And as well as this other version of Dougal, these letters also revealed Hamish as something she had not expected. Pompous, yes. Self-righteous, a little. God-fearing, absolutely. But the words also showed a kindness, an ability to empathise, a stiff but willing ability to declare his emotions, even a hint of vulnerability. None of these qualities suited the man in the portrait above the front door. No kindness could be detected in those hostile eyes and grabbing claws.
She turned her attention back to the letters. They progressed in the same vein as the last one; nothing was quite as formal as before.
In the spring of 1864, they set off for Africa for six months. This time, there were no letters. She felt the absence of them – such a large chunk of time without record made her question what exactly had happened during those long months alone together in a savage, hostile land. It was clear, in the next letter dated October 1864, that they had indeed grown closer.
Dear Dougal,
I should like it if we resumed our letter-writing now we have returned. I do so enjoy receiving your monthly report, and I believe I shall enjoy it even more once you begin what I now have in mind for you.
It is my intention – my hope – that you will shadow me in the running of Dhuloch estate. No longer are you a footman, nor is the prospect of butler suitable for you. You have surpassed my hopes, my boy.
In short, Dougal, I want you to learn everything there is about Dhuloch. As if you were my heir.
Yours,
Hamish
As if you were my heir. The words pulsated off the page. Why would Hamish suggest such a thing? Was it all to do with power? Was educating Dougal some kind of game? Was Hamish building a man that he could control and corrupt, as Clementine had suggested, by promising him wealth and status?
It didn’t feel like that. Preposterous to assume when she had never known the man in real life, but Beatrice did not feel any animosity from Hamish in this letter. There seemed nothing underlying, nothing presumed, nothing calculating.
It truly was the kind of letter a father might write to a son.
She skimmed the following two, bland letters until she came to the one dated January 1865. The contents made her stop, blink, and start again, more carefully this time.
Dougal,
I am writing to inform you that our meetings must cease. From now on, you will come to my study only on Monday mornings, ten o’clock sharp, where I shall delegate the tasks for the week to you.
Understand this. Under no circumstances are you to enter my chamber ever again. I will not have a repeat of what happened – indeed, I wish to strike it from my memory altogether, but the shock of your declaration has stained my mind.
I have not decided whether to continue your education. This is a difficult decision after the promise you have shown for so long. While I do not want to throw away everything I have achieved with regards to your education, I do not see how it can continue in the same way.
I will take what you said as a misunderstanding. In part, I blame myself. Alcohol has a way of making one bold, of making lies slip from the tongue like serpents, and I should not have encouraged your drinking. Indeed, I hope brandy was the only reason for your actions.
Nevertheless, I cannot let what happened pass unpunished. How will you learn from your mistakes if you do not know them to be such?
I urge you to look to the word of God for guidance. Read your bible tonight. Look for His light, His teachings. You are a man now, and foolish thoughts must no longer plague you.
Find a woman.
‘And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, “This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.” Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’
Mr Montgomery
She did not linger over the questions which were racing through her mind. She grabbed the final letter.
Dougal,
Once again, I find myself sitting in my study unable to know how to write what is in my heart.
My boy … how could you?
I know what you did. I did not believe it at first. Such a gentle, loving boy. Even now, I cannot comprehend it.
I write this letter to you as my final word. I will not see you again. I will not write to you again. I cannot bear the thought of looking at you.
Perhaps over time I will forgive you. Perhaps she will too. You must pray for that forgiveness.
You will leave Dhuloch first thing in the morning. I have arranged the carriage. It will take you to Glasgow and the train station. You are going to England.
Understand, this is a mercy for you. Perhaps I am too kind, and perhaps my own softness has led to these peculiar degradations of yours. Yet, I cannot see you return to your family, to your father, for it is I who consider myself your father now. I have thought of you as my own son for so long that I cannot unthink it. And so, though you might deserve punishment, I am as lenient as I can be.
I will not let your education be wasted. You will be tutored by a friend of mine who lives in the county of Shropshire. Mr Pugh will train you to work in his banking establishment. You will live a simple, sin-free life there – my friend will report on this to me – and you will tell no one from Dhuloch or your family of your whereabouts. If I think you still sin, in either of the ways you have shown here, I will shun you, and you will be destitute.
My boy, how I wish it were different. How I wish time could be reversed, but as I once said before, it is no good to torment ourselves with our pasts.
You cannot change what you did, to me or to her, but you can change what you become. Devote yourself to the Lord and learn to control your temper, or you will become the kind of man that you so hated – your father. You are a quick learner, and so I hope you will quickly learn how to become a good man, a godly man, for only then may you gain the Lord’s – and my – forgiveness.
I leave you with these final words:
‘Be ye therefore followers of God, as dear children; And walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savour. But fornication, and all uncleanness, or covetousness, let it not be once named among you, as becometh saints; Neither filthiness, nor foolish talking, nor jesting, which are not convenient: but rather giving of thanks. For this ye know, that no whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man, who is an idolater, hath any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God. Let no man deceive you with vain words: for because of these things cometh the wrath of God upon the children of disobedience.’
Hamish
Chapter 20
‘Tell me again what happened with Dougal here. You sent him away?’ Beatrice asked, watching Clementine closely from the bed.
Clementine did not falter. She continued to stroke Will’s nodding head as she sat in the seat by the window and looked at the drifting snow.
‘For his own good, yes.’
‘Why?’
A slight sigh of exasperation filtered through Clementine’s pursed lips. ‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? Hamish had a peculiar relationship with him.’
‘Peculiar how?’
Clementine turned her grey eyes to Beatrice. Never had she seemed so distant as she did nowadays, and the beauty that Beatrice had once seen in her now appeared cold, reserved, sharp.
‘The way we are peculiar with each other?’ Beatrice prompted.
‘Of course not. We love one another.’ Clementine said it with little conviction, as if it was an old phrase, repeated too often, that had now lost its meaning. ‘If I thought Dougal loved Hamish, I would never have needed to save him, would I?’
‘So that was it? You were saving him?’
Clementine nodded once.
‘Why, then, did you ask him back? You knew how traumatic it would be for him. You saw it as soon as he arrived. Eve
n if it was in the will, you could have got somebody else, surely?’
She should be wary. She should be careful with her words. But, as always, they spilled out of her mouth.
Ever since last night, she could not get those letters out of her mind. She did not sleep at all. She saw Jean slink into the tower and come out several hours later. She saw the sunrise simmer over the horizon, causing clouds of fog to snake up from the frozen lake and blot out the world. She saw the sky turn from speckled stars to pale blue to a bulging grey blanket and watched as the first snowflake of the day drifted like a feather to lie on her window ledge. And throughout all that time, with her stomach growling and her skin prickling with the cold, she let the words float across her eyes.
She did not understand a lot of it, but she knew one thing for certain. Clementine had not left those letters for her, for those letters contradicted Clementine’s whole story about Dougal and Hamish. But why would Clementine lie to her?
‘What was it that made you send him away?’
Clementine stood so quickly that Will’s head slipped off her lap. He stumbled to the floor with a thud and a yelp. Clementine did not help him.
‘I will not repeat myself.’
‘Wait.’ Beatrice grabbed Clementine’s wrist as she strode for the door. The moment of contact between them lingered and stung. Clementine shook herself free.
‘Don’t go, please. I meant – something must have happened. A certain incident, something like that, which made you act when you did. What was it?’
For a while, Clementine did not speak. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were misty. She blinked quickly, her gaze trained on the door handle.
‘Dougal was unusually upset. He was angry. He was … dangerous.’
‘After what Hamish did to him?’
Clementine nodded. ‘He could not stay. For his own sake and everyone else’s.’
That version made more sense. Hamish had hinted in his letter at Dougal’s temper, though, of course, he had not mentioned that he had been the cause of it. And why would he?
It was so hard to determine the whole story when she only had one side of it.
‘Thank you,’ Beatrice whispered, and the softness in her made Clementine turn her way. The coldness in Clementine dissipated. Now, sadness made her shoulders sag.
Beatrice would not push the point further – she had not the energy for it after a sleepless night. She patted the space beside her on the bed and smiled, and Clementine sat so close that their thighs pressed into each other’s.
Clementine lifted Beatrice’s hand and brought her fingers to her lips. She kissed each one until Beatrice relaxed. The sudden tenderness made tears sting Beatrice’s eyes. She had missed this kind of touch. She had missed the friend and lover she had found. She had missed the sense of safety which she had once placed entirely in Clementine’s hands.
‘My love,’ Clementine breathed against Beatrice’s fingertips.
She did not know how to bring the subject up. In truth, she did not want to spoil this loving moment, but she needed to say it soon, and if she waited any longer, they might fight again.
‘I think I should go home.’
Clementine did not move. ‘What?’
‘I need to sort things for Dougal. And I should see my family.’
‘You don’t want to see them.’
‘I know, but it is the right thing to do. I should mourn with them.’
A mean laugh hatched out of Clementine’s mouth. ‘Little hen.’
‘Please, Clementine, don’t. I do not want to argue with you. I would like you to come with me.’
Clementine’s laughter stopped short. ‘Leave Dhuloch?’
‘For a while. Come with me as my companion.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’
Clementine paced to the window. The dogs scattered out of her way. ‘I cannot leave here. It is my home.’
‘It is an old fortress, miles from anywhere and filled only with bad memories.’
‘Memories …’ Clementine whispered as she looked out at the view.
‘We could start a new life together, Clementine. We could go anywhere we wanted.’
‘I don’t want anywhere else,’ she said like a stubborn child. ‘You can’t go either.’
Beatrice pushed herself up in the bed. She, too, was beginning to grow stubborn. ‘Yes I can.’
‘You’ll never make it through the lanes. The snow is too thick.’
‘You make it to the church all right.’
‘That is different. It’s in the valley. No one can get over the mountains.’
‘There must be a way around somewhere.’
Clementine shook her head. ‘You can’t get home.’ She faced Beatrice, her features now arranged elegantly and carefully once again. ‘You can’t leave, Beatrice, even if you wanted to.’
Beatrice forced a mouthful of toast down her throat and listened to Clementine’s incessant chewing. Yet again, snow was falling. The ground was getting thicker with it rather than thinner, as if Clementine had made a pact with the weather to keep Beatrice inside.
She almost laughed – she would never have thought she’d wish to go outside rather than stay safely indoors. What would Dougal say if he could see her itching to walk in the fresh, open air, out of the claustrophobia of Dhuloch’s stone walls? What would Effie say if she knew how Beatrice longed to feel the blades of grass beneath her feet, the wisps of a summer breeze against her cheeks, the river water over her toes. It was almost as if, in the midst of all this confinement, after all this tragedy and heartbreak, she might finally be returning to the girl Effie used to know and love.
‘It suits you,’ Clementine said, rousing Beatrice from her thoughts. Beatrice raised an eyebrow. Clementine pointed at Beatrice’s throat. ‘The necklace. I haven’t seen you wear it for a while. Did Dougal buy it for you?’
Beatrice’s fingers found the single pearl in the nook between her collarbones. She stroked its smooth surface and, for some reason, did not tell Clementine the truth. Instead, she just nodded.
Clementine smacked her hands together, knocking off the crumbs. She dabbed her lips with a handkerchief. ‘Probably the nicest thing he ever did for you.’
‘What time do you leave?’ Beatrice said, changing the subject.
Clementine pushed out her chair. ‘Now. Will you be all right here on your own?’
‘I have Jean.’
Clementine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you didn’t like her.’
‘I don’t. But there’s not much I can do about it, is there? You’re going no matter what.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ She kissed Beatrice’s head. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Use the bell if you need anything. I expect to find you haven’t moved when I return.’
Beatrice did not argue. Her knee was now almost completely recovered, but still Clementine insisted on treating her like an invalid. An invalid or an imbecile, Beatrice was not sure which. Either way, it did no harm to play along.
In truth, Beatrice was itching for Clementine to leave.
She looked up at Clementine, who still hovered beside her, and gave her bravest smile. ‘Say hello to Dougal for me, won’t you?’
Clementine’s grin fell. She nodded, then made for the door.
Beatrice remained in her seat watching the snowflakes flutter down. The sky was almost black in the distance, and the wind was beginning to pick up. Clementine and Alfred would not have an easy journey.
The clock ticked away ten minutes. Surely they would have gone by now. She tiptoed to her door and crept out into the corridor. She snuck into Clementine’s room to find it exactly how it always was: cluttered and messy, smelling of oil paint and dogs and lavender. The dogs themselves were not there – they must have been down in the kitchens with Jean finding scraps from breakfast. The bed was unmade, the sheets balled up in the middle of the mattress as usual. On the wall opposite the bed hung the picture of Beatrice
in the blue dress looking out of the window. Did Clementine stare at this each night before she closed her eyes? Why else would she hang it in such a place?
Glancing out through the curtains, Beatrice saw the diminishing carriage rolling down the track. She did not look for long – not long enough for her gaze to fall on the cottage, nor the oak tree in the distance like a sentinel sent from the devil.
She focused again on the painting. It really was exquisite. There was no doubting Clementine’s talent. The blue gown shone as if it really was silk there on the canvas rather than paint. Dhuloch’s dark stonework was intricately painted, right down to the mortar which held it together. But what really drew her in was the face.
In profile, the nose was perfectly straight. The lips were full and plump like young rosebuds ready to bloom. The chin was neat and delicate, the forehead smooth and just slightly curved. Perfect. A perfect face.
But it was not hers.
The more she studied it, the more she found the differences between the painted version of herself and her true reflection. Always, she had known her nose was a little crooked, as if she had broken it at some point, though she knew she never had. Her lips, though a deep pink most of the time, could not be called full, let alone plump. Too often her mother had told her to smile, for if she did not smile, her mouth made it look as if she was scowling. Her jaw and chin were strong and pointed, not at all delicate.
But, of course, who would not paint something more beautiful than it really was? No one wanted to see anything ugly. Why tell the truth when it could be so easy to lie with a paintbrush?
Hamish. She thought of him downstairs in his portrait. Why had she never realised before? The style was the same – elaborate, the colours rich and dark and grabbing, the brushstrokes intricate yet eccentric. Clementine had painted it.
Beatrice had assumed the painting had been done by a man, but why had she presumed such a thing? Because Hamish was the man of the house? Because she could not imagine for one instant Hamish putting up with sitting in that freezing tower, posing for his wife’s inspection?
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