The Skylark's Secret(88)

‘We sat for ages in the dark on the steps at the front door. And while we were sat there, we heard your mum and your grandad talking.’ He tails off, his eyes never leaving mine.

‘What did they say?’ I prompt softly.

‘Well, Iain’s voice was low and we couldn’t catch much of what he was saying at first. But then Flora said, “No, Dad, I’m not going to let you take the responsibility for what I did.” And then we did hear Iain’s words, because his voice was loud and firm: “I’ll not let them take you, Flora. I’ll not let them take my grandchild. You saved me from his first shot. And I’ve no doubt the second one was to be for you.” Then your mum hushed him and their voices were lowered again so we couldn’t hear the rest.’

I scan his face, trying to absorb what his words mean. ‘Mum . . . ?’

He nods. ‘Soon after that they went off to their beds. But Stuart and I sat there as long as we could keep our eyes open, guarding the door. We nearly froze. Then finally we decided it was too late for the police to come that night so we crept back to the Carmichaels’ and no one was any the wiser.’

‘Did anyone else know?’ I ask him. ‘That it was Mum who shot Sir Charles?’

‘No one, so far as I know. Stuart and I never breathed a word about what we’d heard. Everyone else took Iain’s word that he was the one who’d fired the shot.’

The firelight flickers, casting its play of light and shadows over us both.

‘Then, in any case, Dr Greig issued the death certificate, no questions asked. So I suppose he was in on the conspiracy, too. I imagine Lady Helen would have been very persuasive. And the doctor must have treated enough of her bruises and broken bones to know what went on behind the grand doors of Ardtuath House. So maybe he was all the more inclined to do as she asked.’

I sit in shocked silence for a while, anguish tightening my throat. I could cry for my mother, who didn’t hesitate to defend her father and her unborn baby when the moment came. I could cry for the two wee boys who sat shivering at the door of this very cottage, their home-made slingshots at the ready to defend my family. And I feel an even deeper sense of shame for the way I’ve taken so much for granted all my life – a life that I owe to so many.

Davy wraps me in his arms and soothes me, stroking my hair. When I look at him I see that his anguish mirrors mine, and anxiety flickers in the way his lips have turned down at the corners.

‘You were right to tell me. I’m glad I know now.’

At last he smiles and his sea-grey eyes hold an ocean of love so deep it takes my breath away.

‘Everyone’s been so kind all along,’ I say. ‘And I never knew. I’ve repaid them with bad grace and ingratitude. How can I ever thank them?’

He laughs. ‘You’ve repaid them every day by living your life. How proud you made us all, having your name up in lights in the West End. You have no idea what satisfaction that gave everyone here, feeling like they’d played a part in it.’

‘And now I’ve let them all down again, by losing my voice and crashing out of my career.’

‘You’ve let no one down but yourself, Lexie,’ he says gently, ‘by thinking of yourself as a failure. You’ve actually done exactly what we all wanted in the end. You came home, bringing Daisy. And it’s here that you’ve found a new song to sing.’

His words sink in, soothing the pain I feel, and I kiss him.

And then, with a grin, he says, ‘Although of course I do take most of the credit for the singing thing.’

‘Och, would you get over yerself, Davy Laverock,’ I say, kissing him again.

And then, as the fire’s embers fall in on themselves, sending up one last flicker of flame in the darkening room, I take him by the hand and lead him, tiptoeing past the door to Daisy’s room, to bed.





Lexie, 1979




I’m pegging out the washing when the postie’s little red van appears, winding its way along the lochside. Carefully making sure that Daisy’s dungarees are securely fixed – the wind is always eager to snatch the clothes from the line and scatter them into the branches of the pines – I go to meet him at the gate. He hands me a small bundle of envelopes and there’s a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take them from him, noticing that most are brown and almost certainly contain bills. I’ve been living off the last of my savings and they’re dwindling fast now.

‘I see there’s one from yon lawyers in Inverness,’ he remarks cheerily.

It’s the postie’s prerogative to inspect the mail thoroughly as he delivers it each day, and so he’s usually up on exactly who has a birthday, who’s received a parcel and – in my case – who’s being sent shameful, red-inked final reminders to pay their electricity bill.

The lawyer is the executor of Mum’s estate, such as it is, and so this letter could be the news that everything has finally been sorted out. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of an inheritance. Mum always lived quietly, eking out her pennies with the food she grew. I always insisted on paying for her train tickets to London, conscious that I was earning good money in those days and that, although she was skilled at making ends meet, she didn’t have much to spare. But maybe there’ll be a little money to help get me through a month or two more at Keeper’s Cottage before I have to face the inevitable and sell up.