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a bed would dwarf their little house, scarcely worth the cost of carting it, dismantled, down the muddy track to town and up the winding stair. She also had refused their mother’s crimson counterpane that had lain on Hew’s bed since childhood. The colour did not please her, she had claimed.
    Matthew’s legacies stretched far beyond the tower house, as his man of law explained. ‘Your father owned land and properties in Leith, and a small house in the Canongate, somewhere near the water port. Those are let out to tenants, and the rents accrued – they now must be considerable – collected by an Edinburgh goldsmith, your father’s man of business there, George Urquhart. His buith is on the north side of the hie gate, close to the kirk of St Giles. I recommend you go to him, when this weather clears. I will write you letters that will prove your claim. There are also’ – he frowned a little, squinting at the document – ‘large sums of money paid on account to a printer, Christian Hall, residing near the netherbow.’
    ‘A printer?’ Hew was interested. ‘Paid out for books?’
    ‘I think not. Over several years, sums of several hundred pounds have been ventured there. Whether as a loan, it’s impossible to say. But more than enough for the whole press entire. Tis likely that George Urquhart can explain the terms to you, and if there is a debt, you may recover it.’
    ‘Perhaps I own a printer’s shop,’ suggested Hew, amused.
    ‘It’s likely that you do.’
    There were bequests also for some of Matthew’s servants, and for Nicholas Colp, who remained to look after the library, and immediately embarked upon a catalogue of books. Hew found the servants difficult, puzzled by the maid and her uncertain little courtesies; the darkly sullen deference of the cook. He spent an afternoon with his father’s old steward, the factor, Jock Chirnside, learning the extent of his estates. Chirnside was polite but wary. Most of the properties were let, and he made careful reckoning of the rents. The farmland closest to the house supplied its basic needs, which had been few in latter days. Meg’s gardens, roots and herbs were kept up at her request. Hew was impressed at the depth of his knowledge; he knew all the farmers well, their skills and circumstances. The rents were collected, the monies well stocked. Yet he seemed ill at ease. The reason came apparent when he ventured at the last, ‘Shall you keep on the house, sir?’
    Hew wondered this himself. ‘I’m not decided yet.’
    The man nodded gloomily. ‘Aye. Only for the men about the farm … tis hard to find work at this time of year. If you should wish to sell, or to manage things yourself …’
    Hew realised to his dismay that their lives were linked with his, and that like the house and land, they were left at his disposal. He hastened reassurance, with a sinking heart. ‘You may tell the men that none of them will want for work. Whatever I decide, I will not see them starve.’
    ‘Tis good of you,’ the man said doubtfully.
    ‘As for managing the land, I hope that you may stay, as long as I have need of you. For myself, I should hardly know where to begin.’
    ‘Tis true eno’ that ,’ Chirnside agreed.
    Hew felt overwhelmed by these responsibilities. He took refuge in the library, where Nicholas was working on his catalogue, perched high on a stool behind a tower of books.
    ‘I know not how to deal with servants,’ Hew complained. ‘I was not born to this.’
    ‘In truth though, you were ,’ his friend pointed out. He scratched his face with the tip of his pen, and a trickle of grey ink ran down his nose. Absently, he wiped it with his sleeve, setting down the quill. ‘Though if you want advice, I’m not the man to ask, since I am a servant here myself.’
    Hew snorted. ‘You, a servant? Has the world gone mad?’ He drew up a chair and flopped into it fretfully, seizing a book from the top of the tower.
    ‘How goes your