Cat's Cradle by Julia Golding Page B

way.’
    He led us down a steep path to the valley bottom and up to the door of a fine house sitting in its own garden – fit for the maister indeed.
    â€˜Go on wi’ ye. Chap the door,’ he dared me.
    I lifted the knocker and gave a smart tap. After several moments, a neatly dressed maid opened it.
    â€˜Can I help ye, miss?’ she asked politely.
    â€˜I have a letter for Mr Dale.’ I produced the missive with a flourish, pleased to note Jamie’s mouth agape with surprise; he had not believed in its existence until that moment.
    â€˜Will ye wait a wee while in the parlour, miss? I’ll enquire if the maister can see ye now.’ The maid beckoned Bridgit and myself inside, ignoring Jamie. I gave him a triumphant nod as she shut the door on him. Showing us into the parlour, she took the letter and disappeared down the passage to the rooms at the back of the house.
    Left to ourselves, I had time to admire my surroundings. The parlour was of modest size but comfortably furnished. Fine muslin curtainsscreened the view of the mill while still letting light pass through, giving the room a muted, genteel atmosphere. An embroidery frame waited by the hearth, a pansy half completed in rich purple silk. The walls held family miniatures and local views, including an impressive painting of a waterfall. I peered at the title: Corra Linn. Tiny figures could be seen on the bank admiring the rainbows in the water. If that was in walking distance, I resolved that I too would go and see it before I left Scotland. The waterfall reminded me of my time with the Creek Indians in America, a poignant memory as one of my friends had died by the banks of a much smaller fall – an incident in which I had very nearly lost my life. * But I knew somehow that if I stood where those people were standing, with the spray of Corra Linn wetting my face, I would feel happiness as well as sorrow. I wondered if my adopted Creek family still thought about me and wished me well. My heart told me that they did.
    â€˜Miss Royal?’
    So lost in my thoughts I had not heard Mr Dale enter the room. I spun round to see a rotund, bewigged gentleman coming towards me, the opened letter in his hand. Of short stature, he was at risk of being as wide as he was tall. A watch chain strained across an ample expanse of striped silk waistcoat.
    I bobbed a curtsey. ‘Sir.’
    He turned to my friend.
    â€˜And this is my travelling companion, Miss O’Riley.’
    Mr Dale gave her a pleasant smile and waved us both to take a seat while he stood on the hearthrug, bobbing slightly on his heels. His double chin wobbled in time, making me think of a jolly pug dog begging for a treat.
    â€˜Though I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Beamish in person, I’ve heard of him – a great man,’ Mr Dale said, waving the letter in the air. ‘He vouches for you, Miss Royal, so I will of course be delighted to oblige him.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir.’
    â€˜Perhaps, lass, you could be a little more explicit in your needs?’
    There was no reason to doubt the man, so I decided to tell him the truth. I explained about the letter and my desire to discover the truth behind the claims that I was related to the Moirs in some fashion.
    Mr Dale peered at me speculatively. ‘The Moirs, eh? I know the family – not well, of course – but I recognize the names.’
    â€˜I thought that . . . that if I worked alongside Mrs Moir for a while I would be able to get a sense of things.’ Out in the open like this, my plan seemed so feeble. I wondered if I had not made a monumental mistake coming all this way.
    â€˜And your friend?’ Mr Dale smiled encouragingly at Bridgit.
    â€˜I came to keep Miss Royal company on the road. I’ll work alongside her too, if it please you, your honour.’ She dipped a second curtsey.
    Mr Dale rocked on the balls of his feet before replying to Bridgit.
    â€˜Well,