The Blackhouse Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  Worst of all, when she thought about yielding, her body betrayed her with a flush of excitement even as her mind recoiled at the prospect of shame and ruin.

  When the cart plodded to a halt in front of her father's house, and Bridie slipped down to the dusty road, she felt no joy at the prospect of seeing her father, though it was many weeks since they had met. Bridie always attended Lady Crieff to Sunday services in the chapel at Dunwoodie, where the Marchioness had quietly adopted the religion of her new country, so she had not even seen him at Dr Menzies's church in Kirkton.

  She had sent a note a few days ago to give him warning of her visit, but there was no sign of anyone looking out for her. The house had an empty, desolate aspect. It generally did on the Sabbath. Peggy would have been eager to greet her, to gather material for gossip if nothing else, but Peggy was probably out walking somewhere - possibly with some young man - as she was forbidden to do any work.

  Bridie let herself in through the front door, into the hallway that now seemed impossibly dark and tiny. "Father?" she called. "It's me!"

  There was no reply. But her father ought to have returned from the morning service by now, and he never stirred himself on the Sabbath other than to walk to church.

  She went through into the parlour and there he was, in his accustomed chair by the fire, though the grate was empty in the early summer heat. She had never before noticed how gloomy and confined the parlour was. She had to blink several times to see her father properly, to register that his eyes were cast down upon the great Bible open in his lap. He did not rise to greet her. He did not even look at her.

  Instead, he said in a dry, sonorous tone, "Do not prostitute thy daughter, to cause her to be a whore; lest the land fall to whoredom, and the land become full of wickedness."

  Bridie stared at him aghast. She had never heard her father utter such words, though they were there in the Bible plain to see.

  "What verse is that, child?"

  "I - I'm not sure, Father. Leviticus?"

  "Leviticus 19:29." He slapped the Bible shut, and looked at her at last.

  The noise, in the charged quiet of the room, startled her.

  "Is that what I have done?" he whispered. "Have I raised up the Whore of Babylon?"

  "Father! No! I - "

  "Are you lost, child?"

  "No!" she cried, taking a step back in fear.

  And then, to her utter horror, far from raging and berating her and reaching for the strap, her father sank his face into his hands and began to weep.

  Bridie rushed to his side and put her hand urgently on his arm. He was shaking with sobs. "Father - please - please listen to me - whatever you might have heard, whatever rumour has reached you from Dunwoodie, I am not lost. My honour is entirely intact. I know, I guess what has been said. I will not conceal the truth from you. Lord John has made attempts on me, more than once, and a maid witnessed one of those attempts, and drew her own conclusions, I've no doubt. But I have always repelled him, Father. I always will. I am virtuous, I swear to you."

  His anger could not possibly have appalled her more than his grief. She would far rather he stormed and quoted Scripture or even beat her, however unfairly, than feel herself the cause of this heartbreak.

  Her words seemed to get through to him at last. His breathing slowed, and he lifted his face from his hands, and gazed red-eyed into her face.

  She hoped that he saw the truth and sincerity there; and it seemed that he did, for he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to his chest.

  "Thank the Lord," he murmured fervently. "Thank the Lord for preserving my precious daughter, the one child he left me in his mercy. I have been a poor father, letting you wander into the lion's den unprotected."

  "Oh, no, Father."

  "No more, no more. God has saved your virtue. I'll not put you in the way of danger any longer. You'll stay here, and marry Callum, and be safe forever."

  Still pressed in his embrace, Bridie felt a silent scream well up inside her. She could say nothing, however, she could utter no word of protest. Her father's love and care for her was genuine, she would not cause him further pain, and beyond even that - she knew in her heart that he was right.

  #

  The back of Ritchie's coachman's hat, as the cart placidly rattled away towards Dunwoodie without her, was the most wretched sight Bridie had ever beheld.

  She had written a short, feeling note to the Marchioness, struggling all the while to hold back her tears, explaining only that her father had missed her too much to contemplate parting from her again, and had forbidden her from returning to Dunwoodie. She tried to stress that she was obeying him as a dutiful daughter against the wishes of her own heart, which was true in part; but only in part, because she knew now that her only safety lay in removing herself from the orbit of Lord John, at any cost to her immediate happiness.

  But must it be, she wondered frantically as she struggled to resume her duties in the kitchen - she felt that she scarcely remembered how to make pastry, or to scrub out the cooking-pot - must it be at the very extreme cost of marrying Callum? Was that really what she must do now, to restore her reputation, and justify her father's faith in her integrity?

  Bridie was alone in the kitchen the next morning, clumsily rolling pastry and miserably wondering whether Lady Crieff had been distressed when she received the note, when Callum ambled in. He was in his working clothes, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up beyond his elbows, and his forearms looked massive as he crossed them over his chest.

  Bridie concentrated on the pie-crusts, trying not to let her fear and revulsion show.

  Callum was silent for several moments, then he said, "Well?"

  "Mr Dobbie," Bridie said tightly.

  "Is that all you've got to say for yourself, Bridie?"

  She bit back a retort, and carried on rolling.

  He came close, too close, and loomed over her. She could smell smoke and stale, acrid sweat on him. "I telt you," he said, in a growl. He snatched her forearm and yanked it up from the rolling pin. "I telt you what would happen if you looked at another man up there at the Great Hoose."

  Her forearm was trapped painfully in the grip of his huge, calloused hand. She struggled still not to react. "You said that you would make disgusting claims, which my father would not believe. But you won't do that, Mr Dobbie. Because you know my father would not believe you, but most of all, because you would not want my father to think that you had done such a thing."

  Callum's thick brow furrowed, and his mouth twisted.

  For a moment, Bridie was really afraid that he was going to lift his other hand to strike her, but she managed to hold her gaze steady and avoid flinching.

  Then he broke into a slow grin. "Makes no difference. Once we're wed, I'll make you sorry you let his lordship anywhere near you. Oh aye. I'll take the skin off you."

  With that, he released her arm and swaggered out of the kitchen.

  #

  Perhaps she could do it. Perhaps she could go back to Dunwoodie, back to Lady Crieff and her life of learning and light, and yet resist the temptation of Lord John's importunities. Perhaps he would lose interest in her, or go abroad again, or at least leave for a lengthy stay in town.

  Surely it was worth the risk, if the alternative was ending up married to Callum Dobbie?

  Bridie stood that afternoon with her arms plunged to their elbows in foul dishwater, angrily scrubbing clean the breakfast and lunch dishes and some others that had been festering unwashed under Peggy's slipshod regime, her thoughts and feelings, her fears and longings, churning violently around in her heart and mind. She wondered if Lady Crieff would reply to her note, or if she had been so offended that she would never deign to notice her again. She wondered, and then she blushed and was angry with herself even for thinking of him, whether her absence would be explained to Lord John.

  Thankfully Callum was out with her father, tending to the horses on a farm beyond Kirkton. It was a wretched circumstance, to find
the comfort of her day depending once again on whether Callum was at home or at a distance. And that comfort was only ever temporary, as he would always return. The thought that he might soon return not merely to her supper table, but to her bed, was terrifying.

  There was a rattle at the front door, which Bridie paid no heed to. People were always stopping at the house to ask for the farrier, and either she or Peggy would let the passers-by know that there was no-one in the workshop at present. Since she was elbow-deep in washing-up, she left it to Peggy.

  But after a couple of minutes the knock at the door came more sharply, and there was no sound of Peggy's slow clumping footsteps. Bridie shook her arms out of the sink, dried them roughly on her apron, and went to answer the door herself.

  To her great surprise, the slight spare figure of Dr Menzies stood on the doorstep.

  He seemed to be alone. He bowed to her, in his usual gentlemanly way, and raised his hat.

  Bridie invited him in, hastily pulling down her sleeves and casting off her rough work apron in a vain attempt to look more respectable. She was conscious that strands of her hair were escaping the rough arrangement she had made that morning, and that her face was red and shiny with steam from the kitchen. It had taken her less than a day, she thought, to degenerate into a drudge.

  She felt self-conscious about showing Dr Menzies into the parlour for another reason; she had not forgotten that his wife, absurdly, had forbidden him to be alone with her.

  "I'm sorry my father is not here, sir," she said. "He and his apprentice have gone to West Farm, I don't expect him back until tea-time."

  "I know that he is gone from home, Bridie. I saw him pass by my window, heading in the other direction, not an hour ago. It is why I hastened here to speak to you."

  "Oh. You knew to find me here, then, and not at Dunwoodie?" This news had travelled very fast.

  "Most things reach the ears of the minister sooner rather than later, Bridie," Dr Menzies said gently, and with such meaning that Bridie blushed in dismay.

  She knew now how to account for this unexpected visit, and despite her innocence she was overwhelmed with shame. "Sir - " she stammered. "I am not - whatever people have said, I am still - it is not true."

  "I know you are honest, Bridie," said Dr Menzies, more gently still. "I know how you value yourself and your virtue. Merely because things reach the ears of the minister, it does not follow that he always believes them. I am also fully aware of the reputation for vice and lascivious behaviour, particularly towards his inferiors, that a certain gentleman of noble birth has earned for himself over the years. Remember, I have been minister at Kirkton for the past thirty years. I have seen most of the old Marquess's family grow up. The gentleman of whom we speak was a babe in his nursemaid's arms when I first came here. He may have been abroad for the past few years, but I knew of his inclinations before that. I have given assistance to more than one poor girl he left in distress."

  Bridie hung her head, appalled to feel that her heart ached at this. She was furious with herself for her own weakness.

  "I did not," he continued, "come to ask you whether what I had heard was true, because I knew it could not be. And when I further heard that you had returned to the shelter of your father's roof, I knew that you had taken that step to protect yourself and your honour."

  She nodded miserably, soothed by the kindness in the minister's tone, but wishing that it could really be as simple as he believed.

  "No, I did come to ask you a question, but it is this - I have also heard it said that you are betrothed to your father's apprentice, Mr Dobbie. Is this correct?"

  "No!" she blurted out, far more forcibly than she had intended.

  Dr Menzies looked taken aback. "Bridie, I don't mean to offend. I repeat what was told me by our parlour maid, who had it, I believe, from the poulterer's daughter."

  "I'm - I'm very sorry, Dr Menzies. It is just that this is distressing to me. I am not, I am not betrothed to Mr Dobbie. I gave him no promise. Indeed he asked me for no promise, not in so many words - he has never made me an offer, and if he had I would have refused him. But there has arisen a misunderstanding, and my father in his kindness and care for me wishes to see me well married, but I do not - I will not marry Callum Dobbie." To her dismay, she felt tears threatening.

  "Well, well, Bridie, don't distress yourself - I had thought it an unlikely alliance. Callum Dobbie is also someone I have known from an infant, and taught in the Sunday school, and while no doubt he is a hardworking, respectable enough young man, he is not at all the kind of superior person whom I think you would be able to respect as a partner in life. But young girls' heads are often turned by good looks and strong arms."

  "I do not in the least think Mr Dobbie good looking," said Bridie, her strength returning. "In truth, sir, he repulses me."

  "Now then, he is God's creature as are we all."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. But I do not want to marry him."

  "I think we have established that, my dear. Now when we last spoke on the subject, you were set upon a life of celibacy. Do you still wish for that?"

  "I - " She thought of the sensations that Lord John's touch had awakened in her. "If I could devote that life to learning, yes. But you told me that would not be possible, for someone of my station. If I could have remained in Lady Crieff's service, but - "

  "I think you very wise indeed not to have continued there, Bridie."

  "But I cannot continue here either!" she blurted out. "I'm sorry, sir, I know I'm an undutiful daughter, but my father believes that reading is idleness, and he has forbidden me all books but the Bible, and Mr Dobbie continues to behave as if we are betrothed, and my father approves!"

  Dr Menzies looked at her mildly over his half-moon spectacles. "Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

  "I know, sir. I'm sorry."

  "But now, listen to an alternative that may prove more pleasing to you, and prove acceptable to your father, also. It was necessary for me to ask you about your supposed engagement to Mr Dobbie, though I fear the question was indelicate, and you will understand why when I tell you that I have received a proposal of marriage for you."

  For one insane moment, she thought of Lord John. "A proposal of marriage, for me? From whom, sir?"

  "From a gentleman of whose existence you are at present entirely ignorant, and who has never seen you, either."

  "But how can that be, sir?"

  "I was once, as you know, proprietor of a school for boys. During that time, my most promising pupil was a lad called Angus MacAllister. He was son of a tacksman in Aberlogie, and he went up to the University in Edinburgh and did very well indeed there, so well that his professor wanted him to stay on and perhaps become a fellow there himself. Instead, he chose to follow in his father's footsteps and became tacksman to a laird in Inverness-shire, where he lives still. We meet now and then, and last time I saw him, he told me he wished to marry, and as soon as possible, if only he could find an intelligent and educated woman to be his bride. I had no hesitation in recommending you, my dear, on all counts."

  Bridie stared in astonishment. "And this gentleman - Mr MacAllister? - he wants to offer me his hand, on that basis?"

  "He has a great deal of respect for my judgement, my dear."

  "But he has never seen me! How does he know whether he will like me?"

  "I expect because I have told him that he certainly will."

  "And... what manner of man is he, sir?"

  "I have told you already that he was my ablest pupil at the school, and that he might have become a professor at the university, so you may have no doubts about his learning and intellect. He is pious and honest, of that I have no doubt, and lives by God's commandments. And consider this, Bridie. He desires, above all - above rank and fortune, above beauty - a wife of good understanding, who shares his love of learning. He would not, if you choose to accept him, deny you the use of books."

>   "He is not - an old man?"

  Dr Menzies chuckled. "He cannot be above thirty years of age."

  "A tacksman?" she said, stupidly. "That is - like a steward?"

  "Aye, but not like Mr Reid at Dunwoodie. In the Highlands, until recently at any rate, tacksmen lived amongst the farmers and managed the townships for the lairds. They are mostly done away with now. Sir Duncan Buccleuch has not improved his estate and abides by the old ways, so employs tacksmen still. Mr MacAllister is his kin on his mother's side."

  Her mind was blank. She knew nothing about life in the Highlands, except that it was supposed to be wild and backwards and very different from the gentle, fertile lands of the east coast of Scotland. And of course it had been a cradle of political turmoil and rebellion, a place which threatened the stability and prosperity of their country. Few alive now remembered 1745, but Bridie had still managed to pick up the impression that the Highlands were dangerous.

  Then the reality of what Dr Menzies was proposing hit her, and she forgot about politics and geography and shook her head. "I cannot," she said. "How can I promise to marry a man I have never set eyes on?"

  "I understand your misgivings, Bridie, your modesty and apprehension, but it seems to me that circumstances here have become intolerable. This would offer you a way to escape."

  She did not need him to tell her that, nor to say it in so gentle and sympathetic a way. "Marriage is a very serious undertaking, sir," she said. "Surely, it should not be entered into merely as an - escape. As for - circumstances - are we not called upon to endure?"

  "I do not believe that God means for us to suffer dumbly," said Dr Menzies seriously. "Angus MacAllister is a good man, whom I believe would make you a good husband, and you might live with him far away from everything that troubles you here. I hope, Bridie, that you are not reluctant to consider this because of any unwise affection for someone who can never address you honourably."