As stern and forbidding as Caldow’s Land might have appeared from the street on the evening that I had arrived, on the inside it was full of life, the floors above taken by an interesting mix of people I had heard about but not yet met, from the former Latin master to the spinster merchant sisters who together kept the shop below.

The Turnbulls’ dwelling occupied the whole of the first floor, made warm and charming by its painted walls and ceiling beams. We passed most of the day in this front chamber—the long drawing room, with its row of bright windows along the end wall looking out onto the bustle of the Landmarket.

The merchant sisters were already up and at their business. I’d discovered it was common, when we breakfasted, to hear the daily noises of their trade—the muffled movements as they set their wares in place within the alcoves, and the greetings they exchanged with passing customers—but it was rare to hear a footstep at this hour of morning climb the curved stone forestair leading to the front door of the house, and rarer still to hear those footsteps pause within the common stairwell, at the door of Turnbull’s lodgings.

My own attention was then fixed on trying to decide how best to answer Helen, but the footsteps broke my concentration, and the brisk rap at the door that followed made me look, with Helen, at MacDougall, who had crossed now to admit the early caller.

I might not have recognized the gentleman who entered, ducking through the doorway in a practiced movement that both saved his high wig from a knock against the lintel while appearing at the same time to be more or less a bow of greeting, but he was no stranger to the others.

Helen stood and dropped so quickly to a curtsy that my first thought was she might have done her unborn child an injury.

Apparently I wasn’t alone in that thought. Our visitor hastily moved forward, taking her elbow and guiding her back to her seat. “Madam, please. I do fear for your health.”

Helen smiled. “My lord, I am perfectly healthy, I promise you. My doctors assure me it will be at least two months more till I’m brought to bed, and I intend to make use of what liberty I am allowed in that time.” But she stayed in her chair, to appease him, and in a graceful motion of her hand included me. “May I present my husband’s good friend, Sergeant Adam Williamson, who served with him at Toubacanti. Sergeant, may I introduce you to Lord Grange?”

I paid my honors then, bowing so smartly that I drew a glance of sidelong cynicism from MacDougall in his place beside the hearth, to make it plain he thought my actions were for show. Perhaps they were. I’ll not deny that when a man like me, with few connections and few prospects, met a Lord of the Justiciary whose brother was the Earl of Mar and rich with friends at Queen Anne’s court, then it was worth the effort of a little extra show. But I confess my first thought was that Lord Grange was the brother of the earl within whose regiment Lieutenant Turnbull was now seeking a promotion, and my manners might reflect upon my friend. “My lord,” I said. “Your servant.”