Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Just then, a young woman roughly the same age as herself, Beatrice guessed, emerged from behind a screen in the corner of the room holding two silver pots. The maid’s gaze darted straight to Beatrice’s hand in Clementine’s grip.

  ‘Tea, please,’ Beatrice said, carefully peeling her hand free.

  Dougal opted for coffee. The maid poured Dougal’s drink before moving silently around the table, her mouth in a set line. She was pretty, despite her moodiness, and Beatrice wondered why the woman seemed in such a foul temper. When her tea was poured, Beatrice smiled and thanked her, only for the maid to ignore her.

  ‘I am so happy you are both here,’ Clementine said, ignorant of Beatrice’s embarrassment.

  ‘How did he die?’ Dougal bit into a slice of toast. In the silence that followed, the only sound was Dougal chewing.

  Beatrice stared at him, hoping to gain his attention, hoping he would see the shock on her face. Who was he talking about? Why was he being so rude? But Dougal only looked stubbornly at his plate.

  Clementine cleared her throat and pressed her napkin to her lips.

  ‘How?’ Dougal said again, his mouth full. He bit his toast again like a terrier catching a rat.

  ‘An accident. He’d been out in the carriage. They’d gone through a ford which was too high and fast – we’ve had so much rain lately. The carriage went over.’ There was a mist in Clementine’s eyes which she blinked away. ‘They think the blow to his head killed him rather than the water, which was a mercy, I suppose.’

  Dougal dropped his crust on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, he focused his gaze on the ceiling and scratched his neck.

  Beatrice broke the silence for she could no longer stand it. ‘I am so very sorry for your loss.’

  Clementine smiled sadly at Beatrice. Beatrice licked her lips and wondered if she should ask. Dougal should have told her!

  ‘Who … who was he?’

  Clementine’s eyes widened. ‘My husband.’

  She wished she had remained silent. Heat flared in her cheeks. Why had Dougal kept something of such importance from her?

  ‘Why did you write to me, Mrs Montgomery?’ Dougal said, his voice too loud and hard. ‘Why have you summoned me here?’

  Beatrice had the urge to kick him under the table. Her face was beyond blazing, and the fire and her humiliation were making her sweat. She tried smiling an apology, but Clementine was not looking at her. Clementine was glaring at Dougal.

  ‘It was what Hamish wanted – he put it in his will. He wanted you to care for the estate when he was gone. Why else would he have sent a stable boy to England and funded his education?’

  Clementine’s words made Dougal flinch. He dropped his gaze to his plate.

  ‘Stable boy?’ Beatrice glanced between her husband and Clementine, hoping someone would explain. ‘Dougal is a bank manager, Mrs Montgomery.’

  Clementine smiled at Beatrice, her anger diminished. ‘Yes, I am sorry to take him from his post. I had hoped he would be happy to return to Scotland – to Dhuloch – and think of it as his home once more. I had hoped he would become the land steward for the estate. Hamish dealt with all that sort of thing. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it for him – except Dougal, so it seems.’ Her smiled faltered. ‘I would have done it myself, but I have not the head for it. Hamish knew that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Beatrice wished to comfort the woman, but shyness made her hands remain in her lap. ‘We came straight away after receiving your note, didn’t we, Dougal?’

  Dougal sniffed and pushed out his chair. ‘I will manage the Dhuloch estate for you, Mrs Montgomery, if that is what he wanted. I owe it to him, as you say. But I will not stay in this castle.’ He rose and dropped his napkin on his plate. ‘We shall find lodgings in the village.’

  ‘Nonsense. It is so far.’

  ‘I can take everything with me. You can have correspondence redirected to our address.’

  ‘What if I need you?’ Clementine stood too, and her fingers plucked at the tip of her bodice.

  ‘I will not remain in this house.’

  ‘Dougal!’ Beatrice hoped he had heard her warning tone. ‘I must apologise, Mrs Montgomery.’

  ‘A wife does not apologise for her husband!’ Dougal’s voice boomed in the quiet. One of the dogs howled.

  Dougal inhaled, stretched his neck, and calmed himself. ‘Mrs Montgomery, I will do as you wish only if you permit me this, otherwise we shall return to England.’

  Beatrice stroked the little dog’s head, soothing it as it leaned against her legs.

  ‘Very well,’ Clementine said. ‘But might I suggest the cottage? Alfred uses it at the moment, but he can leave. There would be no rent to pay. You would be some distance from the castle, yet close enough if I needed you.’

  The silence stretched as Dougal considered. He strolled to the windows and put his hands in his pockets as he watched whatever was out there.

  ‘Fine.’

  Clementine sighed and returned to her seat. The biggest dog sat up and rested its muzzle in her lap.

  ‘I shall have Sundays free, will I not? For church.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Clementine raised her teacup to her lips and sipped. Over the rim, she met Beatrice’s gaze, and Beatrice was sure that if the cup had not been blocking her view, she would have seen Clementine smirking.

  ‘We would not deprive the church of such a devout Christian.’

  Chapter 3

  It was a long way to the cottage. Beatrice waited at the castle door, her gaze flicking back to the iron nails in the wood so she would not have to think about all that space before her.

  Alfred was already streaking ahead. In the sunlight, his hair shone as red as a robin’s breast; his beard was the same colour but for a few tendrils of white. He walked with a rolling gait, his body arched over to the right, their cases held easily in his strong arms.

  Dougal did not wait for her. He shot out of the castle.

  She did not know Clementine’s whereabouts. There was no reassuring panting of dogs. There was only the sound of the wind over the water to her right, the rushing of it over the tall grass and through the patch of woodland to her left. Before her, a thin path bled through parkland – the path they had struggled down last night, the path which led to the main road and then to Glasgow and then home. A stable sat halfway up this long path and then Alfred’s cottage, squatting in the landscape. It was built of the same grey stone as the castle, and its face squinted at the water.

  Her new home. The thought did not please her.

  She glanced back inside the castle, feeling some bizarre sense of sadness at leaving it, and then with gritted teeth and before she could stop herself, she marched out into the open air.

  The wind wrapped around her throat. It flicked sharp ends of her hair at her face. It roared in her ears. It shoved against her body as she struggled through it. She fought to collect herself, to breathe, to remain calm. It was only the wind – it could not hurt her.

  She did not look at the view, at all those tumbling, white-capped mountains in the distance, at the shimmering lake beside her, at the cottage which was too far to reach. She watched her feet kick out her skirts as she started to run. She watched the bottom of her gown darken as it soaked up the puddles. Stones jabbed sharply underneath her shoes. Her ankles gave way beneath her too many times, but she managed to save herself from falling until finally, at the edge of her vision, she saw the cottage and its open door.

  She rushed inside, gasping, as Alfred placed the last of the bags by the stairs and turned to Dougal.

  ‘That will be all, Mr Cotton,’ Dougal said.

  Alfred nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. Everything fell silent.

  To either side of the hallway was a door. To the left, she found a kitchen, the range cold, the table small and splintered. To the right, there was a small parlour with one armchair placed before an empty hearth. That was it for downstairs. Two rooms. Where was the din
ing room? The drawing room? The study? The scullery, even? It was worse than she had imagined. They would have to live like paupers. Everywhere was grey and cold. She ran a finger over the bannister and examined the layer of dust she disturbed.

  She crept into the kitchen. She could still feel her heart beating against her ribs, her breath coming too ragged down her throat. Her knees trembled, and she crumpled onto a wooden chair, rested her elbows on the table, and let her tears fall.

  This wasn’t home. This could never be home. How she wished to look out of the window and see white terraces, hear hooves and wheels and birdsong and footsteps, smell cooking and coal and flowers. How she longed for her mother! Beatrice would have even been happy to talk of grandchildren if it meant she could see her mother’s face again.

  ‘I’ll take this room for my study,’ Dougal said from the hallway, and he pointed at the parlour before entering the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. When he saw her, he stopped.

  ‘How long must we stay?’

  He sighed. ‘I wish to be here no more than you, but it is my duty.’

  Beatrice wiped the wet from her cheek. ‘What was all that about a stable boy? An education?’

  Dougal flicked the lid off a teapot and grimaced. ‘This place is filthy. I expect it clean by this evening.’

  He left her in the kitchen. She heard the parlour door open and close, the lock turn, then silence.

  Days passed. They had quickly fallen into a routine, the same as they had done at their real home, only instead of leaving for the bank, Dougal disappeared into his study each morning – the room from which she was forbidden.

  In the afternoons, he left the house to go walking, though he never told her where. Sometimes she thought he did it just so he did not have to be within the same walls as her. He would be gone for hours, and as dusk fell, Beatrice would stand beside the kitchen window peering into the world beyond the glass, praying to see his silhouette return.

  Today was Sunday. Dougal had persuaded Alfred to lend him a pony to ride to the village to attend church. Though the village was just about visible from this side of the water, it was over ten miles and took more than three hours to reach on foot, negotiating the northern perimeter of the loch along all its tiny paths. He had left early that morning and had informed her to not expect him back until late in the evening.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly made pot of tea before her, trying to pay attention to the words in her book, when there came a knock at the door. Her heart lurched; she was not expecting anyone. Outside, the rain lashed horizontally across the land, so it was hard to imagine why anyone would be out in such foul conditions.

  The knock came again. Tiptoeing, she made her way to the kitchen window to see who the caller might be, but from this angle she could make out nothing but a figure in a dark cloak.

  Another knock.

  She held her breath, sure that the stranger would soon cease and leave, but then something glided before the window. A dog, its coat dripping and matted with the wet.

  She rushed to the door. Clementine stood before her, a grin spread across her face as water dripped relentlessly from the hood of her cloak. Instantly, all four dogs ran inside and shook themselves, spraying every surface.

  ‘Sorry about them,’ Clementine said. ‘Alfred always made such a fuss of them in here. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Beatrice stepped aside, blushing at her rudeness – keeping her landlady waiting on the doorstep in a downpour! She seemed so slow sometimes! She wondered if she had only dreamed of once being called the cleverest girl her governess had ever taught. ‘Come in.’

  Clementine shrugged off her cloak and apologised for the state of herself. Despite her crimson cheeks and sopping hair, she appeared just as elegant and composed as she had in her evening gown and gold jewels.

  ‘The dogs have made themselves at home.’ Clementine nodded at the kitchen. The dogs lay before the range, licking their paws as they enjoyed the heat, steam already curling off their coats and into the atmosphere. Clementine walked over to them and patted each of their heads, then turned to the table.

  ‘Have I disturbed you?’ She gestured at the open book lying face down on the table and at the half-drunk cup of tea.

  ‘No, not at all.’ She hoped she did not sound too desperate, but it was hard for Beatrice to stop herself from smiling. How wonderful to receive a visitor after so many days in isolation!

  ‘Would you like a cup too? And I made some biscuits this morning.’ She brought forth a covered plate and placed it on the table, adjusting it until it was perfectly centred. ‘I have been meaning to thank you for the food you sent over. We would have starved otherwise.’ Beatrice laughed, though the joke was hollow. Without her old cook to shop for her, and with Dougal never once considering it might fall to him to venture out for supplies, they really might have starved.

  Clementine took a biscuit off the plate and bit into it. ‘These are wonderful. Aren’t you a good cook! And this place is transformed. Alfred never kept it well, I’m afraid. He’s more of an outdoorsman than one who thinks much of personal cleanliness.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ Beatrice poured the tea and resumed her seat. She closed her book and put it to one side.

  ‘Any good?’ Clementine nodded at the novel.

  Beatrice shrugged; she could not recall even the title of it, let alone the storyline. ‘Fine.’

  ‘You like reading?’

  Clementine chewed gracefully as she watched Beatrice. Beatrice thought of the novels she had once pored over, of how she and Effie had spent hours curled up together in their parlours, devouring the likes of Wuthering Heights smuggled in by Effie’s older sisters as the world hurried by outside. ‘When I have the time.’

  Clementine set her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, steepling her fingers under her chin. ‘You and Dougal seem an unlikely pairing, if you don’t mind my saying. How was it you met?’

  The change of topic confused her. She pushed the image of Effie out of her mind.

  ‘My father introduced us. He is a solicitor. He needed some clerical help in the evenings, and he found Dougal. That was quite some years ago. I didn’t know Dougal at all back then. Papa started asking him around for dinner one winter.’

  Beatrice sighed, recalling the awkwardness of those evenings, the stilted conversations, her complete ignorance of what was being arranged.

  ‘How soon were you married after that?’

  ‘About a year.’

  Clementine raised her eyebrows. ‘A long courtship.’

  Beatrice laughed. She would not have termed it a courtship at all, but rather a long wait to see if something better would come along. It hadn’t.

  ‘I expect you never thought you would be living in Scotland, up in the land of the savages.’ Clementine crinkled her nose and laughed. ‘I didn’t either, when I was young. It is rather a shock, isn’t it?’

  Beatrice felt her eyes sting. At last, she thought she might not have been overreacting about her sudden upheaval, as Dougal had said she was.

  ‘It must have been hard to leave your home, your family, your friends.’

  Beatrice nodded – she did not trust herself to speak. She chewed the inside of her cheek so that she would not cry.

  ‘It will take time for you to get used to it here, but believe me, you will. I would not let anyone take it from me now.’

  Beatrice swallowed. ‘It is a beautiful place to live.’

  ‘Yet, I have not seen you out? I walk with the dogs every day, and always I see you through this window, in this room. You have not explored?’

  ‘Oh, I would get lost. My sense of direction is appalling.’

  ‘You can see the castle for two miles in any direction. I think you might manage to find your way back to it.’

  Beatrice’s smile stiffened.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Clementine took her hand. ‘I did not mean to mock. It is just the thought of you stuck in here, alone, which w
orries me. One cannot spend one’s whole life cooped up inside, Beatrice. It will make one mad.’

  Beatrice pulled her hand out of Clementine’s damp grip and pushed it into her lap. Madness, she feared, was already inside her.

  ‘Of course’ – Clementine finished her biscuit – ‘I must not rush you. I forget you have been here less than a week. It feels as if I have known you for years.’

  One of the dogs stood and stretched, yawned, and howled.

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Will, John, Dante, and Simeon.’ Clementine smiled. ‘I named them on a theme.’

  The theme was lost on Beatrice.

  ‘Artists,’ Clementine explained, her eyes shining as they bored into Beatrice. ‘Some of my favourites. It’s a pastime for me, painting. I take great pleasure in it.’

  ‘What do you paint?’

  ‘Anything that is beautiful.’

  Beatrice broke their gaze and looked at the dogs. They were an ugly assortment. The largest came level with her hip, the smallest barely reached her ankle, and all were scruffy and dishevelled, with ears and eyes and tails missing. Beatrice did not think there would be any paintings of them – they were certainly not beautiful. Yet, despite the stench rising from them, she could not help but smile at their peculiarities, at their round eyes and unabashed natures as they stuck a leg in the air and licked themselves.

  ‘We never kept a pet. Mama had a cat once which used to fuss about her legs when she was in the garden, but it wasn’t ours.’

  ‘For as long as I can remember I have had animals. I like their presence. I could not imagine life without a dog by my heels.’ The largest dog strolled over to Clementine and leaned against her chair, raising its head for attention. ‘This one is Will. I found him one night out on the road. He was in a dreadful state, only a puppy. Someone had cut his ears off. The blood …’ Tears came to her eyes. She shook her head, trying – so Beatrice thought – to dislodge the memory. ‘I never found the person who did it. Probably someone from the village. Heartless. I would have done the same to them if ever I had caught them.’