‘Her name is McKenzie,’ Araminta tells her husband. ‘I think she’s my grandmother’s spinster sister. I’ve been trying to figure it out.’
In his study, Johnathan has a bible inscribed with his family history. The Moores reach back eleven generations; birthdays, deaths and places of residence.
‘An unmarried great aunt,’ he pronounces. ‘Out of the blue. Well, you must go.’
Araminta blinks. ‘You won’t come with me?’
‘Darling, how can I? You know how much business I have at the society. The letter makes it clear the old lady does not have a deal of time.’ He peers again at the paper. ‘It sounds jolly urgent.’
He reaches past Araminta to ring for Eleanor who arrives into the drawing room with a well-practised curtsey. ‘You must pack for your mistress,’ Johnathan instructs, before turning back to his wife. ‘Don’t forget that red tartan dress you wore at the Christmas ball the year we got married. You’ll need that.’
Araminta nods. This is not the reaction she anticipated. She expected him to be as taken aback as she is. She expected they would make the journey north together. She dares to hope that the McKenzies are wonderful. All afternoon she has envisagedshe and Johnathan being introduced to her great aunt together; meeting her family.
‘You’re sure you’ll manage?’ she gets out. ‘Here on your own.’
‘I can stay at the club if need be,’ he dismisses her. ‘Plenty of company there. Duty calls, eh? Pack your things, Eleanor. You must go with Mrs Moore,’ he adds. ‘After dinner I shall send a note to obtain a cabin. I’ll deliver you to the dock at Greenwich in the morning and see you off.’
Eleanor is no more than five feet and two inches by any reckoning but she is more forthright than her mistress, in this matter anyway. ‘Where are we going, sir?’ she asks plainly.
Johnathan grins. He raises his whisky. ‘Scotland!’ he declares, as if this is the most tremendous jape. ‘Do you think Great Aunt McKenzie lives in a castle? Minty, if you inherit some of those ponies, the small ones, you must bring them back. We can keep them in the west field. The twelfth generation will adore them.’
Araminta can’t think how to reply. She and Johnathan have been trying for children since their wedding night with no success. Twice now she has had her hopes raised only to bleed nine weeks late. Johnathan is as bluff about these failings as he is about everything and often reassures her that there’s no rush. However, she wonders now if her husband is chiding her. In any case, Johnathan moves on.
‘Eleanor, tell them downstairs we’ll be seated in the dining room directly. I’m ravenous.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The maid disappears.
Araminta watches the girl leave. She’s about to say this seems like too long and important a journey to make with only her maid in tow. But her husband changes the subject.
‘The most fascinating thing today about limestone deposits,’ he says.
‘Limestone?’ she gets out.
‘You’ll never believe it,’ he declares. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner. Let’s go through.’
She doesn’t move. Araminta has spent the last two years of marriage in this brick house halfway up the hill. Since the day Johnathan carried her over the threshold, she’s taken pride in making it their home. She’s seen to it that the furniture is waxed, the carpets beaten and not a scrap wasted in the kitchen. Araminta owns not one but two copies of Mrs Rundell’s important book on household management, the first chapter, consisting of ‘observations for the mistress’, being particularly well thumbed in both editions. The Moores’ home is like a complicated Chinese box that she has cleaned and oiled and organised until it opens and closes like clockwork. The letter about her great aunt, she thinks, must surely knock the mechanism off kilter. It’s exactly the kind of earth-shattering event in which Johnathan would normally take an interest for in such upheaval, rocks are bound to be formed. She never met her grandparents and can barely recall her mother. Her father was stationed in India her entire life, while she was brought up in a girls’ school in Mary-le-Bone. She’s well aware of her husband’s geological interests, indeed, she shares them, but to move on so quickly from an unexpected living relation on the McKenzie side seems odd. ‘Johnny, my love,’ she says, ‘I have a feeling... Tomorrow. You see, I hadn’t anticipated... and the weather... I wonder if my mother came from...’
Johnathan blinks, waiting for his wife to finish one of her sentences. This isn’t like her. Araminta is usually complete in all things. ‘It’ll be an adventure,’ he says at last. ‘Don’t you want an adventure, darling?’
‘It’s not that . . .’
He cocks his head. Araminta is a good wife, both steady and exciting in the requisite ways. He has absolute faith in her. When he met her, she was in her final year at school and hadbeen awarded Dux. ‘Smart as a whip. Smarter than you, anyway, Johnny,’ his brother had teased. Now he can’t imagine what she is trying to say. He thinks perhaps she requires encouragement. ‘You must buy Cairngorm stone while you’re there. For my collection. You like Scotland,’ he adds. This is an observation based on Araminta’s fondness for Sir Walter Scott’s historical novels and her frequent remarks that she likes the taste of Scotch on her husband’s lips. She’s never been to Scotland and neither has he.
‘I suppose this woman is my only living relation,’ Araminta says quietly. ‘I’m sure it’ll only be a week or two.’
Johnathan pulls his wife to her feet as if the matter is settled. She kisses him. He tastes antiseptic tonight, almost liquorice. His eyes are so blue they are practically silver. He slides his hand round her waist. ‘Silly. You’re usually such an adventurous type,’ he says. This is true only between the marital sheets, where Araminta frequently surprises them both. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.’
She feels a sudden rush of love or perhaps panic.
‘No kissing handsome Highlanders. No flirting with fellows in kilts,’ Johnathan adds playfully.
Araminta laughs. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps her feelings are foolish. ‘I promise,’ she says. ‘I won’t lay a hand on a single one of them.’
*
The ship is a shock the next morning when the Moore party gets to Greenwich. The cabin is a good deal smaller than the bedchamber Araminta is used to. It’s dark and smells oily, but she doesn’t complain when Johnathan sees her aboard. He must have realised how nervous she is, for he held her hand all the way in the carriage. ‘You’ll sort it out and be back before you know it,’ he promises. ‘You’ll see.’ The captain introduces the young couple to his other passenger. Colonel Archibald Fraser,a beefy, strawberry-blond officer in the Royal Scots Guard, is billeted in the cabin opposite Araminta’s. The colonel is travelling to Edinburgh to resume a post at the castle, which, he immediately tells Johnathan, has been interrupted by his being summoned to a government enquiry at Westminster. He is sickeningly proud of himself. Araminta tries to think kindly of people, but it’s clear that Fraser is an insufferable know-it-all with a dim view of Scotland in general and Edinburgh in particular. He complains at length about his first foray to the Assembly Rooms on George Street where the people to whom he was introduced were insufficiently impressed by his achievements. ‘Parochial types,’ he says and adds that his posting still has more than a year to run. ‘Where in the town does your great aunt reside?’ he enquires.
Araminta isn’t sure how to pronounce the address, which she has only ever read in the lawyer’s letter, and never heard spoken. ‘Glenfinlas Street,’ she stumbles with the emphasis on the first syllable and then repeats the word, with the emphasis on the second. ‘Glenfinlas.’
