The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Barbara Erskine

       Probity and prayer drove my forefathers into the Presbyterian camp during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and through that loyalty they lost their lands and went into exile, first in Holland and then over the sea to the Americas. When they returned to Scotland and the restored Stuart line was replaced, their opinions were split; my mother’s brother and my father’s cousin fought for Prince Charlie and the lands were forfeit again. My other uncle and my cousin fought against the man they called the Pretender. Although all was now officially forgiven and the various branches of the family, through fines and oaths of allegiance, were once more in favour, in their hearts I suspect more families than ours retained their loyalty to the Stuart cause.

       My father was a freemason; indeed, had been grandmaster of the lodge before I was born, and my parents were devout followers of the Calvinist faith; my brothers and I were brought up to go to the kirk with scrubbed necks and hands, our well-thumbed Bibles in our hands. My sisters were even more intense in their devotion.

       And me? Did I believe? Oh yes, I believed but I am not sure it was in the same things as my family. I paid careful attention to what was required, but there was a whole universe beyond the strictures of the prayer book which I could see and sense with my own faculties. The sennachie knew; my brothers knew and teased me for it. Anne and Isabella were shocked and horrified. I did not learn in time to keep quiet about what to me was obvious. I was to regret that later in my life, but I never regretted the gift of second sight that I had been given. Ever.

       11

      Ruth looked with delight round the cosy bedroom. Its stone walls were hung with paintings and there were heavy tapestry curtains at the window. The bedside light threw a warm glow round the room. She went to the window and drew back the curtains, opening the window and leaning out into the clear darkness. The sound of the River Almond far below, splashing over the rocky falls, filled the room. Even over the sound of the water she could hear the hooting of an owl.

      Pulling her laptop from her bag she opened it.

      There was an email from Harriet:

      I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone. Why don’t you pick up, you infuriating woman!! I want to know what’s happening.

      That was the second vivid dream Ruth had had in the last two days. She woke suddenly, disorientated, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to grasp at the memory, aware of the boy’s shock and misery, his sense of powerlessness, his disbelief that he could be so arbitrarily sent away. She closed her eyes again. Thomas was telling her his life story. In the distance she could hear the sound of the sea, the waves, the rattle of rigging, the tapping of ropes against a mast, the whistle of the wind. In seconds she had drifted back to sleep.

      Tom did not like Bath. It was crowded and noisy. He had been used to the press of people living in Edinburgh’s old town, but it was more claustrophobic here, prone to fog in the enclosing basin of hills. That it was fashionable, the home of all that was so desirable for the beau monde, escaped him completely.

      His sister Anne had found them all lodgings together in a new house in the Walcot area and they settled in swiftly, just the five of them, the earl and countess and Anne herself, Isabella, Tom and their small household of servants.

      A short time before, David had resigned his commission and returned to Scotland and, to Tom’s intense jealousy, he found that his eldest brother was to return to his education with Harry in Scotland. They would come south to rejoin their family for Christmas.

      His parents felt instantly at home in Bath. They attended church and religious meetings and took part in long intense discussions with many of the great and the good who had come together in Bath over the summer, but Tom was lonely and confused. His pleas to continue his education so that he could practise a profession when he grew up fell on deaf ears. ‘I told you I could no longer afford your fees. Besides, it is time to earn your living now, Tom,’ his father said sternly when at last Tom plucked up courage to speak to him. ‘I have been making enquiries and discussing your future with, among others, our good friend, Lord Mansfield.’ There was a pause; Lord Mansfield, a fellow Scots aristocrat, had risen to dizzy heights in the English bar and was Lord Chief Justice. The two men were firm friends and Lord Buchan frequently turned to the older man for advice with his wayward brood of children. ‘We feel— I feel,’ he amended hastily, ‘that the Royal Navy would be a good career for you, and it has been arranged for you to sail with his nephew, Sir John Lindsay, as a midshipman.’

      ‘No!’ Tom felt the colour drain from his face. ‘No, Papa. Please. I hate the sea!’

      ‘You know nothing about the sea,’ his father retorted. ‘And you were happy enough to go aboard the ships in St Andrews harbour. You and Harry enjoyed the food they gave you, as I recall!’

      ‘But it was at anchor, Papa,’ Tom said miserably. ‘I would not like to go to the proper sea. Not at all.’

      ‘And what do you know of the proper sea, Tom?’ His father was exasperated.

      ‘I know it can kill you, Papa,’ the boy replied softly. ‘I watched it from the castle walls at St Andrews. A friend of mine was drowned!’ His words died away. His father knew nothing of the ghost boy with whom Tom had explored the ruins.

      ‘I could be a soldier!’ Tom said suddenly, brightening at the thought. ‘Now David has resigned his commission, I could have it instead.’ Anything was better than the navy and he had been covertly watching the dashing young men in scarlet uniforms escorting ladies to the Assembly Rooms, riding up and down the streets, driving their curricles too fast, laughing and shouting with their friends. The idea of joining them one day was rather appealing.

      Lord Buchan turned away from him and sat down abruptly. His face was grey and Tom realised that his father looked ill and tired. ‘Please, Papa,’ he repeated. ‘I think I would like the army.’

      ‘The army costs money too, Tom.’ Lord Buchan frowned as he looked at his thirteen-year-old son. David, newly promoted to lieutenant, had thrown his chance away, announcing the life was not for him. ‘I am sorry. I can’t afford to buy you a commission, not even as an ensign.’

      ‘Anne could help,’ Tom pleaded. ‘She could ask some of her rich friends.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘We could ask them to pray for the money?’ In a household fixated on prayer it was a natural thing to suggest, but to his increasing despair he saw his father’s anger beginning to surface.

      ‘God expects us to help ourselves, Tom. You can pray to be a good officer in the navy. You will be paid. I am told the starting wage is one pound ten shillings a month and even as a midshipman you will be entitled to a share of any prize money your ship earns from capturing privateers. After a few years you will be richer by far than your father with the miserable allowance he is granted by his miserly trustees!’ He forced himself to smile.

      Tom couldn’t trust himself to speak. He could feel shameful tears clogging his throat. He swallowed hard. He had seen ships of the navy at anchor off Leith; he had seen them off Bristol, the great sails set, heeling slightly before the wind, when his mama had taken him with her to stay with some of her church friends. He had seen the seamen and the swaggering officers and the huge bundles of supplies being lowered into small boats to row out to the great ships at anchor in the fairway. He did not like the idea at all.

      His father sighed. ‘Tom, we are no longer at war; please God, there is no danger. And Sir John Lindsay is a well-respected captain. He has agreed to take you aboard and train you as one of his young gentlemen; his ship is a frigate, bound for the Caribbean. Your mother agrees with me in all this. You will experience wonderful things, Tom. It will be an adventure, you’ll see.’

      There was to be no argument.