THE ENERGETIC SUBSTITUTION of one task for another, more awkward task may make one forget for a while, but only for a while. Isabel knew that, and even as she buried herself over the next few days in performing the admittedly pressing work of putting the Review to bed—delicious term, she thought—at the back of her mind was the knowledge that there were other things she should be doing: thinking of how to deal with Professor Lettuce and his unsolicited review; speaking to Prue; finding out more about the candidates for the principal’s post; and, of course, getting married. That made her smile; an impending marriage should occupy one’s mind almost entirely, but here she was merely adding it to a list of things to do. There were people, she knew, who simply never got round to getting married; they might have decided to marry, but for some reason the timing might never seem quite right, or sheer inertia might take over. She had read of one engagement in the Highlands of Scotland that had lasted for twenty-eight years before the couple got round to holding a wedding. The groom had bought a wedding suit that had remained in the cupboard during all that time, as had the bride’s dress; the spread of middle age had made both too small.
Of course Isabel knew that things moved more slowly in the remote communities of the Scottish Highlands, where there is no need to rush things; and as she thought this, she remembered that suits became too small there for other reasons. In her student days, on a camping trip with friends, Isabel had passed a small farmhouse—a croft—in Wester Ross and seen a man’s suit hanging out to dry on a line. People did not wash men’s suits, but they did here, where there was no alternative; and there it was, hanging on the line, dark against the green grass, gesticulating in gusts that came in from the sea, arms filled with wind. The picture remained in her mind, so vivid after all these years that she could smell again the grass and the iodine scent of the drying kelp on the seashore and the wind that came in from the rolling Atlantic.
They would talk about marriage again, and soon. She would suggest that they give themselves a little more time—a few months—to make their plans. If they were to go away on honeymoon, then there would be the Review to think about: one could not simply leave a philosophical journal to look after itself. And there were Jamie’s commitments to consider: his programme of rehearsals and short-notice session work meant that he would have to make arrangements too. And then there was Charlie: he would come with them, of course, but that would rule out some of the places that Jamie had said he would like to visit. One could not easily take a small child to uninhabited islands off the coast of Scotland, for example.
Isabel had agreed to a Scottish honeymoon, but, had she been given a completely free choice, she would have chosen something like trekking in the Himalayas. But such a choice was definitely not a good one for a child under two. Himalayan tracks were steep enough for an adult; for a toddler they might as well be vertical, unless, of course, Charlie were to be carried all the way, perhaps by one of the Sherpas who hired themselves out as porters. Charlie could be well wrapped up and strapped to one of those impossibly large packs of luggage the Sherpas shouldered; but what fun would such a honeymoon be for him? And there were those narrow mountain paths where one false step might send one sliding hundreds of feet down a side of scree or over some dizzy precipice. No, a better honeymoon from Charlie’s point of view would be somewhere with a beach and a friendly, barely tidal sea at just the right temperature. That sort of place was, of course, hardly romantic, but then a honeymoon with a small child could not be expected to be a conventional honeymoon.
She would sit Jamie down and talk to him about all this. They would identify a date and plan accordingly, but for now they would get on with the immediate tasks of life, one of which, for Isabel, was to attend a dinner party. She would be going by herself, as Jamie was playing in a concert in Dundee that night; and her attendance would bring back into focus at least one of the matters that she had been shelving: the shortlist.
“PEOPLE IN EDINBURGH forget about us,” said Jillian Mackinlay, as they looked out over the lawns at Abbotsford.
Isabel took the glass of wine that a young man offered her on a small silver tray. He was dressed in the uniform of a waiter or steward—black trousers and white shirt—but she could tell from his hands that he was really a gardener, or tractor man perhaps, inveigled into household duties. She thanked him, and he broke into a broad smile. “You work here?” she asked.
“No. I’m a shepherd.” He nodded towards a man standing at the other end of the room. “His shepherd.”
Isabel took a sip of her wine as the young man moved away. “An Ettrick shepherd,” she muttered.
Jillian looked puzzled.
“James Hogg,” said Isabel. “The Ettrick Shepherd. The essayist.”
Jillian looked flustered. “Of course.”
“You were saying that people in Edinburgh forget something …”
Jillian returned to her theme. “Us. They forget us. They think everything of any consequence happens in Edinburgh. They think that nothing happens down here, out in the country. They really do. Take this place. They forget that this is the greatest literary shrine in Scotland—Sir Walter Scott’s house, no less, and we’ve had terrible trouble interesting them in it.”
“Oh, but I think they are interested,” said Isabel. “I am. I love Scott. And I think he’s still pretty widely read, isn’t he?”
“I’m not sure how many people still read him,” Jillian said. “Rob Roy, perhaps, but beyond that, well …”
Isabel thought that the problem was time. Who had time for the great historical novels? “Some of it might seem a little … heavy these days. People have so many claims on their time.”
“Well, they’ll come in their droves once the trustees sort this place out,” said Jillian, looking up at the ceiling. “This gorgeous ceiling, for example, and all this … all this stuff.” She gestured at the collection of ancient weapons adorning the wall. It was a romantic’s dream.
“Scott must have been a bit of a magpie,” said Isabel. “So many things.”
“He was fascinated by the past. His life was a great big jumble of romantic history. Mists, glens, castles and so on. He suited his time absolutely perfectly. And just think—this is where he actually lived, where he wrote. We can take a look at his writing room after dinner. His desk is still there.”
The dinner at Abbotsford was Jillian’s husband’s idea. As a supporter of the project to restore Scott’s house, he had invited a group of likely donors for dinner and Jillian had suggested that Isabel join them. “I’d like you to meet Alex,” she explained. “And we’re not asking you for money. You’re here as …”
Isabel waited.
“As a friend,” Jillian continued. “And you’ll have the chance to meet Harold and Christine. He’s the outgoing head of Bishop Forbes. I wanted you to meet them socially rather than formally.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He doesn’t know that you’re looking into this whole thing for us. But it could be useful for you to meet them.”