The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(24)

With K in what was becoming his usual perch on her shoulder, she approached Arisaig House’s head gardener. He was a wizened gnome of a man, with gnarled hands, who took care of large plots of the kitchen gardens, a small apple orchard, rows of berry bushes, and several greenhouses. Maggie had nicknamed him—if only to herself—Ben Weatherstaff, after the crusty gardener in The Secret Garden.

Although that would make me Mary, Mary Quite Contrary, she mused, as her boots crunched on the road’s gravel. But his real name was Angus Fraser, and the golden Labrador who followed Angus faithfully was Riska, named after one of the western isles. Maggie could only hope that he—and his dog—liked cats.

“Mr. Fraser?” Maggie called, coming upon him as he was digging in the black earth. The smell was rich and loamy. Overhead, the sky remained leaden.

“What’s that, lassie?” he said, giving a perfunctory tip of his tweed cap.

“I’m, well—” Maggie spoke up to make herself heard over the rush of cold damp wind. “I’m going to be in Edinburgh for the weekend, and I was wondering—if you wouldn’t mind, that is—keeping an eye on my cat? Just while I’m away?”

Fraser kept digging. “Don’t like cats.”

“Please?”

He shrugged. “A dinna ken—it’s up to Riska, not to me. What d’ye think, girl?” he said, addressing the dog.

As if he understood the conversation, K jumped down from Maggie’s shoulder and passed by Riska with head and tail held high, until he reached a dog bed of sorts. It was made from an old plaid cushion and covered in golden fur. Fraser had put it out for Riska against one of the stone walls, for outdoor naps during clement days.

K hopped onto the cushion and turned around three times before settling in and wrapping his tail around himself. His eyes slitted as if to say, This will do. This will do nicely—that is, until The Woman returns.

Riska looked up at Fraser with anxious eyes and whined.

“Well, I’m not going to fight your battles for ye, lassie,” he said to the dog, a slow smile creeping over his face.

K had the indecency to look smug from his perch on the cushion.

Although the golden Lab probably outweighed K by at least sixty pounds, she slunk away to the gnarled apple trees, trying to find a squirrel to chase to cheer herself up.

“Well, glad that’s settled, then,” Maggie said. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Fraser. Really, thank you.”

“Nae problem, Miss.”

Maggie was about to leave when she caught sight of one of the large shrubs that dotted the grounds of Arisaig. Their leaves were glossy and green and they sported large yellow buds, even in cold weather. She’d always been bothered by them, not understanding why in early winter, something would be getting ready to bloom. Wouldn’t they just wither and die in the cold? Was there any way to save them?

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Fraser—are these rhododendron all right?” She’d seen banks of rhododendron at Wellesley College and they were dormant all winter, bursting into gorgeous hot pink blooms usually just as the senior class graduated in May.

Fraser threw his head back and laughed, a loud hearty bray. “Yes, lassie.” He took out a square of flannel and wiped at his eyes. “Ya see, we’re on the shore and affected by the Gulf Stream current, comin’ from the Caribbean. So what you’re seein’ is flowers getting ready to bloom.”

“Flowers that bloom in winter …” Such things didn’t happen in Boston or London, and she certainly never pictured them happening in western Scotland.

“Well, they’re alive the whole time—only takes a bit o’ warmth to make ’em come out. Sometimes they bloom in time for Advent—look nice on the altar there, with the pink an’ purple candles. Spring is comin’, lass, even in the bleak midwinter. That’s why the pagans put evergreens in their homes in the darkest day of the year—and why we now have Christmas trees. Light in the darkness. The promise of new life.”

Maggie felt an almost inexplicable sense of relief knowing it was the natural order of things, not an anomaly. “Thank you, Mr. Fraser,” she said, turning to go. “Thank you so very much for telling me that.”


Washington was different from London. The faces of the people were plump and well fed. Their eyes weren’t shadowed by sleepless nights of Luftwaffe bombing. Lights burned all night, unhampered by blackout regulations. And the stores were full of food and clothing—everything one could possibly need. To anyone from Britain, it would have seemed a veritable paradise. But for Washingtonians, it was just another day, overcast, with sullen gray clouds hanging above and a sharp wind blowing.