by Fiona Monroe
Startled, she said, "N-no, sir."
He looked at her evenly. "Pamela is fiction, Bridie. The licentious lord never marries the virtuous serving-maid. He ruins her and leaves her in distress you cannot imagine, whatever promises he makes and whatever gifts he showers upon her for a time. Think carefully about this, my dear. I do not expect you to make up your mind right now. Reflect upon it, pray over it, and bring me your answer when you are ready."
Chapter TEN
As sure as she was of what that answer would be, two things happened the very next day to shake her resolve.
On her second day back home, Bridie was still by no means reconciled to returning to the drudgery of rising an hour before the men in the house to lay the fires and cook breakfast. By afternoon she was tired out, accustomed as she had become to lying in until seven and doing no physical work. Her father and Callum were in the workshop, and to escape the danger of being cornered by Callum for a couple of hours at least, she decided to walk into Kirkton to buy candles; the house was shockingly low on supplies of various essentials, and it was obvious that Peggy had barely managed in Bridie's absence.
She had not told her father about Dr Menzies's visit the day before, nor about the extraordinary proposition he had put to her. She found herself less troubled in her conscience by this omission than she would have been, before she had gone to Dunwoodie. She wondered if he could really have his heart set on her marrying Callum in particular, or if marriage to any respectable man was all the good he wished for her; she suspected that her father had fixed on Callum because of the convenience it would be to himself, to have her never leave home. What would he think if she left him entirely, and went to live in the faraway wilds of deepest Inverness-shire?
Again, her mind went blank as she tried to picture it. She was walking along the main road, heading for Kirkton, enjoying despite everything the warmth of the sun, the soft sweetness of the air, and the newly verdant green all around. She was just passing the little copse that marked, in her mind, the halfway point between home and the first buildings of Kirkton, when a very distinctive horse turned the corner of the road ahead.
She recognised the animal at a glance, even at a distance, and did not need to look up to know who its rider was. She stopped, fixed to the spot, knowing that she should run and hide herself. But there was nowhere on the empty road to run to, and he had spotted her anyway. He had doubtless been looking out for her. She might run into the woods, but he could pursue her.
And she knew that he had seen her, because he reigned Satan to a stop so violently that the huge stallion reared terrifyingly into the air with an almighty snort. Bridie's heart jumped into her mouth; she was sure no-one could remain seated through such a leap. The horse had seemed to loom almost vertical. But when it came back to the ground in a cascade of hooves and thundered towards her, churning the dust of the road in clouds, Lord John was still very much astride its back.
She knew she ought to have put her head down and carried on walking, as if she had not seen him or intended to pay him no heed, instead of standing there waiting for him to reach her. The shock of seeing him so unexpectedly had temporarily robbed her of the power of motion.
As he drew level with her he pulled hard on Satan's reigns again, and Bridie jumped back in alarm. This time, however, the stallion did not rear, though it stomped its great hooves and bellowed through its nostrils.
Lord John glared down at her. "I must talk with you," he said without preamble.
Her throat felt dry. She allowed herself a moment to moisten her mouth before speaking. "My lord, this is a public highway. Anyone might come by. I would rather not be seen with you."
"Whyever the hell not? I'm your master, am I not?"
"You are not my master, my lord. I have left her ladyship's service, and even then - I was her ladyship's attendant, not yours."
"You live on our estate. I'm pretty sure your father, for instance, works for my brother, and lives in a house belonging to him. I'm pretty sure that if we had a mind to it, we could turn you all out onto the road."
Bridie picked up her basket and carried on walking in the direction of Kirkton, a surge of anger in her breast. She did not take these threats seriously - she was certain that the Marchioness, if appealed to, would never permit such an outrage - but it pained her that Lord John had stooped low enough to deliver them.
Indeed, Lord John himself seemed sensible of this. In a completely different tone he said, "Bridie, wait - wait. Please, Bridie," as he trotted after her and a little ahead of her.
He swung the stallion, skittering, around to block her path.
She stopped. It was that, or collide with fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh.
Lord John swung himself from the beast's back in one smooth, practised motion, and stood before her, one hand holding Satan's reigns. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. God, you drive me to distraction, Bridie. I am going out of my mind. You must have pity on me. I have heard - a dreadful report."
Startled by this, Bridie made the mistake of lifting her head and looking him in the eyes. She began to feel the mesmeric spell of those eyes immediately. "What, my lord?"
"That you are engaged to be married, to some fellow in your own rank of life, and that is why you left us so abruptly. Is it true?"
Would he let her alone if she claimed to be betrothed? She doubted it, and anyway she would not lie. "I am not promised to anyone, my lord."
He let out a breath, and beamed. "Well, thank God for that. Though I had come with the intention of dissuading you from the match in any case."
"What possible reason could my lord have for wishing to dissuade me from a match in, as you said, my own rank of life?"
"God, Bridie, how can you say that? You know I am in love with you."
"Please, my lord. I wish you would not say such things. I know you mean nothing by them, but it is very distressing to me."
"I mean nothing by them? My beloved, my Dark Lady. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service."
"Please, my lord."
"I am very serious, Bridie. Desperately so. Look - come with me, come somewhere we can talk."
"My lord, I cannot, I must not. My reputation is already - there are already shameful rumours, and you must know that, my lord. If I were seen with you now, and my father heard of it - it would break his heart."
"Oh hang it all, I only want to talk. I swear to you, Bridie, by all that's sacred. If you will come with me, I'll offer you no importunity. I swear on my dear mother's grave, I'll not lay a finger upon you unless you wish it. But I have a very serious proposition to put to you. Come with me, come into these woods here, if you are so concerned about being observed."
Bridie glanced up and down the short stretch of road. It was still empty, but she knew that at any moment, someone could come around either corner on foot or on horseback or driving a cart. Since Lord John was clearly not going to give up and leave her alone, she would be seen with him. Retreating with him into the cover of the trees was, at this moment, the lesser of two evils; at least, she hoped it was.
She sent up a short, silent prayer for protection, and reluctantly followed him into the copse.
#
They wended their way without speaking far enough into amongst the trees to be beyond observation from the highway, Lord John leading the horse on a short reign. Despite his size and fearsome aspect, Satan seemed calm and tractable enough for a stallion. When they emerged into a small, deeply shaded clearing, Lord John tied the reign to a stout branch and patted the animal's flank. Satan stood placidly, and began to nibble at the moss.
Bridie had been careful to take note of any distinguishing features on trees as they passed them, and she was sure she knew the way back to the road. She prayed that a dash for safety would not be necessary, but it was as well to be prepared.
"Oh, for pity's sake don't look so terrified," Lord John said, throwing up his hands. "I gave you my word
that I would offer you no insult, I swore it on my mother's grave - and my mother was the sweetest and best of women. Do you take me for a liar and an oath breaker, Bridie? Do you think I would insult her memory?"
"No, my lord," Bridie whispered.
She thought fleetingly of the old Marchioness, whom she realised that Lord John strongly resembled, if she could trust the memory of her ten-year-old self. She had a very clear picture in her mind of a tall, fair lady still of striking loveliness.
"Then please, my dearest love, come and sit by me. Here. The ground is dry, the moss is comfortable. I shall sit here, you see? Here are my hands." He held them up. "They stay here. I only want to talk."
Reluctantly, and because she felt ridiculous continuing to stand before him now that he had perched nimbly on the mossy ground, Bridie knelt as far away from him as she dared, discretely tucking her skirts round her ankles as she did so.
"Bridie," he said. "May I take your hand?"
Since he asked so courteously, it seemed impossible to refuse him. She extended her hand hesitantly towards him, and he held it quite chastely.
"My Dark Lady," he said, and closed his eyes for a moment.
She knew she ought to pull away from him. She knew she ought to leap to her feet and run for the road, for her life. She stayed, relishing the press of his long fine fingers, stealing glances into his handsome face.
"I have never felt for any woman what I feel for you," he said, after a charged silence. "I realised that when I learned you were gone, and all the more when I heard you were to be married to some bonehead farrier. You are the most extraordinary girl I have ever met. Can I leave you languishing in a humble home, wed to an illiterate labourer? No, Dark Lady, let me put diamonds in those ebony tresses, let me match the sparkle of those obsidian eyes with strings of jet. Anything, anything you want shall be yours, and see here - I will have a lawyer draw up a contract, I don't ask you to trust airy promises. You shall have a fine set of rooms all of your own in Edinburgh, and gowns, and jewels and pin-money. And books, Bridie, books! All this, I will give you, and more - come with me to Europe, see Rome and Paris and Genoa with me! Not Venice, not for now, but - would you not like to see these places?"
Bridie closed her eyes. She still did not withdraw her hand, but she could feel tears below the lids. She fought to keep her voice steady as she answered. "My lord, you promised to offer me no insult. What greater insult could you offer than to ask me to trade my honour for jewels and gowns?"
He uttered an exclamation of furious exasperation and threw her hand aside, then got to his feet. She cradled it to her breast.
"What would you have me do?" he cried, pacing about. "I tell you, you may name your price."
"My lord, I tell you, I am not for sale. If you truly felt affection for me, you would not degrade me by proposing it."
"God damn it, Bridie, what would you have me do?"
"I would have you leave me in peace, my lord. And I would have you stop taking the Lord's name in vain."
"I tell you, I love you!"
"I am sorry, my lord."
"Tell me that you do not love me too."
Her eyes still closed, Bridie shook her head. She could not tell a lie, but she hardly knew how to answer. She wasn't sure she knew what love was.
Her hand was in his again, but seized by force this time. Startled, she opened her eyes and found his face inches from her.
"You do," he breathed. "I see it in the sparkle of those coal-black eyes, I see it in the blush on that snow-white cheek. They cannot demur."
Before she could summon the will to utter a protest, his lips were on hers, and she was wrapped in his arms. The sensation was so sweet that for a few deadly moments everything seemed to break free in her; nothing that felt so good could be so wrong, and perhaps it would be all right after all if she gave herself up to him.
He kissed her neck, the only part of her that was bare, and that sent shivers up and down her whole body.
"No," she murmured.
He stopped her mouth with his once more, and then he cupped her breast through the thin fabric of her dress and gently pinched its tip. There was nothing between his fingers and the stiff, tender nipple but a few threads of cotton, and as he tweaked it, she gasped.
"Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?" He pressed his cheek against hers and spoke into her ear, as his hand continued to caress her bosom. "Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough. Did your tutor ever tell you what the Bard meant by 'die'?"
It was his ridiculous habit of quoting torn-off shreds of Shakespeare at tender moments that saved her. On the one hand, it made her just for a moment think him silly; and on the other, it reminded her of what she really valued most. Remembering Dr Menzies, and the books she loved, gave her the courage and strength to overcome both her would-be seducer, and her own frailty. She pulled away and scrambled to her feet. "You must excuse me, my lord."
"Bridie!"
She even managed to curtsy before she boldly turned her back on him and walked away through the trees towards the road. She did not run, or stumble, or flee.
"Bridie - you have not given me your answer!"
She did not look back.
#
Bridie forgot about going to Kirkton, forgot about the lack of candles. She turned back towards home in a daze and paced along the road so rapidly that she reached the bridge that gave her village its name before she felt that she had caught back her breath. Every moment, she expected to hear the thundering hooves of Satan behind her.
Then she laughed out loud. "Get thee behind me, Satan," she said under her breath. "Thou art an offence unto me, for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men."
How apt the Saviour's words were. She was not sure whether her amusement was bordering on blasphemy, or whether her laughter was a spontaneous prayer of joy for her deliverance. Her head was dizzy with a peculiar mix of relief and terror, and she could hardly keep her thoughts straight. This time, once again, she had escaped intact. But simply removing herself from Dunwoodie had not put her beyond danger, and she had no doubt now that he would continue to pursue her. How could he think that she had not given him an answer to his disgusting proposal?
Because her lips, her sighs and her yielding body had given him a different answer, moments later. She could not fail to acknowledge that in her heart.
When she turned the corner that brought her house into view, she halted in momentary dismay. The Marquess's carriage was standing in front of the workshop, two coachmen holding its horses. As Bridie hurried past towards the house, she saw that Callum was lolling by the forge, arms folded across his chest, scowling at her.
She had hardly dared to imagine that it might be so, but she was nonetheless not actually surprised to find the Marchioness herself seated in the parlour, with her father standing in exceptionally uncomfortable attendance. Only Lord and Lady Crieff themselves ever used the magnificent coach, emblazoned with the Marquess's crest.
Bridie's heart turned over as Lady Crieff struggled to rise. She had not imagined that her mistress would go from home now, even so far as Bridge of Auchtie; she had returned from her visit to Mrs Arbuthnott exhausted and sore and vowing that she would not travel in the carriage again until she was relieved of her burden. Yet here she was, here for her, and she seemed to have come alone.
Bridie curtseyed, and Lady Crieff caught her in a hug. "Oh, my dear," she said, her voice breaking a little. "I wanted to come yesterday, but I was ill, and my husband was too alarmed for me to dare to make the attempt - "
"My lady, you should not have come just for me. I'm so sorry."
"No, Bridie. Hush. It is important. Mr MacFarlane, I wonder if you would be so good as to allow me to invite your daughter to accompany me on a short walk."
Her father could hardly object, and in fact looked deeply relieved to be rid of his illustrious visitor. Lady Crieff tucked her arm into Bridie's and did not speak again until they were outside.
"Is there a pleasant lane or walk of any sort nearby, away from the road?" she asked.
"There's a path by the burn which leads to Easter Mains, my lady, where we get our milk. I often walk that way. It's quiet."
"That sounds perfect. I did not want to talk indoors. It is such a lovely day - and besides, even in great houses, one never knows who might be listening behind a door. Your father's house being so small, I should imagine that privacy is near impossible."
Bridie had never thought of her father's house as small before she had lived at Dunwoodie.
"My lady," she began in a rush, "I am so sorry that I left you so suddenly, but when I saw my father and spoke to him I knew I could not - "
"Dr Menzies has spoken with me, Bridie."
"Oh. I see. I - what did he say, my lady?"
"He told me that he was asked to convey a proposal of marriage from a young man well known to him, who wished above all an intelligent and educated wife, and was indifferent to degree and fortune. A respectable man, not what in England would be called a gentleman, but not a low person either. I confess I do not entirely understand how things are in Scotland, and I am given to understand that in your ancient Highlands, things are different still. But my impression was, that the man who has offered you his hand is steward to a baronet in Inverness-shire?"
"A tacksman, my lady."
"That would be a good match for the daughter of a farrier, Bridie. A very good match, if we were in England."
"But - my lady - I do not know him! I did not think - " She stopped herself.
"You did not think what, Bridie? That I would encourage you to take such things into account when considering matrimony?"
This had been more or less what Bridie had not felt able to say, so she hung her head and watched the sunlight dappling through the branches of the overhanging trees as they walked along the path by the burn.
"I am very worried about you," Lady Crieff continued in a lower tone, pressing her arm closer to her as they walked. "You think, I imagine, that I have not been aware of what has been going on, but I am not stupid, nor am I blind. Nor am I above listening to servants' gossip. Your father disapproves of your studies - that I have from you, no matter that you try your best to honour your father and never complain of it. There are reports that you are to marry your father's apprentice - which I know must be untrue, because I have seen the man. I cannot believe that you would freely choose to stay here, under those circumstances."