A grand church stood formally at a cross-roads about halfway down the street, three or four times the size of the little Letho kirk and even larger than the one in Cupar, which was the biggest one Daniel had seen. Around it were market stalls, stacked with fruit and vegetables, making the air, full of the stink of wet wool, scented briefly with kale and well-stored apples. Two young ladies stopped to look, draped in the latest fashions: more for Daniel to stare at, and Charles had to poke him before they noticed – though Charles himself managed a more discreet assessment of their fairly obvious charms. One of them turned and noticed him, and gave a not unencouraging smile from beneath her bonnet even as she looked modestly away again. Charles grinned to himself, and guided Daniel reluctantly away to the left, to another wide road leading down off the main causeway.
‘North Bridge Street,’ he explained to Daniel. ‘The church is the Tron Kirk. Down there,’ he pointed further along the street they had been descending, ‘is the Canongate, leading down to Holyrood Palace – you’ll have heard of that.’ Daniel nodded, not believing he could be so close to legends, straining to see though the road twisted too much, and was cluttered with overhanging storeys. ‘Down here,’ Charles pointed to the road into which they had turned, ‘is the way to the New Town, which is where the house is. You’ll need to remember all this: you may be sent out on your own.’
Daniel’s eyes widened dramatically at such a thought, as he followed Charles down this new street. Again, tall buildings walled each side of the street, and a couple of sturdy horses strained to pull a laden cart up to the Tron Kirk. Two chair bearers, urged to hurry by their passenger, had run out of control on the hill and passed them, faces frantic, as the weight of the chair pushed them on almost faster than they could run. Just as it seemed they had the mastery of it again, the front bearer tripped and fell flat. The chair tipped over him, balanced for a precarious moment on the shafts, while the back bearer clung to his end, trying to drag it down. Then the chair smashed down to one side, and a large and angry passenger pulled himself from the wreckage, laying about him with his cane before he could even see what had happened. A crowd clustered, but Charles passed swiftly on, followed by Daniel and the porter, until they reached a point where the buildings ended on both sides of the street, and before them was a view so astonishing in its unfamiliarity that Daniel nearly sat down on the spot. Heedless of his open mouth, he looked about him. High up to the left, on a green hill but bursting out of it with rock like a tooth in a gum, was a Castle. Even from here, Daniel could see the gleaming black of the guns, and drew a long, staggering breath. To the right was another hill, smaller but somehow striking, like another fortification to the town. Ahead, though, was another wonder: a long street, straight as a rod from east to west, with gardens in front and, on the far side, a row of perfect white houses, clean and exact, as if made out of china. Daniel had never seen anything like it.
A long, broad, bridge spanned the valley that divided the old town from the new, and Charles continued down it, trying not to slither on the damp cobbles. Daniel stopped him with a question.
‘But what does it do, sir?’ he asked, peering over the side of the bridge. ‘What does it go over? It must be a mighty river.’
‘No, just a valley,’ said Charles, looking too as if something might have changed. The damp dregs of the Nor’Loch lay beneath the splendid spans, and a grubby cluster of tenements huddled at the lower end. It did look a bit pointless.
They reached the other side at last, facing a grand square building with a dome: it did not look like a church, so Daniel thought it must be the house of some very great gentleman – Henry Dundas, perhaps, or even the King himself. Perhaps it was Holyrood Palace. Charles saw him looking.
‘That’s Register House,’ he said, and seeing that this meant nothing he added, ‘where they keep deeds and all kinds of documents, the whole history of Scotland. And that is the Shakespeare Theatre,’ he turned to point to the square at one side of the bridge, ‘and this,’ he said, turning again, and waving at the street with the china houses, ‘is Prince’s Street. There are three main streets in the New Town, all lined up side by side like the streets in St. Andrews, remember? This is Prince’s Street, the middle one is George Street and the far one is Queen Street, and our house is on Queen Street. You’ll soon get to know it – though not this time, I hope,’ he added half to himself, ‘if I can get away again quickly.’ It was not that he did not like Edinburgh: he was fond enough of the house, and he liked some of the entertainment and some of his father’s friends, for he had gone to school here himself and knew their families, but it was no good praising one place when you really wanted to be somewhere else.
The Queen Street house was not officially open, but a woman called Grant lived in the basement and kept an eye on the place. She was also a fair cook, and could manage to make a few simple meals if Mr. Murray or either of his sons needed accommodation. She had been warned of Charles’ arrival, fortunately: it would have been easy enough to find supper in some respectable tavern, but breakfast the next morning, on the Sabbath, would have been harder to obtain and Charles would not have had the remotest notion how to do more than make himself a jug of coffee even if there had been food in the kitchen. Supper, however, was nearly ready when they arrived, and Charles found that his usual room, a bedchamber on the first floor, had been aired and warmed for his use. He loved this room: at the front of the house it faced north, over the gardens at the other side of Queen Street, and the soft green hangings and curtains, embroidered by his mother, echoed the fields that led from the gardens down to the dark Forth and the hills of Fife beyond. The trees opposite were just coming into leaf, tender buds braving the Edinburgh weather, and when he opened the window the breeze blew in cold and determined from the sea. It was dusk, however, and he did not linger long, washing and changing before going down to his solitary supper in the dining room on the ground floor.
The next day, Sunday, between the usual church services at Greyfriars, he managed to spend reading. It was raining heavily, and only a few people knew he was in town, so he felt no social obligations. He supposed, as he was reading books which were for his studies, that he was properly speaking working on the Sabbath, but he felt he was enjoying it too much for it to be sinful in that respect, anyway, though some of the subjects he was reading about were only rendered respectable by the fact that they were in Latin, that great bringer of decency to the most decadent of literature. Mrs Grant cooked him dinner and supper, and forcibly persuaded Daniel to escort her to morning service, which did him no harm at all.
On Monday he called on Mr. Simpson, Marmalade Head, and found that an appointment had been arranged for him for the following day. He was attended by Daniel, who had quickly developed a look of supercilious disdain worn by the Edinburgh servants he saw and tried to hide his curiosity behind a cool, blank stare: Charles decided to march him down to stare in at the gates of Holyrood Palace, nestling below the skirts of Salisbury Crags, and then to walk him the length of the Royal Mile to see the Castle at closer quarters, to wonder at the uniforms of the soldiers on duty outside the stockade, and to stand amidst the gorse bushes and long grass and survey the whole of the New Town laid out beyond the ditch of the old Nor’Loch, three straight streets, gardens beyond, and linking side streets, as neat as a griddle. Grand coaches and busy sedan chairs moved like insects along the streets, and tinier people promenaded together, shopping or just walking to be seen. Charles drew him back down the hill and showed him St. Giles’ High Kirk with its crown tower, and let him wonder at the coloured glass and the carvings inside; pointed out the Law Courts behind the church, the lawyers that ruled the city in their black gowns, the City Guard in their cocked hats, their long red coats faced with faded blue, their Lochaber axes to attention at their sides. They moved away, further down the hill, before stopping at a coffee shop for dinner. Daniel spooned thick broth into his mouth while his eyes never stopped moving, watching lawyers talk secretly with their
clients in booths, merchants making deals with careful joviality over a few jugs of claret, potboys in stained aprons running back and forth, bringing them roast beef and boiled vegetables and refilling the salt dish from a great earthenware pot, sticky with damp. Daniel had ale: Charles allowed himself half a jug of Leith claret, nothing to what the lawyers and merchants were consuming, but he was trying to save his cash. His father had given him a sum of money to spend while he was in Edinburgh, and he hoped he might be able to smuggle some of it back to St. Andrews to buy back one or two of his books. His father had also told him to go to their tailor and buy himself some smarter clothes - not something he was looking forward to – but that payment would be on account, so he could save nothing from it.
He went to the tailor that afternoon, in the lane behind Prince’s Street. It was as tedious as he had expected, and after that he returned to bathe and change for the Assembly.
The Assembly Rooms were in George Street, not far to walk, and he felt suitably formal in his finest coat with its large, shiny buttons, his palest breeches and his dancing slippers: it had been dry all day, but he wore a heavy evening cloak. Daniel, eyes like saucers and stiff in full livery, attended him, and they were escorted by a link-boy, though darkness had only just fallen. It was easy to see where the Assembly Rooms were, for carriages were stopping and crowding together, drivers swearing as they tried to reverse reluctant horses to extract themselves from behind other vehicles, grooms dancing out of the way of hooves and wheels, footmen busy with steps and doors, pretending their liveries were everyday wear. Light from the tall doorway splashed over silk and satin, and pooled on pale gowns and waistcoats.
Charles left Daniel in the hallway with the rest of the servants, hoping that he would behave, and ascended the curving forked stairway with everyone else to the rooms above. It was drawing towards the end of the season and there was not the air of excitement that would have attended the autumn assemblies: many couples were already engaged, some married, and the few chaperones who were still alert had an air of desperation lest their charges should have to be carried over to next year like winter clothes in a press. Charles walked over to the side of the room where single young men predominated, and eyed the available women for a suitable partner for the first dances: he very much enjoyed dancing, and though his attendance here had been one of his father’s strictures he was determined to have an excellent evening’s entertainment.
He danced solidly until suppertime with a wide variety of partners, some good, some truly awful, most daughters of his father’s social circle whom he had known for years. He was in demand, for as usual most of the mothers knew the size of his father’s income and the extent of his estate, and Charles himself was tall and not at all unacceptable in the eyes of most of the daughters: occasionally he felt like a pig at Cupar market, prodded by the mothers’ gaze, his pedigree passed around the hall.
In particular he was introduced to one Mawis Skirving, a young lady of reportedly large fortune and blatantly large teeth, who was built like a farmer but tried to compensate by the practised daintiness of her movements and speech, and by the optimistic daisies in her hair. Charles found himself obliged to lead her into supper, and lost her almost at once in the crush. He fought his way to the food tables in the hope that if he collected some food for her he might be able to track her down, and found, instead, Picket, Boxie and Rab Fisher, tucked into a window embrasure with three well-heaped plates and busy forks. Picket swallowed, his angular Adam’s apple jerking against his cravat, before greeting him.
‘What are you doing here, then, Murray?’ he croaked.
‘Dancing, mostly,’ Charles replied innocently.
‘Yes, there’s not a great deal to look at,’ Picket agreed, with a fairly offensive glance round at the ladies in the supper room. ‘Rab and I have found only a few to admire, and Boxie here, of course, his heart is already spoken for.’
Boxie blushed hotly, and concentrated on his food. Charles grinned.
‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Picket, with a knowing sneer.
‘But you don’t know, either, do you?’ Rab asked Picket guilelessly, and Picket had to revise his stance. He gave a twisted smile.
‘He’s refusing to tell anyone. But of course, we have our suspicions …’ He was clearly angry with Rab, and Charles decided to change the subject.
‘Have you managed to achieve what you came to Edinburgh for? When do you go back to Fife?’
‘Oh,’ said Picket, in disgust, ‘it’s taking ages. My revered guardian fell out of a chair on Saturday and has been in a foul temper ever since, so this banker’s draft is proving more trouble than I thought it would be. We came out this evening to give him a chance to calm down.’
Charles wondered if Picket’s guardian might have fallen out of his chair on North Bridge Street, but chose not to ask.
‘What about yourself?’ asked Rab, oblivious to the admiring gazes washing over him from most of the females within range. Though his evening coat was of a cheapish cut and his breeches were ungenerous, he managed to look like the height of fashion.
‘Oh, I have a couple of engagements tomorrow, and then I shall see,’ said Charles carelessly. He had no wish to say anything about the boring dinner party he had to attend, or the business he had to complete: he did not wish to seem entirely under his father’s thumb at his age.
‘Yes, we have a little work to do tomorrow,’ said Picket absently, watching a promising girl with diamond earrings pass them coquettishly. ‘You know, for our little project.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles, trying to sound knowledgeable and interested without pandering to Picket’s love of secrecy. A movement nearby caught his eye: it was Mawis Skirling, coyly waving to him. He set a courteous smile on his face, and returned to her.
He went obediently to his appointment at Mr. Simpson’s the next day, finding that the business his father had sent him on was trivial and not particularly confidential, and could easily have been committed to the mails. Mr. Simpson seemed to assume that Charles had deliberately used the business as an excuse to spend three or four term-time days in Edinburgh, and spent the half-hour the matter took making jovial half-jokes about Charles’ tastes and inclinations. None of them was very funny.
Simpson’s office was in the Canongate, and Charles, who had come out on his own this morning, left in a bad mood and allowed himself to be buffeted gently to the junction at the Tron Kirk while he thought dark thoughts about Simpson and his marmalade hair. He turned left, on to South Bridge, thinking about finding a tavern and a jug of claret, which led him to wonder how he was going to manage if his father continued to refuse to support him through his last term. There was a jewellery shop on the corner behind the Tron Kirk and he drifted over to look at the window, trying to determine what price might be fetched by his watch chain. The prices of chains were not encouraging, but a pair of bracelets caught his eye, linked flat stones set in gold. They were handsome, brown as toffee, and according to the label were Roman: he wondered if it was true, that something so old could be lying in a shop on South Bridge, and tried to picture them adorning the graceful arms of Augustus’ granddaughter Julia, or some Vestal Virgin.
There was an apothecary’s dark little shop next to the jeweller’s, and as he was standing in gloomy contemplation, he noticed – as if they were the only other people in the city that week – Picket and Rab emerge from the dark shop. He thought at first that they had seen him and he was about to wave back, a smile halfway to his lips, when out of the corner of his eye he saw, inevitably, Boxie appear from somewhere and join his friends. Picket, with a wide, nasty grin on his face, carefully handed a small but bulky white packet to Boxie. Even Boxie had a slight smile, and Rab seemed as vague and content as ever. Charles thought of going over to them, but hesitated, he was not sure why. Even though it was best to get on with them while they were all at St. Andrews, he often wondered if he liked any of them at all.
He watc
hed them disappear down South Bridge towards Brown Square where he seemed to remember Picket lived. Once they were out of sight, he turned and passed the Tron again, still not happy, trying to make plans for contingencies which might never happen, trying to guess how he could achieve what he wanted and still please his father.
Chapter Nine
Though he had grown up so near the place, the unexpectedness of it always delighted him: the little fishing town on the promontory that held at its heart traces of government, fragments of a mighty cathedral, and dearest and best such an ancient seat of learning. To return, to follow the long shore road and see in the distance the spires of Sallies, of the Town Kirk and the Cathedral, was to move outside and inside the real world, with its wars, its estates, its constricted society, and to find oneself once more amongst a conflux of strangers, a cross-section of the sons of ministers, of fishermen, of shopkeepers, of soldiers, some he would never have met as equals in the outside world. What brought them together he was not sure: a shared suffering? or a shared privilege? He only knew that if the French invaded tomorrow, he and his fellow magistrands, tertians, semis and bejants would take up any weapon to hand and fight to the death for the little grey town and the invisible, matchless treasure it contained.
Charles sneaked back into St. Andrews on Thursday like a fugitive. He had brought his father’s papers back to Letho but managed to deliver them while his father was out somewhere on the estate. He left Daniel to talk of the wonders of Edinburgh to the other servants, and took a groom and a couple of horses and departed again for St. Andrews before his father reappeared. He did not see George, either: he did not ask Fenwick, the butler, and was not told where his brother was.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 11