The Winter Sea

He had his father’s manners. As I came into the sitting-room, he stood, and when his eyes met mine they laid my doubts to rest. We might have been the only people in the room.

Except we weren’t.

I hadn’t seen the other person standing to my left until a hand reached out to claim my shoulder, and I felt the brush of Stuart’s breath against my cheek as he bent down to greet me with a smiling kiss that faintly smelled of beer. ‘You see? I told you I’d not be away too long.’ With the hand still on my shoulder, he said, ‘Graham, this is Carrie. Carrie, meet my brother, Graham.’

Thrown off balance by this new turn of events, I went through the motions of the introduction by pure reflex, till the firm electric warmth of Graham’s handshake steadied me. Politely but deliberately, I took a step forward that brought me out of Stuart’s hold, and chose the armchair closest to the one where Graham sat. I then aimed my smile beyond both brothers to their father, who had crossed to offer me the glass he’d filled with care from what appeared to be a newly purchased bottle of dry sherry on the sideboard.

‘Thanks,’ I said, to Jimmy. ‘Lunch smells wonderful.’

‘Ye’ll nae be filled wi’ sic praise efter ye’ve aeten it.’

‘That’s why he’s got us drinking first,’ said Stuart, holding up his own half-finished glass of ale as evidence. Oblivious to my maneuver with the chairs, he took the one that faced me, stretching out his legs and shifting Angus to the side. The dog moved grumpily.

‘So,’ Stuart asked me, cheerfully, ‘how did you get along this week, without me?’

‘Oh, I managed.’

Jimmy said, ‘She’s been tae Edinburgh.’

I felt the brush of Graham’s gaze beside me, before Stuart said, ‘To Edinburgh?’ His eyebrows lifted, curious. ‘What for?’

‘Just research.’

‘Aye,’ said Jimmy, ‘awa a’ the wik she wis, and she didna get hame till late on Friday. Had me fair worriet. I nivver like tae see a quinie travel on her ain at nicht. Fit wye didna ye wait and come up in the morning?’ he asked me.

‘I was ready to come home,’ was all the explanation I could give without revealing that I’d only wanted to get back in time to keep my date with Graham for our driving tour on Saturday.

If he suspected it himself, he kept it hidden. ‘Did you find what you were after?’ Graham asked, and as my head came round he added calmly, ‘With your research?’

‘I found quite a bit, yes.’ And, because it gave me something useful I could focus on, I told him a little of what I had learned from the Hamilton papers.

Stuart, settling back, asked, ‘And who was the Duke of Hamilton?’

‘James Douglas,’ Graham said, ‘Fourth Duke of Hamilton.’

‘Oh, him. Of course.’ He rolled his eyes, and Graham grinned and told his brother, ‘Don’t be such an arse.’

‘We don’t all sleep with history books.’

‘The Duke of Hamilton,’ said Graham slowly, as though speaking to a child, ‘was one of Scotland’s most important men, around the turning of the eighteenth century. He spoke out as a patriot, and had a place in line to Scotland’s throne. In fact, some Protestants, himself included, thought he’d be a better candidate for king than any of the exiled Stewarts.’

‘Aye, well, anyone would have been better than the Stewarts,’ Stuart said, but as he raised his glass the curving of his mouth showed he was goading Graham purposely.

Ignoring him, Graham asked me, ‘Does he play a great role in your book?’

‘The duke? He’s around in the background a lot. The story, so far, has kept pretty much to Slains, but there’s a scene at the beginning where he briefly meets my heroine in Edinburgh. And my characters, of course, all have opinions on the duke’s connection to the Union.’

‘So do some historians.’

Stuart drained his glass and said, ‘You’re losing me, again. What Union?’

Graham paused, then in a dry voice told me, ‘You’ll excuse my brother. His appreciation of our country’s past begins and ends with Braveheart.’

Stuart tried his best to look offended, but he couldn’t. In his easygoing way, he said, ‘Well, go on, then. Enlighten me.’

Graham’s eyes were indulgent. ‘Robert the Bruce was in Braveheart, so you’ll ken who he was?’

‘Aye. The King of Scotland.’

‘And his daughter married onto the High Steward, so from that you’ve got the “Stewart” line, which went through two more Roberts and a heap of Jameses before coming down to Mary, Queen of Scots. You’ve heard of her?’

‘Nice girl, bad marriages,’ said Stuart, sitting back to play along.

‘And Mary’s son, another James, became the heir to Queen Elizabeth of England, who died without a child. So now you’ve got a Stewart being King of Scotland and of England, though he acts more English, now, than Scots, and rarely even sets a foot up here. Nor does his son, King Charles the First, who gets a bit too cocky with his powers, so along come Cromwell and his men to say they’ve had enough of kings, and they depose King Charles the First and cut his head off.’

‘With you so far.’

‘Then the English, after years of Civil War and having Cromwell and his parliament in charge awhile, decide that they’d be better off with kings, after all, so they invite the old king’s son, Charles Stewart—Charles the Second—to come back and take the throne. And when he dies in 1685, his brother James becomes the king, which would be no real problem, only James is Catholic. Very Catholic. And not only do the English fear he’s trying to edge out their hard-won Protestant religion, they also fear he’ll enter an alliance with the Catholic King of France, who’s their worst enemy.’