‘Blood,’ the doctor adds nostalgically as if this explains something metaphysical as well as biological. ‘That medicine will ginger you up, madam.’ He indicates the green glass and Araminta once more ignores it.
In the hallway Eleanor shifts as she hears the front door opening and Brodie bringing another gentleman upstairs. This man is the same age as the doctor but better dressed.
‘Mrs Moore,’ the fellow hails her, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Drummond, Miss McKenzie’s solicitor. It’s a pleasure to meet you despite the circumstances. Miss McKenzie was particular that you should be here when she passed. Please accept my condolences.’
Eleanor peers from her hiding place. The lawyer nods at the doctor, who he clearly knows, while Araminta shakes the fellow’s hand. ‘Your great aunt was a most astute lady. She leftinstructions to give you this upon her demise,’ he explains, as he fumbles with a leather attaché case.
Eleanor cranes her neck as Mr Drummond fishes out a small wooden box. Araminta opens the lid, revealing a blue velvet interior from which she withdraws a key. ‘What’s it for?’ she asks.
Drummond momentarily catches the doctor’s eye with a look that seems to convey he considers Araminta’s question unreasonable. ‘I’ve no idea, madam. Didn’t Miss McKenzie appraise you of her wishes?’
The mistress stands up. ‘This is all my great aunt left? Nothing else?’
‘Hardly,’ the solicitor objects. ‘In the lady’s will you’re endowed with this house, its contents and a portfolio of investments that bear, as I understand it, an excellent income.’
Araminta’s eyes flash around the room, then back to the key in her hand. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘But no instructions?’
‘She left small gifts to the staff, but I can see to those,’ Drummond says. ‘You may dispatch the rest of the property as you wish. If you’d like to sell the house or rent it, I can organise to do so. It’s worth a tidy sum. East–west outlooks are less interesting, having no view of the castle or over the firth, and being on this steep a slope makes the property less attractive, but still, Glenfinlas Street occupies an excellent position in the town.’
Araminta looks round the room. This place is not her place, nor these things her things, but they are imbued with Great Aunt Eilidh, who embodied the promise of something she’s not yet ready to let go.
‘Do you have friends or acquaintances you’d like us to send for, Mrs Moore?’ the doctor cuts in.
Araminta shakes her head. ‘I arrived not three hours since, gentlemen. I know nobody in Edinburgh.’
Both men seem taken aback. Edinburgh is at the centre of European culture and society. To know no one in the capital seems not only unlikely, but worse, hopelessly provincial. ‘Nobody at all?’ the lawyer asks.
Araminta confirms it.
‘Well,’ the doctor lets out. ‘For heaven’s sake.’
The men hover uncomfortably until the mistress takes control. ‘I’d like to lie down,’ she announces, ringing the bell. The doctor and the lawyer appear relieved. Both promise to call the next day. Brodie appears and herds the men away. But Araminta McKenzie Moore does not lie down, instead she goes to the window and watches them leave, the doctor on foot and the lawyer mounted on a fine bay with a good saddle, his attaché case belted to the pommel.
Eleanor appears in the doorway. ‘My condolences, madam,’ she gets out.
Araminta turns. ‘Thank you, Eleanor. I didn’t know my great aunt but nonetheless I do feel...’ She does not finish the sentence. It’s a bad habit she is falling into. ‘Wait while I write to my husband and you can have the note sent.’
Araminta rattles about a desk next to the bookshelves, finding what she needs. She writes a few lines to Johnathan, dipping the pen in the inkwell. The words flow with unexpected emotion.I arrived a mere hour before Aunt Eilidh’s death. I feel I did not have long enough with her.There are portraits here of my forebears. I don’t know their names.She signs the note affectionately and seals the envelope with a stick of green wax from the drawer. When she can find nothing with which to brand the slick pool, she uses the bottom of the inkwell. Then her shoulders fold and she starts to cry.
‘Oh, madam.’ Eleanor lays a hand on her mistress’s arm. She feels guilty knowing she’ll relate this to Mr McGhie. She’ll leave out the tears, she thinks. That’s private.
‘We need not fully unpack,’ Araminta sniffs. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be here more than a few days. I need to organise Aunt Eilidh’s funeral and make some practical arrangements.’ She hands over the missive. ‘Send up Brodie, would you? It’ll save me ringing.’
Eleanor’s brow creases. Her eyes fall to the key which Araminta has laid on the blotting paper. She thinks if it unlocked something in the house, Miss McKenzie would surely not have entrusted it to a solicitor. Therefore, it must be for another place that she meant to tell the mistress about. Eleanor cannot think of a reason to pick it up so she takes off to find the butler.
Brodie comes straight away and suggests Scotch broth and brandy for the mistress’s nerves but Araminta bats the idea off with the same disinterest she did the strange, green medicine. She takes his advice, however, in the matter of her aunt’s funeral. ‘St Cuthbert’s on the far side of Princes Street,’ he says. ‘Not St John’s. Your aunt attended both churches and the High Kirk at St Giles’ on holy days. But St Cuthbert’s was her favourite.’
‘And not...’ Araminta gestures further up the road towards Charlotte Square where an imposing church sits in pole position on the west side of the gardens.
‘St George’s, madam?’
‘Yes. St George’s.’
‘Your aunt had not attended that church in many years.’
‘I see. Do we have a family plot at St Cuthbert’s?’ Araminta checks. She feels sheepish not knowing.
‘I think not, madam.’
