Shona MacLEAN - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘Robert,’ his wife began, but he did not hear her.

‘And as for the lassie herself, to send her so far from her own friends when a good marriage could have been made hereabouts, if they had only consented to the name of Hay going into abeyance for a generation or so. Why, Isabella here was – is – her friend, but is constrained to travel for days on end on bad roads just to see her. And it is a cold harsh place she is in, is it not, Isabella?’

‘She does not complain,’ said the young woman, still gazing steadily at me.

The laird’s wife intervened before her husband could say any more. ‘My niece is not long returned from visiting Katharine Hay in the borders. They had not seen each other since Katharine’s marriage to her father’s cousin.’ She looked uncomfortable, as if she wished that could be an end to the subject, but I could not leave it there. I spoke directly to Isabella Irvine.

‘And how is she. Is she – well?’

‘She is well, sir.’

‘And happy?’

‘She is well. She does not complain. She knows her duty.’ Now she stood up. ‘Please excuse me, aunt. I would like to look in on the little ones before they go to sleep.’ Her aunt nodded and she left without further word or look to me. Gordon looked perplexed, but his wife cut him short.

‘You have an early start, Robert. Perhaps you and Mr Seaton should discuss your business before the hour is too late. You can leave the young ones here to their drinking and their storytelling; you will not be missed.’ She called for a steward to show me back through to the laird’s library, and to bring wine and fruit there for us also. She asked her husband to wait a moment as she had a matter touching the household to discuss with him. I was taken to the library alone.

The room that I had seen earlier in the fading light of day was transformed now into a cavern of flickering light and shadows. A fire roared in the great hearth and candles had been lit in the sconces, but none were yet set on the tables. A draught, a careless servant bumping into a table on which one was lit, could have destroyed in moments the work of a lifetime, for Straloch’s notes and charts covered every table. I was too cautious now about the matter of maps even to wish to look at any of them. I went over to a recess by the fire, where the light now was best, and peered at the titles on the shelves as they glowed in and out of shadow with the light. The shelf my eye lingered on was filled with histories, histories of our country and our people. Spottiswood, Boece, Buchanan and Knox I knew well, but I eased another volume from the shelf: I had heard of Robert Johnston’s work, but never come across it before. I untied the laces of the binding and opened the book; inside the cover, in a neat hand was an inscription, in Latin, ‘To my dear friend Robert Gordon, in memory of happy Paris days in the springtime of our youth, Robert Johnston.’ The book was still in my hand when the door handle turned and Straloch entered the room. I moved to put it back, but I had not tied the bindings and so was left with it, helpless, in my hands. Gordon came over and looked more closely at the volume.

‘A fine choice, Mr Seaton. You may borrow it tonight if you wish, and return it to its place here before you leave tomorrow.’

I thanked him, but declined. ‘The study of the past is something I have found little profit or comfort in.’

‘Then you have been unfortunate. Those who do not know their history do not know themselves, and therefore act for the future, as it were, like a blinkered steed.’

I passed the book to him, and he retied the bindings before returning it, carefully, to the shelf. When he turned back to face me, I could see he was about to address a subject he did not much care for. He asked me to sit and then waited for the servant to finish lighting the room before proceeding. He cleared his throat. ‘In the course of my time, in my work, and due in some measure to my position in this world, I am obliged to conduct myself with all manner of men. I believe, though perhaps not all do, that God has given it to me to do this without offence to my fellow man. You are a guest in my house, Mr Seaton, and yet I believe tonight that I have – albeit unwittingly – been a cause of discomfort to you and to others at my table.’

My heart pounded hard within me, and I felt my breathing grow deeper. I did not like the confidences of strangers, and what the essence of this was, I could guess. I wished myself anywhere else but this library.

‘I am sorry; I do not know what you speak of. I have been,’ I paused, thinking of Isabella Irvine – I was not going to claim some experience of warmth, ‘I have been treated with civility and hospitality. I can ask no more in the house of a stranger.’

‘And yet you should, in this house.’ He pushed back his chair and went to the window, looking out into the darkness. ‘My wife has told me, briefly, of your former closeness and your present estrangement from the family of Hay. She has told me what the enmity of the earl has cost you in the world. She has also told me – and I do not play with my words here – that the girl was sent from Delgatie to sever an attachment she had formed with you. This latter part she had from my niece, and I have no cause to doubt it, for she is an honest girl with no malice or thirst to slander. I suspect there has been much women’s talk between the pair over this whole business, long before you ever set foot in this house. You must excuse my niece’s coldness – and I did mark it at dinner – she has all the passionate notions of one who has not yet lived in the world. As for myself, I would never have talked on as I did had I known any of this.’

The warmth of the wine and the fire were working through me, and I felt a desire to meet the laird’s honesty with an honesty of my own. ‘The conversation gave me no discomfort that is not with me in any case. I do not like the study of history because it cannot be changed – my history cannot be changed. I do not look for your sympathy. The family of Hay deserved better at my hands.’

He shuttered the window and turned back towards me. ‘Maybe so. But there must be a limit to retribution, or our society will never prosper; our godly commonwealth will wither and die before it ever bears fruit. The laird of Delgatie can be the warmest and most loyal of friends, but he is also a very dangerous enemy. I would counsel you to be careful of such an enemy, Mr Seaton.’ There was nothing for me to say in response.

Straloch seemed pleased to have got that business – that women’s business – over with. He strode over to his desk and poured us each a drink of wine. His manner was brisk now, no longer hesitant. ‘Well, then, let us get down to the matter in hand. Your good provost writes that the map he has sent you with was found amongst the belongings of a visitor to your town, and that he would have my advice on its nature. He asks that I should speak to no one but yourself about this business.’ He took a key from a chain in his pocket and unlocked the box I had seen him put the map next to that afternoon. I experienced some little relief to be fulfilling my commission at last, and sat back to wait.

The laird opened out the sheet and took an eyeglass from his desk. He began at the top left corner and worked very slowly with the glass over the entire sheet. As he did so, I studied the arras hangings on the panelled wall behind him – a well-worked suite depicting the journey of the Egyptian Princess Scota, daughter of the Pharaoh, and progenitrix of our race, to our cold shores. The myth had been used three hundred years ago to argue the rights of our nation against the overlordship of an English king. What did Straloch think of those rights, now that the king in England was our own? I looked at my host; no word escaped him. At length he put the glass down, and sat heavily back into his chair. He looked up at me.