The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [4]
“Please come in, Miss Latterly,” she repeated. “I am Oonagh McIvor. I wrote to you on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Mary Farraline. I hope you had an agreeable journey from London?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. McIvor, it was quite pleasant, and that part of it which was in daylight was most enjoyable.”
“I am delighted.” Oonagh smiled with sudden warmth, transforming her face. “Train travel can be so weary and so terribly grubby. Now I am sure you would like to meet your patient. I must warn you, Miss Latterly, my mother appears to be in excellent health, but it is largely a charade. She tires more easily than she will admit, and her medicine is really quite vital for her well-being, indeed possibly for her life.” She spoke the words quite calmly, but there was a sense of urgency in her conveying the importance of what she said. “It is not in the least difficult to administer,” she continued. “A simple potion which is unpleasant to the taste, but a small confection after it will more than compensate.” She looked up at Hester standing in front of her. “It is simply that my mother can forget to take it if she is feeling well, and by the time she is ill for its lack, it is too late to make up for the oversight without distress, and possible damage to her permanent well-being. I am sure you understand?” Even though she said she was sure, there was a question in her face.
“Of course,” Hester said quickly. “A great many people prefer to do without medicine if they can, and misjudge their own capacity. It is easily understood.”
“Excellent.” Oonagh rose to her feet. She was as tall as Hester, slender without being in any way thin, and she moved with grace despite the awkwardness of wide skirts.
They crossed the hall, and Hester could not help glancing at the portrait again. The face haunted her, the ambiguities in it remained in her mind. She could not decide whether she liked it or not. Certainly she could not forget it.
Oonagh smiled and hesitated in her step.
“My father,” she said, although Hester had known it must be. She heard the catch in Oonagh’s voice and knew there was intense emotion behind it, carefully controlled, as she imagined such a woman would always be in front of strangers—and servants. “Hamish Farraline,” Oonagh went on. “He died eight years ago. My husband has managed the firm since then.”
Hester opened her mouth in surprise, then realized how inappropriate that was, and closed it.
But Oonagh had seen. She smiled and her chin lifted a fraction. “My brother Alastair is the Fiscal,” she explained. “He does go to the firm as often as he is able to, but his duties keep him most of the time.” She saw Hester’s confusion. “The Procurator Fiscal.” Her smile broadened, curling her lips. “Something like what you in England would call the Crown Prosecutor.”
“Oh!” Hester was impressed in spite of herself. Her acquaintance with the law involved only Oliver Rathbone, the brilliant barrister she had met through Callandra and Monk, and about whom her feelings were so painfully mixed. But that was personal. Professionally she had for him only the profoundest admiration. “I see. You must be very proud of him.”
“Yes indeed.” Oonagh continued on her way to the stairs and hesitated till Hester was beside her, then began to climb them. “My younger sister’s husband also works in the company. He is very skilled in all matters to do with printing. We were very fortunate that he chose to become one of us. It is always better when an old company like Farralines can remain within the family.”
“What do you print?” Hester inquired.
“Books. All kinds of books.”
At the top of the stairs Oonagh turned along the landing, carpeted in Turkish red, and