Free After the Armistice Ball by Catriona McPherson Page A

(coarsely) that it was not only the desire for an heir which hastened their arrival since after the Duffys’ return home no heir, nor anyone else for that matter, had ever appeared.
    I now understood from Hugh that the war had ‘done for’ the Canadian railway and the forests along with it, in a way I did not pretend to understand, that even the Grand Trunk Pacific Railroad itself had had to call in the receivers, and that the Canadian Government was now running the show. Of course, Hugh took some bitter pleasure in that, reaching back twenty years and trying to recast his failures as foresight. Miles of Ontario pine trees were not Mr Duffy’s only nor even his chief concern, and so whatever the reason for poor Cara’s trousseau to be coming from worthy George Street (which had to be depressing) I could not believe it to be a matter of economy.
    Still, a trip to Edinburgh although galaxies less fun was more easily managed without raising Hugh’s eyebrows than a trip to London would have been and, I supposed, I could combine it with some dreary Edinburgh shopping of my own. So I caught the train from Perth on Friday morning, telling Drysdale to meet me again off the 6.15, and two hours later I was turning into Drummond Place. I supposed the Duffys kept this townhouse to be handy for the port of Leith and yet more of the pies in which Mr Duffy had a finger, and while most of our set laughed at their stodginess, I was struck that day with an unaccountable feeling of envy. I should loathe to be here when I might be in London, of course, but so long as it was never used that way by an unscrupulous husband, I saw how a house in Edinburgh might make a welcome dent in the long months of country life up in Perthshire. And Drummond Place itself was rather fetching in that austere way that Edinburgh has, in parts, when the sun shines.
    ‘The ladies are away, madam,’ I was told by the equally austere butler who admitted me to the entrance hall. Now, ‘away’ in English, as we all know, suggests a trip far from home but for Scots, who can talk of going away to the shops or even away to their beds, it is always worth some careful checking.
    ‘Might I wait, then? Are they gone for long?’
    ‘The ladies are away to the cottage, madam,’ he explained, speaking rather more slowly to me, as though now unsure of my brainpower. ‘The master is at home however, if you care to wait.’
    I began shaking my head before he was finished. I could not imagine grilling Mr Duffy for clues and to serve him up the confection of half-truths that was to be my report from Daisy was unthinkable.
    ‘I shall write to them, then,’ I said. ‘About the wedding. A letter to the cottage will be fine. I only wanted to ask them about bridesmaids’ – um – anyway.’ I did not know the address of the cottage, of course, but thinking I could get it from somewhere, I shrank from asking this terrifying individual to produce a card for me. He was already looking at me suspiciously, although that might have been my guilty conscience, or might have been caused by my peculiarness in offering him so much information (far from normal behaviour). I could feel a blush begin to engulf me and sticking my nose in the air I turned to sweep out.
    ‘Mrs Gilver?’ came a soft voice from the stairs. Mr Duffy was there, halfway up with his finger keeping his place in a book. I cringed for an instant, then realizing that I was being ridiculous – my fear that everyone around me could divine my purpose was on a par with a child’s belief that it becomes invisible by shutting its eyes – I shook off my silliness and called up to him.
    ‘I was hoping to find your wife and girls. But I won’t dream of asking you to relay a message. Unless you have a hidden interest in voile which you rarely get the chance to indulge?’
    ‘Voile?’ he echoed, frowning.
    ‘I see not,’ I said. ‘It’s a kind of silk.’
    ‘Ah yes. The wedding,’ he said, and again his face