The Firebird

‘Sir,’ the nun veiled her face as she greeted him, ‘you are most welcome.’

‘Sister Xaveria.’ Dropping his gaze back to Anna, he asked in a low voice, ‘Whose child is this?’

Anna stared at him, not understanding the flash of emotion that twisted his features as though something pained him. ‘Her eyes … and her hair … she’s the image of …’ Pausing a moment, he gathered himself and then asked again, hoarsely, ‘Whose child is this?’

Anna felt Sister Xaveria’s hand on her shoulder, a gentle and steadying hold, reassuring. The nun told her, ‘Anna, this is Mr Maurice Moray, youngest brother to the Laird of Abercairney. And your uncle.’

Sitting in the parlour with the Abbess Butler and Sister Xaveria together with her on the one side of the grille, and looking at her Uncle Maurice sitting on the other, with the full grace of a gentleman, his back straight and his head up, proudly, Anna wondered whether her own father had once looked like that.

But no, she thought. Her uncle’s eyes were blue, and Colonel Graeme had been firm in saying that her own eyes were the colour of her father’s, like the sea in winter, mingled grey and green. The colour that her mother had so loved.

And her father’s face had surely been more handsome.

He was trying not to stare at her. ‘I did not know.’

The Abbess Butler gently said, ‘Nor did your brother. I believe his wife decided it was safer to conceal the child.’ ‘His wife?’ Reacting as though from a blow, he sat back in his chair. ‘Where is she now, this wife? Is she well cared for? Is she—?’

Gently interrupting him, the Abbess Butler said, ‘Your Uncle Graeme will, I have no doubt, tell all to you when next you see him.’

‘God,’ he said, then caught himself, and rubbing one hand on his brow apologised for uttering profanity in such a holy place. ‘’Tis only that … I did not know.’ His gaze fell warm on Anna’s face and searched for something there, but what it was she could not fathom. ‘She does have his features, does she not? It is as if he were not … were not …’ Cutting off the final part of what he might have said, he sharply turned his head towards the window and developed a fierce interest in the plain unchanging view of tiled rooftops that it offered. Quietly he said, ‘He was the best of us.’

The room sank into silence for a moment, as though all the adults’ thoughts had merged in one sad place.

The Abbess Butler finally asked, ‘How fare your other brothers? Did you leave them well in Scotland, or have they come over with you?’

‘No, and no,’ was his reply. ‘They are not with me, and I did not leave them well.’ He exhaled, heavily. ‘My brother Robin has again been taken captive, and there’s none will give me word of how he does, though I do fear that, having entertained him now so many times, the English will be keen to see him suffer when he comes to trial. As for my brother Abercairney, he was with us all the time at Perth until the King came, but he sickened and became too ill to come away when we made our retreat. It was his wife who found us passage finally, in a ship sent from the South Firth.’

‘Us?’ the Abbess Butler asked. ‘Then you do have companions?’

‘Aye, Sir Thomas Higgons came, as did Sir William Keith and his son George, and Mr Graeme, Newton’s son. We had designed for Gottenburg, but found the winds too contrary, and then a Danish frigate did detain us several days at Copenhagen, but at length,’ he said, ‘we made Danzig, and there we took to land. The roads are wearying, but safer than the sea.’

‘Will not you let us host you here in lodgings for the night?’

He shook his head. ‘I thank you, no. I could not pass so near to Ypres without a visit to your church, to see John’s grave, but I did not intend to stop for long. The others have but gone to find a meal and fresher horses, and will soon return to fetch me. Then we must continue on to Paris,’ he explained, ‘for I am carrying a goodly sum of money for the King, and will not rest until I put it in the safe hands of his agents there.’ He seemed to think of something then, and focusing on Anna, asked the nuns, ‘Have you sufficient funds to care for her? I have not much that is my own, but what I have is yours, and I could surely borrow from the funds I carry if—’

The Abbess raised her hand. ‘Your Uncle Graeme has already generously supplied her needs.’

He gave a nod of understanding, and what might have been regret. ‘And were it peacetime, she would surely find a home at Abercairney, and a cheerful playmate in her cousin James, my nephew. Or with Robin and his family – he has several sons and daughters now.’ His smile was thin, and hardened against memory. ‘But these times are far from peaceful, and my family, for its honourable history, has no place where it can stand with any safety.’

‘We will keep her safe.’ The Abbess Butler did not look so old, thought Anna, when she spoke like that, in such a bold, determined tone. ‘And to that end, it would be better, sir, if you did not inform your other brothers of her being here, nor mention her to anyone in Paris.’

He agreed. ‘You may rely on my discretion. For my part, it is enough to know that something yet remains of John.’ His gaze searched Anna’s face a moment longer, then he looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Your father was the best of us,’ he said again, but with more force this time, as though he wanted to be very sure she understood. ‘He was a good friend, and a better brother, and a man of honour. Mind that, now.’