There were footsteps in the corridor; a soft knock at the door.
‘Do you feel strong enough to do this?’ asked the countess, and Sophia bit her lip and shook her head before she answered, ‘But I must.’
‘My dear, you need not if it brings you too much pain. The child is not yet two years old, and being such a young age is not likely to remember.’
It was, Sophia thought, the very argument she’d made to Moray when he’d told her of his infant nephew, whom he’d never had the chance to meet. She understood his answer, now. Deliberately, she raised her head and in a quiet voice replied, ‘I will remember her.’
The countess studied her a moment with concern, then gave a nod and crossed to let in Kirsty’s sister, leading Anna by the hand.
The little girl was finely dressed as though for church, with ribbons in her hair. She did not venture far into the room, but stood and held fast to the skirts of Kirsty’s sister, who looked over at Sophia in apology. ‘She did not sleep well last night, she was troubled by her teeth. I fear she’s out of sorts, the day.’
Sophia’s smile was brief, and understanding. ‘We are none of us as cheerful as we should be.’
‘I will leave her here alone with you a moment if you wish it, but—’
‘There is no need.’ Sophia shook her head. ‘It is enough that I should see her. Come, and sit with me.’
They sat where she’d so often sat with Colonel Graeme by the fire, the chess men lined up tidily across the board between them. Anna seemed to find them fascinating. Kirsty’s sister would have kept the little girl from touching, but the countess, who’d stayed standing by the mantelpiece, insisted that the child could do no harm. ‘The men are made of wood, and cannot easily be broken.’
Not like real soldiers, thought Sophia with a pang of sudden sorrow. Moray would not ever see his daughter’s face, nor see those small, fair features form the image of his own as Anna, with her father’s focused concentration, lifted knights and bishops from the board by turns and held them in her little hands.
Sophia watched in silence. She had spent the past days planning this farewell, rehearsing what she meant to do and say, but now that it had come the words seemed out of place. How did you tell a child who did not know you were her mother that you loved her, and that leaving her was all at once the bravest and the worst thing you had done in all your life, and that you’d miss her more than she would ever know?
And what, Sophia asked herself, would be the point? She knew within her own heart that the countess had been right, that Anna’s mind was yet too young to hold this memory; that as surely as the wind and waves would shift the sands till next year’s coastline bore no imprint of the one the year before, so too the passing days would reshape Anna’s mind until Sophia was forgotten.
Which was only as it should be, she decided, biting down upon her lip to stop its sudden trembling.
Reaching out, she stroked the softness of her daughter’s hair, and lightly coughed to clear her voice. ‘You have such lovely curls,’ she said to Anna. ‘Will you give me one?’
She did not doubt the answer; Anna always had been quick to share. And sure enough, the child gave an unhesitating nod and stepped in closer while Sophia chose one ringlet from beneath the mass of curls and gently snipped it with her sewing scissors. ‘There,’ she said, and would have straightened, but the little girl reached up herself to wind her tiny fingers in Sophia’s hair, in imitation.
And that one small touch, so unexpected, made Sophia close her eyes against the sharpness of emotion.
She felt, in that brief instant, as she’d felt when it had only been herself and Anna newly born, and lying in the bed at Mrs Malcolm’s, with the wonder of her daughter sleeping warm against her body and the feeling of those baby fingers clutching both her hair and Moray’s silver ring…and suddenly she felt she could not bear it, what she knew she had to do.
It was not fair. Not fair. She wanted Anna back, to be her own again. Her own and no one else’s. And she would have sold her soul at any price to turn time back and make it possible, but time would not be turned. And as the pain of that reality tore through her like a knife, she heard her daughter’s voice say, ‘Mama?’ and the blade drove deeper still, because Sophia knew the word had not been meant for her.
She breathed, and swallowed hard, and when her eyes came open there was nothing but their shining brightness to betray her weakening.
Anna said a second time to Kirsty’s sister, ‘Mama?’， and the other woman asked, her own voice curiously husky, ‘Do ye want to have a lock of Mistress Paterson’s, to keep?’