Shona MacLEAN - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

I shook his hand. ‘We have been much busied at the grammar school. The presbytery and council make their visitation at the end of April, and Mr Grant is determined that they will have no cause for fault-finding on this occasion.’

The bookseller gave a weary sigh. ‘The presbytery and council will always find fault. That is what they are for. But they will have little cause for complaint over your books. I have here the Cicero you wanted, and the Buchanan, and this Greek grammar.’

Melville tied up my books, then turned a page in his ledger to check the rest of my order. He went to the back wall of the shop, stacked from floor to ceiling with Bibles, and ran his finger along the shelf until he found what he was looking for. He carefully eased out a book bound in soft red leather, almost twice the size of those near it. ‘Here it is. Your good Master, Mr Gilbert Grant, asked me many months ago to find him a Bible printed large enough for his failing eyesight. And I think I have found it. I scoured the country,’ then he smiled, a little sheepish. ‘Well, at least I sent to Edinburgh, and here it is.’ I looked at the imposing volume he held out to me, the print large enough for my friend to read indeed, although I suspected every word of it was already imprinted on the old man’s heart. The bookseller was proud to have managed what he had been asked, but I was a little discomfited.

‘Mr Grant made no mention–’

Melville held up a conciliatory hand. ‘It was many months ago he asked me. He can send payment down from Banff with another courier, once he has the book in his hand. Now, for Dr Jaffray.’ I looked at the mounting pile of books on the counter and began to pity the horse that would carry me home. The bookseller went to another shelf and selected two medical textbooks which he brought over and untied for my examination. I paid Melville what he was owed for the doctor’s books and my own, and sadly declined to look at the most recent works of theology he had from Antwerp. Similarly, I shook my head to the offer of the latest tracts and pamphlets to have landed in Aberdeen from the Low Countries and the North of England. Arguments over the correct form of worship, of kneeling in kirk, of vestments and prayer books were of little interest to me now, although I did not judge it wise to confide that to the bookseller. He pointed to the ceiling above him, to where Raban, the burgh printer, plied his trade.

‘Raban is near worn out with the thing. Dr Forbes and Dr Baron and the other ministers do not let their pens lie idle on the matter. And I fear there will be much more of it to be heard yet. Anyhow, if I cannot tempt you to join in the pamphlet war, perhaps there is something more pleasant I can show you, if you do not have it already.’ From a shelf behind him he passed me a slim volume in quarto, printed here by Raban only three years ago. Poetical recreations of Mr Alexander Craig of Rosecraig . I thought of Charles Thom in the darkness and squalor of the tolbooth in Banff. What good might it do him to have the volume of Craig in his hand, summoning images of clear rivers, and freedom and love to his mind? The price of the volume was reasonable. My boots could be mended one more time. I arranged with the bookseller for the delivery of my purchases to William Cargill’s house.

It was only midday, and I was not to meet with Principal Dun at the university until tomorrow. I had one more errand to perform and then the day would be mine to fill as I wished until William returned from his business. I had a letter from the provost in my pocket. It was addressed to George Jamesone, artist, New Aberdeen. I did not need to ask for directions to Jamesone’s house. It was on the Schoolhill, not five minutes from Cargill’s place on the Upperkirkgate. I retraced my route of the morning and in a short time was presenting myself at the street door of the artist’s imposing house.

I knocked loudly on the door and waited. A pretty face appeared in the turret window two floors above me and then disappeared back into the darkness. I was still looking up when the door in front of me was opened inwards and a stern-faced old man asked me my business. He eyed me with some suspicion – I was not dressed in the usual manner of one who had business with his master, and he did not know me. He said he would fetch the mistress, and made to close the door.

‘Willie Park, will you let the gentleman in. Do you not know Mr Seaton?’

Willie looked me in the eye, and that thoroughly. ‘Indeed I do not. No more does the master, either, I’ll tell you that.’

‘Oh, Willie, away and fetch some wine.’

Willie went shuffling away, grumbling that it was changed days in this house, and what need had the master for a wife?

‘And do you not know me, Alexander?’

My eyes were only slowly becoming accustomed to the dimmer light of the interior. The pretty face that had looked down on me from the turret now emerged, still smiling, from the stairway in front of me. The young woman held in her arms a bundle of swaddling from which emanated a mewling sound. She came right to me and stood, beaming, almost as tall as myself, and glowing with happiness and pride at her bundle.

‘I am sorry I do not … and yet …’ and yet something tugged at a memory in my head. A forgotten recess, unlocked by that smile. I looked into the woman’s face and saw the face of a twelve-year-old girl, six or seven years ago, running with her brothers around the garden of the Hays’ town house, throwing chestnuts at myself and Archie until, roaring, we got up to chase them. ‘Isabel? Little Isabel Tosh?’

She nodded triumphantly. ‘The very same. How are you, Mr Seaton? I am pleased to have you in our home. I had heard you were not … I had not heard of you here in Aberdeen for a long time.’

‘No, I have been away a good while. So you are mistress here? You have married George Jamesone.’

‘I have, and I have borne him a son, the first of many, pray God.’

‘May you always be blessed. I am glad to see you.’

‘You remember the gay times with the Hays? Those were good days. Before this awful German war robbed them of their light. And you of your friend. I was as sorry for Archie’s loss as I would be for my own brother. He had such a heart, such a life in him.’ She paused in reflection a moment. ‘And you have business with George. Well, come away in. I will take you to him, and then I’ll get to the cellar myself. The wine will have turned before Willie ever brings it.’

She led me up the turnpike stair, chattering away and pointing out features of the house. On the third landing she knocked on a door and went before me into the room. I waited a moment until she reappeared and told me her husband would be glad to see me.

I had never met George Jamesone before, but I had known the painter well by sight in the latter days of my divinity studies in Aberdeen. From his time at Antwerp he dressed very much in the Dutch fashion, and affected a broad-brimmed black hat at all times – I now saw that the rumour that he wore it even while he painted was true. He greeted me with a wave of the hand as he finished some detail of the portrait he was working on, indicating that I should take a seat. I looked around me and settled for a stool by the door – I knew from my father that no craftsman likes to be disturbed in the middle of a piece of work. The room was remarkably large and airy, suffused with a northern light through the great window overlooking the long garden at the back of the house, and beyond that a stretch of woodland to the loch. Jamesone worked near the window, on a large canvas depicting a noblewoman and her two young daughters. I recognised her from gatherings at Delgatie – Anne Erskine, Countess of Rothes. He had her likeness well. Around the room were the tools and props of his trade, several I had no notion of the use of. In a small antechamber to my left I could discern pots, tubs, glass jars of myriad colours. Stacked to the right of the door were frames and parts of frames of various sizes, most black but some gilt, awaiting the fruit of the painter’s labours. There were other canvases too, some mere line drawings, others near completion.