Wild Catriona

by Oliver, Marina

  At dinner she had been subdued, had agreed politely with his remarks, yet when she was not speaking, he had caught a look of pain and worry in her eyes. Was this because of her mother's illness? Had her father died? If so, was that recent?

  'Oh, forget the wench!' he exclaimed, realising he had been staring out of the window for the past half hour. He dipped his pen into the inkwell.

  She had unusual skills, too. Most girls were taught the rudiments of treating wounds and illnesses, but he would wager few could put a dislocated shoulder back into the socket, as she had claimed. He shuddered. Thank goodness that had been unnecessary. Well-bred girls, however, might paint in watercolours or sketch, but few would even think of printing their own designs on material, or be so proficient. She must have done a great deal.

  'This is insupportable!' he exclaimed, when he became aware that his thoughts had drifted once more.

  Tossing aside the pen he'd been using, or hadn't been using, he thought in disgust, he seized his hat and strode from the office. He needed some better distraction than bringing his ledgers up to date, or replying to prospective customers. He would pay a call on Mistress MacLeod. Her husband was away in London, and she would be welcoming, as she always was.

  *****

  Mr MacNeill was becoming a tedious bore, Catriona thought, and sighed as she pretended to listen. Why did her aunt and uncle appear so enamoured of the man? He'd become so involved in life of the village he seemed to be running it. Elected to the Kirk Sessions, he was busily instructing Francis Dalhousie, the Clerk, who was also the schoolmaster, how to improve the lessons in the school. She'd heard from Betsy, who often came to sit with Mary Duncan, that he was also telling the Minister how to preach his sermons more effectively.

  He seemed to dine with them at least once a week, and had taken to calling in at all times of the day to ask her uncle's opinion of a passage of translation, or obtain advice from her aunt about alterations to The Lodge, the house he had purchased. This was one topic on which he didn't appear to have fixed and unalterable opinions, Catriona thought waspishly. Aunt Joan seemed perfectly willing to offer advice on the many changes he proposed, and did her utmost to induce Catriona to accompany her when a visit was deemed necessary.

  This evening he had chosen for his topic of conversation the problems of accurately representing Greek names of characters in the dramas in English.

  'Why does it matter?' she asked at last, fearing that her silence would be interpreted by her uncle as sullenness.

  Uncle Colin had become more critical of late. Nothing she could do appeared to satisfy him, and he was constantly chastising her for faults she was scarcely aware of.

  'My dear young lady, of course it matters,' Mr MacNeill replied, laughing in a condescending way. Catriona bit her lip to hold back a fierce retort, then had to suppress her shudders as he put his podgy hand on top of hers, and patted it. His skin was greasy, he oozed perspiration even on cold days, his perfume was heavy and sickly, and her aversion to him was growing with every meeting.

  'I don't understand,' she managed to say, moving her hand away swiftly.

  He smiled, shaking his head . 'You are only a feeble woman, my dear. Why should you? This will be the definitive translation, and it will be followed by all scholars who come after me. One has to get it right.'

  Finally dinner was over, and before Aunt Joan could think to command her presence in the drawing room, Catriona escaped with the excuse of visiting her mother.

  Mary Duncan barely left her bed now. She ate little, and seemed to exist in a state of half-sleeping. It was difficult to engage her attention for more than a few minutes at a time, and though she told Catriona that she enjoyed being read to, within seconds her eyes would close. Sometimes she seemed to be in a dreamlike state, and when she talked then, she later could not recall what she had said. She wasn't, she insisted, in pain, and her sister-in-law, along with the doctors she summoned from Edinburgh and Aberdeen, was at a loss. They suggested noxious concoctions, but after one of these made her vomit so violently that Catriona had thought she would expire that minute, Aunt Joan had decreed she should not be plagued with them.

  'They prescribe merely to justify their fee,' she said in disgust. 'None of them knows what is wrong. I can relieve her pain with an infusion of pennyroyal if she needs it, but she does not appear to suffer.'

  Mary was awake. 'Is that Thomas I can hear downstairs?' she asked fretfully. 'He hasn't been to see me.'

  'He's not here,' Catriona tried to reassure her, but Mary did not seem to understand. All that evening and the next day she asked why Thomas was not visiting her.

  Even had he been in the house, Catriona doubted he would agree to visit his aunt. He'd often said sickrooms depressed him. Catriona suspected his real reason was boredom. As Aunt Joan always supported him, saying young men were out of place trying to comfort the sick, Catriona did not expect she'd be able to persuade him to visit her mother. She'd have to go on making excuses for him.

  Mary was dozing, late the following afternoon, when the sound of a horse approaching the house woke her.

  'Thomas,' she said, attempting to raise herself.

  'I don't think so,' Catriona said, hurrying across from the window, where she had been watching the rider. 'It's a stranger.'

  The man, a squat, burly individual, was admitted to the house, and Catriona, to her relief, saw that her mother had dropped once more into a doze.

  It was some time later before her aunt appeared, and seeing that Mary was asleep, beckoned Catriona from the room.

  'Hush, we mustn't wake her,' she whispered, and tiptoed down the stairs. She led the way into her husband's sanctum, which he called his library, and where he retreated when he wished to be alone, or when he had business to transact.

  It was a dark room, panelled in oak, and badly lit from one small window. Only one bookcase stood against the wall opposite the window, and Catriona had never seen her uncle reading any of the books it contained. She peered through the gloom, and saw her uncle behind his desk, with the recent arrival seated in a chair before him.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the poor light she saw that he was ruddy-cheeked, with small, bright blue eyes and a long curved scar running from his left eyebrow to his chin, leaving a white beardless line which showed stark against his bushy black whiskers. He was big, his shoulders wide, but he was muscular rather than fat.

  'Mr Campbell brings bad news, my dear,' Uncle Colin said, and to Catriona's surprise, rose from his chair and came across the room. 'Come, sit down.'

  'Bad news?' Catriona could not go on. She had a suspicion of what was to come. The man looked like a seaman, and there could be only one piece of news which would make her uncle behave so solicitously towards her.

  He nodded ponderously. 'Mr Campbell is captain of a trading ship. He has just returned from a voyage to China.'

  Catriona gulped. 'Yes?'

  'He saw your father's ship, listing badly. Before he could go to its aid it had sunk. There were only two survivors. I'm afraid your father was drowned, my dear. It's what we've feared for many months, but this is final proof.'

  Catriona looked at him, and saw nothing. It had been expected, and she thought she had come to terms with it, but knowing, being certain, was worse than she had ever anticipated. Her beloved, kindly father was no more.

  'When?' she managed to whisper.

  'Nine months ago,' Uncle Colin said. 'Mr Campbell has been in the same area ever since, trading locally. He sent letters to your mother, but they must have been lost. It was only when he returned to Aberdeen that he discovered the news had not reached Scotland. He very kindly sought out you and your mother, and came to tell you himself.'

  'Thank you,' Catriona managed to say. 'This will kill Mother. She has only clung to life in the hope of seeing him again.'

  *****

  Chapter 6

  Angus Mackenzie was waiting for Rory when he arrived at his office the following morning. He had been adm
itted to the office, and Joshua was there, contriving to be busy.

  'You'll not make a success of this business if you sleep half the morning,' Mackenzie sneered. He was tall, as tall as Rory, but had a slender, almost willowy figure, and his shoulders were rounded. His wig was a dark auburn, almost the same shade as his coat and breeches, and his shirt sported what Rory felt was a superfluity of lace-edged ruffles. He was resting long, slender fingers on Rory's desk, tapping the wood with a monotonous rhythm which did not change as he spoke.

  Rory raised his eyebrows and smiled. 'Good day to you, Mr Mackenzie. You may go now, Joshua. Thank you. Now, Mr Mackenzie, did you have anything else to say to me?'

  'Your watchdog has made perfectly sure I didn't steal the strong box, so you don't need to count your money,' Mackenzie said, his tone scornful. 'Not that such a puling clerk could have stopped me if I'd a mind to petty thievery.'

  'No, for your interest is for bigger things.'

  Mackenzie glared at him, then laughed.

  'You speak truly. Your uncle's due in Glasgow soon, I hear. I came to make you my final offer, in the hope that you'll accept it before I have to go over your head and approach your uncle directly.'

  'I have already rejected your offer, Mr Mackenzie. My uncle has been informed of it, and he too rejects it.'

  'The situation's different now, though. He may well have wanted to keep it in the family for his son, but why should he refuse good money for the sake of a mere nephew?'

  'It is entirely his affair. Have you found some better horses? I understand you disposed of the chestnuts, and yet I heard you saying a year ago they could not be bettered. I trust you obtained a fair price for them? And your carriage.'

  The other man flushed, and half rose from his chair. 'I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs!'

  'A civil question,' Rory murmured. 'But I am gratified to see that you advocate keeping out of affairs that are none of your business. Like the Ogilvie manufacturing. Good day to you, sir.'

  He thought Mackenzie was about to strike him as he surged to his feet, and braced himself. The other man however, gave a short laugh and turned away.

  'We'll see what Matthew Ogilvie has to say,' he said over his shoulder as he pushed through the doorway.

  We will indeed, Rory thought as he sank into the chair recently vacated by his visitor. Matthew had not indicated why he was coming. When Rory had last seen him he'd insisted he had no intention of selling the business, he wanted Rory to inherit it when he himself died, but he could have changed his mind. If Mackenzie increased his offer, had perhaps already written to Matthew to do so, it would be typical of his uncle to decide to sell. Well, he didn't want that, he was now determined to make the scheme for printing his linens a success. If Matthew sold, however, he could begin elsewhere as his own master, even though it would have to be in a very small way.

  He would not know until Matthew arrived, and there was no point in thinking about it. There was much to do. He'd been to see two more of the weavers that morning, before coming to the office, and they seemed to understand what was wanted. His prospects were looking better than for some months.

  He pulled a ledger towards him, and then paused. After a while he smiled, nodded to himself, and at last brought his attention back to the work before him. He had just found his place in the ledger when the door of the office burst open again. Irritated, he glanced up.

  'Mr MacNab,' he said, trying to suppress his frustration. Was he never to be allowed to catch up on his work?

  'I'll not be long, Rory. I just came to make sure you remembered our little party tonight. I know you've been out of town, chasing that wild idea of yours, and thought you might have your head full of more important matters than simple supper parties with your old friends. Susannah was rather mortified you could not come to the Assembly with us, and I don't want the child disappointed again.'

  'I hadn't forgotten,' Rory said, wishing that he had. He'd been seized with a sudden urge to try the block printing for himself, and decided that he did not wish to be discovered experimenting by Joshua or any chance caller. The safest time to use the office, where he had fabric and some new blocks, together with supplies of dyes, was late at night. Now he would have to wait for another evening, and by then possibly Matthew would have arrived and need entertaining.

  'Have you thought any more about our discussion?' MacNab asked. 'With Matthew here soon, it would be pleasant to be able to announce something. He'd be pleased.'

  Rory shook his head. 'I can't. I'm sorry, Mr MacNab, but I have to say no. Not yet, that is.'

  'Then some day? I may reassure Susannah you are still interested in a match? The dear child is so very much taken with you, Rory, as you must know.'

  Rory suppressed his anger. Silas was becoming importunate. 'I'm making no promises, sir! I've told you that frequently. It wouldn't be fair on the lass. Until my position is secure, until I have succeeded on my own terms, I will not be in a position to take a wife.'

  MacNab gave a deep sigh. 'Ye're a stubborn man, Rory, but I have to admire your determination to make a success of the manufacturing. How does this newfangled printing go?'

  'It's not newfangled, it's a very old technique, at least three hundred years old, perhaps older.'

  'Not in Scotland,' Mr MacNab interrupted.

  'The Pollokshaw printing works has been operating for twenty years,' Rory insisted, irritated.

  Silas MacNab dismissed this as unimportant. 'It is not yet a great success.'

  'Printed cotton is fashionable in England, and I aim to make it as fashionable here, for linen. I am progressing. Soon I'll have some samples to show you.'

  'I hope so, Rory. I hope so.'

  *****

  Two days after she heard of her husband's death Mary Duncan died. Two weeks later William MacNeill proposed marriage to Catriona.

  Although her mother's death had been long expected, Catriona was devastated when it finally happened. Now she was alone in the world, for she could not pretend that her aunt and uncle really welcomed her into their home. She lived there on sufferance, and knew they could scarcely wait for her to go. For the first few days, though, she was too overwhelmed with sadness to care. Then, as the numbness eased, she started to wonder what lay ahead. Where could she go, what could she, a girl on her own, do to earn a respectable living? Or would the money and jewels her mother had left be enough to keep her? She never dreamed of the possibility of marriage.

  He came one morning, and with a murmured excuse about having matters to attend to in the kitchen, Aunt Joan left them alone. Immediately Mr MacNeill dropped to his knees, clad in pale yellow breeches almost totally hidden by the huge, high boots with their ornate buckles, and the heavily embroidered coat. He attempted to clasp Catriona's hand in his.

  'Sir, what are you doing?' Catriona gasped, rising to her feet and moving hastily out of the way. Mr MacNeill almost lost his balance, but by grasping at the arm of the chair where Catriona had been sitting, he remained upright.

  Catriona stifled a giggle. She must sound like one of the simpering maidens in the theatrical productions her father had occasionally taken her to see. As for Mr MacNeill, he looked so utterly ridiculous, and she was expecting his breeches, pulled tight over his ample haunches, to give up the struggle and split at the seams.

  'My dear young lady, hear me out. You have suffered a sudden, most grievous loss – two grievous losses, and in the normal conventions of society I would not be approaching you at this time. Not even though my passions are so stirred that I can scarce contain myself.'

  I hope his breeches can contain him, Catriona thought, and sternly told herself she must stifle such unseemly thoughts.

  'I did not expect my father to return after so long a time,' she said carefully, 'and my mother, as you know, has been failing for many months now, so we can hardly call her death unexpected, even though she is a sad loss.'

  He struggled to his feet and moved towards her. Catriona retreated behind a
small table. Odd, in the past she had often fulminated against her aunt's fondness for many small tables, deploring the amount of room they occupied, and the perils they presented to unwary nieces who were inclined to sweep past them while sweeping the multiple vulnerable ornaments they held onto the floor. Now she blessed them, and a swift glance round the room assured her of several possible escape routes should Mr MacNeill prove too persistent in his obvious desire to clasp her hand in his.

  'The fact that it was expected has emboldened me to speak. Otherwise, naturally, I would have been more circumspect and permitted you to enjoy a more protracted period of mourning. But your situation is unusual, and your uncle tells me my suit would not be unwelcome to him.'

  What about me? Catriona thought indignantly, divining his intention, but he was continuing, in full flow with his eloquence.

  'You need consolation, of the sort only a close friend can give. And I trust I am that friend, though I hope to be more. Oh, my dear young lady, you are of such a practical disposition. Just the sort of helpmeet a scholar, a rather unworldly scholar, I might add, such as myself, needs to provide for him the essentials of life.'

  'I'm not practical at all,' Catriona said hurriedly, horrified by the very thought of marriage to him. She had to forestall him. 'My aunt is always complaining about how inattentive to normal household duties I become when I am absorbed in other concerns. I don't think I'd make a very good helpmeet to any but a most practical man.'

  He smiled, exhibiting a mouth with several teeth missing, and the remaining ones yellowed and jagged.

  'You are not the best judge, my dear. Besides, even the most unpromising material can be trained, or guided, into right behaviour. I pride myself on my ability to know just what is needed, and my determination to supply it. Any wife of mine, my dear, will soon be a very model of perfection, and I shall be admired and envied all over the Highlands, all over Scotland, no doubt.'