by Fiona Monroe
Then she gasped and gave half a scream as a hand slapped her left buttock, just where it was most tender, and then squeezed hard. The pain of this assault on her freshly chastised backside was momentarily agonising.
"You caught another good strapping," said Callum's voice, hot in her ear. "You're a bad girl, Bridie. But your da's soft on you. When you're my wife, if I need to take my belt to you, it'll be on the bare. Remember that."
He gave her backside another swingeing slap, and with a chuckle, left her alone.
It was too much. When the door shut behind him, Bridie leaned once more against the table and gave way to a tempest of real tears.
Chapter FIVE
The next morning began as any other, except that Bridie was still sad and sore. Despite the hiding it had unjustly earned her, she was glad that she had met the Marchioness, and she thought about the things she had said as she lay in the dark that night, curled on her side to avoid pressure on her still-tender backside. The notion that women could really study at a university, even if it was in a faraway foreign land, was a heady one.
But Bridie knew that what Dr Menzies had said was true. It was not, it never could be, for someone like her. And it was very fine for the Marchioness of Crieff to admire the writings of a lady who thought that girls and boys should be educated alike, but how could she know what it was to be forced through filial duty and obligation to forgo learning altogether and marry an ignorant, semi-illiterate oaf?
When she woke in the unforgiving icy darkness of a January morning, she felt all the worse. Her nether regions were still sore to the touch, and when she examined herself briefly with her one small hand mirror before dressing, she saw in the light of the tallow candle that a multitude of little bruises had blossomed over the soft flesh of her bottom, with one or two larger ones on the back of her thighs. She had thought it had been a particularly hard strapping, and here was evidence of that.
How bad it would be to take a belting on bare skin, she could not imagine. She hoped she would never find out.
Bridie was elbow-deep in flour, kneading bread for the evening meal, when there was a rap at the front door. She called for Peggy to answer it, but Peggy had managed to absent herself as usual. She was probably making her trip to fetch water from the burn last an hour, by going via the bake house and the chandler's. She rubbed the worst of the dough from her hands and opened the front door herself.
She was startled by the appearance of a tall, be-liveried footman, handsome and impeccable. "Miss Bridie MacFarlane?" he inquired.
"I am Bridie MacFarlane."
Her father had come out of the workshop to attend to the two horses attached to the smart phaeton standing in the road, and he was watching them with a wary eye.
"I am instructed," said the footman grandly, "to deliver this note only into the hands of Miss MacFarlane herself."
"I am she, sir."
With a formal bow, he proffered a note of stiff cream paper, sealed in red wax. "I am instructed," he said, "to wait for a reply."
Intrigued, Bridie turned the letter over in her hands. The red splodge of wax was still soft, not stiff and brittle as sealing wax turned after a day or so, and the seal imprinted in it was one she did not recognise. She broke it open and unfolded the letter, and found that it was a beautiful creamy sheet of linen paper, bearing the coat of arms of the Marquess of Crieff. In a flowing, elegant hand was written:
My dear Bridie
I must thank you again for your hospitality, and the kindness you showed me yesterday. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to visit me here at Dunwoodie House, as soon as would be convenient to you? I shall send this note by one of the footmen, who will bring you back with him if your father can spare you for a couple of hours.
Yours in friendship
Arabella, Lady Crieff
#
Bridie had never been in a room anything like it. She had not imagined that such an interior could exist. A ceiling, that seemed as high above her as the sky. Walls, that seemed impossibly far away. Huge windows, twice the height of a man, multiplying into the distance. And all around, rich colours, gleaming wood, glinting gilt, sparkling crystal, soft fabrics and a deep, flower-scented hush. She was standing, overwhelmed and overawed, in the middle of an ocean of space and light, her dusty and well-worn outdoor boots on the richly-woven carpet, facing Lady Crieff as she sat in a spotless white, lace-trimmed muslin gown upon a sofa with cream upholstery embroidered all over with flowers and birds.
Bridie thought of what the Marchioness had said the day before, that she had often passed the workers' houses and wondered what lay within. Bridie had, of course, very often seen the grand facade of Dunwoodie House in the distance, as it stood reflected in its famous ornamental lake; part of the path to the servants' entrance at the back of the house ran round its shore. She had also seen, closer up, the great stone bulwark of the building's rear, as much as was visible from the stable yard. But she had never in her life been within its walls. The only gentleman's house she had ever seen inside was Dr Menzies's, and his comfortable but modestly cluttered study bore no comparison to this veritable palace.
"Come here, Bridie," said Lady Crieff in her gentle, clear, crystalline voice. She held out a hand, a hand that was bare now of gloves; a pale, long-fingered hand, soft as fresh butter, prettily adorned with jewelled rings. "Come and sit by me."
Hesitantly, Bridie approached her. The Marchioness seized her by the hand and obliged her to be seated on the flower-strewn cushions, right beside her.
It felt very wrong to Bridie that she should be seated in the presence of the great lady, and she lowered her head.
A gentle finger touched her chin and lifted it.
"Let me see you, Bridie. How old are you, my dear?"
"I had my twentieth birthday last month, my lady."
"Indeed! I am only one-and-twenty, you know. We are very nearly the same age."
Since this was not disputable, and did not seem to require an answer, Bridie was silent.
The Marchioness gazed at her for a moment longer, then turned to a pearl-inlaid occasional table by the sofa and picked up a small book bound in tooled vellum. "Bridie, would you be so kind as to read me something from this?"
"Which part, my lady?"
"It is a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets. You choose. Do you have a favourite?"
Bridie could not suppress a smile. "Yes, my lady."
"Then read me your favourite."
Bridie hesitated for a moment, enjoying the sensuous feel and smell of the smooth leather, then opened the book and flicked through the pages. She paused at Sonnet 18, knowing that this was a safe and wholesome choice, a sweet and seemly hymn to a beloved's beauty. But then she leafed forward to her real favourite, and after one quick glance at Lady Crieff, read:
"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings."
She lifted her eyes from the page.
Lady Crieff was smiling, but a little sadly. "You read beautifully, Bridie."
"Thank you, my lady. Dr Menzies taught me how."
"Nobody can really teach another to read poetry, in particular, with the proper expression and feeling. That has to come from within - from the heart." She pressed her hand to her own bosom.
There was a string of fat, luscious pearls against her white throat, which Bridie studied in sudden fascination. She had never to her knowledge seen pearls before, not close to. They were grey rather than the pure white she had imagined, and glinted with an oddly rainbow sheen. "But Bridie - that is a rather sad and angry sonnet, to be a favourite."
"It's - not really, my lady. The poet says at the end that his lover makes all his sufferings worthwhile."
"I have always thought that to be a somewhat feeble conclusion, tacked on for the sake of convention merely."
"Oh no, my lady! To have one consolation in a troubled life is such a precious thing!"
"Does the poem reflect your own feelings, Bridie?"
"Well... I do sometimes feel alone, my lady, and I'm often troubled by envy, and I do, like the Bard says, despise myself for that."
"And do you," she said with a warmer smile, "have someone whose sweet love such wealth brings?"
"Oh no! I - you will think me foolish, my lady."
"Bridie, you may say what you will to me, and I promise you, I shall not think you foolish."
"Well... my lady... when I read the last quatrain and couplet, I think of what books mean to me. I think that no trials can be too hard to bear, when Shakespeare and Milton and even Mr Richardson have existed in the world."
Lady Crieff laughed prettily, as she did everything prettily. "I had meant only to try your powers of reading, to find whether you had a clear and melodious delivery. Now you have given me a new perspective on one of the sonnets."
"I only said what I thought, my lady."
"I know! And it's delightful to me to have the chance to talk about these things. Now listen, Bridie. I will be quite frank. I am sorely in need of female companionship. My maid, Fontaine, is excellent in her way, but her pronunciation of the English language is atrocious. I simply cannot listen to her read any passage, for any length of time. I'm sure my own French accent is just as bad, but nonetheless - I love to listen to reading, and I cannot listen to her. I did have a companion, before I married, a Miss Blenheim - but she died, not three months before my dear husband did me the honour of offering his hand."
Bridie let out an involuntary gasp of sympathy.
"Indeed, it was very sad." Lady Crieff looked momentarily aside.
Bridie was amazed to see a sudden sheen of tears in her ladyship's eyes.
"We were both ill, with the scarlet fever," the Marchioness continued. "She caught it from me. I recovered, she died. She was only two and twenty. And," she said, drawing in breath and smiling again, "since I had the happiness of meeting Lord Atholl so soon after my loss, and I was preoccupied with preparing for our wedding, I never thought of finding another young lady to bring with me to my new home. Indeed, I could not have thought of replacing Miss Blenheim, she was a dear creature and we were so alike in mind and spirit - and I had some hopes that perhaps Lord Atholl's youngest sister might be a friend to me. She and I are very near in age. But - well, she went abroad."
Lady Crieff stopped talking suddenly, and Bridie tried not to look too interested or too excited. Like most others who lived and worked on the Dunwoodie Estate, however, she was extremely curious about the fate of the old Marquess's youngest child, the beautiful Lady Elspeth, who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances the year before. It was variously rumoured that she had been seduced by a notorious Highland laird who had got her with child, and that she had been sent to the colonies to cover her disgrace; or that she had run away to sea with a pirate captain, and now lived the life of a lady-pirate, dressed in men's clothes and swinging a sabre. There were some on the estate who swore that they had seen her return for a single night, carrying her bastard child in her arms, and had given it over to an old nursemaid, who was raising the poor innocent in secret somewhere in the attics of Dunwoodie. Bridie had heard a housemaid claim that she and many others had heard the child's cries in the night. Then there was the theory that the Marquess had simply imprisoned his sister in the attic, either because she had run mad or because he could not contain her tendencies to wildness and vice any other way.
Bridie was not sure what she believed, except that she discounted the pirate story. That Lady Elspeth had disappeared from public view, and that nothing had been said by the family about her departure other than she had gone overseas, were the only certain facts. With a thrill, Bridie realised that Lady Crieff must know the truth, and might even tell her.
But it was clear that Lady Crieff felt constrained to say no more on this interesting subject. She was silent for a moment, then said with a slightly forced air, "Listen to me, I am running on. To be brief, I wish to engage the services of someone who will be at hand to read to me, and with whom I can converse on interesting topics. I have already made enquiries about you of Dr Menzies, and he could not speak highly enough of your intellect, and general character. So - Bridie, my dear - would you be prepared to consider making the very great sacrifice, and quit your father's roof to come into my service? I know," she continued hastily, as if Bridie had already begun to protest, "that you are mistress of your own home now, and I am asking a great deal of you to give that up. But you will have comfortable accommodation here, and if you wish to read more, the library is extensive and you may borrow any book you choose at any time. Will you give some thought to my proposal?"
Would she give it some thought? How much thought could be required to choose between dull servitude and marriage to Callum Dobbie, or a life of light and learning? But after a moment of sheer joy, a glimpse through the gates of Paradise, she crashed back to earth. "My father," she mumbled.
Lady Crieff pressed her hand. "Oh. I know, my dear. You do not wish to leave him. I understand."
"No!" Bridie cried, then bit her lip in horror. She was an undutiful daughter, a bad person, but she could not help it. The expression in Lady Crieff's eyes was so full of regret and sweet understanding, and she could not bear for this incredible opportunity to pass her by, especially on the basis of an untruth. "My lady, I would gladly - I would love to wait upon you. Being mistress of my own home, that is nothing to me. But I do not think my father will give his permission."
"I see. Well, these things can be arranged. How would it be if I sent for your father, and asked for his consent to your coming to me, myself?"
"You would do that, my lady?" Bridie felt giddy, and slightly guilty. She tried to imagine her father standing in his work clothes in this room, his cap in his hand, helpless before the grandeur of the Marchioness. He would have no choice but to accede to a request from her lips, however much he might resent it.
"I would," said Lady Crieff firmly. "I shall write a note by my own hand, this very moment. Would you be so good as to ring the bell?"
Chapter SIX
Angus MacAllister did not often venture to the city. It was not that he had no knowledge of city life, unlike many of his ilk. He had studied at the University in Edinburgh, he had even travelled to London and seen that great metropolis with his own eyes. It was just that, having lived amidst stones and streets and amidst rock and sky, he knew where he preferred to be.
No, he made the journey to Inverdoun only when the laird's business required him to, and on this chilly spring night the looming dark bulk of buildings pressing on either side of him seemed sinister, almost threatening, and the hard cobbles underfoot far colder than grass and heather ever were. It was supposed to be light in a city even after nightfall, but this was the old part of town, the part they were sweeping away in the interests of progress, and the houses around him were close and blank and shuttered. There were no street-lamps, and the day's fading twilight scarcely permeated the narrow gully of the wynd.
He was making for the Bruce Inn, where he had arranged to meet with one of his oldest friends.
The Bruce was a tall, narrow building in the middle of a row, indistinguishable from its neighbours save for a modest sign above the door that proclaimed its nature as a tavern and lodging-house. The street door opened directly int
o a public room, with a serving bar, wooden benches and a floor strewn with damp, beery sawdust.
Though the tavern was crowded, Angus spotted his friend immediately, sitting alone in possession of a table at the back of the room. The old minister had a book open before him, a pitcher at one hand and a half-spent candle at the other, the remnants of chops and gravy congealing on a plate in front of him.
"Dr Menzies!"
Angus had to raise his voice and call his friend's name more than once, to penetrate the clamour of the tavern patrons and the minister's own complete absorption in his book.
When he did realise that he was being addressed, Dr Menzies raised his head slowly and refocussed his gaze gradually. Then his face broke into a smile of genuine delight. "Angus!" he exclaimed, half-rising and extending his hand, looking as pleased and astonished as if this encounter had been quite accidental, and he had not been waiting here to greet his old pupil.
Indeed, Angus thought it was quite possible that the old man had temporarily forgotten that they had exchanged letters arranging the meeting a fortnight ago. His tutor had always been somewhat vague, and each time Angus had met with him lately - never above twice a year, now - Angus had thought him more abstracted than before.
"What are you reading, sir?" he asked, after he had ordered fresh drinks for them both, and a mutton pie for himself. It had been a long day's journey from his home in the township of Baille nam Breac, far up Gleann A'Chaisteall; he had set off on his patient mule before five that morning, at sunrise, and it was a long time since he had halted for a bite of lunch.
"Ah!" Dr Menzies's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, above the glasses that always slipped to the end of his nose. "A veritable curiosity. A new novel, if that be not a tautology - dear, dear, the corruption of the modern tongue. Dr Richards in London sent it to me, he thought it would appeal to my sensibilities. It is called Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, and it takes as its text, as it were, Milton's lines, Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay, To mould me man? Did I solicit thee, From darkness to promote me?"