“Yes I am.”

“Well then, you’ll be ready to come and sit down to a decent breakfast, I daresay. I don’t suppose they serve anything on those trains, but we can do better, and that’s a fact. Here, I’ll take your bag for you.”

She was about to protest that it was not heavy, but he took it anyway, and crossing the pavement, handed her up into the carriage and closed the door. The journey was far too short; she would have liked to see more of the city. They proceeded simply off the bridge into Princes Street, down the greater part of its length past the fine fronts of shops and houses to the right, and to the left the green slope of the gardens, Scott’s monument and the castle beyond and above. They turned right up towards the new town, and after the briefest passage through Georgian streets, they were in Ainslie Place. Number seventeen was exactly like its neighbors to either side: four stories high with spacious windows decreasing in size with each floor, and perfect symmetry to its facade, proportions that were full of grace and ease and the Regency’s eye for simplicity.

She was driven around the back; after all, she was more of a servant than a guest. She alighted in the yard before the coachman returned the vehicle and horse to the stables, and presented herself at the door. It opened before she had time to pull the bell, and a bootboy regarded her with interest.

“I’m Hester Latterly, the nurse to accompany Mrs. Farraline on her journey,” she introduced herself.

“Oh yes, miss. If ye’ll come in, I’ll tell Mr. McTeer.” And without waiting for her answer, he led her through the kitchen to the passageway, where he almost walked into a gaunt-faced butler with a funereal expression. The butler regarded Hester closely.

“So ye’re the nurse that’s come to take the mistress to London.” He said it as if London were the burial ground. “Ye’d better come in. Mirren’ll be bringing your case, no doubt. And I daresay ye’ll be wanting a bite to eat before ye go and see Mrs. Mclvor.” He looked at her appraisingly. “And a wash and a chance to comb your hair.”

“Thank you,” she accepted self-consciously, feeling untidier than she had hitherto thought herself.

“Aye, well if ye like to go into the kitchen, the cook’ll get ye breakfast, and someone’ll come for ye when Mrs. Mclvor’s ready.”

“Come on,” the bootboy said cheerfully, turning on his heel to take her back. “What are them trains like, miss? I never been on one.”

“You get about your business, Tommy,” the butler ordered dourly. “Never mind about trains. Have you done Mr. Alastair’s good boots yet?”

“Yes, Mr. McTeer, I done them all.”

“Then I’ll find something else for you…”

Hester was given an excellent meal at a comer of the large kitchen table, then shown to a small bedroom set aside for her use, next to the nursery, where her valise had been left. She washed her face and neck, and did her hair yet again.

She had no time to wait until she was sent for and conducted by the dismal McTeer through the green baize door into a large hall with a black-and-white flagged floor like a chessboard. The walls were paneled in wood and there were half a dozen trophies of animal heads mounted and hung, most of them red deer. However, the one thing that arrested her attention and held it was a life-size portrait of a man straight ahead of her. It dominated the room, not only with its coloring, which was remarkable, but with some quality of character in the features. His head was long and narrow with large, clear blue eyes, a long slender nose, pinched at the bridge, and a broad mouth whose lines were blurred and strangely uncertain. His fair hair swept across his brow in a splash of color so startling as to draw the eyes from all the surrounding darkness of oak and gilt and the glassy stare of the long-dead stags.

The butler led her across the hall and down a passage past several doors until he came to one where he knocked briefly, then he opened it and stood back for her to pass.

“Miss Latterly, ma’am, the nurse from London.”

“Thank you, McTeer. Please come in, Miss Latterly.” The voice was soft, gently modulated, and only very slightly accented in the precise, very proper, rather flat Edinburgh society pitch.

The room was decorated largely in a cool mid-blue with a floral pattern of some indistinct sort upon the walls and in the carpet The wide windows overlooked a small garden and the early light gave the room a chilly air, even though there was a fire burning in the grate. The single occupant was a slender woman in her late thirties and the moment Hester saw her she knew she must be related to the man whose portrait hung in the hall. She had the same long face, and nose and broad mouth, but in her there was no hint of indecision. Her lips were beautifully shaped, the blue eyes steady and direct. Her fair hair was dressed in the current severe fashion, but its warm color gave it a charm which would have been absent in a less glowing shade. And yet her face was not beautiful; there was a power in it which was too apparent and she took no pains to mask her intelligence.

“Please come in, Miss Latterly,” she repeated. “I am Oonagh Mclvor. I wrote to you on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Mary Farraline. I hope you had an agreeable journey from London?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Mcfvor, it was quite pleasant, and that part of it which was in daylight was most enjoyable.”

“I am delighted.” Oonagh smiled with sudden warmth, transforming her face. ‘Train travel can be so weary and so terribly grubby. Now I am sure you would like to meet your patient. I must warn you, Miss Latterly, my mother appears to be in excellent health, but it is largely a charade. She tires more easily than she will admit, and her medicine is really quite vital for her well-being, indeed possibly for her life,” She spoke the words quite calmly, but there was a sense of urgency in her conveying the importance of what she said. “It is not in the least difficult to administer,” she continued. “A simple potion which is unpleasant to the taste, but a small confection after it will more than compensate.” She looked up at Hester standing in front of her. “It is simply that my mother can forget to take it if she is feeling well, and by the time she is ill for its lack, it is too late to make up for the oversight without distress, and possible damage to her permanent well-being. I am sure you understand?” Even though she said she was sure, there was a question in her face.

“Of course,” Hester said quickly. “A great many people prefer to do without medicine if they can, and misjudge their own capacity. It is easily understood.”

“Excellent.” Oonagh rose to her feet. She was as tall as Hester, slender without being in any way thin, and she moved with grace despite the awkwardness of wide skirts.

They crossed the hall, and Hester could not help glancing at the portrait again. The face haunted her, the ambiguities in it remained in her mind. She could not decide whether she liked it or not. Certainly she could not forget it.

Oonagh smiled and hesitated in her step.

“My father,” she said, although Hester had known it must be. She heard the catch in Oonagh’s voice and knew there was intense emotion behind it, carefully controlled, as she imagined such a woman would always be in front of strangers-and servants. “Hamish Farraline,” Oonagh went on. “He died eight years ago. My husband has managed the firm since then.”

Hester opened her mouth in surprise, then realized how inappropriate that was, and closed it.

But Oonagh had seen. She smiled and her chin lifted a fraction. “My brother Alastair is the Fiscal,” she explained. “He does go to the firm as often as he is able to, but his duties keep him most of the time.” She saw Hester’s confusion. “The Procurator Fiscal.” Her smile broadened, curling her lips. “Something like what you in England would call the Crown Prosecutor.”