Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rory

Glasgow— February 1878

I was glad that the Caledonian Railway took me direct to Glasgow rather than Edinburgh. That city had no appeal for me now that Marianne wasn't there. With every passing mile, after we steamed over the border, I felt as if the pistons of the engine were singing I'm coming home, I'm coming home, I'm coming home. Home! I'd never thought of my house in the London suburbs as home. It was a decent house in a good neighbourhood. My ma would have thought it a palace. I'd been content enough there before I met Marianne. Since Marianne—oh, since Marianne my world had changed.

For a start, I'd put the case of Ada Soutar well and truly to bed. I had my suspicions about who had been behind her death, who had been behind blackening my name, but I'd given up any notion of doing anything about it. Giving the Soutars answers, even though they weren't really answers, had proved to be enough for me. I was done with looking over my shoulder. Marianne had taught me that. I was done with the past. I was done with being feart of going back to Edinburgh too. What benefit would there be for whoever had it in for me, to finish me off now? They'd risk being collared for a second crime. I had the Capital back, if I wanted it. Point was, I didn't want it. Marianne wasn't there.

I tried to get on with my own life. No, I got on with my own life. New cases. Some good ones, thanks to the Marquess, but work wasn't the be all and end all it had been for me before. I missed her. Not consciously all the time, but there was a gap beside me, and I was constantly aware of it. A place where I felt she should be. I missed her like hell. I loved that woman. By the sun and the stars, I truly believed that I loved her more with every passing day. Every day that we were apart I missed her.

I tried not to think too far forward, for the notion of missing her for the rest of my life would have scuppered me. I missed her, and of course I wondered if she was missing me, but what I wanted more than anything was for her to be happy. I wanted her to learn to enjoy her freedom. I wanted her to make something of herself. I knew she would. She simply needed time, and that's the one thing I could give her. As long as she wanted. For ever if she needed it.

That was what I told myself, but when the telegram arrived, I knew before I opened it what it would say, and I knew then that I'd been right not to give up hope.

I need holding.

Three words.

I was packed and on the express train north first thing the next morning.

The train was pulling into the station. My heart was hammering harder than the pistons of the engine now. There was so much we'd need to talk about, but what I knew for certain was that we'd finally talk about the most important subject of all. I loved her. She loved me. We'd not spoken those words but they were suspended there, in the three-word message in the telegram that I was clutching inside my coat pocket like a talisman.

I'd already arranged to have my bags sent on to the Queen's Hotel. I didn't know if Marianne would be waiting for me. She knew I was coming though, so I hoped. I threw open the door of the First-Class carriage and was caught up in the belching black smoke of the still-slowing engine. She didn't need me, Marianne, but she wanted me, so I hoped she'd be there.

I pelted down the platform, first out of the train, first to the waiting huddle of people looking anxiously for their friends and family. I saw her before she saw me. She was wearing a new cloak in emerald-green, with the hood pulled up over her hair. She was standing stock still, eyes wide, emanating anxiety. And then she saw me, and I slowed down to walk, because I wanted to remember this moment for always. I wanted to remember every step.

The hiss of the steam coming from the trains. The smell of the smoke. The soot settling on my face. The shouts of the porters. The other people waving, calling out greetings. And her face. Her smile dawning so slowly, creeping up to light up her eyes. The half-step she took towards me. My name on her lips. And as I got closer I felt it. Saw it light up all of her. Felt it light up me too. Perfect, perfect love.

I took her outstretched hands in mine. Her gloves were new, dark leather, neatly fitted. Her fingers curled around mine. But we didn't say it then. We'd waited so long, but we didn't dare say it yet. ‘I know a place,' I said, and she nodded, as if she knew what I was on about, though how—but maybe she did.

There was a hackney carriage waiting outside. It had been snowing, fresh snow, so fresh that George Square was carpeted in white. It wouldn't last, but for now it looked almost perfect, only one set of footprints streaking across it. Our carriage made fresh tracks. The streets we passed through were hushed, or so it seemed to me, though they couldn't have been, there must have been the usual bustle of the East End.

Maybe I didn't notice because all I could see, all I could think about, was Marianne sitting silently beside me, her hand in mine. The journey must have taken a good while, but I didn't notice that. There was the Cathedral, soot-black and stark against the snow. The Royal Infirmary beside it. And then the gates of the Necropolis, where we got down and I paid the driver off.

I led her up the steep paths. ‘Top of the world,' I said to her, indicating the view spread out before us. The skies had cleared—of course they had! ‘Our world, any road.'

‘Ours?' She sounded breathless. The first words she'd spoken, and it was a question. It shouldn't have been, she must have known why I was there, but it was.

We were at the highest point of Glasgow's biggest graveyard, surrounded by memorials to the great and the good. The sun peaked through the clouds, and far away you could see the River Clyde. Closer to hand were the factories and works of Glasgow's industrial engine. The houses for the people who worked there. The city itself, where the money was. ‘Our world,' I said, getting down on one knee and taking her hand in mine. ‘I love you,' I said, putting all my heart into it. ‘I love you with everything I am. I love you for all that you are, just exactly as you are. I can get by without you, Marianne, but I don't want to. Whatever we do, however we do it, I want us to be together. Will you marry me?'

She dropped on to her knees beside me and threw her arms around me. ‘Will you hold me, Rory, like you promised?'

I put my arms around her. I pulled her close, careful still, but she wriggled even closer. ‘I love you,' she said. ‘You know that, don't you?'

I had a lump in my throat, so I nodded.

‘I didn't know,' she said to me. ‘I thought I was in love before, but I was so wrong. And I was frightened to trust myself. Frightened of what you made me feel. You mattered so much, and in such a different way, but I didn't trust myself.'

‘You do now, though?'

‘Oh, yes. It took me a while,' she said, pushing my hat off and running her fingers through my hair. ‘But you gave me the time I didn't even know I needed. I love you, Rory Sutherland.'

‘I love you, Marianne—it's just struck me. I don't know—is it Little, Crawford or Westville?'

‘What about Marianne Sutherland?' she said, with a smile that went straight to my groin. ‘The answer is yes, Rory. I will marry you, with great pleasure.'

I couldn't wait any more, and nor could she. Our mouths met in a kiss that was desperate and without finesse. We kissed, kneeling in the snow in a graveyard, with the sun weakly shining on us. We kissed frantically, our tongues clashing, our hands fevered, hampered by cloaks and gloves and hats and the cold. Then our kisses slowed, became tender, and I told her with my heart and my lips, how much I loved her, and she told me too, how much she loved me, in the same way. And nothing, nothing had ever felt so perfectly right.