Chapter 13

The journey to Kent had been successful, and both Frances and David Trevor were in high spirits, carrying Melinda Crawford’s greeting and best love to Rutledge and telling him about the great pheasant hunt that had left them all exhausted and hurting from laughter.

A stray pheasant had wandered into Melinda’s garden, and the boy had been very taken with it. He had persuaded his grandfather to let him carry it back to Scotland if he could capture it.

That had led to an afternoon of merriment as every scheme they had tried saw the pheasant still at large and mocking them from a safe distance.

In the end it was Ian who had tired first, and after one last glorious chase through the kitchen gardens had ended with the promise of cake for tea, the pheasant had been forgotten.

Listening to them, Rutledge was reminded of another child bribed by the promise of lemonade, unaware that his father was missing and possibly no longer the familiar figure the boy remembered.

He joined in the laughter, despite the day’s frustrations, unwilling to spoil their high spirits, and found the tension in his mind slowly relaxing.

It wasn’t until they were saying good night that Rutledge remembered that his godfather would be leaving on the morrow. The time had gone too quickly, and he’d got his wish—to be too busy to spend much of the day with Trevor and the child.

He regretted that now as he drove back to his flat, but there had been no way to change it. Even if he’d recognized the need in time.

The next morning as Rutledge collected his godfather’s cases and stowed them in the boot, he wished he could find the words to ask Trevor to stay longer. But Hamish, in the back of his mind, had been a source of stressful emotions while David Trevor talked of Scotland and the war and his son Ross. Of the boy’s young governess, who was being courted by a solicitor in Edinburgh. Of things best forgotten, of people left unnamed. Consequently, fatigue had racked him, and Rutledge had spent sleepless nights walking the streets in the cool summer darkness until he was too tired to stay awake.

And still Hamish reminded him over and over again of what he, a dead man lying in a French grave, had lost.

There was nothing left now except their good-byes.

Coming to the door of the house, Rutledge said to his godfather, “I think that’s everything.”

Frances, kissing first David and then the boy good-bye, wished them a safe journey, and sent her love to Morag, along with the gaily wrapped shawl that Rutledge had purchased for this woman who had served the Trevor household as long as he could remember. He had wanted to buy one in Tartan plaid, but Frances had told him that the sea-green Irish woolen one was a better choice. He hoped she was right.

The boy scooped up his box of toy soldiers, hugged Frances again, and ran out to the motorcar, excited to travel by train once more. He had already asked over and over whether he could come back again to London.