And that, I knew, was at the core of my problem.

I needed Sophia to marry again as she’d done in real life, but I couldn’t see how she’d be happy with anyone other than John, and my fear was that once I got into the writing, I’d find that she hadn’t been happy—that she’d only married my ancestor for the security, or to get out of Kirkcudbright, or for some other practical reason. And once I had written the scene, I’d be stuck with it. I couldn’t change what had actually happened, not even to satisfy Jane’s desire for a happy ending.

It wouldn’t ring true.

That was why I was restlessly pacing my room now, unable to focus enough to just sit down and write.

I’d never had writer’s block, but sometimes when I was approaching a scene that I didn’t want to deal with I had trouble getting on with it, and pairing Sophia with David McClelland would be, in some ways, even harder than killing off Moray. My subconscious sensed what was coming and shrank from the task, finding any excuse not to work.

A part of me wanted to just pull the plug on my laptop and go straight to bed and forget the whole thing, and I might have, except at that moment Sophia’s voice started to form in my mind, her words faint but insistent.

She’d said them before, when she’d spoken to Kirsty before leaving Slains. And though, when she had said them, she’d been speaking of her childhood, I believed that in this room, here in this place, her words meant more than that. I felt them like a nudge at my shoulder, encouraging me to go on.

I did not suffer in Kirkcudbright, she reminded me.

And what else could I do, I thought, but take her at her word?

XXII

AFTER THE FIRST MONTH Sophia had stopped trying to keep track of days, they were so much alike—all filled with prayer and quiet work and sober conversation. Only Sundays stood out from the rest, for she had found them quite exhausting when she’d first arrived among the Presbyterians: up early and to prayers, and then to kirk at ten, and briefly home to eat a meager meal of bread and egg before returning to the kirk at two, and sitting through the sermons all the afternoon, by which time she was far too tired to enjoy the supper that was served at night, or take full part in all the evening prayers and singing that were yet to follow before she could take herself upstairs to bed.

The Countess of Erroll, while a woman of devotion, had kept Sundays in the manner of a true Episcopalian—a morning service followed by a midday meal that made the table groan and had left everyone quite lazy and content to spend the leavings of the day in happy idleness.

It was on Sundays that Sophia missed her life at Slains the most, and though the people of this house where she was living now—the Kerrs—had been most kind to her, and welcoming, she felt a certain sadness on a Sunday. Although she tried to hide it, her feelings must have shown upon her face as she sat now among the family while they ate their cold noon meal, for Mrs Kerr had long been watching her and finally said, ‘Sophia, I do fear that you must find us very dreary, after living in the north. I have been told the Earl of Erroll and his mother keep a lively house.’

Sophia liked Mrs Kerr, a soft-faced woman younger by some ten years than her husband. Mr Kerr, a man of mild temperament and pleasant manners, had a somber air about him that had not yet fully claimed his wife, so she was more inclined to smile. Not like her husband’s mother, Mrs Kerr the elder, who although she had displayed at times a cutting wit, still turned a disapproving face toward the world in general.

The older woman said, not looking up, ‘I should imagine Mistress Paterson, like any decent woman, would be relishing the quiet after suffering the company of such a house as Slains.’

Her son said, ‘Mother.’

‘Do not “Mother” me, my lad. You know full well what my opinion is of all this foolish talk of bringing back the king, and what I think of those who entertain the notion, and that does include yourself,’ she told him, with a sidelong glance that put him in his place. ‘You mark my words, he may now promise us that he’ll not interfere in our religion, but the instant he sets foot on Scottish soil you’ll hear him pipe a different tune. He is a papist, and you cannot trust a papist.’

Mr Kerr remarked that he would sooner trust a papist than an Englishman.

‘On your head be it, then,’ his mother said, and turning in her seat she asked Sophia, ‘What is your opinion, Mistress Paterson?’

But Sophia had been living here three months, and knew enough to step around the trap. ‘I am afraid I have not met that many papists. And no Englishmen at all.’

The elder Mrs Kerr could not contain a quirking of her mouth that spoilt her dour expression for an instant. ‘Aye, well then you have been fortunate.’ Her study of Sophia held new interest. ‘Tell me, how is it you came to be at Slains? The Duchess of Gordon has told us your family did come from this place, and that you had been brought up not far from Kirkcudbright. What took you so far from your home?’

‘I am kin to the Countess of Erroll.’ She said it with pride, and for all of her weariness sat a bit straighter. ‘I went there at her invitation.’

‘I see. And what made you come back?’

There it was, that sharp twist at her heart that was now so familiar she’d learned to breathe through it. She spoke the lie lightly, ‘I thought I had stayed long enough in the north.’

Mr Kerr nodded. ‘I seem to remember the Duchess of Gordon did say you were keen to come back to the place of your birth.’