Even young as she was then, Maggie believed she understood what Lady Cartsburn meant—she meant that Maggie’s love of music and her skill at playing it might one day lift her higher than a common life. Beyond the confines of the world of Riddell’s Close and Crawfurdsdyke, to worlds she might not otherwise have known.
“Perhaps,” said Maggie later on that night, as Lily tucked her into bed, “my music’s meant to be my ship, and not the Rising Sun. Perhaps it is my music that will carry me to new worlds of adventure.”
Lily’s kiss, soft on her brow in the same way it had been each night Maggie could recall, came with the same promise. “There, that’s to sweeten your dreams.”
Maggie’s dreams were sweet.
She went on dreaming, and learning, and working hard.
Until the day Mrs. Reid was struck down by a sudden fit, and in an instant, their world changed.
Outside the church, Lady Cartsburn approached Lily.
“I understand that Mrs. Reid did leave you money.” Lady Cartsburn’s voice was kind. “The house, of course, was not her own to leave, but we’d be pleased to have you stay on as our tenant. Though there is another course you might consider.” With a glance and smile at Maggie, she went on, “I have a friend who has a school for girls at Edinburgh, and she’s in need of a young lady of good temperament, she tells me, to teach music. I’d be glad to write a letter to her, recommending Margaret.”
And so then, as Lily promised, there at last had been a ship for them, of sorts, if not the one they’d planned to sail upon, and not exactly shaped with prow and masts and sails. But even so, a ship, if one looked hard enough to notice, and they’d had the sense this time to leave the pier and climb aboard.
Chapter 38
Monday, 6 October, 1707
Gilroy could be difficult to fathom. I was privately inclined to side with Moray and agree that Lord Grange was not part of any plot the Duke of Hamilton had put in motion, and thus Gilroy had been given no direction when it came to our inquiry beyond searching for the truth.
Gilroy would otherwise have been impatient to see Lily’s marriage proved, regardless of how thin our evidence might be. Instead, from the beginning and through our investigation, he’d maintained his staunch belief the marriage was a fraud, which would imply he was impartial.
Then again, he had asked both Moray and Lily about Moray’s brother John, and if they knew where John was now—which, while it might be innocent, might also have to do with the duke’s efforts to learn more about the Jacobite invasion.
As Seafield had said outright, other members of the family may be fine to capture, but the fact was, everybody truly wanted John.
That Gilroy had shown interest in him meant there was an outside chance that Gilroy might himself be in the duke’s employ, and I could not entirely let down my guard, nor trust him.
When I looked at his impassive face, I could not help but think of Robert Moray telling me he looked on Gilroy as a man who followed orders and was loyal. And again, I did agree. I simply wasn’t sure to whom Gilroy was loyal, nor whose orders he was following.
By contrast, it was obvious to me the fat and jovial man past Gilroy’s shoulder, who for the past quarter of an hour had been persistently attempting to move closer to our table here within Steell’s tavern, was an agent of the Duke of Hamilton.
He was the same man I had seen on Friday night when I’d been here with Captain Gordon, and he’d very likely been the same man who’d stayed half-hidden behind the bedcurtains upstairs when Archie had brought Lily here to hand off the certificate of marriage. It could not be a coincidence that, from the moment we’d walked in, he’d taken a great interest in us and our conversation, changing tables three times now so he was nearly close enough to overhear what we were saying.
Gilroy, unaware of what was going on behind him, raised his cup of wine and told me, “I see you did not take my advice.”
“And what advice would that be?”
“Did I not distinctly warn you it would be unwise to get involved?”
“With whom?”
His sidelong glance knew better, but as though agreeing to switch topics he sat back and looked me over. “You’ve a button missing from your waistcoat.”
“I expect I’ll find another.”
“You’ll find one exactly like it,” he informed me in an idle tone, “upon the floorboards next to Mrs. Graeme’s bed.”
I tried not to react, but I suspect I held my own cup to my mouth a fraction longer than I needed to before I set it down.