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“You decided you were unsuited to the Chur—Kirk?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I seem like a minister to you, lass?”
“You”—she pulled his hand from her back to her front to hold it—“are a man of great depths. I’m realizing I shouldn’t presume anything. Pray tell, what happened?”
“Wasn’t suited to the vocation.”
“Had you ever thought you were?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “No. Never.”
“But you studied divinity, nonetheless?” She considered for a moment. “Were you trying to please someone else?”
He took a step back from her, looking surprised. “Aye. My father. He was a reverend, and it was expected to be my path as well.”
“I see. You weren’t suited to the church, but you’ve shown how exactly suited you are to trade. Hopefully, your father appreciates all your accomplishments? Is he still living?”
“No,” he said flatly.
“Did he see what you became? Surely he was proud.”
“He knew what I was from the time he adopted me. He tried his utmost to improve me, but I don’t think he was surprised in the end that none of it worked. If what you’re asking is whether he was proud of my enterprising, the answer is no.”
Clara swallowed her words of sympathy. She couldn’t claim to know this man well, but she knew he’d push her away if she uttered them. In this way, he reminded her of Stella. “You were adopted?”
James didn’t mask his frustration. “Yes. But enough of this.”
“Mr. Robertson,” she tried for a light voice, “whatever our restrictions on sentimentality, isn’t it normal and pleasant to converse about ourselves? As we did at the orangery?”
James’s mouth softened. “Yes, I was adopted. When I was nine.”
“Were you an orphan?”
Again, a sigh, and his mouth flattened. “My mother died in an accident in the linen mill where we worked. My father died when I was a babe.”
“You said where ‘we’ worked?” She frowned.
“Yes.”
“What did you do there?”
“I cleaned the dust from under the machines.”
“Do you remember what it was like?”
“Of course.” He looked past her shoulder, reliving the past. “Dust clogging my eyes, mouth, nose, ears. Intense heat from the machinery, weaving incessantly. Deafening noise, pounding.” He shuddered.
“What was your mother’s name?” she asked softly.
“Jane. The machines—I remember what they looked like. But my mum—herimage is blurry.” He frowned. “I held her dusty hand when we walked home after work. To an overcrowded, shared room. She was tall and very thin. I can’t remember her face.” He rubbed his hands together, staring down at them. “I remember the feel of our dusty hands pressed together.”
“Jane,” Clara breathed, looking upwards. “Look at your son now. I dare say she’d be very proud of you.” She ran her hands down his arms.
James caught Clara’s hands in each of his. “Perhaps,” he said in a tight voice.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Eight.”
