Page 25 of The Midnight Secret

‘With regret, I must tell you that a case of tuberculosis has been confirmed on board by the ship’s doctor, and another two cases are suspected.’

There was a pause. Too long. Flora could feel her heart beginning to race.

A heavy sigh whistled down the speakers. ‘As tuberculosis is classified as a communicable disease, this means that under maritime law we are required to drop anchor in international waters for a period of thirty days. After this time, we can apply for free pratiqueto enter port for Quebec City. Until then, I’m sorry to say we may not dock, nor may anyone – under any circumstances – disembark from the ship. I must ask that all passengers remain in their quarters until the stewards have come round with further...’

Flora stumbled back against the chair, her eyes wide with dawning horror. Had he...had he saidthirty days?Anchored in open waters?

No. They were already twenty-one days behind!

She looked at James. Surely he would have a ready reply to this? He was a man of the world, a rich man. She had already seen how very differently things operated for those with money.

But her fiancé was staring back at her with the same expression of shock; his mouth was open, but no words were coming. How could this be happening? Every minute mattered. Their son, their baby boy, was somewhere in that landmass over there. They were so close to him – had they crossed countries, sailed a channel and an ocean to get here, only to fall short with a few miles to go?

Flora tried to find words, but all she could muster was a cry.

Chapter Seven

MHAIRI

Early December 1930

Oban

‘You have another battle scar to add to your collection,’ Donald murmured, his voice deep against her ear as he stroked her arm in the weak dawn light.

Mhairi stared at the burn – a deep purple slash just above her wrist. ‘The cuff machine,’ she said.

‘Again?’

‘It takes some getting used to.’ She saw the redness of her palms even after a full night’s sleep; her hands were inflamed, sore and cracked even though she had never been shy of hard work. Back home in St Kilda she had stood in the rushing burn in all weathers and scrubbed the linens on the mangle, but this was a different kind of labour, and she had come to the conclusion that industrialization didn’t suit her. The first day she had walked into the laundry of the Regent Hotel, her jaw had dropped at the vast machines that automated the women’s work: huge presses, rollers, irons and clamps filling the basement, the women standing before them ruddy-cheeked in theirwhite cloth caps and pinafores as hot steam rushed out in plumes.

Still, she was lucky to have the job. Unemployment was on the rise, and she’d been in the right place at the right time, approaching the foreman’s door just as one of the women had been let go. They badly needed her wage; once news had spread of Donald’s arrest in the investigation into Frank Mathieson’s murder, he had lost his job at the printworks. Several weeks had passed in which no one was prepared to take a chance on the suspicious St Kildan, and the two of them had grown increasingly desperate until finally he’d landed a job at the fish market, hauling ice and mending nets. It was something, but his earnings only just covered their rent, and they’d both grown thinner.

His arms, still so strong, tightened around her, his breathing slow as they dozed, savouring these last moments in bed before the harsh demands of the new day imposed themselves. They were together, at least. It wasn’t how she’d imagined their happy ending would be as they’d walked out of the police station together, hand in hand, his bail posted and an alibi lodged in his defence, but it was still better than what they’d faced before: living far apart, both of them trapped in desperately unhappy marriages.

Mhairi never allowed herself to think of the future that had once, briefly, glimmered before them: buying a croft and raising their daughter together. They’d had the money, the evacuation was coming – but the dream had died when their baby had failed to draw her first breath...Sometimes Mhairi felt the loss like a hammer blow, knocking the breath from her body and making the world swim before her eyes as she remembered the sharp, shocking silence of that July night in Glen Bay. That was when the burns would happen – whenher attention was distracted from the hot steel contraptions she operated by a worse hurt.

‘We’ll try again,’ Donald kept promising her. Just as soon as he could get Mary to divorce him and he could make an honest woman of her. But neither of them knew when that would be. Mary had left for Canada with no forwarding address and Mhairi privately feared something that Donald appeared not to have foreseen: that his wife would draw out the entire process, maybe even refuse it altogether. After all, wouldn’t it be the ultimate revenge for the spurned wife, to see them both thrown without honour?

She wriggled in his arms, turning around to face him. She cupped his face in her palm, staring into the blue eyes that loved her so. He had made vows before God to love and honour another woman, and this moment – lying in bed with him – was never supposed to have been hers. But no one could tell her it was wrong. She kissed him slowly, feeling his body awaken as their legs intertwined, the bed sheet twisting as they lost themselves in kisses, anchored not in a place, but in one another.

Mhairi fixed the braid, staring back at her reflection in the wall mirror. Her red hair had lost its summer fire, her tanned skin growing dull in the December rain; her body wasn’t used to a life spent indoors.

From upstairs she heard the MacGregors shouting, the thump of a boot hitting the wall as she fastened the buttons on her coat and draped the shawl over her head. It was an eight-minute walk to the hotel, but the first two were always the worst. Donald had left an hour earlier to get down to the fish market in time; he had no idea of the gauntlet she ran every morning, and she had no intention of telling him.

She opened the door and looked out into the hall. Muffled voices rose up and down the stairway, a couple breaking into clear-voiced distinction as another door was opened on the floor below and footsteps stomped down the stairs.

Stepping out silently, she listened intently, waiting for the sound of boots to reach the ground floor and then counting – one, two, three...The front door of the building slammed shut, her own closing just a half-second after it.

Too late?

She waited, her breath held, before walking as quietly as she could down the stairs. She had learned where the creaks were on the split treads, but she was still unused to heavy boots and not as dextrous as she might have been, scuffing the toe on one of them so that it juddered loudly. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing...

Mhairi turned the corner on the half-landing just as the first door opened, Lizzie MacGyver staring out at her with a hard look. ‘Bitch,’ she hissed, sending a gob of spit that landed at Mhairi’s feet.

Coira Cameron, in the next flat, was already there, her arms folded across her ample bosom as she waited her turn. ‘Harlot!’

Mhairi turned her face away, her feet moving faster as she gave up the attempt at stealth. She just needed to get out of here. The catcalls followed her down the stairs and all along the road as she pulled the shawl forward, trying to hide her face. But the names were thrown at her back all the way until she turned the corner.

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