“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Ian said. “He has an aversion to nuns.”
“If the good sisters can put up with him, he should consider himself lucky,” Lillian replied.
A silence fell between them, the only sounds in the room the ticking of the grandfather clock in its walnut case and the crackle of kindling in the fireplace.
“I am sorry about your librarian friend,” Donald said. “I regret I never had a chance to meet him.”
“Thank you for coming to George’s funeral.”
“It was so touching,” said Lillian. “So many students and professors showing up like that.”
Donald looked out the window at the salty gray day and cleared his throat. “I must be getting back to my medical textbooks. I have a lot of catching up to do. By the way,” he told Ian, “I’ve persuaded Richie McPherson, an old school chum of mine who’s a surgeon now, to look in on Crawford’s wife.”
“Thank you.”
“Richie and I were thick as thieves back in our school days. Now I suppose all the other medical students will think I’m an old codger—if I manage to get in, of course.”
“You will,” said Ian. “You’re bloody brilliant. A total ass, but bloody brilliant.”
“I’ll see you out,” said Lillian, rising from her chair.
“Please don’t disturb yourself. Thank you for the ginger beer. I’ll see you back at the flat,” he said to Ian.
“I won’t be late.”
Donald smiled. “I won’t wait up.”
He leaned down to kiss Lillian, put on his hat and coat, and stepped out into the night.
Lillian leaned back in her chair and regarded Ian, who was staring into the flickering fire as if it held the answers he craved. “You must snap out of it sooner or later, you know.”
“I will.”
“You’ve rid the world of a terrible scourge.”
“Not soon enough to save the life of a young boy—or poor George Pearson.”
His aunt waved a dismissive hand. “If you’re determined to castigate yourself, I shan’t discourage you.”
“When I look at myself, I don’t entirely like what I see.”
“Ach, if you were perfect, this world would have no use for you.”
“Aunt Lillian,” Ian said suddenly, “what was my father really like?”
She looked startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”
He rose from his chair and leaned against the fireplace mantel. “That night Donald stormed off, he told me things about our father . . .”
“Well, he could be a bit—zealous, perhaps.”
“About what, exactly?”
“Everything, I suppose. Catching criminals, going to church, even housekeeping—he was a stickler for order. You’re a bit like him.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You inherited his stern Presbyterianism, but without the faith.”
“Did he really—”
“What?”
Ian clenched his fists, staring into the flames. “Inflict violence on Donald?”
Lillian paused before answering, and in that pause the answer was clear.
“He showed me a cigarette burn. He said there were others.”
“I didn’t know the specifics, but I did know there were things about your brother that didn’t sit well with him.”
“And my mother helped cover up what he’d done.”
“Emily always had a secretive streak—like your brother, I suppose. He takes after her in that way.”
“So my father . . . was a monster?”
“Is that what Donald said?”
“Not in so many words.”
Lillian stared into the fire, which had burned down to embers. “Carmichael Hamilton was many things to many people. I don’t believe any of them thought he was a monster.”
“But he—”
“He was a complicated person, Ian. As you are—as we all are, in one way or another.”
“He was good to me.”
“He was proud of you. Donald was another story.”
“But why? We were both his sons—”
“Life isn’t fair, Ian. Parents have favorites, and families are . . . complicated.”
“Is Donald a—a ‘pervert,’ Auntie?” he said, feeling his face redden at the harsh word. “Is that what my father couldn’t stand about him?”
“That’s not my place to say. I suggest you bring it up with your brother.”
“As you wish, Auntie,” Ian said, fetching his cloak from the hallway. The thought of talking to Donald about something so private made his head ache.
“It looks as good on you as it did on dear Alfie,” she said as he fastened it around his neck. “Dear me—in like a lion,” she remarked as a gust of wind nearly took the doorknob from her hand.
So it was March already. When he wasn’t looking, February had slipped quietly away, giving way to the promise of spring and rebirth. Ian kissed his aunt and stepped forth into the darkened streets. Even when the city was quiet, the silence itself seemed to buzz with kinetic energy. He gazed at the buildings surrounding him. What secrets they held within their ancient walls he might never know, but he would have to learn to live with the not knowing. Their gray stone was cold and hard, yet they possessed a reassuring solidity, dependable as the sunrise. There would be time enough for family secrets to reveal themselves, he supposed as he drew his cloak closer, and time to explore what kind of relationship was possible with his prodigal brother. For now, though, Ian wanted to leave all such questions aside. As he swung out onto George IV Bridge, the sight of Edinburgh spread out beneath him took his breath away. He stopped to admire the glistening of a thousand lamps, touched by the Promethean hand of the city’s leeries, bringers of light amidst the northern Scottish darkness.
No matter where his journey might take him, Ian knew he would spend the rest of his life coming to know this city of saints and sinners, with all its dark corners and contradictions. There was some comfort in that—as well as the promise of adventure, he thought as he trudged up the hill toward Victoria Terrace, and home.