It worried me, talk like that. For I was not protected – not like Mrs Rose. I could not put a foot wrong, not if I was to stay at the inn long enough to save for London.

Chapter Twelve

Kelso
March 1724

One evening when I had been in Kelso a month or so, a quietish evening when the inn was only half full, I noticed a gentleman sitting with a parchment and quill, which was a funny sight beside his game pie, so I stopped at his table and asked him if he needed a bigger table.

‘I am fine, lass,’ he said. ‘I am well used to juggling my work and my supper.’ It turned out he was a scribe who took payment for writing out folks’ messages and got them sent to wherever they needed to be sent, by way of one of the post boys who called at the inn.

‘And you can get them sent anywhere?’ I asked, curious.

‘Tuppence for Scotland, thruppence for England,’ he said. ‘And you’d need to dictate it to me tonight for I’m off first thing.

I knew it was the right thing to do, even if it cost me some of my hard-earned wages. And if Spencer came back, he’d know where I was. Ma and Da could take the letter to someone at the Mussel Inn and they could read it out to them.

‘I’ve never dictated a letter before,’ I said, wiping my hands on my apron and feeling nervous, for it all felt quite official.

‘Nothing to it,’ he replied reassuringly. ‘Just say it as you would if the person was in the room, and I will sort out the rough bits.’

I went to the kitchen and told Mrs Baxter I needed a break to do some business. Pouring myself a glass of French wine for a bit of courage, for I’d become accustomed to the taste, I sat back down opposite the scribe. He was a small man and clever-looking, with round spectacles and a neat grey beard. He nodded to me as I sat, and then took up his quill.

It was a strange thing to be doing, and I took a gulp of my wine and made sure my hair was tidy and my apron straight – not that it mattered, for my folks would not see me, only hear my words – and I focused on the congealing gravy on the scribe’s plate in order not to get upset.

Dear Ma and Da [I decided not to include Joan, as I was still furious with her],

I write this letter from the town of Kelso, which, if you happen to have seen my Map of the British Isles, is near the border with England.

I am sorry to have taken off in such haste, but [here I paused, as I was not sure how much to say] I needed to get away from everyone.