Page 9 of Provoked

David began to explain the facts of the case. The case had come from Stewart & Stewart, a solicitors’ firm he’d clerked for while he studied. Their clients were not wealthy, but the kindly young Mr. Stewart—who at seven and fifty remained very much the junior partner to his ancient father—had provided a steady stream of small instructions to David over the last several years. In gratitude, David provided his services more cheaply than he could strictly afford. He’d already ploughed five times the hours into this problem than he’d ever dream of charging.

Jeffrey was scowling over David’s map when a clerk approached the desk.

“Mr. Lauriston, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir—”

David looked up. “No need to apologise, Thomas. What is it?”

“There’s a lad asking for you, sir. He wouldn’t give a name. He’s waiting in the hall.”

David frowned. “He wouldn’t give you a name? What does he look like?”

“A young fellow. Eighteen or so, I’d say. Respectable looking.”

David’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “Would you excuse me, Jeffrey? I think it might be the clerk from Stewart & Stewart.” Even as he uttered these words, they sounded implausible to him. Why would the solicitors’ clerk not give Thomas his name?

Jeffrey waved him off, still holding the map, now comparing it with David’s handwritten notes, his dark eyebrows creased in concentration.

David left him to it, following Thomas out of the library and into the great Parliament Hall, which was dim today, illuminated only by a few flickering candles in the wall sconces. Even in this poor light, though, it was awe inspiring, the grey stone walls soaring up to a high, vaulted ceiling. Two advocates paced up and down, their footsteps echoing in counterpoint with their hushed conversation. The only other occupant was a man in the far corner. He sat, still and silent, his face obscured by the brim of his hat.

Thomas pointed at the seated figure. “That’s him.”

David thanked him and began walking towards his visitor, his boot heels clicking on the wooden floor. He tried to puzzle out the man’s identity as he drew closer, but it was only when he stood and removed his hat that, finally, David realised who it was.

“Euan MacLennan,” he said, stretching out his hand, not bothering to hide his surprise. “What brings you here?”

The young man who stood before him gave an uncertain smile, taking the hand that David offered in a brief tentative grip, his gloveless hand icy cold. He was in his early twenties, but he looked as young as the library clerk had suggested with his very fair hair and his earnest, beardless face. His ill-fitting coat added to the overall impression of awkward youthfulness; it was all wrong on his lanky frame—a mite too short in the sleeves and a mite too broad in the shoulders.

“Hello, Davy.”

Davy.The use of David’s given name—in its most intimate form—took him momentarily aback. But of course, it was he who had insisted Euan use it. A gesture of solidarity to the weavers and their families. Jeffrey hadn’t commented at the time, but David knew he hadn’t approved. He was alwaysMr. Jeffreyto them.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling on you here?” Euan continued, a little breathlessly. “I didn’t know how else to find you.” His diction was as careful as David’s own had been a few years ago, a slight hesitance in his speech that gave away the fact that his accent was not the one he’d been born with.

“Of course I don’t mind,” David replied. “I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all.” He paused. “How is Peter?”

The briefest flicker of emotion crossed Euan’s face. He took a deep breath. “As well as can be expected. At least his sentence has been commuted. He is not to be executed now, but—”

But, Peter MacLennan was being transported. And how many convicts even survived the journey to the Antipodes?

“When does his ship depart?” David asked carefully.

Euan stared down at his hands. “Within the month.”

David laid a hand on the lad’s forearm. “He’s a strong man. And as brave as a lion. He’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.”

“Aye,” Euan whispered, but grief was etched in every line of his face. Peter wasn’t only Euan’s brother. A full decade older, he’d been surrogate father to his younger sibling. And as a time-served weaver with no wife or children of his own, he’d been able to support his brother with his studies at university.

Poor Peter. He’d been so proud of his younger brother, the university student. David remembered talking with him, late one evening before the trial.

“My brother reads Latin and Greek, Davy. Did you know that? He’s going to be a minister in the Kirk one day…”

David swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Euan,” he said. “I know how distressing this is for you.”

Euan shook his head and gave a determined sort of sniff. “Look at me, snivelling like a woman. You must think me an idiot.”

“Not at all.”

Euan’s cheeks coloured. “Nevertheless, you must be wondering why I’ve come to see you.”