The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘Not willing,’ she said. ‘No, never that.’

I saw it now, I thought. ‘Nor witting, either?’ I asked.

She looked over to me with a terrible desperation in her eyes, and made as if to speak but stopped, at a loss.

‘Did you know what your husband was about, mistress?’ asked the baillie.

She shook her head. ‘Not at first. Not at all. I did not know all until Marion told me.’ She looked down at her wrists and began to pick at the bandages, speaking almost absently as she did so. ‘I should have realised long ago. Sometimes I think I should have wondered.’ She trailed off, and then, having lost herself a few moments in her musing, she was recalled back to the present. ‘I was little more than a girl when Helen died. In truth, I remember very little about her. She was a married woman, the wife of one of the magistrates with whom my brother, Robert, was keen to curry favour – for even then it could be seen that Walter would be a man of importance, and my brother liked to be counted amongst the men of importance. My brother had hopes that I might make an impression on Helen – become her companion, help her in the nursery – be to her in fact what Marion was to become to me. But Helen had her own friends – older women – like your mother,’ she said, looking at me with an effort at kindness in her eyes.

‘And as for the nursery – there was to be no nursery.’ She paused and made herself leave off the picking at the bandages. ‘When she died, my brother made a great show of sorrow, which I knew was not real. He would imagine himself perpetually required to give succour and counsel at Walter Watt’s house, but I know Robert is an object of contempt to honourable and intelligent men, and such I could clearly perceive to be the case with Walter also. And yet, invitations came to us often from the magistrate, and soon I came to understand that it was not my brother’s but my own company that Walter sought. I could not understand it, for he was deep, so deep in grief and love for his wife. He spoke little of her, but her face was always in his eyes, her name always ready to fall silent from his lips. I was not yet seventeen when it was agreed between him and Robert that we should marry, that I should take Helen’s place.’ She gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘What a mockery! That I should take her place? He was kind to me, I can never deny that; he took pleasure – took his pleasure with me, and I came to love him beyond measure, and child after child though I bore him, I knew I would never take Helen’s place. And so it went on, and by the grace of God, as I thought, our family thrived and Walter rose higher and higher in the burgh. I knew of no one better blessed, yet there was still a dark emptiness within him that I think was only truly filled when he looked at Helen’s portrait. I thought she haunted him, and perhaps she did, and the memory of her tormented him.’

‘And in all that time, mistress, you truly suspected nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘And then Patrick came home. I must confess,’ and here, for the first time, she allowed herself a real smile, ‘I felt a little anxious at the prospect. He had come to visit us once before, but just for a few days, before he left for the continent, but this time he was coming to stay. For years, I had heard nothing but the praises of this boy – this young man as he was to be. To Walter he had been as a son. He had once said to me, before he could stop himself – for he was always careful not to hurt me – if he could have had such a son, of Helen, he could have asked for nothing more. There was a joy in him when he heard Patrick was coming home that I had rarely seen, and I know he left Arbuthnott in little doubt as to how the boy was to be treated – it was impressed upon the apothecary what an honour it was for him to have and house such an apprentice.’

‘And when the boy did return, how were things between them then?’

A light came into her eyes as she replied to the baillie. ‘It was a thing lovely to behold. They were as father and son reunited. And in truth, for myself, I could not be jealous. Walter was so happy and so proud to show off his own little ones to Patrick who, he said, would be as a brother to them. And so it was. I have seldom met such a good, loving young man, and I know from Walter, and Arbuthnott – and indeed Marion – that he was greatly gifted. I had never seen my husband at such peace. That Patrick and Marion then became attached made it all the sweeter for me. There was true happiness in our household. It was our time of true happiness.’