Isobel’s uncle Andrew has identified the bodies of her parents. His sister, Alie, is deliberately being nasty to her

The morning of New Year’s Eve, 1880, Dundee lay as pale as a washed-out watercolour in the aftermath of the storm.

Tired after a sleepless night with a fretful baby Amy, Catherine, her nanny, walked along the esplanade pushing the pram. Amy slept – the silence was sheer bliss.

The fresh air revived Catherine but her spirits were low as she watched shoppers rushing about excitedly with baskets of groceries in preparation for the Hogmanay celebrations with friends and relations.

She gave a deep sigh. Hogmanay was the loneliest night of the year when you had no one special to celebrate with.

She hadn’t even been allowed the time off to spend it with her father, also alone.

With sadness in her heart, she was thinking of the orphaned Isobel when a funeral procession approached. Fine black horses with plumed headdresses pulled the hearse, the coffin banked with wreaths of flowers.

This was followed by a second identical hearse and coffin. A double funeral.

She’d never seen that before. The family carriage followed immediately behind.

She saw Hamish Stuart, Isobel’s uncle, sombre in black clothes, sitting near the window. He saw her, too. Looked fully at her. That same look of – what? More than mere recognition? He inclined his head in acknowledgement. Catherine did the same. Neither of them smiled, feeling it would be inappropriate on so sad an occasion.

What was it about the man that made her want to know him better?

Why had he given her his business card when she took his niece, Isobel, to him? Simply an idle gesture? Something to do at an awkward moment? She mustn’t read anything into it.

And was Hamish the one who was married to the dark-haired woman who had glared at her in such an unfriendly manner?

More than likely, she would never see any of them again. Yet Catherine wanted to see Isobel again, to know what happened to her and if she had adjusted to her new life. Poor Isobel.

She took Hamish’s business card out of her pocket and read it again: Hamish Stuart WS of Campbell, Campbell and Stuart, Solicitors and Notaries, George Street, Edinburgh.

All the food that had been stored in the pantry for the cancelled Hogmanay celebrations was used for the funeral tea.

The housekeeper, Mary Ann, her limp noticeably worse, set the refectory table in the dining-room, spreading it with the white damask cloth, adding the monogrammed silver cutlery and delicate Wedgwood tea service that would serve this sombre occasion.

The funeral party arrived and took their places on the red velvet chairs.

“What is to become of Isobel?” This was asked by a female relative of the Hamiltons, between a mouthful of turkey and ham.

The funeral party directed its gaze at Alie, who let her fork clatter to her plate.

Her daughter, Elizabeth, cleared her throat, ready to make an announcement: “Mama and Papa are going to let her live with us.” Alie glowered at her daughter. “That is nice, dear,” the relative cooed. Alie sat up in her chair. “It’s not decided yet.” “Where else would she go but to you, Alie?” “Had Margaret no living relatives?” someone else had asked.

Isobel, hating being discussed, went as pink as the fast-disappearing roast ham on the table. “No,” Alie answered, her mouth tight. Aunt Alie doesn’t want me, Isobel thought miserably, trapped in a situation she couldn’t control or escape from.

Everyone’s attention was on Isobel now. Silent sympathy flowed across the table.

Tears gathered in her eyes. It was too dreadful to think that Mama and Papa were gone forever,

“Come on, Isobel, eat something. You’re so thin, child.” This was said by a fat woman, who was gobbling up everything in sight.

“I’m not hungry,” Isobel answered politely. “Isobel!” Aunt Alie scolded. Andrew intervened. “Alie, it’s quite natural for Isobel to be off her food under the circumstances. It’s a mistake to force her to eat.”

Hamish wanted to support his brother-in-law. His wife’s insensitive behaviour made him cringe but he decided it was wiser to keep quiet, in case he made matters worse.

Isobel did not cry. Her misery had gone beyond tears. She held herself rigid, tightening all her muscles, wanting to disappear altogether, away from the eyes all around her.

What would become of her home in Newport-on-Tay? Betsy the tweeny, too.

Where would she get her money from to buy food now Papa was not there to pay her wages and care for her?

Cook and the other domestic staff had relatives to go to but Betsy had come from the workhouse two years ago at 13 years old and most likely would have to go back. Betsy would hate that. Isobel felt Betsy was her only link with her old life. If only she could go back and live at home with her.

Isobel began to listen to the conversation round the table. It turned to talk of solicitors and the reading of the will, whatever that was.

Everyone agreed that it was obvious the money would be held in trust for Isobel until she came of age. How would she live until then? Isobel halted the conversation by asking: “Please can Betsy come to live with us? She has nowhere to go.” “Is there no end to it!” Alie exclaimed peevishly. “You will need extra help, Alie,” Hamish advised. Andrew added. “Her wages could come out of the trust.” “But Betsy? Betsy, with her common laugh.” “I shall ask her never to laugh,” Isobel promised, her face serious.

Andrew laughed, greatly amused: “For what she would have to laugh about with Alie as mistress of the house!”

(More tomorrow)