Chapter 27
Thursday, 2 October, 1707
Men were sentimental creatures, though we did our best to keep it hidden.
In the scrutore in the writing chamber I had found a secret drawer within a drawer that held a single rose, picked long ago, pressed flat with care, and faded now to shades of subtle pink and parchment—yet the faint ghost of its fragrance lingered. Whether it had been concealed there by my friend Lieutenant Turnbull, or by some forgotten owner of the scrutore, I knew not. But I knew it had been given to a man because it lay upon a paper label on which had been written in a careful hand: Whenever this red rose you see, remember her that best loves thee.
I left it undisturbed.
The entire scrutore was a cabinet of curiosities. The pigeonholes were crammed with pots of ink and sticks of sealing wax, old pens, cast-off buttons, scraps of notes tucked here and there, and stubs of candles. And on opening the square door to the main compartment that was centrally positioned at my eye level above the writing surface, I discovered a neat row of several shark’s teeth. Those, I knew, were Turnbull’s. I’d been with him on the day when he and others of the ship’s crew had gone fishing for that shark. Beside the teeth, a small brass dish of coins from different countries sat as witness to the travels of my friend, and at their center sat a blue glass bead of unknown origin.
It might be argued that as grown men we’d not come so very far from the small lads we’d been when we had gathered stones that caught our eye, or chestnuts from the fields in autumn, or a piece of bark or twig, and carried all home in our pockets.
We were magpies still, collecting treasures.
I’d been very conscious of the value of the ring I’d held from Robert Moray, when I had enclosed it in the letter I had written to his wife on his behalf. That ring had likely been a gift from her to him, from the inscription that was scribed around its inner surface, where none else would see. “Hearts truly tied none can divide,” it said.
And with his message Moray meant to send that promise back to her, that she might hold it bravely through her fears for what might happen to him. I’d wrapped the ring in paper and enclosed it in the letter and sealed both securely, and I’d placed them in the hands of the same man I’d hired last week to carry the express to Stirling. All of this I’d done on Monday morning, within half an hour of my arrival back at Caldow’s Land from seeing Moray, for I’d known I would not rest until I knew his message to his wife was on the road.
It cost me more this time. The man I hired had looked at me and nodded to the sky. “You see a storm is coming.”
“Aye,” I’d said. “I know.”
The rain and wind had started shortly after, and since then the weather had stayed foul.
It had held Gilroy in the north. He’d sent us word of his delay, with his apologies—or what, for Gilroy, passed for an apology, and was no more than his brusque statement he’d be with us when he could. And so I waited.
I had work to keep me occupied, but there was only so much I could do alone, and once I’d written all the notes I felt I needed, I grew restless.
At least on the first two nights, although the wind stayed fierce, there’d been enough breaks in the weather that I had been able to get out to take my evening walk, but last night it had rained so hard that Helen had been horrified to see me take my hat and cloak and move toward the door.
“You’re never going out tonight in that,” she’d said. “You’ll have your fever back.”
I knew she was not wrong so I relented, but MacDougall had not missed the opportunity to say, “Ye’d think spending all the day locked up with books would give ye better judgment.”
All this week, MacDougall had been prodding at my patience. Helen had informed him he was not to interrupt me in the writing chamber when I was at work, and this had left him irritated.
“Next ye’ll be wanting a key to the lock on the door, will ye?” he’d asked me caustically.
“Is there one?” I’d countered, and since this exchange had taken place in front of Helen there’d been nothing he could do but own the fact that yes, there was, and fetch it for me, meaning I’d been able to do all my work in privacy.
The lock was a strong French one, and while I doubted MacDougall, with all his rough ways, had much skill as a picklock, I still secured all the papers away in the scrutore each day to be doubly safe. Some family secrets weren’t meant to be shared, and the notes I’d compiled for Gilroy were meant for his eyes alone.