Dougal straightened, and she heard the bones in his back grind and crack as he stretched. As he ran a hand through his hair, Beatrice noticed the slight quiver in his actions. He waited for a moment, as if he would say something else, but then walked out of the kitchen. His footsteps tapped gently on the flagstones as he went to his study. The door opened. Closed. She understood the soft clunking of metal – Dougal was locking her out once again.
Sitting in Clementine’s parlour picking at the rim of the teacup, Beatrice brooded over Dougal’s words. There was something tight in her chest, a tenseness in her muscles. Since living at Dhuloch, and with Clementine’s words rattling in her head, she had begun to consider the way Dougal treated her, and she did not like it.
‘Something has happened,’ Clementine said. Beatrice raised her eyes and met Clementine’s gaze. ‘I have never seen a frown so deep.’ Clementine picked Simeon off the floor and lifted him onto Beatrice’s lap. The dog panted in her face gleefully. ‘What is wrong?’
Beatrice shook her head. She did not know what to say. She should not run her husband down in front of another woman, least of all his employer, but she didn’t feel much loyalty towards him at the moment.
‘You will tear a nail if you keep doing that.’
Beatrice put the cup and saucer on the table and pinched the skin between her brows. ‘He treats me worse than he would a dog.’ Beatrice sighed and gazed into Simeon’s brown eye. ‘Commanding me to do this, do that. He says I am a bad wife.’
At this, Clementine laughed. She put a hand over her mouth to stop herself and looked at Beatrice with a smile still sparkling mischievously in her eyes.
‘Forgive me. Was he trying to be comical? You are the furthest thing from a bad wife I have ever known.’
Beatrice crumpled against the back of the settee. The woman in the painting stared down at her from above the fireplace, the challenge still in her eyes.
‘I do not want to be a hen,’ Beatrice said, wondering if her admission would make the woman in the painting smile, nod, acknowledge her determination, but she remained as still as ever.
‘I should have a maid, for a start. I should be able to buy dresses rather than make them myself. What was the point in marrying him otherwise? I might as well have gone with the butcher’s son and had done with it.’
Clementine poured more tea into Beatrice’s cup. ‘What has made you think like this?’
Beatrice shrugged – still there was that loyalty to Dougal she could not quite shake off. ‘How did you do it? You said you were like me. How have you become …’ She gestured at Clementine. Words could not describe the exuberance of the woman.
‘I realised no man is ever sorry for what he has done to a woman. If we wait for them to change, to apologise, to do the right thing, then we will be waiting our entire lives.’
The atmosphere in the room had grown melancholy as Beatrice stroked the dog which now rested his head in her lap and slept.
‘Think the worst of him, Beatrice, and he will not disappoint you.’
‘It seems a dreadful way to live, to think of people.’
Clementine shook her head. ‘Not at all. It is freeing. When you realise the only person you can trust is yourself, everything becomes so much easier.’
Beatrice could not stop her thoughts from turning to Effie. She trusted Effie. She would have trusted Effie with everything, with her life, as Effie had trusted Beatrice. And suddenly, a sickening notion hit her: Effie had trusted Beatrice with her life, and Beatrice had let her down.
‘What about love?’ Beatrice’s voice was a whisper. ‘What about when you love somebody? You should be able to trust them, surely?’
‘You should, yes.’ Clementine’s eyes were dark, wet, but then she blinked, and her sorrow was no longer visible. ‘I suppose you should not be so harsh on Dougal anyway. It must be hard for him to return to Dhuloch.’
‘He goes out at night.’ Beatrice said it before she could stop herself. The admission seemed to pique Clementine’s interest.
‘Where does he go?’
‘I do not know. He goes without a light. He goes for hours sometimes.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘He is not … There is something wrong with him. I thought I might be able to help him, but he does not want it.’
She was scratching at the rim of the teacup again before she knew it. She should not betray him. She was his wife. Their marriage was sacred, secret. She had made a promise to God to obey him, but God seemed so distant to her. When was the last time she had truly prayed? She was a bad Christian, as Dougal had said, but in that moment she relished her rebelliousness. She had spent a whole lifetime being good, doing good, pushing aside her desires, and for what?
‘He hurts himself.’
The words hung in the air, too big to dissolve.
‘I found him, last night, with a knife to himself. I think … I don’t know. He is ashamed of something, perhaps?’
Clementine’s skin turned ashen. She stared blindly at the table until the colour returned to her cheeks. ‘It is worse than I ever thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should never have called him back here. You should return to England, for Dougal’s sake.’
Beatrice stared at Clementine, wondering if she had heard the woman correctly.
‘We cannot go. You need him.’
‘I can find somebody else.’
It felt as if the distance between them was growing, an invisible barrier rising. Beatrice would claw it down if she must. ‘Who?’
‘It is does not matter. I will find someone.’
Clementine focused on Simeon; she did not raise her eyes to Beatrice. Beatrice searched for words, her lips opening and closing. She gripped the arm of the settee as if she would anchor herself to this place.
‘I do not understand. You wanted him here. You wanted us here, did you not? You cannot send us away now. You cannot send me away.’
‘You must go with your husband.’
‘But I do not want to go with him!’
The dogs, who had all been sleeping, raised their heads at Beatrice’s voice. Simeon jumped away.
‘Calm yourself, Beatrice.’
Beatrice paced to the window. Outside, the clouds scattered across the blue sky, and the trees on the island in the lake leaned to one side as the wind buffeted them. ‘I cannot leave here, Clementine. Not yet.’
‘Dougal will suffer if he stays.’
Good, she thought, but she held her tongue. As if she could not hate Dougal any more than she already did!
‘I will suffer if I return.’
‘You will see your family. You miss them, do you not?’
‘Not enough.’
The truth shocked her as it came out of her mouth. Blood rushed to her face, and she was grateful her back was to Clementine so the woman could not see her blush. She was ashamed of her own selfishness in that moment, so unlike her, but she would not be sorry for it either.
‘There must be some other way we can help Dougal. A doctor? I don’t know …’
‘This place holds too many bad memories for him.’
Perhaps, but Beatrice did not know what those memories were. And Dougal was not going to tell her. And she had bad memories of her own. Everyone had to suffer in some way.
‘We must find a way to cheer him,’ Beatrice resolved. ‘To show him there is nothing to fear here anymore.’ She turned to Clementine. ‘Do you think that would work?’
Clementine sauntered over to Beatrice, her face gaunt, resigned, as she gazed at the view. ‘Perhaps.’
So close, Beatrice was able to inhale the woman’s scent, and she felt a new buzz inside her stomach. Her fingers stretched, brushed against Clementine’s skirt, then snapped back to her sides. ‘Do you want me to leave, Clementine?’
Fierce now, Clementine glared at her. ‘Of course I do not.’
Beatrice stepped back and sighed with relief. She leaned against the wall and rested her head against it as Clementine
relaxed as well.
‘How might we cheer him, do you think?’
Clementine played with the fringing of the curtain as she took a moment to consider. ‘Maybe I could invite his family for tea one afternoon?’
‘His family? He has no family.’
‘They live by the sea. I have not seen them for years, but I can send word, say their son has returned. They should be happy to see him after all this time, I would think. And Dougal would be too.’
So Beatrice truly knew nothing about her husband at all. The realisation that they really were strangers, despite having lived under the same roof for two years, was overwhelming.
‘He never told me he had family. I assumed they had died or …’ What had she assumed? She had never dared ask about his past, his family; she had never really been interested.
‘A tea party, then.’ Clementine smiled and rubbed her hands together. ‘A nice surprise to cheer his spirits.’
‘You think it will work?’ she asked, but she was determined to make it work. Returning home was not an option.
Clementine took Beatrice’s hands. Skin against skin, the buzz returned to Beatrice’s gut. ‘We can only try, can’t we?’
If anyone could fix this mess, Beatrice thought, it would be Clementine.
Chapter 8
The first flurry of snow had fallen. The land outside was dusted white, as if sprinkled with sugar, and now the sun was out for the afternoon making everywhere sparkle and drip.
Beatrice listened to that dripping on the window ledge as she gazed at the castle, at the thin black track which led to its front door. Dougal had not commented on the carriage which had arrived some minutes ago, no doubt thinking it was Clementine gone out and returned. She did this at least once a week, though to where, Beatrice had not yet asked. Now, as he slid on his frock coat and complained of the inconvenience of afternoon tea – he had work to do, didn’t she know? – Beatrice dared not mention who was really in that carriage and waiting for him. She hooked her arm through his as they walked to the castle.
Still, there was a gripping in her chest any time she stepped outside. Still, her breath came short and quick and made her head light. Still, she felt she might break into a sprint if she did not hold herself together tightly. Yet, as the days passed, the air no longer felt quite so deadly, the ground no longer quite so unstable. If she focused on Dhuloch and thought only of Clementine waiting for her within its walls, she could just about manage the distance.
Dougal lifted the brass knocker as Beatrice wiped a bead of sweat off her temple. It took mere seconds for Clementine to open the door – had she been spying on them through one of the slit windows?
Clementine had dusted her face with powder, applied a little rouge to her cheeks and lips, and darkened her lashes – though anyone who had not studied her as intently as Beatrice would not have noticed the effort she had gone to. She wore a fine dress – again of black – with patterns of flowers stitched into the silk and a great silk bow on the bustle which quivered with her every step. The gold necklace, which she always wore, hung over the high collar of her bodice and caught a ray of sunshine.
‘Come in.’ Clementine stepped aside and motioned for Dougal to go into the drawing room. She caught Beatrice’s arm as they made their way to their guests, squeezed her hand, and winked at her when Dougal was looking the other way.
‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Montgomery.’ The words came out of Dougal’s mouth stiffly.
Clementine skipped ahead and stopped before the drawing-room door. She turned to Dougal with a wide grin. The excitement emanating from her was palpable. ‘I have some visitors I should like you to see.’
Dougal hesitated, but before he could argue or excuse himself, Clementine opened the door with a flourish.
As if caught in some dreadful act, a woman and a young man turned wide-eyed to face Dougal and Beatrice. It was almost comical, for they certainly looked out of place in their mud-coloured clothes, their faces shining from being scrubbed so much, their hair greased down in a manner that they thought looked respectable. Next to Clementine, who now flitted towards them as if she would embrace them, they appeared the most vulgar creatures Beatrice had ever seen. Yet stepping forward to kiss their cheeks, she smelt the pungency of the soap on them, saw the angst in their eyes, recognised how they rounded in on themselves knowing what a state they must look, and she knew they were as anxious as she was.
Guiltily, she introduced herself as Dougal’s wife. These were her in-laws – she should be ashamed for judging them so harshly.
‘Glenna,’ the woman said, her eyes narrowing as she looked Beatrice over. ‘I am Dougal’s mother.’ Her accent was so thick, it took Beatrice a moment to understand the few words she had spoken.
‘Murray,’ the man said, an uncertain smile creeping onto his lips. She could see Dougal in him: the same soft kind of handsomeness, though Murray’s blue eyes were kinder than his brother’s, and his cheeks were stained a ruddy pink whereas Dougal’s were porcelain white. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Brown.’
Niceties performed, all of them turned to Dougal. He had not moved from the other side of the door. His face was blank, and it was as if he could not process what he was seeing before him.
‘Dougal?’ Glenna edged forward, approaching her son as if he were an animal which might strike her.
‘What are you doing here?’ Dougal whispered, and the coldness of his tone made his mother stop and look pleadingly at Clementine.
‘I invited them. I thought it would please you to see your family after all these years. I know it has been hard for you to return.’
‘We have missed you,’ Glenna said, the last word breaking as she struggled to contain her emotions. Still, Dougal did not go to her.
‘Why don’t we have some tea?’ Beatrice clapped her hands, trying to be cheerful, but the sound was too sharp; it made all of them start. ‘Shall we sit?’
She scurried to the settee before the fire, hoping to melt the ice she felt inside her. After a moment, the others joined her, and finally Dougal sat in the remaining chair opposite. He did not meet her gaze, but looked at his hands which were clenched on his knees.
Jean, who had been standing silently in the corner of the room, now came forth to pour the tea. Everyone watched her, and as Glenna grazed Jean’s hand as she took a cup, Jean smiled at the old woman, much to Beatrice’s amazement.
‘How have you been?’ Murray said, fumbling with the thin handle of the teacup. His fingers, unlike his brother’s, were calloused and ingrained with black. Working man’s hands.
‘Fine.’ Dougal did not look at his brother.
‘Congratulations on your marriage,’ Murray said, directing his attention to Beatrice. He smiled, and Beatrice could see that his teeth were good and straight, though one canine was missing. In him, she saw what Dougal might have been – this other, handsome, warm version which she believed she could have grown to love. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Two years.’
Glenna gasped, then controlled herself. As she sipped her tea, she scowled at Beatrice. ‘Do I have grandchildren?’
‘No,’ Dougal answered quickly and gulped his tea. Glenna’s scowl grew worse as Beatrice squirmed in her seat.
For the first time since her arrival, Beatrice heard Jean make a noise. It was only very faint – something like a cough or maybe even a grunt. No one but Beatrice and Clementine seemed to notice it, and both of them looked at the maid standing stiffly by the tea set.
‘You may go, Jean,’ Clementine said.
With some difficulty, Jean tore herself away from the table and slipped out of the room.
‘Such a shame,’ Clementine said, focusing again on her guests. ‘You have not seen each other in so long. Hamish was cruel to send Dougal so far from his family.’
Glenna lowered her gaze. ‘Mr Montgomery was kind to do what he did for Dougal. I would not have recognised my own son. You are a gentleman.’
Doug
al was a stranger to his own family, Beatrice realised with something like relief; Dougal was a stranger to everyone.
Murray glanced at his brother awkwardly, yet a glimmer of awe lingered in his eyes. Was he jealous? She did not think so. For all the finery around them, this was not a life suited to the other Browns. Murray was eager to be out of his Sunday best – she could tell by the way he fidgeted, despite his manners.
‘And your …’ Beatrice stumbled as she tried to make conversation, tried to piece together the puzzle that was Dougal’s past. ‘Do you have a husband, Mrs Brown?’
‘Of course.’ Glenna frowned, glancing at her son. ‘Your father couldn’t make it today. He’s been taken ill.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ Beatrice asked when Dougal did not respond.
‘His breathing.’
‘I hope he will recover quickly.’
‘Mrs Ramsay – you remember her, Dougal, our neighbour – says he won’t last the winter.’ Murray pinched his lips shut as Glenna flicked her eyes at him.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Mrs Ramsay doesn’t know everything,’ Glenna sniped.
Beatrice could see Glenna’s jaw working as she looked at Dougal.
‘He wanted to see you, son. He’s just not up to coming so far.’
‘Still making excuses for him,’ Dougal muttered under his breath, and Glenna flushed. Her jaw worked harder.
‘Perhaps we could visit you, Mrs Brown?’ Beatrice offered, and finally Dougal lifted his gaze to glower at his wife. The hatred within him was so powerful that she cowered in her chair.
‘It was … Nice to see you, Mother. Murray.’ Dougal stood. His hands were balled into fists by his sides. ‘But we will not be visiting you. I can give you money for a physician if you need it.’
Glenna blushed again, shook her head.
‘Very well. I have work to be getting on with.’ He stormed out of the room.
‘Dougal?’ Beatrice went after him. On the other side of the door, he rounded on her, his face red, his lips white.
‘What in God’s name were you thinking?’
Convenient Women Collection Page 67