‘Miss McKenzie is a marvel,’ Brodie says and opens the door to the drawing room.
Inside, the yellow satin upholstered seats are empty. The room, in fact, is over-furnished, as Araminta judges it. Endless paintings in contrasting frames dot three of the walls: an infant in a white frock beside a pug; a young woman wearing a tartan sash next to a harpsichord, in her hands a ferret, alongside another woman next to a globe, holding a sword. There are too many to take in. The fourth wall is furnished with a packed set of bookcases that run from floor to cornice. A fire roars in the grate, surrounded by an ornate forest-green marble mantle with wide creamy veins, that Araminta is sure would excite Johnathan.
‘Good Lord!’ says a woman’s voice. ‘You look just like your dear mother.’
Araminta scans the busy room again and realises that the observation comes from a figure balancing on a ladder that runs along the bookcases. The old woman is dressed in red, in contrast to her snowy-white hair, which is mostly covered by an old-fashioned, pink turban.
‘Allow me to assist, madam.’ Brodie offers his hand.
Miss McKenzie bats him away and descends the ladder alone. ‘Let me look at you,’ she commands.
Araminta finds she has nothing to say. She opens her arms. It’s the only thing she can think to do. She isn’t going to twirl like a child.
‘Pale, aren’t you?’ the old lady pronounces.
‘You say I look like my mother?’
‘I think so. Yes. But whiter. Dear Grainne was a sonsie lass,’ Miss McKenzie pronounces.
Araminta has no idea what this means. ‘I thought you were dying.’ The words escape.
The old lady laughs. It’s a thick, chesty sound. ‘Oh aye,’ she says. ‘The doctor says I’ll be lucky to make it to Easter. We don’t have much time. How was your trip?’
‘Satisfactory.’
‘I always think by stage is best. When I visited Paris in my younger days, I only took the boat where I had to. One has much more a sense of the journey by road. You’ve made excellent time, my dear.’
‘The solicitor’s letter said it was urgent,’ Araminta gets out.
‘It certainly is.’ The old lady sits down on one of the yellow chairs. ‘I shouldn’t have left it so long, but one becomes busy and I hoped not to bother you. Brodie, we shall require tea. Nettle, I think, and mushroom flan and orange thyme cake.’
Brodie disappears obediently. Great Aunt McKenzie motions towards the sopha. ‘Please sit.’
Araminta does so elegantly, her hands in her lap, her legs folded to one side. There’s a pause where neither woman knows where to start.
‘My name is Eilidh in the Gaelic. You might call me Aunt Helen, I suppose, if you can’t manage it,’ Great Aunt McKenzie announces. ‘Or Ellie. Some of my friends used to call me that when I was younger.’
Araminta studied Greek, Latin and Aramaic as a schoolgirl. Her first interest was in ancient stones with carvings inscribed upon Roman graves and Greek temples. She shifted her focus to the stone itself when she met Johnathan.
‘Eilidh,’ she sounds the name. Aay-lee. ‘I think I can manage even if I don’t speak Gaelic. Great Aunt Eilidh,’ she repeats, trying it out.
Now the old lady is staring in a manner that seems outright rude. ‘I wonder...’ she says, but her voice trails.
‘I’ve never met any of my relations,’ Araminta announces. ‘Not as an adult. I can’t remember my mother.’
‘Your father lived abroad as I recall.’
‘Bombay.’
‘I met him once,’ Aunt Eilidh reveals. ‘I thought he was a handsome, resourceful lad. He left you well provided for as I understand it.’
Araminta blushes. Johnathan deals with the money. It doesn’t feel fitting to talk about it with another lady, but then Eilidh McKenzie is unmarried. ‘Who deals with your affairs, Aunt Eilidh?’
‘I do, of course,’ the old lady replies, her expression making it clear that Araminta is disappointing her.
‘And we have no other family?’ It feels indelicate to say it, but Araminta wants to be clear.
‘Not anymore,’ the old woman says sadly.
