I was melting. My corset constricted my ribs, and the pins that skewered my new hat dug into my scalp. My navy serge skirt was too thick for such a warm spring day, but it was the only garment I possessed that my mother considered sober enough. Over the skirt and my buttoned-up silk blouse, my best wool coat – velvet-collared and cuffed, with a vent at the back and polished bone buttons – enclosed me as airlessly as a pot encloses simmering soup. Slowly, but definitely, I was cooking.
Until now, the only hats I had owned were straw ones. I liked the one with the tipped-back brim, but the boater with the mustard-coloured ribbons of St Giles’s College was hideous. Perhaps, now I’d left the school for ever, my mother would let me throw not only the hat, but the entire uniform, into the dustbin. Especially since I had my first grown-up, plain felt hat. A hat that a women, not a schoolgirl, would wear for an occasion such as this. An occasion that demanded mourning clothes.
You would have allowed the hurling away of the mustard uniform, and laughed while I did it, wouldn’t you, Father?
My throat ached. I swallowed, twice. It went on aching.
So unexpected, people had exclaimed. A man in his prime, they had murmured. Our deepest condolences, they had written. But all I could think of was the fact that he was dead, whatever anyone said or wrote or did. And his love – unwavering, affectionate, true – had died with him. He had taken it with him wherever he had gone, and it was no longer in the world. Other people loved me, of course. But no one inspired me as Father did to love them as much in return.
I forced myself to go on thinking about hats and how hot I was. I must not let the tears fall. Mother, though as bereft as I was, had instructed me in the conduct she expected at the church, and afterwards at the graveside. “Dignity,” she had insisted. “We may weep in private, or with friends of our station. But people not of our station will come to pay their respects to your father today, and in front of them we must remain composed.”
I hadn’t troubled myself to question her judgement. I knew from experience what the answer would be: “It is our duty, my dear.” Father was important; the Grahams were the first family of the district; convention must be served.
Farm and factory workers, servants, shopkeepers from Gilchester, Mr Goddard the bank manager and our family lawyer, Mr Haines, were gathered in St Stephen’s church to hear Reverend Baxter. And as the mourners followed the coffin to the grave-plot in the churchyard, the crowd grew even greater. I saw people I recognized, but many more I did not. Even one of the four pall-bearers – a well-dressed man, neatly bearded beneath his top hat – was a stranger to me. The other three were Jarvis, who had been our butler since before I was born, Mr Groves the factory foreman, and the undertaker’s assistant. Father had no brothers, and his dearest friend, an army officer who had been best man at his wedding, had been killed in action ten years ago.
The coffin was lowered to its rest. I held tightly to my mother’s arm, only half-hearing the vicar intoning the burial prayer and scattering soil on the coffin lid. It was final. Father was gone. Mother and I, Chester House, Graham’s Wholesome Foods and all that went with them remained.
I did not weep. Duty and dignity prevailed. Jarvis stood grim-faced between Mrs Jamison, the housekeeper, and Mr Napier, the head gardener. I knew that every one of them was thinking the same thing: now that Mrs Graham is a widow and there is no male heir, Miss Catriona will inherit the estate and the business. But she cannot be mistress of such a legacy alone, so our future lies in the hands of a man no one has yet seen or heard of – Miss Catriona’s future husband.
This knowledge made me uncomfortable, though I knew the truth of it. But there was another truth the servants did not know. I did not want to inherit Chester House and its servants, and Graham’s Wholesome Foods and its workers. I did not want to be the most important woman in Gilchester. In particular, I did not want to marry a man attracted by the prospect of this inheritance. Such a man, I was certain, would never claim my affection. I had loved my father, and the turnout in the churchyard was evidence of his fairness towards his employees and the respect he commanded from his friends. But my choice of husband was my own, and I would exercise it.
The burial was over. Mother turned from the graveside, and led the way down the hill to the waiting carriages. I was still clasping her arm. All around us, other mourners moved too, conversing in murmurs, bowing their heads as they passed the grave. Susan, my mother’s maid, had her handkerchief at her eyes. Mr Napier blew his nose. Someone was speaking in my ear – Mr Haines, I thought – but I did not comprehend his words. There seemed to be a mist around me. I could not see where I was stepping. I stumbled; someone caught me around the waist.
“Um…” I heard myself begin. Then the mist thickened, and there was only darkness.
“Give her air, if you please.”
When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the carriage seat with my head on Mother’s lap. Opposite us sat the stranger in the top hat.
“I am a doctor,” he said. “You fainted, that is all. And who can be surprised, in this heat?” He lifted his hat to the crowd who surrounded the open carriage, trying each to suggest helpful remedies and stop the others from doing so. “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Graham is perfectly well, but needs to go home. Stand back, if you will, and let the driver start.”
They obeyed, though with suspicion. Then I heard the “Hup!”, the wheels crunched on the gravel, and the carriage rumbled forward. “Oh!” I exclaimed, sitting up. “My hat!” It had been removed, and tendrils of my hair had slid free of their pins. “Where is it?”
“It is here by me, quite safe,” Mother reassured me. “How do you feel, my dear?”
“Foolish.”
“No need,” said the man. He held out his hand. “We have not been introduced. I am Hamish Buchanan, your late father’s cousin.”
“Father’s cousin? I never knew—”
“Doctor Buchanan was unknown to us all before this morning,” said Mother. “He sent a note to the house before we went to church, but I must have forgotten to mention it to you. I was distracted. It is a relief,” she sighed, “to have the funeral service over.”
“I arrived late anyway, after my long journey from Scotland,” said Doctor Buchanan, “so I sidled in at the back.” He was not quite smiling, but there was an amiable light in his eye. His voice had a Scottish lilt that gave it a homely sound. Perhaps, as a doctor, he presented what was called a good “bedside manner”. But even if it was a manner, I liked it.
“Then thank you for coming all this way,” I said, “and for looking after me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mother hurriedly. “We are indebted to you.” Turning her profile to the doctor, she rested her gloved hand on the side of the carriage. “Especially,” she added, shooting him a glance from the shadow of her hat brim, “since we had never heard of any Scottish cousin of David’s before today.”
Doctor Buchanan interwove his fingers on the silver top of the cane he held between his knees. He observed Mother closely, his face alternately in sun and shadow as the carriage passed the line of elms that bordered the drive to Chester House. “I will be happy to explain,” he said, “when we are indoors and Miss Graham has a cup of sweet tea in her hand.”
“Oh, ‘Catriona’, please!” cried Mother, turning once more to face him. “There is no need to stand on ceremony with her – she is only seventeen!”
The doctor frowned slightly, perhaps wondering what, if anything, the one had to do with the other. “Very well,” he agreed. “Then you and your daughter must call me Doctor Hamish, as everyone in Drumwithie does, including my patients.”
“Doctor Hamish,” Mother repeated with satisfaction. The jet decorations on her hat quivered as she tilted her head enquiringly. “Hamish is a Scottish name, I believe?”
“Indeed it is.”
“And so is Catriona,” she told him authoritatively. “It is the Gaelic form of Catherine.”
Doctor Hamish looked at me. “Well, Catriona, you have something of David in the setting of your eyes. His were blue, of course, but the expression is there.” Then he took his attention back to my mother. “The family’s Scottish descent influenced your choice of name for your daughter, I think?”
“Oh, yes!” Mother assured him. “David often said he wanted to find out more about his Scottish relatives, but he never seemed to get round to it. He was a very busy man, you must understand. Anyway, we both liked the name Catriona, and there are so many Mabels and Dorothys these days, we wished to be a little different from the crowd. My name, however,” she added, “is very English. I am called Rose. Please, do use it, doctor.”
“Very well,” said Doctor Hamish, rather stiffly. “Rose it is.”
I reached across and picked up my hat. “Mother, we are here.”
“Already? I shall lead the way!” she declared, gathering her skirt.
I followed more slowly. My legs felt shaky, and I was pleased to take Doctor Hamish’s arm, promptly offered. My stiff skirt slapped my ankles as we approached the house. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I don’t usually faint, you know. I am unnaturally robust, Mother says.”
He smiled, but said nothing. Mother was in the open doorway, organizing. “We would like tea in private in the library,” she called to Jarvis as he and Mrs Jamison hurried up the drive. “Show everyone else to the dining room and make my apologies. We will join them when Miss Graham is fully recovered. And, Mrs Jamison,” she added to the housekeeper, “will you make the guest room ready for Doctor Buchanan?”
“But there is no need!” protested the doctor. “I can put up at the inn in the High Street. I must return to Scotland tomorrow.”
Mother’s shoulders straightened. “I insist you stay with us. It is the least we can do.”
“In that case, I am extremely grateful for your hospitality.”
We settled ourselves in the library armchairs, surrounded by Father’s books and shaded against the westering sun by parchment blinds.
“I hope my housekeeper is quick with the tea!” exclaimed Mother, removing her gloves. “I must confess I am fatigued, though not, I might add, to the point of fainting.”
“Mother, it was not fatigue that overcame me.” Grief surged up; I could not say more.
Doctor Hamish looked from me to my mother, and back again at me. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked.
I nodded, and murmured my thanks.
“Catriona is never indisposed for long.” Mother smoothed her skirt, her eyes on the doctor’s face. “Now, Doctor Hamish,” she said in a businesslike way. “I am very interested in finding out why David never introduced us to you. You said you would tell us when we were indoors, and here we are.”
“The explanation is quite simple,” replied the doctor calmly. “Long ago, before either of us had met our future wives, your husband and I suffered an estrangement. I cannot tell you the reason for it – that has gone with him to his grave, and must remain there – but I have long regretted the loss of his acquaintance. It is too late now to renew it, of course, but when I read the notice of his death in The Times, I resolved to attend his funeral.”
There was a short silence. It struck me that so far there was nothing to prove this man spoke the truth. He could be an impostor who had read the announcement in The Times and set out to try his luck. Mother and I had both warmed to him, but perhaps, I decided bleakly, the ability to be charming is a vital quality of the charlatan.
“It is very pleasant,” continued Mother, “to discover a new branch of the family. I wonder that David never mentioned you to us.”
“The estrangement was such that he would not have done so,” said the doctor solemnly. “It was over twenty years ago, and concerned a personal matter which he would not wish me to disclose, even now.”
“Such a pity!” exclaimed Mother. Her tone was light, but I knew this artlessness was a pretence. Her eyes showed me that she was every bit as suspicious as I was. “Tell me, is anyone else in the family aware of what took place?”
“No one knew of it,” said the doctor crisply. He looked up as the door opened. “Ah, tea!”
Jarvis placed the tray, bowed and left. The sandwiches, scones and fruitcake did not tempt me, but I accepted the cup of tea my mother handed me. “Of course,” she said as she passed Doctor Hamish his own tea, “David was a Graham, and my mother-in-law’s family – also Scottish – are called Hamilton. So as a Buchanan, how do you fit in?”
“Through my mother, who was a Graham. She and David’s father were sister and brother. May I?” He took a sandwich and bit into it with enthusiasm. When he had swallowed, he added, “I always called him Uncle Peter, though I believe his first name was Ernest. His wife, David’s mother, was called Eleanor. David used to refer to them, in private of course, as ‘The Es’.”
Mother smiled. “Indeed he did. And of course, Granny and Grandpa were very well aware of it, weren’t they, Catriona?” Not waiting for my reply, she continued. “But I wonder that my father-in-law never mentioned you, Doctor. You are his blood nephew, the son of his only sister, after all.”
Doctor Hamish chewed his sandwich thoughtfully for a moment. “That is true. But an estrangement such as ours severed all family relationship, so irrevocably that David’s parents could not maintain correspondence with mine.” He sighed lightly, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “And a mere few months after the rift, my dear mother died, ending all connection with the Grahams. Neither her brother nor his wife attended her funeral.”
“Oh! I am very sorry to hear that!”
I hoped the doctor did not detect the relief in Mother’s voice. She was evidently convinced that he was genuine. But I was not. “Mm … but I suppose you know all about my father’s Uncle Augustus and the shipwreck, Doctor Hamish?” I asked solemnly. “What is your opinion of what really happened? Was the captain to blame?”
They looked at me, nonplussed. “I’m afraid I…” began Doctor Hamish. “Er … I have never heard of Uncle Augustus.”
“Neither have I.” I sipped my tea. “He does not exist.”
He was surprised for an instant, then he grinned, and reached for another sandwich. “Here be a braw scholar, ye ken,” he said in an exaggerated Scottish accent. “A’ must watch ma’ p’s and q’s!”
“Oh, yes,” said Mother, with an approving glance at me. “Catriona may be dark, when David was so fair, but her mind is just like her father’s – sharp as a pin!”
Throughout this exchange the doctor had been studying me. I was not looking at him, but I could sense his eyes following my movements as I reached for a piece of bread and butter. I had no appetite, but I knew that if I ate nothing Mother would fuss.
“Please, Doctor,” I said, almost before I had fully decided to speak, “may I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why, after so many years of estrangement from Father, have you approached us so unexpectedly upon his death?”
Mother looked at me in horror. “Catriona!” she cried, with a sideways glance at Doctor Hamish, whose face had coloured, “consider your words, do!”
Mystified for a second, I suddenly understood how my meaning might be misconstrued. “Oh!” I put my hand over my mouth, aghast. “Of course I did not mean… Forgive me…”
“Do not distress yourself,” said the doctor, smiling his almost-smile. “I came because by attending David’s funeral I hoped to make myself known to his family, and, I suppose, make some sort of peace with him in death that I could not make in life. I am aware he left you and your mother very well provided for, but you need not fear that I seek any sort of bequest.” He turned his attention to Mother. “Except, if you would consent to it, Rose, a small token of my cousin’s life? A photograph, perhaps, or some memento such as a snuff box? David and I were close as children. I would dearly love something to remember him by.”
“Of course.” Mother rose and opened the top drawer of the library desk. “Would you like to have this?”
The doctor took the silver cigarette case she held out. “I remember this!” he said in amazement. “David had it when he was quite young, before we… Are you sure you are willing to part with it?”
“Perfectly sure. Everything that was David’s is mine now, so it is in my gift. Please take it, and think of him every time you use it.”
I was familiar with the cigarette case too. It had been a gift from Granny and Grandpa when Father had gone up to Cambridge in 1886. In honour of the family’s Scottish heritage, it was embossed with a thistle design, enamelled in blue.
“You are most generous,” said the doctor, clearly moved by the gift. “Indeed, this makes me even more determined to make up for lost time.” He turned to me. “Catriona, if you have no objection, may I suggest something? A plan which may be of interest to you.”
I still felt flustered after my faux pas. “A plan?” I repeated uncertainly.
“Let me explain,” he said, with a glance at Mother. “During my journey from Scotland I had time to consider many things, about both the past and the future. I was nervous, I confess, about meeting David’s wife and daughter. I thought you might resent my sudden appearance, after so many years.”
Mother hurried to reassure him. “Oh, no, indeed, we are more than happy to see you.”
“I understand that now,” continued the doctor, “and I am relieved, and touched, by the warmth of your welcome.”
She bowed; I kept my eyes on the doctor’s face. His homely manner had not changed, but there was urgency in his expression. “As I sat there on the train, with memories of my childhood with David going through my head,” he said, “I realized that although I could no longer do anything for him—”
“But you have!” interrupted Mother. “You have come all this way to honour his passing!”
The doctor nodded. “Very well, but it would ease my conscience greatly if you would allow me to do something else, for those David has left behind.” His gaze slid towards me. “Especially for Catriona.”
“For Catriona?” echoed Mother faintly, her teacup halfway to her mouth. “What can you mean, Doctor?”
“Merely that I have long regretted David’s absence from a place he once loved. As a child, he loved to spend holidays at Drumwithie. He never returned there in adult life, and he can never go there now, but, Catriona” – he looked earnestly into my face – “would you consider returning to Scotland with me, and spending the summer at Drumwithie Castle?”
No one spoke. Until this moment I had faced the prospect of a summer spent in an atmosphere of deep mourning, with a fretful mother and the gloom of uncertainty hanging over the affairs of Graham’s Wholesome Foods. Now I was no longer a schoolgirl, Mother would soon present me to Gilchester’s social circle, while overseeing the business and indulging in her favourite occupation, horseriding. This interim between my leaving school and getting married was an inconvenience for both her and me. But now Doctor Hamish had offered me a lifeline. Going to Drumwithie promised a few weeks of fresh fields, freedom from Gilchester gossips and, tantalizingly, new acquaintances.
I glanced at Mother; her gaze was on Doctor Hamish’s face, a bemused enquiry in her eyes. “Goodness me, are you sure?” she asked. “This is very kind of you… I think it can only do Catriona good, to see a little of the world. But she is not the easiest of girls, you know, with whom to maintain … er, calm communication. She has ideas.”
“I should very much hope so,” replied Doctor Hamish stoutly. “Indeed, she reminds me of my son, Jamie. Quick, observant, scornful of pretention and feebleness, yet with the makings of a gentleman. Or in this case, a lady.”
Mother was interested. “You have a son? Of Catriona’s age?”
“A little older. He is twenty-one, and beginning to find his way in the world. It is sometimes difficult for him…” He paused, and considered the carpet, with the look of a man concentrating on the careful selection of his words. “Drumwithie is a small, old-fashioned place, though it does have a railway station. The castle itself is isolated and our circle rather restricted.” He smiled bleakly. “I am sure Jamie would say it is old-fashioned too. He has no idea of Catriona’s existence, and I have no doubt he will be very pleased to discover it.”
Mother’s enquiring look became one of intense interest. “Has the boy not been away to school, then?”
The doctor shook his head. “There is no day school nearby, and it was his mother’s wish that he be educated at home.”
“Ah. And your wife’s name is…?”
“Anne.” He paused, then added, “She is away from Drumwithie at present, and is unlikely to return for some time.”
“I see,” said Mother, though it was plain from her expression that she did not. “So … is your son to attend the University?”
Doctor Hamish considered this for a few moments, still seeking his words with care. “I hope he will enter the Medical School at the University of Edinburgh next term,” he said at last. “It has taken him several attempts to gain the necessary qualifications.”
I knew exactly what Mother was about to say, and she said it.
“But he has got there in the end, however twisting the path, and that is the important thing!” She picked up her teacup and took several small sips. I could tell by her rapid blinking that her brain was busy. “Catriona has been very well educated too, at St Giles’s College, you know. But the girls there do not generally go on to university.” She sat forward and added, “Now, would you like more tea, Doctor Hamish? Or another sandwich?”
The doctor seemed not to hear. He was regarding me calmly. “So, Catriona, what do you say? Would you like to come to Drumwithie?”
“Very much, if Mother can spare me.”
“Of course I can spare you!” Mother put down her cup. “What do I ever do here, that I cannot do without you?”
“Then that is settled,” said Doctor Hamish. “Today is Friday. Is tomorrow morning too soon to leave? I have patients I must attend to.”
I could not protest, though tomorrow did seem rather soon. But Mother was enthusiastic. “Of course not! Your work is important, Doctor, and Catriona’s things can be packed in a trice. She is not a fussy child.”
“In that case,” he added to me, “I will telegraph to Jamie to expect us tomorrow evening. There is a train at seven thirty in the morning to Birmingham, where we can join the London–Edinburgh train.”
“Very well,” said Mother. “Susan and Edith will make a start on the packing after the funeral people have gone. Mrs Jamison will have to spare them from the clearing up.”
I heard strain in her voice and glanced at her face. Her smile was tight and the expression of her eyes unconnected to it. In the twelve days since Father’s death, it had been Mother’s responsibility to deal with the local doctor, the undertaker, the registry, the bank, the solicitor, the vicar and an apparently endless stream of correspondence. All I had done was follow what instructions I was given and keep out of the way. Today had been long and anxious, and was not yet over.
“Mother, why not go to your guests now?” I suggested. “I am feeling much better, and when Doctor Hamish has had his tea, I will bring him to the dining room.”
She wavered, glancing from me to the doctor and back. Then she nodded, took two sips of tea and replaced her cup on the tray. “Very well. You are quite right, no one can go home until I have made my rounds of them, and I must confess I am very ready for them to depart!” She got to her feet and adjusted her skirt. “Do I look all right?” she asked me.
“You look pale, but it becomes you.”
This was what she liked to hear. I watched her take polite leave of the doctor and make her way out of the room, her skirt swishing on the polished floor of the library. A wave of affection rushed over me. Poor Mother! She was but thirty-eight years old. A long widowhood awaited her.
“There is no need for you to stay with me if you wish to lie down,” said Doctor Hamish, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I am perfectly content. These sandwiches are delicious.”
“In the dining room you may have cold beef, pies, cheeses, trifle, jellies… You can imagine the trouble Mother has gone to.”
“Indeed.” He paused. I knew he was looking at me, but was not yet composed enough to look at him. “Your mother is a remarkable woman and very worthy of her husband.”
The tears came. Some fell into the tea, and some onto the front of my blouse. Most ran down my cheeks and dripped off the end of my chin. Duty and dignity forgotten, I began to sob.
The doctor gently took away my cup and saucer. “My dear,” he said, “weep all you wish. Grief is best expressed, you know. I will go and join your mother now. She deserves my assistance, as a member of the family.”
I nodded, hardly noticing him stand up. As he passed my chair he put a hand on my shoulder. “You had no need to doubt my sincerity, my dear, though I understand why you did. But I promise I will do anything within my power to make up for this long estrangement.” I felt him squeeze my shoulder gently, then his hand dropped away. “Now, you had better go and lie down, and forget about social niceties,” he told me. “There will be plenty of time tomorrow to make each other’s better acquaintance. Drumwithie is a long journey away.”
I could not raise my head to thank him. When he had shut the library door behind him, I wept until my handkerchief was sodden. Then, as the torrent passed, I became aware of sounds from the dining room: glasses and crockery, chattering voices, even laughter. The reason for a funeral, Mother had explained, was to allow people release from anxiety. With a drink in their hand, they could begin to think of life instead of death.
I roused myself, sniffing and hiccupping, and pushed myself out of the chair. Was Doctor Hamish one of the chatterers? He had taken the corner of the coffin as naturally as if he and Father had been brothers, not estranged cousins. We had only met him for the first time an hour ago, yet he was “assisting” Mother as if he, as well as she, were hosting the funeral reception.
And within a few hours I would be on a train, travelling northwards with this affable stranger, to a place my father had once loved. Drumwithie Castle. Its name sounded exotic, different from any word I had ever heard. As I climbed the stairs, I comforted myself with the thought that whatever awaited me there, and whatever the reason behind the cousins’ estrangement, Father would approve.