The Handfasters

by Helen Susan Swift

  But what if he did not?

  That thought terrified me, so I pushed it away and decided to explore my surroundings.

  Luckily the rain had stopped so it was easy to walk up the heathery slope immediately behind my cottage and look at the hills. January is always a bitter cold month in Scotland, so I was glad of Mr Kemp's heavy travelling cloak as I tramped up the dead heather, holding my skirt with my left hand and swinging my right for better balance. Now, you will know that walking in the hills can be exhilarating, or fun, or downright exhausting, but sometimes the wilds can be a dismal place. It all depends on your mood.

  When I had travelled with Kemp, the Pentlands had been a magical place, full of promise and fun, with shapely hills and the smooth burr of hidden burns, but once I was alone, the whole atmosphere altered. They immediately assumed a sombre outlook, dark and grim, with the grey skies oppressive and the deep silences accusing me of abandoning my true life.

  I did not enjoy that afternoon as I viewed the grey-green slopes and listened to the constant rustle of that unforgiving wind that seemed to be plucking at me, as if determined to remove me from the slope and deposit me back down in the low country. I felt unwanted there, an intruder into a place that I did not belong, and I soon scurried back to the cottage. There was a tinder box for the fire and enough fuel for the night, so I did not freeze, but I was certainly not warm and cosy. I also had no maid to keep the flames alive, and nobody with whom to argue or discuss the world.

  I did read, but books are no consolation for company. I could not concentrate on words that danced across the page with my wayward thoughts, and I truly contemplated leaving that place and walking back to Edinburgh. One look outside persuaded me to stay, however, for the weather had closed in with the night and sleeting rain hammered at the stone walls and clamoured at the small windows. I was all alone in a tiny cottage, trapped by weather and circumstances and feeling very sorry for myself.

  With nothing better to do I had a brief wash and went to bed. But not to sleep, for all I could hear was the howl of the wind around the eaves and the batter of rain on the tiny window. I lay there for much of the night, full of self pity as I wept. I, who had so recently despised Louise for her tears, cried away that night.

  Morning brought only gloom as the unrelenting hills showed me no pity. The rain continued, and the fire had gone out. I had forgotten how much labour was involved in raking free the grate and rebuilding with paper and kindling, with hands red with cold and a stomach hollow with hunger, for I was too cold to eat.

  Suffice to say, my dears, that I was unhappy in that darling little cottage, and I remained that way for some two days. Solitary days mark you, for my oh-so-handsome Willie Kemp did not come to visit and I was left with only his memory and those already fading winter roses.

  What can I tell you of that time alone in that stark cottage? Not a great deal, for one day was like the dismal next and all the time I waited, hoping for the door to open and Mr Kemp to walk in. Love is like that, you see, all the hardships and confusion of the early relationships matter less than a tear in the Atlantic Ocean once your sweetheart smiles to you. All you live for is the sound of his voice, or the sight of his face, or one whiff of the tobacco he stuffs in his pipe and when you have that, all your troubles are small and your day has been worthwhile.

  Well, I waited for any of these things, and not a damned one came. Pardon my language dears, but even now I can recall the long drear days when I had to fend for myself and I thought that Willie Kemp, like love and hope, had deserted me. By the third day I knew my surroundings so well, despite the rain, that I wandered further than my wont, and I saw a sight that brought home to me exactly how bitter was my plight.

  There was enough food in the cottage to last me the winter, and enough fuel outside to keep Edinburgh warm, yet alone one small building, so there was nothing to keep me occupied save reading. I knew the best of the books by heart and had little interest in anything intellectual, so I was soon bored. Throwing on that heavy cloak of Mr Kemp's, I took to walking. At first I kept close to the cottage, but that soon palled, so I ventured further.

  On my second and longer walk, I started when I saw a shadowy figure vanish below the skyline of heather, and I wished I had brought a stick. I gave a long halloo to prove I was not scared, but succeeded only in hurting my throat. When I ascended the ridge, there was nobody to be seen, so I shrugged off the feeling that I was being watched. It was probably the local shepherd, I told myself, for the Pentlands were infested with sheep. You could hardly move for tripping over the things with their great woolly bodies and their jaws always munch-munch-munching twenty to the dozen.

  Anyway, I walked further than I intended, and was I came to a great house. I had thought that these hills were as desolate as the Monadhliath, so the sight of a civilised abode placed in the middle of the waste was very surprising. As you know, I was brought up in large houses, and I could recognise a good house from a poor one, and the property I saw that day would have passed muster among top quality buildings anywhere in the world. Oh it was not the largest I have seen, far from it, or even the grandest, but it screamed elegance from every stone and slate that had built it. The designer, or architect, whoever he was, knew his job and had created a building that merged perfectly with the hills, yet retained so much dignity and style that I nearly curtsied as soon as I crested the hill and looked upon it.

  I did not know the name, but crept closer, attracted by the beauty especially when compared to my own poor condition. I soon wished that I had remained at a distance, for the ground floor windows were open and the sound of laughter and gaiety came forth. Shivering in the persistent Pentland drizzle, I huddled behind a tree, for the policies were well wooded and immaculately groomed, and looked inside.

  They were dancing. I hated the idea of people dancing and living a normal life while I suffered in a peasant's shack. And then I recognised them; there was Mrs Cairnsmuir, laughing with Alexander Forres, there was a group of officers, resplendent in their kilts and scarlet, and there was my beloved cousin, Louise. I stared at her for a long moment. Did she not care that I was missing? Why was she not out scouring the streets of Edinburgh or these benighted hills?

  Feeling completely wretched, I watched as Louise took hold of a man and led him from that chandelier-lit dance hall. A light flickered and flared and I saw them appear at a window upstairs, laughing together and obviously happy in each other's company. I recognised the man as one of the French prisoners of war from Lady Catriona's ball, and I swallowed away my misery. When even French prisoners were having a better time than me, I knew that there was something seriously amiss with the world. At that moment I truly hated my life, myself and especially Willie Kemp, damn his scheming hide. I did not know then, that I would soon meet my husband.

  Chapter Nine

  The snow came on the seventh day, and the cold cottage became positively Baltic, with ice forming on the inside of the window and my breath coming in clouds. I forced myself to leave its meagre shelter to drag in peat from the stack outside, and I looked anew at these once-friendly Pentland Hills.

  Now they were stark and drear and bitter. Snow has the ability to harden the edges of hills and increase their apparent height, so I was a dwarf in a landscape fashioned by winter giants. Even with Mr Kemp's cloak on I was cold, but there was no peat left in the house and I had to gather fuel from the outside stack. That meant using a spade to break the surface frost and taking the blocks, piece by piece inside the house. That was a hard job, my dears, so don't let anybody tell you that country life was idyllic in the old days. It was hard work, pure and simple, and to be lax was to freeze or starve. I thought I might do both that morning, when I realised that there was no water left.

  If I had been sensible, I would have melted some of the abundant snow, but instead I took the pail and walked down to the burn, slithering and falling with nearly every step. Women's boots, you know, are not designed for hard wearing. Men's boots, howe
ver, are and I felt a new kind of chill when I saw the unmistakable imprint of a man's foot in the snow. It was a large footprint, and two of the nails in the heel, I remember, were slightly askew.

  I had thought myself safe in this remote cottage, and then I recalled that shadowy shape I had seen the day I saw Louise with that Frenchman. I was obviously not alone out here, and how desperately I wished that Willie Kemp would appear to take me somewhere less dangerous, where I had some company and there were no strange men haunting the heights.

  “Oh Mr Kemp,” I breathed. “Please come soon!”

  The burn was beyond freezing, so cold that I could barely put my hand in it, but needs must so I broke the surface ice, dipped in the pail and scooped up enough water for my needs. As you can imagine, I was not happy, but as my tears only froze on my cheeks I soon stopped crying, save for the odd sniff or two, and carried on.

  It is hard to describe my feelings at that time. Did I regret leaving Aunt Elspeth's house? Well, yes. Very much and I was very tempted to go back, but my stubborn pride bade me remain. Did I regret running from a marriage to John Forres? Yes, when I considered that the alternative was a lifetime of suffering and toil; marriage is only part of your life, my dears, and very few marriages are conducted on the basis of equality and constant romance. Some are, mind, and if you can find a man that will give you that, then dig your nails in deep and hang on for grim death.

  However, at that minute, with my feet wet and cold, my breath clouding uncomfortably around my face and a bucket of freezing water slopping around my legs, romance was the last thing on my mind. Whatever the future held, living like some mediaeval peasant was not my ideal choice, and I resolved to escape from this life of drudgery as quickly as I could. I had been in this rural idyll for a week, you see, and that was more than enough for me.

  Stamping my feet to keep them warm, I headed back to the cottage. I had perhaps a hundred yards to walk, all uphill, and carrying a full pail of water. Of course I slipped, and of course I fell, and of course the contents of that pail cascaded over me.

  Now, ordinarily, such a scene would be funny, as long as it happened to somebody else, but when you are living out in the wild, and you have to create your own heat, such an event is serious. I lay on the ground for just an instant before rising and hurrying as quickly as I could back to the cottage.

  By the time I reached the front door my fingers and toes were numb, and most other parts were not far behind, so I piled peat and wood on the still smouldering fire with no thought about saving some for the evening, and began to strip off my clothes. I knew that I had to get warm as quickly as I could, or pneumonia might set in, so I wasted no time, peeling off everything and leaving them strewn around the room. Normally a maid would be there to tidy up after me, but not this time. You have no idea how we depend on servants until they are not there.

  I am here to tell you my dears, that there is no fire quite as warming as a peat fire flame. It is gentle and kindly, yet gives a heat that seeps into your bones. Coal is somehow harsher, and poor quality coal can split and spark, which is not advisable when you are crouching a foot away from the flames in the same state of innocence as Eve.

  Strangely, I was quite enjoying the warmth when the door opened and Mr Kemp walked in. He later claimed that he had knocked, but I was never sure whether to believe him or not, but my initial reaction was to cover myself. I immediately realised the irony, that he should catch me in the same state of undress, and for a similar reason, that I had caught him, and then I also remembered my thoughts on that occasion.

  After my initial embarrassment, I had enjoyed the novel view, and indeed that incident remains one of my fondest memories, something that I unlock from its cabinet on the cold winter's nights. After all, I am an old lady now, so must be allowed to indulge in my fantasies. Do not allow pointless guilt to ruin your life, my dears; we all share the same feelings, to a greater or lesser degree, and despite what propriety would force upon us, I think it is natural to savour the attractions of the opposite sex: if it were not, then there would be no babies born and where would that leave us all?

  I saw the same shock displayed on Mr Kemp's face as I remember feeling myself, but rather than cringe away, I stood proud. After all, if I had pleasurable memories, then surely he must also be allowed the same. My but I was a proud hussie, was I not? Holding his eyes, I dropped my hands to my side.

  “Mr Kemp,” I said, as formally as if we were in Aunt Elspeth's withdrawing room. I dropped in a curtsey, aware that his eyes had strayed from mine for more than a fraction of a second.

  He turned around quickly, covering his face. “A thousand apologies,” he said, and it was the first, and I believe the only, time that I heard him stutter.

  “Mr Kemp,” I said, in charge of the situation for once. “There is no need to apologise. But please close the door.”

  Rather than have him escape into the cold, I forestalled him by walking past, naked as I was, and pushing the door to.

  “Mr Kemp,” I said again. “Do you not like what you see?”

  Now my dears, you may think me bold to the point of wanton, a shameless hussy and anything but a gentlewoman, but my generation lived by different rules. This present queen and her German husband, Albert something-or-other-that-I-cannot-pronounce, have changed the nature of society. We had none of your stuffiness. We believed that life was for living, and we played fast and loose with chance. Gambling was a passion, and we could gamble with our emotions and lives as easily as with cards dice and money.

  Still with his back turned, Mr Kemp said nothing.

  “Did you not hear me, Mr Kemp?” I took the two steps toward him, put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around. Now, that should have been an impossible task, for he was a tall man and as strong as any blacksmith born, but it seemed that the simple pressure from my forefinger was enough. He turned toward me, still with one hand covering his eyes.

  “Mr Kemp,” I said, and I could hear a strange huskiness in my voice that I had never heard before. “Am I to accept the fact that you find the sight of me offensive?”

  “Indeed no,” he said, “Quite the reverse, but it is not right that I should look…”

  “In what way is it not right?” I asked, but then I knew that Mr Kemp was a gentleman in the true and proper sense of the word. He had walked in on me when I was at my most vulnerable, and he took no advantage.

  “My dear Miss Lamont,” he said, and I swear there was a tremor in his voice. “Pray cover yourself.”

  I stepped back, rustled the dry clothes that I had placed on the table, and said. “There you are.”

  When he uncovered his eyes I was as naked as before.

  “Miss Lamont!”

  But this time I was too quick for him, and held his hands before he could raise them to his face. Again it was strange how a weak woman like me could control such a powerful man.

  He looked at me frankly as I watched his eyes, and only when I was ready did I turn, and walk slowly to my dry clothes. His hands were still by his side when he reached the table, but he was not smiling. There was nothing to frighten a girl in that solemn, thoughtful face.

  “Indeed I do like what I see,” he told me frankly. “And there is nothing offensive to my eyes.”

  “Then we are equally matched,” I was still in command of the situation. “For I liked what I saw in your shed by the loch.”

  I had expected him to colour up, as he had done before, but instead he gave that slow smile. “You are the only woman to have ever seen me like that save my mother.”

  “Ah,” I smiled back as I began to dress. I had no fear, you see, that he would attempt to ravish me, and no embarrassment at all in front of Willie Kemp. You should never have fear or embarrassment with the man you love, my dears, and if you have either, then I ask you to examine your love thoroughly, for something is not right. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same. You are not the first of your sex to see me as nature intended.”

  �
�No?” His head came up at once, as I had hoped it would, but he was too much of a gentleman to enquire further.

  I allowed the thought to torment him a little longer as I completed hauling on my underthings and moved on to the next layer of clothing. “I have three brothers,” I said, and enjoyed the sudden relaxation of his face. I completed his education with a smile, a twist of my hips that I learned from Louise and a few significant words. “But they are the only ones to have seen me au naturalle, and not for many years.”

  There was warm light behind his eyes now, and I needed only say one more thing to capture him completely, I thought.

  “I do not intend any other man save you to see me in such a state of undress.”

  Was that not as good as a marriage proposal? Was I not hinting as hard as I could that I wanted to marry him, despite our difference in social standing?

  “Many men would be sorry to hear you say that,” Willie Kemp made a gallant attempt at a compliment, but again sidestepped the main question. Would that man never commit himself to me?

  I completed my dressing with my first feeling of humiliation that day. “I am glad that you have finally arrived Mr Kemp.” It was difficult to regain my dignity only seconds after offering him everything that I had, but I tried my best. “For there is a strange man lurking around this cottage.”

  “Is there?” Mr Kemp raised his eyebrows. He seemed more comfortable speaking with a fully dressed woman. “What sort of strange man, Miss Lamont, and when did you see him?”

  “I have not seen him,” I admitted, “but I thought I saw someone in the hills a few days ago, and there was a footprint in the snow.”

  “You saw a footprint in the snow!” Mr Kemp shook his head. I swear he was mocking me. “And was this footprint also lurking around the cottage?”