When I returned to the coach, the courtyard had thronged into even more of a hubbub and I was truly feared now that someone would recognize me, so I marched as fast as I could, head down, and handed the driver his three shillings before he could change his mind.

‘You sit facing the rear,’ he instructed, ‘for the gents are to face the direction of travel. And if you think you are going to be travel-sick, or need any attention for anything, knock sharp on the side.’

I nodded, but he didn’t see that as he was too busy pocketing his fare and taking my creel to store under my seat. Then he stood aside to let me on, and I made myself as comfortable as I could, relieved that I was finally out of sight. Not long afterwards I heard the driver greet the two gents and then murmur something to them, which I supposed was his way of letting them know there was another passenger, then they boarded too, bidding me a polite good morning.

Well, I could tell straight away they were not real gents, of course. Aside from the fact that real gents would have their own private carriage, this pair of young men were traders, I could tell, as they had boxes to store; and one of them pulled out a parchment and they proceeded to go over it as soon as they were seated. So they would be boring company, which was just as well, for as the carriage pulled out and began its long, swaying, lurching trek, it dawned on me good and proper that I was leaving. Leaving Ma and Da and poor Little Paws, who was grey-whiskered now and I would likely never see her again. Leaving the gulls and their forlorn cries.

A fishing song ran through my head – ‘Weel may the boatie row’ – and that was me now: rowing off on a strange sea. I had seen enough of silvery shores and skies. I wanted gold. I thought of Joan, waking up and yawning and stretching her arms, all stiff from a night on a chair, and then realizing I’d vanished. I wondered if she would feel bad, or worried for me. I thought of Spencer, in the full and certain knowledge now that he would be in the arms of a port whore. I swigged my whisky.

My heart, my breath, the taste of fire – for that is what I had become now. Shrunken to the essence of myself. As Musselburgh flashed by, I was no longer part of it. Not of the kirk, nor the mills, nor the whitewashed houses nor the grassy fields. My past was falling away from me. I was shedding it as a snake sheds its skin. I was facing backwards, hurtling forwards. As the men pored over their papers, I closed my eyes and hoped I would never see the Honest Toun again.

Chapter Ten

Kelso, Roxburghshire
February 1724