“Patrick Graeme,” she confirmed, as though she did not wish to let another speak his name. “Captain of the Edinburgh town guard.”
Helen was too young to have any memory of the late rebellion that had cost King James his crown some twenty years ago, but those of us who’d known this town before that time could well remember Captain Graeme. Even though I’d been a lad myself when last I’d seen him, still his figure rose before me clearly and commandingly.
“Except his rank is colonel now,” said Gilroy, “since he crossed to France in service of our late king. He does serve the young James now, I’m told.”
“Then he’s misguided,” Helen said, “and I shall pray God turns him from the reckless Jacobites who would divide our country.”
Gilroy sidestepped a reply to that. I did not blame him.
In the years since old King James had been forced from his throne and fled to exile, taking his then infant son along with him, his followers, the Jacobites, had fought for his return, and with his death their focus had turned to the birthright of his son, another James, not yet turned twenty, whom they held to be their rightful king.
Meanwhile old King James’s daughter, Queen Anne—being Protestant where he had been a Catholic—held the throne that he had lost, and her supporters were full as determined not to let her half brother return to take it from her.
I myself took neither side. I’d seen too much of conflict and the lives that it could ruin.
Mrs. Graeme smoothly said, “My husband’s father’s rank was colonel here in Scotland, also, even when he was the captain of the Edinburgh town guard. He was serving as lieutenant colonel in the forces of the king when he was chosen to be captain of the guard, and that appointment did not then erase the rank which he earned by his honor.”
Gilroy answered with a short nod that appeared to be dismissive, and because I sensed this line of talk might lead us to an argument, I smoothed the waters with, “I do remember Captain—Colonel—Graeme well. A man most worthy of respect.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Did he know of your marriage?”
Mrs. Graeme shook her head. “We kept it secret, for personal reasons. Beyond our two friends and the minister, we shared the news with no one.”
I replied, “You cannot know that. Not for certain.”
“Do you doubt my word?”
“Of course not. It is only that you cannot answer for your husband’s actions,” was my argument. “The fact you kept your marriage secret does not mean he did the same. It’s possible he did confide in any of his friends or near relations, without telling you.”
“I’d think it most unlikely.”
“But it’s possible.”
Her eyes were very blue. “I’ll allow you that nothing in life is impossible.”
I counted that as a victory. “Assuming he did tell someone, whom would he have told?”
She was giving this some thought when Helen cut in with, “Perhaps his mother?”
Mrs. Graeme smiled faintly. “No. His mother would not have approved.”
Gilroy’s tone was certain. “I believe he would have told his father, if he did respect him.”
“He respected him, but—”
“Then,” said Gilroy, “it will do no harm to write to Colonel Graeme. I will be discreet,” he promised, “but if he does know, and will sign a testificate stating you were married, then his word will be believed by the commissioners.”
She shook her head, and Gilroy asked, “You don’t agree?”
“My husband’s father is a soldier, fighting on the Continent, and for an exiled king. How will your letter find him?”
“I can promise you,” said Gilroy, “letters find their way from Scotland to the court of young King James, and back again, with regularity.”
“But it will take too long.”
Everyone seemed to be in a great hurry to see this claim settled. I knew Mrs. Graeme might simply have need of the money, but somehow the fear I had glimpsed in her eyes made me feel there was more at the back of her urgency. She looked so defeated now, I sought a way to cheer her. “There may yet be someone here in Scotland. You knew your late husband best. Who were his nearest friends?”
It was a version of the question I had asked before, but framing it in this way seemed to make her answer easier.
“His elder brother Patrick, and his cousin Robin Moray.”
“Well, then—”
“Patrick is a monk,” she said. “A Capuchin, who lives somewhere in France. I don’t remember where. And Robin, last I heard, was also somewhere on the Continent, attending to his private business.”