“Thank you,” Gage told her and my aunt nodded.
We all settled into our chairs around the table and tucked into the meal of crusty bread, cold meats, cheeses, pickles, and apples—simple fare perfect for my ravenous appetite. It was not until partway through the meal, as I was laughing at something my cousin Jock had said and trying not to spray a mouthful of bread and cheese across the table, that I realized how significant the moment was. I’d glanced at my brother, who was watching me with a curious look in his eyes that I couldn’t decipher. But when his gaze dropped to my plate and I looked down to see half the food I’d heaped upon it gone, I suddenly understood.
I was actually hungry. But perhaps more important, I’d eaten. Not once had the meal turned to sawdust in my mouth or made my stomach clench in knots as it had normally done in the past few months when I tried to dine. I finished chewing the food in my mouth slowly and swallowed, wondering what it meant, and whether I should even be trying to comprehend it.
Did it mean my grief was gone? No. The heavy weight I felt in my chest when I thought of William Dalmay was still there, but it was perhaps a fraction lighter. Just a sliver. Nonetheless it was something. Maybe.
I took a deep breath and forced my attention back to the conversation swirling around me.
“So Young picked up the rifle and fired. Missed the axe by a good ten feet,” Jock gasped, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. “And . . . and almost shot Shellingham’s ear off. The puir man was as green as this tablecloth.” He slunk lower in his chair, swiping tears away from his eyes as everyone joined in his amusement.
“And what did Mr. Stuart do?” Trevor asked between chuckles.
Jock swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to recompose himself. “He . . . he shook his head and said, as calm as ye please, ‘Well . . . well, at least, Crockett wasna here teh see it.’”
I laughed along with them this time. Apparently, Mr. Stuart’s stories about Davy Crockett hadn’t been enough. Mr. Young had to actually attempt one of the man’s more famous tricks, presumably under Mr. Stuart’s “capable” tutelage.
“Who is this Mr. Stuart?” Gage asked.
“A gentleman from the Coldingham area,” Aunt Sarah replied. “Rutherford met him in Edinburgh.”
Her husband nodded in confirmation, his mouth full of roast beef.
“The silly man claims to be the grandson of Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender,” Miss Witherington muttered under her breath, just loud enough so that we could all hear. I’d noticed she had been the only one to not find Jock’s story amusing.
“Yes, well,” Aunt Sarah murmured, a frown forming between her brows as she looked across the table at her future daughter-in-law. “Let’s leave the man his eccentricities. After all, he’s not harming anyone.”
Jock spluttered. “Except maybe Shellingham.”
Following luncheon, Uncle Andrew escorted us into his study along with his son, Andy, who’d been groomed since childhood to one day take over the massive estate. Apparently, my uncle also hoped those duties included magistrate. I didn’t mind. Andy was a likable, easygoing fellow. Perhaps a bit staid, but that was to be expected with a father like his.
Gratefully, Uncle Andrew got directly to the point.
“My riders didn’t discover anything useful from the inns and taverns along the roads to Edinburgh or Glasgow.” He steepled his fingers in front of him on his desk. “So either the innkeepers and stable lads were paid well for their silence, these men were more stealthy than we anticipated and traveled by back roads, or they did not journey north as expected with the body.”
Gage rubbed his hand over his jaw as he considered the matter. “You’re right. It could be any of those possibilities. And it doesn’t make sense to waste resources sending riders in other directions when we have no credible information to tell us they did anything but travel north. Perhaps later.” He sighed and shook his head. “But not now.”
Uncle Andrew nodded.
“What of the guests?” I asked. “Aunt Sarah said that none of them had any useful information to provide us. But were any of them acting suspiciously?” I glanced between my uncle and my cousin. “Were any of them conspicuously missing from the ball at any point?”
Andy and his father exchanged a look, their brows furrowed as they considered the matter.
“Not that we can recall,” Andy replied. “But there were almost eighty guests here that night. We could have easily missed seeing one leave. Or not.”
“As for not having anything to tell us,” Uncle Andrew began hesitantly. “You’ll notice that my wife said they didn’t have anything useful to inform us.” He grimaced and I wondered just what he was so loath to mention. “Several of the staff, and a few of the guests, suggested the culprit might be . . .” He sighed and muttered, “The Nun of Dryburgh.”