Moray said, “Yes, he’s been diligent of late.” From inside his coat he drew a letter that fell open easily along its folds as if it had been often read. “I should imagine this is why. I did receive this from my wife, who mentions she received my own last Wednesday morning, for which I’m in your debt. Ye could not possibly have got it there so quickly had ye used the Stirling carrier.”
“No,” I said. “I reasoned an express was safer. And I thought your wife should not be made to wait.”
“Ye will be reimbursed. I’ll see to it when I’m released.”
“That won’t be needed. I am only happy that your wife and son are well.”
He studied me. “Ye’re well informed. How did ye know I had a son?”
“My friend’s wife, Mrs. Turnbull,” I explained, “is well connected in society.”
“I’m flattered that she would apply her connections to learn about me,” he said lightly.
I felt moved to defend her. “She was trying, in her way, to help our inquiry. Her husband’s the one who is meant to be leading it.”
“I see. And she considers it relevant, does she, that I have a son?” He’d not altered his tone, but I knew I had struck his protective nerve and should continue with caution. I also knew this was my chance to come sideways at something I’d wondered about.
I said, “She thinks you are a Jacobite, because you did not name your son for your wife’s father or your own, but called him James.” It was an indirect way of asking the question, and he obliged with an indirect answer.
“I had a brother James, whom I did love, and who died young. And, as you know, I had a cousin James. I loved him also, and he too is dead. I might have named my son for either of them. But,” he added, looking half-annoyed and half-amused, “my son was baptized on the birthday of our young King James, and is named James Francis Edward, like the king, so your friend’s wife may have a point.” He turned the challenge back on me. “And what of ye? Do ye drink to the health of Queen Anne when at table, or pass your glass over the water to honor the king who now lives beyond sea?”
I tried the same approach as Henry Browne, and said, “I take no part of politics.”
“A politician’s answer. But to take no part of politics is, in itself, to take a part. Let no man tell ye otherwise.” He did not lean against the table as he had the first day, only drew the single chair around to face me as he sat, so once again the window was behind him. “I wondered how long it would take them to send ye back.”
“What do you mean?”
“My wife’s letter. It came to me opened, of course, meaning they had all read it and knew what it said—knew I’d managed to write her a letter from here and find someone to see it delivered. My guard appears to be above suspicion,” Moray said, “and I’ve not had many visitors. They’d never imagine that Gilroy would do it. He is, as I told ye, predictable, and he’d not venture his neck for another man. But ye are unknown.” He gave a nod toward my pen and papers. “They’ll have sent ye as a test, and when ye leave they’ll have ye searched.” He paused, then added, “They are confident I’ll try to write my wife another letter, since in hers she told me we’re to have another bairn, and any man who’d not reply to that is heartless.”
I heard the fine edge of frustration undercutting his calm words. I gave him my congratulations, all the same.
“Thank ye. No doubt she believed the news would give me hope,” he said.
I gathered, from his tone, it had the opposite effect. It was a helpless feeling to have those we loved beyond our reach where we could ill defend them, and I knew this word of an unborn bairn would have added to the weight he carried while his wife and child were left unguarded.
I said, “I’m sure your wife has everything in hand.”
“Yes, she is rare,” he said, “and I do not deserve her, and I know it. The men among my family do not seem to choose the easy road too often, and we owe a great debt to the women who consent to tangle up their lives with ours. My road would be a lonely one without her.”
I had walked so long alone I could say nothing useful in reply.
Moray read my silence with his keen perception. “Not every man is meant to settle in his youth. I did not marry till five years ago, when I was two and thirty. I had met my wife when I was younger, but her father did not hold me in great favor then. He wished to see his daughters married onto men of consequence and wealth.”