The Scotts’ butler arrives with a tray of glasses; balloons of Armagnac for the men. ‘None of that ghastly bubbling brew of yours,’ Scott teases his wife. ‘This is a proper celebration. We shall announce it at the Assembly Rooms this evening. All Edinburgh must know.’
The afternoon continues in this vein. More New Town worthies arrive. Scott tells the story over and over, adding poetic details about the billowing dust raised by the soldiers breaking through the wall. ‘The regalia is the very soul of our nation,’ he says. ‘I may write a poem.’ Nobody doubts it. More Armagnac and he moves on to the condition of the artefacts which have survived all this time. ‘Perfect as the day the wall was closed.’
Nobody mentions why the honours were walled up in the first place. Scott has uncovered an act of quiet rebellion over a century old. Like the ascension of the Hanoverians, the Act of Union is only ever spoken of as a joyous event, if at all, but there is always that rumble. Bought and sold for English gold, as Robert Burns had it. Today, however, dissent is not on the agenda and toasts are raised to Walter’s intellect in making the discovery, then toasts to the honours and intermittently the king, the regent’s father, who is mad and currently confined in Kew Palace. And, of course, toasts to Prinny too.
At four, the McKenzie women don their outerwear; Eilidh in a fur-edged cape the colour of good red wine and Saoirse wearing a stylish satin-lined redingote in forest-green. Thomas follows them downstairs. ‘The marvellous Misses McKenzie,’ he says. ‘What would Edinburgh do without you?’ Gentlemen are generally charming to the women. They gravitate towards Eilidh, the chattier of the sisters and the younger. She takes this in her stride, knowing they hope for a coveted invitation to one of the McKenzies’ famous dinners, where pudding is only served if the party can solve one of the sisters’ notorious riddles. Thomas Scott has never been invited for he has no intellect and could not unravel a riddle if it were a waxed paper round a toffee.
The McKenzies take their leave and walk home, arm in arm, along George Street and round the square. It’s cold but the sky is piercing-blue. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke. The trees are bare. Saoirse looks forward to the day only a few weeks hence when the grass will be scythed and heaped on a large sackcloth under a tree. She likes the smell.
‘Do you think he’ll realise?’ Eilidh asks.
Saoirse shakes her head. The crown Scott found today is not Scotland’s only missing royal jewel. ‘It’s not in Walter’s nature to think of the women. He’s found his summit. He’s planted his flag. He’ll be Sir Walter before the end of the year. LadyCharlotte has a nice ring to it. I don’t feel like the Assembly Rooms later, do you?’
‘Certainly not,’ her sister confirms. Both are tired. Walter’s exploit has cost them a good deal of sleep over the last weeks. Should they have given him the clue when they unearthed it? Or would it have been better to allow the honours to languish? The McKenzies took almost a fortnight to decide that Scotland’s crown jewels were best placed in the public sphere. They have a great deal on their minds apart from this.
‘And the child? Our little peppermint?’
‘Araminta? Let’s leave her where she is.’ Eilidh breaks free of her sister’s arm and opens the front door, throwing her outerwear onto the table. She casts a passing glance at the family coat of arms and its motto,Cuidich ’n banhrigh: Help the queen. It is the women’s sworn duty. ‘We’ll know when the time’s right. It’s safer this way,’ Eilidh adds. ‘Perhaps we’re the final generation. Walter has unearthed his honours. I hope we shall find ours as well.’
Saoirse’s mind is still on the great niece she has only met as an infant. ‘Might the wee lass miss us?’ she muses wistfully.
Ever pragmatic, Eilidh shrugs off this question as Brodie, the women’s butler, six feet tall and handsome, sees them upstairs. Eilidh employed him on account of his looks: striking red hair and pale-blue eyes that contrast his black uniform. ‘He’ll cheer the place up,’ she’d said. ‘Nice and colourful.’
Brodie’s personality does not match his flaming hair. He emanates confident discretion, a trait the McKenzies value above almost anything else. ‘An enjoyable afternoon, ladies?’ he enquires, rock-steady.
‘All according to plan, Brodie. Send up tea, would you?’ Eilidh instructs. ‘Sage, I think, with honey.’
Upstairs, the women lounge on yellow satin sophas round the open fire. The long windows are open an inch, despite the cold.Later, Saoirse will attend the evening service at St George’s, as is her habit. She likes to see the neighbours and to sing, while Eilidh remains in this room, reading; always reading. ‘I’m sure our crown has emeralds,’ Saoirse says wistfully. ‘They’re far better stones. If only we could lay our hands on it,’ she adds with a sigh.
Chapter One
Nineteen years later. Monday 6 February 1837. Richmond, London.
Araminta McKenzie Moore sits alone in her drawing room. It feels as if the mahogany clock on the mantle is ticking so loudly she can barely think. She folds her hands in her lap, calmed by the glint of crystal decanters on the cherrywood chiffonier, all filled to the same level. Johnathan must surely get home soon. This afternoon, she took a brisk walk along the slate-grey Thames and cut up the muddy hill to Sheen Wood to pass the time but could not settle to the newspaper when she got home. It lies unopened now on the bureau, the headline decrying the fate of a poor lady, institutionalised under police guard on the say-so of her cousin, who it appears was more concerned with her inheritance than with her welfare. Araminta shudders. The new metropolitan police force has made inroads against crime in the capital, but there is something sinister about the men in uniforms. How could they not have seen that the lady concerned was completely sane? She has been saved now by the endeavour of her friends. But still.
As Araminta stares at her reflection in the glossy glass bay she wonders if she should ring for Eleanor to draw the curtains. The maid will chatter about the evenings getting lighter and the new buttons Araminta must choose for her winter coat. Today the mistress has a more important matter in mind. Something overwhelming. It’s almost dark outside, the twilight crisp. At least she looks composed, she thinks, her eyes running over the reflection of her pale hair the colour of a well-baked biscuitand her brown woollen dress just darker than her eyes, as she waits in the velvet chair by the fire. Her husband, she knows, appreciates her composure, her innate tidiness. As a result, over their two-year marriage, she has become progressively tidier and more composed. An owl hoots. From the kitchen the smell of stewing meat snakes upwards and Araminta realises that she hasn’t eaten anything since her breakfast tray.
Laying a hand on her stomach, she sits up as she hears Borrower, Johnathan’s horse, trotting up the driveway before being led to the stable by the groom. Then the front door opens and Johnathan stamps on the flagstones. He’ll remove his hat, coat and gloves, she thinks, giving him time to do so as she takes a deep breath.
‘Darling!’ He bursts into the room, pink-cheeked, and kisses her with chill lips before moving to the fire. ‘The ride took over an hour and it’s freezing. The road is flooded at Putney again. What are we having for dinner?’
‘Casserole,’ she replies.
He pours himself a whisky from the first decanter. ‘I hope Cook’s prepared a decent pudding. It’s the weather for it.’
‘The funniest thing happened today,’ Araminta starts. She pulls the letter from her pocket like a child delivering her teacher a note from home, rather than a twenty-six-year-old married lady. ‘I received this from a solicitor in Edinburgh.’
‘Edinburgh?’ Johnathan says as if the city’s name is a declaration. He rolls the R. ‘Your homeland!’
Araminta has never travelled further north than Islington but her family were McKenzies. Orphaned young, she knows nothing about them. She hands over the paper. Johnathan takes a moment to read it, his dark hair obscuring his blue eyes; his face as still as chiselled sandstone.
‘A prospective inheritance. Goodness. Do you know this great aunt of yours, Minty?’
Araminta shakes her head.
He knows she doesn’t. When they got married, his family solicitor took him aside to warn against her; a woman without a family. The old man clearly found this state of affairs suspicious. ‘We know nothing about where she comes from,’ he said.
Good-hearted, Johnathan was undeterred. ‘I take people on their merits,’ he countered. ‘This woman is the one for me, family or no family.’ However, Araminta is nervous. A family member appearing out of the blue is exciting, but what if the old solicitor was right? What if it turns out that she comes from a herd of black sheep?
