The Winter Sea
Page 76I wondered in silence if that later Laird might have been ‘the wee lad not yet eighteen months of age’ whom Moray had been speaking of that day he’d first gone riding with Sophia, and who, he had complained, would not have known him from a stranger.
‘I’ll have to read up on the family,’ said Graham, ‘and see what sort of character you’d be giving me. John Moray, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what’s the part that he plays in your book?’
‘Well…he’s kind of the hero.’
The kettle was boiling, but Graham ignored it. He looked round again, eyes warm. ‘Is he, now?’
I nodded.
‘I thought you were writing everything around Nathaniel Hooke.’
‘Hooke wasn’t here much. He was off around the country, meeting nobles. Moray stayed at Slains all through the month of May, and into June.’
‘I see.’ The kettle clicked off, sullenly, as though it somehow knew we wouldn’t want it this time either. Graham turned to fully face me, leaning back against the counter, arms folded comfortably over the unbuttoned shirt. ‘And just what did he get up to, your John Moray, in the time that he was here?’
‘Oh, this and that.’ I didn’t blush this time, but from his knowing eyes I knew I might as well have done.
‘Is there a woman in all this?’
‘Well, then.’ His intent was clear before he’d straightened from the counter, but that didn’t stop me laughing when he lifted me, as easily as if I had weighed nothing, and cradled me warm to his half-bare chest. ‘Graham!’
His arms tightened. ‘No, you’ve said already that you like your writing to be accurate.’ He headed for the bedroom. ‘And my Dad did say,’ he added, with a wicked smile, ‘that I should help ye any way I could, with your research.’
The phone was ringing.
Barely conscious, I rolled over on the bed, my body weighted by the tangled sheets and blankets. I could see the indentation on the pillow where Graham’s head had rested close beside mine while we’d slept. But he was gone.
I had a recollection, vaguely, of his leaving. Of his kissing me, and tucking in the blankets, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what he’d said. And I had no idea, now, what time it was, what day it was. The room was nearly dark.
The phone kept ringing, from the front room, and I rose and went to answer it.
‘Oh, good. You’re there,’ my father said. ‘I tried to call you earlier, but you weren’t home. Where were you?’
I could hardly tell him where I’d really been, or why I had ignored the phone the first time it had rung, just after lunch. And I was glad he wasn’t in the room to see my face when I said, ‘Oh, just out.’
‘More research?’
It was a good thing he couldn’t see my face then, either. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, dear, it’s time for us to talk. I’ve had a call from Ross McClelland.’
‘He found a burial for Anna Mary Paterson, in August, 1706. Not far outside Kirkcudbright. In the country.’
‘Oh.’
‘So now, I think it’s time you told me where you’re getting all of this.’
‘I can’t.’
That threw him off. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Sweetheart.’ I could hear the dryness of his tone across the line. ‘Do you remember when you first got published, and I asked you where you got your stories from, and you said you just heard the voices talking in your head and wrote down what they were saying?’
I remembered.
‘Well,’ he told me, ‘if I didn’t pack you off to the asylum then, what makes you think I’ll—’
‘This is different.’
‘Try me.’
‘And what does that mean? I can’t have an open mind?’
‘It means you don’t believe in things that can’t be proven.’
‘Try me,’ he repeated patiently.
I took a breath and told him. For good measure, I threw in the bits of information Dr Weir had scrounged for me, in hopes they’d make things sound more scientific, but the essence of it was, ‘And so I seem to have inherited her memories, and my being here at Slains has somehow called them to the surface from wherever they’ve been stored.’
A pause. Then he said, ‘Interesting.’
‘See? You think I’m crazy.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You don’t have to. I remember your reaction when Aunt Ellen said she’d seen a ghost.’
‘Well, a ghost is one thing. This is DNA,’ he said. ‘And anything is possible, with DNA. You know they use it now, in genealogy, to trace specific lineages? If Ross McClelland and I had our blood tested, we’d show the same markers on our DNA, because we’re both descended from the same man.’
‘David John McClelland’s father,’ I said, frowning.
‘That’s right. Hugh. He had two sons, David John and William, but he died when they were young, and both the boys wound up in northern Ireland somehow. Sent to be raised up by their relatives, I guess. The Scottish Presbyterians had settled into Ulster by that time, but they still liked to send their sons across to Scotland to find wives, and likely that’s why our McClellands came back over to Kirkcudbright. William found his wife, and never did go back to Ireland. And David found Sophia.’