The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

Not only letters, but voices too, accompanied me as I left the two towns behind and took the road north-west. Voices of encouragement, voices of warning, voices of fear. As the horse, not yet wearying under its extra burden of newly bought books, trampled out the road and the spires and coastline of Aberdeen faded further into the distance until at last they disappeared, so too did the encouraging voices of Matthew Lumsden, Dr Dun and Dr Forbes recede. Their place was taken by the ever more insistent voice of caution of my friend William Cargill, and the determined terror of the departing Mary Dawson. ‘Why you, Alexander? Why your schoolroom? Why you with this commission? Have a care, Alexander.’ The horse’s hooves beat out the rhythm of William’s warnings and every so often they found a reply on the wind from Mary Dawson, ‘I will never see Banff again.’

The sky was darkening as I approached Straloch in the late afternoon, and the storm broke just as I turned into the broad sweep of the drive. Thunder and lightning ripped from overhead and I forced the horse into a gallop for the last few hundred yards. Nevertheless, I was drenched, a poor specimen of a visitor, by the time we reached the courtyard at the front of the house. A servant answered my banging on the door and called for a stable boy to take my horse. He heard my hurried commission in the front hall and then, evidently deciding I might be who I said I was, allowed me into the body of the house. A young woman emerged into the light from the darkness of the east wing, watching for the visitor to arrive. She came forward, her flowing silk skirts rustling almost in time with the rain which poured down from the gutters outside. Her hair was dark, and she did not wear it up, but long and loose, brushed back from her face to show cheekbones that looked to be the work of some master sculptor and not formed by God. Her eyes were grey crystal. She was too young to be Straloch’s wife, but a little too old, I thought, to be one of his daughters.

‘It is a messenger from Banff,’ said the servant, ‘for the master. He says he has a letter from the provost.’ The man’s bearing implied that he was not entirely convinced that what I said was the truth, but the young woman seemed satisfied and dismissed him.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘The laird is not in the house at this minute. He is still out, hunting. He should return within the hour, or sooner, if this storm does not pass. The mistress is resting, but will be up for dinner. Can I be of any help?’

I looked at her, unsure as to how to proceed. She had a bright and open manner, and her face spoke of intellect, yet the provost’s dire warnings were ringing in my ears, and I knew I must wait on an answer from Straloch himself. ‘I’m sorry, I am not …’

She made a gesture of awkwardness. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I have not said who I am. My name is Isabella Irvine; my aunt is the lady of this house.’ She waited.

‘I am Alexander Seaton,’ I said. ‘I have come to see the laird of Straloch on the business of the burgh of Banff. I am sorry, but I am under authority to place my commission only into the hands of Robert Gordon himself.’ Although her feet had not taken a step, she looked as if her whole body had shrunk backwards, and not at my rebuttal of her offer of help, but at the mention of my name. She recovered herself quickly enough, but that she had been shaken, and that her manner towards me was now somewhat changed, was unmistakable.

She indicated a large, high-backed chair beside the fire. ‘If you wish to wait until the laird returns, you may sit there. I will have some refreshment sent.’ Then, with little more conversation or ceremony, she excused herself and departed up the stairs and out of my sight. I took the chair with gladness and, since it appeared no one would be around to see it, I removed my boots and let my feet dry by the fire. A servant brought ale and warm bannocks. As I took my rest and my refreshment, I tried to think what might have occasioned the change in Isabella Irvine’s manner towards me. Could it really be that the mention of my very name, bad as it was in Banff but surely not notorious here, was enough to put fear or contempt into young women in lairdly houses all over the north? I did not think so. And yet it was my name that had marked the change in her, as if borne in on a cold wind from the North. I pondered it, as the rain beating down outside contended with the roar of the fire within: I knew the name Isabella Irvine, but I could not think how or from where.