my homeward journey. William was uneasy that I had said anything at all. I could scarcely refuse, but I did not like the commission.

  Not only letters, but voices too, accompanied me as I left the two towns behind and took the road north-west. Voices of encouragement, voices of warning, voices of fear. As the horse, not yet wearying under its extra burden of newly bought books, trampled out the road and the spires and coastline of Aberdeen faded further into the distance until at last they disappeared, so too did the encouraging voices of Matthew Lumsden, Dr Dun and Dr Forbes recede. Their place was taken by the ever more insistent voice of caution of my friend William Cargill, and the determined terror of the departing Mary Dawson. ‘Why you, Alexander? Why your schoolroom? Why you with this commission? Have a care, Alexander.’ The horse’s hooves beat out the rhythm of William’s warnings and every so often they found a reply on the wind from Mary Dawson, ‘I will never see Banff again.’

  The sky was darkening as I approached Straloch in the late afternoon, and the storm broke just as I turned into the broad sweep of the drive. Thunder and lightning ripped from overhead and I forced the horse into a gallop for the last few hundred yards. Nevertheless, I was drenched, a poor specimen of a visitor, by the time we reached the courtyard at the front of the house. A servant answered my banging on the door and called for a stable boy to take my horse. He heard my hurried commission in the front hall and then, evidently deciding I might be who I said I was, allowed me into the body of the house. A young woman emerged into the light from the darkness of the east wing, watching for the visitor to arrive. She came forward, her flowing silk skirts rustling almost in time with the rain which poured down from the gutters outside. Her hair was dark, and she did not wear it up, but long and loose, brushed back from her face to show cheekbones that looked to be the work of some master sculptor and not formed by God. Her eyes were grey crystal. She was too young to be Straloch’s wife, but a little too old, I thought, to be one of his daughters.

  ‘It is a messenger from Banff,’ said the servant, ‘for the master. He says he has a letter from the provost.’ The man’s bearing implied that he was not entirely convinced that what I said was the truth, but the young woman seemed satisfied and dismissed him.

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘The laird is not in the house at this minute. He is still out, hunting. He should return within the hour, or sooner, if this storm does not pass. The mistress is resting, but will be up for dinner. Can I be of any help?’

  I looked at her, unsure as to how to proceed. She had a bright and open manner, and her face spoke of intellect, yet the provost’s dire warnings were ringing in my ears, and I knew I must wait on an answer from Straloch himself. ‘I’m sorry, I am not …’

  She made a gesture of awkwardness. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I have not said who I am. My name is Isabella Irvine; my aunt is the lady of this house.’ She waited.

  ‘I am Alexander Seaton,’ I said. ‘I have come to see the laird of Straloch on the business of the burgh of Banff. I am sorry, but I am under authority to place my commission only into the hands of Robert Gordon himself.’ Although her feet had not taken a step, she looked as if her whole body had shrunk backwards, and not at my rebuttal of her offer of help, but at the mention of my name. She recovered herself quickly enough, but that she had been shaken, and that her manner towards me was now somewhat changed, was unmistakable.

  She indicated a large, high-backed chair beside the fire. ‘If you wish to wait until the laird returns, you may sit there. I will have some refreshment sent.’ Then, with little more conversation or ceremony, she excused herself and departed up the stairs and out of my sight. I took the chair with gladness and, since it appeared no one would be around to see it, I removed my boots and let my feet dry by the fire. A servant brought ale and warm bannocks. As I took my rest and my refreshment, I tried to think what might have occasioned the change in Isabella Irvine’s manner towards me. Could it really be that the mention of my very name, bad as it was in Banff but surely not notorious here, was enough to put fear or contempt into young women in lairdly houses all over the north? I did not think so. And yet it was my name that had marked the change in her, as if borne in on a cold wind from the North. I pondered it, as the rain beating down outside contended with the roar of the fire within: I knew the name Isabella Irvine, but I could not think how or from where.

  I had not too long for reflection, for within the quarter-hour I could hear a commotion of horses and riders out the front, and servants started busying themselves from one room to another, crossing the hall and back again like busy ants. As the great oaken front door was opened, a whole troupe of children – at least six or seven of varying sizes – rumbled down the stairs from an upper gallery, followed by their cousin, Isabella. ‘Children, give your father a minute to get his breath. Boys! Come back in here this minute.’ Two of the smaller boys had rushed through the door as a weary huntsman had come in it, and out into the courtyard, calling for their father. They returned a moment later, utterly drenched, one in each arm of Robert Gordon of Straloch. The others rushed at him with questions about the hunt, and complaints about not being allowed out by their overzealous jailer, their cousin Isabella. Three older boys and a girl followed their father in from the hunt, the girl calling out orders behind her as to what was to be taken to the kitchens, and what hung in the stores. There was arguing and boasting about the size of the kill, and laughter about the escape of a wild pig. Only the hounds noticed me, as they contended with each other for proximity to the fire. It was once the initial excitement of the homecoming died down and Straloch had been helped from his soaking hunting coat by a servant, that Isabella Irvine announced me to her uncle. Her voice was low and her eyes filled with a quiet anger; she watched me as she talked.

  The laird of Straloch turned towards where I now stood, between his dogs and with my back to his hearth. ‘Mr Seaton? You are here on business from Banff?’

  ‘I am, sir. I have a letter from the provost, Walter Watt, which he bids me wait for a reply to.’

  He nodded and said briskly, ‘Then let us see to it in my library. Robert, give instructions to Hugh about the gutting, and see that the birds are hung. Margaret, go with your cousin and see if she cannot turn you back into a lady. I will hear over much about it from your mother if she cannot.’ The smaller children were also ushered away, and I followed the laird down into his library in the west wing of the house. It was a long, high-ceilinged room with large windows to the west, affording the best possible light. William Cargill’s small and tidy lawyer’s study bore no comparison to this workroom of the laird of Straloch. There were more books in this room than I had seen in the room of any other individual, even of Dr Forbes. From where I stood I could see books of every size, colour and description. Huge charts were spread out on tables near the windows, tables that were also piled high with books and sheaves of script. I had not much time for scanning the shelves, for the laird was a man with little time to waste.

  ‘You have a letter for me, then, Mr Seaton.’ I
handed him first the letter from Walter Watt, without the map; Jamesone’s missive would also keep. He broke the seal and took the letter over to the window, leaving me little chance of ascertaining its contents. I watched him as he read. He had been transformed from huntsman into learned scholar by little more than the changing of the room and the light. Poorly governed locks of hair receded from a high, intelligent brow, and the fingers that held the letter were long and slim, fitted for the great cartographer that he was. His eyes were kind, tired almost. After he had read some way down the first page he glanced up at me. His mind too, like his niece’s, had some knowledge of my name. He did not pause for long though, and continued to the end without any word. When he had finished reading, he folded the pages once again and walked to his desk, placing the letter in a small wooden case that he then locked. He looked at me directly. ‘You know the contents of this letter?’

  For a brief moment I considered pretending that I had no notion of what was in it, in the hope that Straloch might reveal something – what? – to me. But that was a dangerous game, and I had always come last or too late in games of strategy. ‘I have an idea of its message, but I have not read it, nor has the provost given me any detailed account of what he has written.’

  Straloch nodded. ‘And the map?’ I held it out to him, but he would not take it in his hand. Rainwater was running down his sleeves and every other part of his clothing, and he would not risk damage to the document. He asked instead that I should place it on his desk next to the cachet box. ‘I take it you have no other business elsewhere tonight, Mr Seaton?’