I’d never eaten in a room so elegant. The Earl of Seafield’s dining room was lined with wainscot paneling of quality I’d never seen. Above the doors and elsewhere there were painted decorations meant to fool the eye and look like ancient sculpture, and the high vaults of the plastered ceiling soared in ornate patterns. I felt I had been trapped within an ivory-lidded box for the amusement of some rich collector.
For relief, I looked toward the windows that provided a view south across the slope of private gardens to the reassuring rise of Arthur’s Seat, its weathered crags as sturdy and unyielding on this afternoon as they had been time out of mind.
Dr. Young remarked, “It is a splendid prospect.”
His voice was both cultured and mild and I wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking to me until I brought my head around. He’d been looking out the window also, and now faced me with another of his smiles. I had no gift for social niceties and much preferred to keep apart from shallow talk, but I could not be impolite. I told him truly, “Yes, it is.”
“And brilliant sunshine for this time of year,” he added, “although I do fear the evening will bring rain.”
His daughter turned at that. “Oh, I do hope not! I am tired of dreary weather.”
She said it lightly, not in a complaining way but as a statement. I’d have judged her to be Helen’s age or slightly younger, with brown hair nearly the same shade as Mrs. Graeme’s. Her eyes, like Mrs. Graeme’s, were blue, and yet her features, while attractive, did not have the same effect upon me. I could admire her as I might admire a painting, and remain unmoved.
Her father looked me over. “Are you a relation of the Dr. Adam Williamson who serves as surgeon in Meredyth’s regiment?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Where do your Williamsons hail from?”
“New York.”
That surprised them both. “Where in New York?” asked the doctor.
“Queens County.”
“Long Island? You don’t have the accent. And I should know, for I did spend some years in the Americas. My Violet, here, was born at Philadelphia.”
My turn to smile. “If you’ll allow, she does not have the accent, either.”
Dr. Young said, “I should hope not. There is a community of Scots at Philadelphia, and we kept close amongst ourselves, so she was raised with others who spoke properly.” Leaning back to let the servant clear his first course plate, he asked me, curious, “Were you born at New York?”
I shook my head. “Here in Scotland. The Williamsons have long roots in Kirkcaldy.”
“Fifeshire.” He’d been there. “It has a good harbor, though I cannot fault your parents for believing the Americas would offer them a brighter shore.” He paused, then asked, “Are they yet living?”
“No.”
Violet Young said, “I am sorry.”
I thanked her, grateful for the distraction of the second course now being served that let me focus my attention elsewhere for a moment.
Her father asked, “What did become of their property, then, in Queens County? Did you inherit?”
It was a blunt question. I had to decide how to answer. “There was little left to inherit, sir. A simple house and barn, and both destroyed.”
“But surely land remains,” he said. As proof, he gestured to the windows and the vista of the gardens with the rise of Arthur’s Seat beyond. “And every house can be rebuilt. What happened to your own?”
“A fire.” I owed him no more details, though because he seemed to wait for more, I did allow, “I was not there. I was then fighting under Captain Schuyler on his expedition to engage the French in Canada.”
The doctor looked impressed. “A brave venture. Though I do confess, had you been my son, I’d have hired a servant to fight in your place.”
I noted the lace at his cuffs and the fine cloth that covered his buttons, and called to mind all the men like him I’d known in my life who played carelessly with the lives of those beneath them.
Forcing a tight smile, I answered, “If I’d been your son, sir, I would have refused such an offer.”
He looked startled, then smiled in return. “Good man.” Looking to Violet, he said, “What we have here, my dear, is a man of honor. A rare thing to find these days, in any company.”
On that point I agreed with him, for when the meal was over and the ladies had departed to the drawing room, my own impression was that honor seemed distinctly lacking in the men remaining at the table, who soon turned their cutting talk to politics.