She had once asked Colonel Graeme, in their crossing on the ship, why Captain Jamieson refused to let her play about the decks without him being at her side. ‘I’m no a bairn,’ she had complained.
‘Nor does he think ye one.’ The colonel had been tucking her beneath the quilts that lined her narrow berth, set near his own, and for a moment he had seemed to think in silence. Then he’d said, ‘He had a wee girl once, about your own age.’
Anna had frowned. ‘Does he not have her now?’
‘He lost her.’
That was all the explanation she’d received from Colonel Graeme, and she had not dared ask Captain Jamieson himself. But that was probably, thought Anna, why he carried her as often as he did, because he’d lost his own girl once and did not want to lose another, not when Colonel Graeme would have held him fiercely to account for being careless.
Even now, when she was walking at his side, he kept his one hand on her shoulder and he did not seem to care that she was holding to a rough fold of his coat to borrow courage.
It was just as well that he was walking slowly. He’d been walking with more effort for the past few days, and often had to stop and rest, but Anna didn’t mind. Nor did she mind that this dark street seemed longer every step they took, because in truth she did not wish to go where they were being led.
The colonel had explained to her, repeatedly and kindly, why the convent was the place where she must stay while he and Jamieson went on to Paris. Paris, he had told her, was too dangerous.
‘The nuns are loving women, they will care for ye and keep ye safe from harm. And they will teach ye.’
‘Teach me what?’
‘To read and write,’ he’d said, ‘and how to be a lady.’
‘I’ve nae wish to be a lady.’
Captain Jamieson, who’d sat nearby, had turned his head at that and she had watched the corners of his eyes grow slightly crinkled as they did when he was trying not to show a smile. ‘No? What would ye wish to be, then?’
‘I’m a Jacobite,’ she’d told him, ‘just as you are. When I’m grown I’ll be a soldier, like my father was, and kill the men who killed him.’
Captain Jamieson had raised his eyebrows then and looked to Colonel Graeme who had said, ‘Did I not tell ye she was John’s own lassie, through and through?’
‘Ye did, aye.’ Captain Jamieson had settled in his corner. ‘And in more than just the look of him, it seems. So tell me, Anna, when ye’ve killed the men that killed your daddie, and their children come to hunt for you, what will ye do then?’
Anna had thought solemnly, and said, ‘I’ll kill them, too.’
‘Ye’ll have the fighting never end, then, taking one eye for another. Do ye think your daddie’s soul will rest the better if ye do avenge it? I can tell ye it will not.’ His gaze had found hers almost gently. ‘I’ve killed many men, and aye, a few of those were killed for vengeance, but I’m just as plagued by ghosts now as I ever was,’ he’d told her. ‘Maybe more so.’
‘But you fight men still.’
‘I do.’
She’d been about to ask him why when Colonel Graeme interrupted with, ‘A soldier has no choice. And nor do you,’ he’d said to Anna. ‘Only lads and men can go for soldiers, never women.’
‘Why?’ she’d asked.
‘Because that is the law. Which ye can read yourself,’ he’d finished neatly, ‘when the nuns have taught ye how.’
And that had been the end of the discussion, for a while.
When they had finally, after many days, made landfall, Colonel Graeme had again begun to talk about the nuns. They were from Ireland, he’d told her, and had chosen to become God’s brides instead of any man’s, to serve him better and to help the poor and weak.
Anna had said, ‘My Aunt Kirsty is married, and she helps the poor. She takes food from the kitchens of Slains every day to the village, to those who have need of it.’
‘Aye, your Aunt Kirsty has aye been a generous woman,’ the colonel had said.
‘But then why can the nuns not be married to men?’ had been Anna’s next question.
The colonel had glanced at the captain, who’d grinned and remarked, ‘Are ye sure that her daddie was John, and not Robin?’
The colonel had laughed out loud, and when she’d glared at him, wanting to share the joke, he’d said, ‘Your father had brothers, and one of them, Robert – or Robin, as we call him – trained as a lawyer. ’Tis certainly true ye’ve a rare gift for argument.’
Anna had looked at the captain and said in a clear voice, ‘My father was Colonel John Moray.’
He’d looked at her small upturned face, so indignant, and he’d smothered his smile then and reached down to brush one hand over her dark tumbled curls. ‘Aye, I ken who your father was.’
Walking behind, and still keenly amused, Colonel Graeme had said, ‘He was aye asking questions as well, was your father, when he was a laddie. I tell ye now what ye should do, Anna. When we are come to the convent at Ypres, ye should ask the nuns there why they cannot be married to men.’
That had set him off laughing again, and had made Captain Jamieson’s eyes crinkle up at the edges once more, though his face had been carefully sober when Anna had glanced at it.
Now, as the captain stopped walking for the fourth time in the dim shadowed street of the old town, she studied his face and was troubled to see his mouth set in a hard, painful line.