He had an idea as to where this person resided, but he was not about to sacrifice a fat fee by supplying the information too quickly

Kirsty looked at Alison. “Don’t you feel you should be honest and tell the others that you know?” she asked her. She was thinking of the Porteous family. “No. Well, perhaps, Ellie, some time. She and I have that in common, after all.” Alison gave a hollow laugh. “The bookseller’s ‘daughter’ and the kitchenmaid. Both orphans.”

There was more Kirsty wanted to ask but she was aware of the passing of time.

“Best we get ready. We’ll talk later,” she promised. She noticed the bedroom door was slightly ajar and when she went to shut it she saw a figure outside in the corridor. “Father!”

Duncan looked flustered. “I... I was just coming to tell you lassies that the chairs should arrive in 10 minutes or so,” he stammered.

The old man gave a perfunctory nod and walked away. Watching his retreating figure Kirsty’s thoughts were racing. Had he heard what Alison had said?

Downstairs, a few minutes later, John Porteous entered the Mission House by the main door to find Duncan waiting fretfully for him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked Duncan. “Your face is like Samson’s when he found his hair shorn.”

“And so will yours be when I tell you, John. I’ve just –” A loud knock at the door interrupted him. Frowning, Duncan pulled it open. It was the men with the sedan chair for the girls. He turned to his old friend. “Later.”

Then he called for Kirsty and Alison to come down.

Ill-natured

You’ll be the cadie, then?” Thomas McLean looked up at the young man standing before him.

“Aye, sir. Tam McAdam at your service. My sister said you were in need of my knowledge of the city, Mr –?”

“Never mind my name. That’s no concern of yours.” The boy reddened. He felt the urge to leave and let this ill-natured oaf find someone else, but he looked prosperous. Hopefully there would be a good fee coming.

“There are two people I seek,” the older man muttered. “One is named Gray, the other McLaurin.”

“Both are common names, sir. I know of some 40 homes occupied by persons named Gray and McLaurin is a popular name, too, I fear.”

McLean drummed his fingers on the table top. “The Gray I seek is of noble blood – a Lady Catherine.” Tam nodded. “That will ease my task,” he said. Indeed, he already had an idea as to where this person resided. However, he was not about to sacrifice a fat fee by supplying the information too quickly. “And the other – McLaurin?”

“She may or may not reside with Lady Catherine. Indeed, she may no longer reside on this earth – which would be no small riddance.”

At this, Tam’s heart leaped. He’d often served Lady Catherine and her raddled old companion in the past. He stroked his chin.

“Well, sir, I’m sure I can locate these folk for you, though they may prove hard to find among the thousands living here.”

McLean snorted. “Laddie, there are others I can approach. Just tell me, can you do this or not?” McLean slammed his palm down on the table then slowly raised his hand to reveal a half sovereign.

“You’ll get this, and another, if you get back to me within 48 hours.”

Eyes gleaming, Tam rose to his feet. “Be assured, sir, I’ll not let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” the other agreed, “for if you fail me there will be no payment whatsoever.” Making to leave, Tam halted at his customer’s next words.

“Bear in mind I’ve travelled far and wish to surprise these parties. I’m sure they won’t learn of my presence from you, will they?”

Suddenly fearful at the implied threat, Tam looked down at the seated man. “No, sir, rest assured I will not betray this confidence.”

Preferred taste

General Guest accepted a glass of wine from the tray proffered by Jean Forbes and studied it closely. Lady Catherine smiled as she watched him sniff the liquid apprehensively.

“I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”

“I’m sure I will, madam. It’s just that I’m more partial to the hop than the grape.” Lady Catherine forced a smile.

“Then I must cater for your preferred taste, sir.” She asked Jean to fetch a tankard of ale and watched as the general drank deeply from the foaming vessel. “Better, General?” she asked archly. “Indeed,” the old man replied.

“And now, if I may, can I ask you for a sentiment?”

Standing nearby, Robert Marshall watched his superior officer’s face redden.

He knew the general abhorred the growing practice of giving toasts which dominated soirées in the higher reaches of Edinburgh society.

Nevertheless, aware of his position as guest of honour, the general allowed Lady Catherine to call for silence then squared his shoulders and raised his glass.

“May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age,” he stated solemnly.

A polite ripple of applause greeted the sentiment. “Load o’ nonsense,” the old man muttered, sidling up to Robert. “When do we get some food? My belly’s fair rumbling.”

“Shortly, sir, although you’ll recall there’s to be a recital beforehand – the two young ladies.”

The general puffed out his cheeks.

“Stap me, are things not bad enough without some wailing women being inflicted upon us?”

“Come, sir, remember that McCrae informed us they were pleasing both to the ears and eyes.”

A flicker of interest crossed the old man’s face.

Groaned

“Heaven knows we could do with a little female beauty here this night. Apart from our hostess there isn’t a good-looking woman to be seen.”

Looking furtively around the crowded room he murmured, “At least there’s no sign of the old harridan.”

“Talk of the devil.’ Robert groaned as Miss McLaurin stumped into the room, her hair and clothing dishevelled, eyes glittering. They made to edge further to the back of the room but Robert placed a restraining hand on the general’s arm.

“If you please, sir, the artistes have arrived.” Robert saw that McLaurin had preceded two young girls and was leading them towards Lady Catherine.

The girls curtseyed as they were introduced, and then her Ladyship brought them to where he and General Guest stood.

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon