The countess answered that she did, and with a formal bow he left them, wishing them good morning. The little maid, Kirsty, moved to clear his plate as well, and the countess said, ‘Kirsty, I do owe you thanks for showing Mistress Paterson the way to us this morning. It was fortunate that she did find you.’
Kirsty glanced up in surprise, and seemed to pause a moment as if seeking how to twist the truth, before she said, ‘My lady, ye’ve no need to thank me. All I did was meet her in the passageway. She would have found ye here without my help.’
The countess smiled. ‘That may be so, but I confess I did forget my duties as a hostess, and how simple it can be to lose one’s way, at Slains. If you have finished now, Sophia, come and let me show you round the castle, so you will not need to fear becoming lost.’
The tour was long, and thorough.
At its end the countess showed her to a small room on the ground floor at the corner of the castle. ‘Do you sew?’ she asked.
‘I do, my lady. Is there something you wish mended?’
The answer seemed to strike the countess strangely, for she paused, and turned her gaze upon Sophia for a moment, and then told her, ‘No, I only meant to tell you that this room is good for sewing, as it has the southern light. I am, I fear, an indifferent seamstress myself. My mind does not compose itself to detailed work, but is inclined to drift most shamefully to other thoughts.’ She smiled, but her eyes held to Sophia’s face.
The little room felt warmer than the others, being smaller and more cozy, and with greater light which flooded through the windows and did not permit the gathering of shadows.
The countess asked, ‘How long, Sophia, were you in the household of John Drummond?’
‘Eight years, my lady.’
‘Eight years.’ There was a measured pause. ‘I did not know my kinsman well. We played some time as children long ago, in Perth. He was a most unpleasant child, as I recall. And very fond,’ she said, ‘of breaking things.’ She raised a hand, and with a mother’s touch, smoothed one bright curl back from Sophia’s face. ‘I rather would repair them.’
That was all she said, and all she was to say, about John Drummond.
As the days went on, Sophia came to realize that the countess rarely ventured to speak ill of anyone, for all she was a woman of opinions. And she treated all the servants of her household, from the lowest maid who labored in the scullery to the solemn-faced chaplain himself, with an equal grace and courtesy. But an impression grew upon Sophia, based on nothing greater than a certain guarded tone of voice, a flash of something deeper in the eyes when the countess and Mr Hall were speaking, that the countess did not share his admiration of the Duke of Hamilton.
But she plainly did like Mr Hall, and when three weeks had come and gone the priest was still a guest at Slains, and no one talked of his departure.
Every day he kept the same routine: his morning draught, and then a private hour in which Sophia thought he might have prayed or tended to his business, then in fair or foul weather he would walk along the cliffs above the sea. Sophia envied him those walks. She was herself, by virtue of her sex, expected to keep closer to the castle’s walls, and venture not much further than the kitchen garden, where she felt the ever-watchful eyes of Mrs Grant. But on this day the sky was clearing, and the sun hung like a beacon in it, and there was in everyone a restlessness, such as all creatures felt in those first days when dying winter started giving way to spring, and so when Mr Hall announced that he would take his walk, Sophia begged to be allowed to go with him, although he made a protest that the path would be too difficult.
‘It is too far, and over ground too rough. Your slippers would be ruined.’
‘Then I shall wear my old ones. And I do not fear the walk with you to guide me.’
The countess glanced towards her with a blend of understanding and amusement, and then shared that look with Mr Hall. ‘She is most uncommonly healthy. I have no objection to letting her go, if you will see she does take care, when on the cliffs, that she goes not too near the edge.’
He did not take her near the cliffs, but inland, past hard fallow fields and tenant farms, where soft-eyed cows came out to stare, and red-cheeked children peered around the cottage doors and wondered at their passing. To Sophia, this was more familiar than the wilder landscape of the North Sea coast, although a part of her this morning seemed to want to feel that wildness, and she did not mind when Mr Hall suggested they start back to Slains.
The sky above the sea was almost free of cloud, and bright as far as she could see, and while the wind blew strongly it had come around and blew now from the southwest, and it did not seem as cold against her face. The water, too, although still ridged with white, had lost its angry roll and came to shore with better manners, not exploding on the rocks but merely curling foam around them and receding, in an almost soothing rhythm.