‘Politics?’ Tom was screwing up his eyes against the sun. He had spotted the osprey again, flying low over the water.
‘Like Uncle James, Mama’s brother. He fought for Prince Charlie. That’s why he has to live abroad. All his estates were confiscated.’
‘He doesn’t know what confiscated means!’ David’s voice was muffled by the hunk of bread he was chewing as he lay back on the grass.
‘I do!’ Tom retorted. ‘It means taken away by the government.’
‘Well, then. You know why we’re poor. They gave some of the land back, but Papa has to live off a measly allowance from trustees who have no idea how an earl should live. That’s why we have to live in a flat in Edinburgh instead of a castle.’
‘Papa and Mama still like Prince Charlie?’ Tom framed it as a question.
‘Yes, but you must never, ever, say so. King George is our king now. Remember that.’ David sat up. ‘If you forget every word I’ve ever said to you, Tom, remember that one. King George is our king and we are loyal to him. Whatever we may think in private, we keep it private. Understand?’
Tom nodded. He was already watching another bird, but somewhere deep inside his head he tucked his brother’s advice away. He would remember it all his life.
It was the most wonderful holiday. They visited the loch and its islands again and again. Tom learnt to row; Harry taught him to swim. They went fishing. David took them outside at night and they lay on their backs in the long grass, staring up at the sky while he told them the names of the stars. They explored the castle and its policies; they made friends with the builders who were constructing a new extension to the castle and with the men working to drain areas of the great moss behind the castle so that it could be turned into rich farmland. Many of the labourers were Highlanders, dispossessed after the Jacobite rebellion fifteen years before; they were full of stories of battles and of grief, legends of ghosts and fairies, and Tom in particular listened wide-eyed to every tale, spending hours sitting listening as they wielded their long-handled spades or sat around their campfires at night. The moss fascinated him. In daylight the colours made him itch to reach for his pens and brushes, trying to capture the emerald of the moss itself, the russets and yellows and the glories of the purple heather. On hot days they saw adders and lizards basking and they heard the calls of distant snipe and the chink of stonechats and the yelp of buzzards. But at night it was lonely and eerie, swathed in mist and moon-shot shadows and the only sound was the haunting call of an owl.
All three boys were devastated when David received a letter from their mother informing them that the time had come for them to return home and that their cousin of Carnock would be sending his coach at the end of the week. The days were not as warm now as when they had first arrived; mist hung in the trees in the mornings and there was a scent of autumn in the air, but even so, they could have stayed there for ever.
Tom wrote everything down in his notebook, careful with the details, including sketches and even little tinted paintings. One of his mother’s friends had shown the boy how to use a brush to shade his inks and to grind up pigments to make the watercolour washes that would make his sketches realistic and he practised in the evenings by the light of a lamp as his brothers read or left him alone to walk through the moonlight to take a dram with their neighbours. He didn’t realise he was keeping a diary, but the keeping of meticulous records was another skill he would practise all his life.
Finlay greeted Ruth with a crushing bear hug when he arrived next morning just after nine. He brought croissants and coffee in a Thermos. ‘I wasn’t sure whether your father would have proper coffee-making equipment,’ he said as he sat down at the kitchen table, the paper bags in front of him. He was a huge man, a larger-than-life character in every way, the same age as Rick, but as they had often joked, he appeared older and was far more worldly wise.
He surveyed her sternly. ‘My God, you look knackered, sweetheart.’
She reached in the cupboard for cups and plates. ‘I was up late doing family research. It’s a good distraction from what’s been going on here.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father. What a bum summer you’ve had. And now this ne’er-do-well turns up!’ He began to unpack their breakfast. ‘It broke my heart when I heard you and Rick had split up.’
When he finally allowed her to speak she told him the whole story as he sat devouring his croissant, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.
‘Forgive me asking, but why did your mother stay with your father?’ he asked when she finished her story.
Ruth smiled sadly. ‘I keep asking myself that. I used to come up to Edinburgh and meet her sometimes secretly; he never knew. After she died I had no contact. He never tried to persuade me to come home.’
‘Till he needed you.’
‘Even then, it wasn’t him who called, it was Sally, next door. To be honest, he barely recognised me.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he leaned forward, seemingly re-energised. ‘Right, so, you want me to store some of your precious family stuff for you.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think it’s all that valuable in money terms; I suspect Timothy has already been through it and if there was anything worth having he’s probably taken it, but I feel a bit threatened, as if he would take things out of spite if he thought I valued them.’
He leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin in hand, and studied her again with disconcerting concentration. ‘I can take as much as you like. You have me to take care of you now.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘The problem will be to make sure he isn’t spying on you. If he thinks you are moving anything out, he might go to the courts. I don’t know the law on this. We should check with your Mr Reid. Is there any large furniture you want removed?’
‘No, most of the stuff I want to keep is really small. This writing box is the largest.’ It was lying on the kitchen table. ‘The rest is in suitcases and boxes. I’m still looking for the family portraits. I don’t know if they even exist still. Dad really hated them. Mum only brought them here because there was no one else for my grandparents to leave them to. I don’t care about the rest of the furniture, to be honest.’
‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘Why don’t we go out to my place now with a load. That writing box for a start. I could mend that for you. My car is just up the road. We’ll check he isn’t lurking. What sort of car does he have?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if he has one.’
Finlay was back at once. ‘He’s parked right outside, or someone is, watching this house. Take a shifty out of the front window.’
It was Timothy. Cautiously she peered from behind the heavy curtain. He had made no attempt at being subtle; his hands were clamped on the steering wheel with every appearance of impatience. From time to time he glanced at his watch. ‘He looks as though he’s waiting for someone. No, he’s getting out of the car.’ She stepped back from the window. ‘He’s coming in.’
They heard the sound of a key in the lock. Timothy wrestled with it for a moment, before uttering an exclamation of impatience. Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but Finlay put his finger to his lips and gestured to her to remain out of sight.
He crept towards the door surprisingly quietly for such a large man and opened it. Timothy was standing there, a key in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’ Finlay stood four-square in the doorway.
‘She’s