What Sir Peter lacked in charm was provisioned by Lady Daphne, herself the daughter of a duke, though one of constrained means. She believed in her own infallible taste: in clothes, literature, art, music, and interior décor. It was of no regard that her acquaintance with them resembled that of a bee flitting from flower to flower without collecting a grain of pollen.
Those confident in the marvel of their own brilliance are never shaken by the criticisms of lesser creatures. In her eyes, all things connected with herself were highly sought after. Since social standing and money happily met in the Finchingfield household, the world at large was disposed to agree.
At the birth of her baby daughter, Lady Daphne was confronted with the uninspiring option of naming her after Sir Peter’s mother, Edna, or his grandmother, Elsie. Pretending a great love of Shakespeare, she landed upon Ophelia, a name that she hoped would bestow her (as it turned out) only daughter with a love of literature. For all her espousal of the arts, she’d never read a word of the Bard, though she had once attended a performance of Hamlet. In the dark, none had noticed that she’d dozed from Act Two through to the final bloody end. Naturally, she was much congratulated on her originality and, since neither of the grand matriarchs were alive to see injustice done, the matter was settled.
Lady Daphne had been preparing for at least twelve months for this momentous occasion in her daughter’s life. The preceding summer and autumn months had been spent in Paris, attending the Louvre, the Philharmonie de Paris, the Musée d’Orsay and the Palais Garnier, so that Ophelia might improve her knowledge of music and the fine arts.
To Ophelia’s delight, her mother had at last conceded that they should both visit Antoine in the Galleries Lafayette to have their hair styled in the boyish manner. In matters of fashion, Lady Daphne could not bear to lag behind, and emerged with a sleek bob. Ophelia, who, in all things, was more unruly, found that her curls refused to sit quietly, even under the expert hands of Monsieur Antoine. She emerged with hair springing wildly about her dainty face, heightening her wide set eyes. Her mother was unable to hide her dismay, but the cut gave Ophelia great satisfaction. Not only would it be easier to wash, but it well-matched her mischievous attitude. The overall effect was impish.
They had been outfitted lavishly, as regular visitors at Maison Worth, and other ateliers. How many hours had she stood, in one pose and then another, as satins, tulles and velvets were draped and pinned, and silks held to her face. Her mother had insisted on several suitably virginal evening gowns in white, embroidered in diamante and silver thread, georgette crêpe day dresses in cornflower blue, apricot and apple green, new riding attire, head-dresses of ostrich feathers, and shoes dainty of heel, destined to be danced to their graves upon the polished floors of London residences. Ophelia had embraced the novelty, having been previously confined to sensible wool for winter and summer cottons.
For Lady Daphne, as chaperone, the season would be almost as onerous. In gold brocade and lamé, diamonds glittering against pale skin, she had every intention of rising to the occasion. Even had she worn the rough serge of a nun, her elegance would have marked her as superior among her sex. Her dark-haired beauty had been admired in her youth, and was admired still.
“A smiling visage and demure bearing Ophelia,” she had advised, on the evening before it all began. “All else, you may leave to me.”
It could not be said that Ophelia hadn’t tried with Percival, although she had vowed never to lose her senses over a man. She had no intention of her life imitating that of her Shakespearean namesake.
Early on in the season, she had taken her place among thirty strangers for dinner, all but a second cousin on her father’s side perfectly unknown to her. Percival had been seated to her left, at the express direction of her mother. Well-mannered and agreeable, though sporting the pimples of youth and an over-fondness for hair oil, Percival was perfectly pleasant. Sadly, he lacked intellect: the result of interbreeding by certain old families, which had largely resulted in brains being replaced by the fluffiest of meringues.
They had next met at Grosvenor House, Percival rescuing her from a retired major whose toupée, in vivid tangerine, would have looked quite at home in the jungles of Borneo. Percival had swooped in, taken her hand, and led her into the throng for a foxtrot. She’d been more than willing to overlook a few crushed toes.
At their third meeting, she had begun to view him as a good egg, despite his poor conversation. He had escorted her into supper, had eaten without spilling anything over her or himself, and had given her a chaste kiss upon the forehead on departure, uttered with a cheery ‘toodle-pip’.
The following evening, they had taken lemon ices on a balcony at the Connaught Hotel, and she had allowed Percival’s aristocratic hand to creep about her waist. She’d prepared herself for a ‘lunge’, and had been all too ready to engage him on equal ground, but he had merely given her a playful pinch and licked, somewhat provocatively, the cherry from the top of her sorbet.
It had been on the fifth evening of their acquaintance, as Percival had escorted her from pre-dinner drinks at the Savoy to Devonshire House (her mother intentionally removing herself to a cab directly behind) that he’d seized the opportunity to make known his ardor. He’d clamped his wet lips to hers, tongue probing at her upper molars and, despite her utmost readiness to surrender to the moment, to allow Percival to prove himself masterful, she’d been struck by a sense of absurdity.
She knew that wives were obliged to put up with things they found distasteful, and that a woman’s passions were secondary to those of her husband, if they existed at all. Moreover, Ophelia was not averse to wedlock as a means to further her social position, to secure her financial future, and to access a lifestyle that would include regular trips to the Continent, and attendance at soirees hosted by the elite of her class. Marriage, she had long ago decided, was a contract and, in signing it, she was determined to acquire the very best terms. As Lady Daphne would say, “You were born, and you will die. What you make of the middle is your own affair.”
Her reluctance to commit to the wedded state might have been attributed to her age. In no more than the twinkling of an eye, Ophelia, like the rest of her cohort, had been transported from gawky childhood to the realms of eligible womanhood. “Ah!” we might say. “What could be more fitting then, that Lady Ophelia Finchingfield, a radiant example of the innocent feminine, would cast down her eyes, and resist the eagerness of her suitor.”
Were we to reach inside the mind of our young heroine, we’d discover that far from being averse to physical intimacy, it was a subject she’d examined most thoroughly, and with regular indulgence, often while daydreaming in a long, hot bath. Rather than being coy, she looked forward keenly to her place at the lovers” table, in anticipation of sampling all its dishes.
As Percival had withdrawn his tongue, dabbing saliva from the edges of his mouth, he’d extracted from his pocket a ring, and alarmed repugnance had welled within her.
It was at that moment that the placement of her head within a noose became apparent. If she failed to wriggle free, she’d find herself being kissed by Percival Huntley-Withington for the rest of her miserable life.
Ophelia’s rejection of marriage to the Earl of Woldershire so incensed Lady Daphne (the opinion of Sir Peter was of no matter) that Ophelia had been placed on the next overnight sleeper to Scotland, to stay with her grandmother until she saw sense. If Lady Finchingfield could overlook Percival’s mother expelling cigarette smoke from her nostrils in the manner of a horse snorting steam on a chilly morning, then Ophelia could put up with marriage to a man lacking sex appeal. In fact, thought Lady Daphne, the less pizzazz on that front the better; in her experience, less appealing husbands were rather easier to manage.
Unceremoniously banished from the social whirl of London, Ophelia lay on her bunk, rocked by the rhythm of the Scotch Express to Inverness. She had never met Lady Morag MacKintoch but she feared her grandmother feeding her nothing but bre
ad and water (physically and sexually) until she relented and threw herself back upon her mother’s mercy.
Yet, despite these forebodings, Ophelia could not deny a certain excitement. Scotland, she decided, would be the place to run into an artist, the sort who would be expertly experienced: a marvelous kisser, and much besides. In fact, she mused, wild Bohemians are probably thicker on the ground in the Highlands than they are in Bloomsbury. They’ll be everywhere, painting grand views and sighing for want of a woman upon which to pour their passion…
And then another thought crossed her mind.
What if I woke up in the morning and found that I wasn’t female anymore but a man. I’d still be me, but I’d be able to do as I liked. I’d be the apple pie instead of the whipped cream. I’d be valued for what I say, and what I do, rather than for how I look, or who I was married to.
She closed her eyes, and wriggled under the covers.
The last hour of the train journey, following her change onto a rackety branch line, had taken her truly into the depths of the towering Highlands, past fast-running streams and looming granite crags. A deep violet sky overhung hillsides of russet and mustard, draped in a mist of drizzle.
When she emerged from her carriage, she found that the platform of her station comprised no more than some raised wooden boards placed at the side of the track. She looked about, but there was no one to collect her, so Ophelia waited forlornly under a tree, water dripping down her collar. It was a clear half hour before she heard the sound of a car engine.
The driver, rather than coming out to help her, honked the horn and motioned for her to climb in. Bloody rude, thought Ophelia, wrenching open the door, and breaking a nail in the process. She was obliged to bundle her cases onto the back seat.
“Thank you ever so much,” she snapped, unpinning her sodden hat.
“No trouble,” came the reply, in an accent broadly Scottish, but clear enough for Ophelia to understand. “I’m supposed to be felling trees today, but the rain made it difficult. Not so bad having to stop for a while to come and get you.”
The man behind the wheel was a rough looking character in shabby clothing, unkempt, and with a beard full of hedgerow. He’d been undertaking manual labour, as was apparent not just from his appearance, spattered in woodchips and sawdust, but from the aroma filling the car: a cocktail of male sweat and damp tweed.
“Whisky?” he offered, passing a hipflask.
“Certainly not. It’s eleven in the morning!”
“Please yourself,” he replied and stepped on the accelerator.
Horribly uncouth! Ophelia fumed, her resentment growing. And woefully undertrained.
“I say, please slow down,” she directed, as the car took a bend at speed, jolting her sideways.
“Too much to do to take it any slower. I don’t have all day London-Miss. Don’t worry, I know these roads like the back of my hand.”
“I shall jolly well complain about you when we arrive. You’re making me feel unwell with this awful handling of the car. You’re not fit to drive!” declared Ophelia.
“Do as you like.”
She felt too nauseous to argue.
The dense forest through which they motored soon opened out into a glen, hemmed in by steep-rising peaks, snow-topped despite the summer month. For some miles they passed only modest dwellings, few and far between. Turning towards the crags, they entered a tunnel through the rock and the car plunged into cool, silent darkness. It emerged upon the view of a great loch, amid pinnacles black and barren. At the water’s edge stood the solid, grey stonework of a castle. Beautiful yet mournful, the scene could have been one from an old Celtic tale. Nestled within its mountain embrace, Castle Kintochlochie looked ancient.
The car descended the hillside at speed, sweeping to a halt before the stately home of generations of MacKintochs. Ophelia staggered out of the vehicle, and managed three steps before ejecting the contents of her stomach. She was watched with interest by the crowd gathered to welcome her: a party comprising her grandmother, Morag’s companion Lady Devonly, and the entire staff of Castle Kintochlochie.
“Don’t worry a bit,” said Lady Morag. “The dogs’ll eat it in a jiffy. Let’s get you inside.”
“Darling, you look so much like your mother,” Morag exclaimed, once Ophelia had joined her and Lady Devonly in the drawing room. The driver had absented himself but she made a mental note to relate her treatment at the first opportunity. Tea poured and fruitcake eaten, Ophelia was feeling already rather better.
“I must agree that you’ve been rather naughty. An earldom is not to be sniffed at,” began her grandmother. “Wedlock lends respectability.”
Ophelia made to interject but Morag was clearly in the mood for speeches. “Even though you’ll come into your own fortune in a few years’ time, you must consider your social position.” Morag helped herself to a buttered muffin. “Naturally, I can quite guess the truth of it. No doubt, you have a secret, vastly unsuitable lover.” She held up one finger sternly, forbidding interruption. “Now my dear, I’m all for a little harmless ‘sin’ but a woman must, at last, select the right horse for her carriage.”
Ophelia decided to let her grandmother believe whatever appealed to her.
Morag nodded to her companion. “Perhaps you have heard of my dear friend Constance? She is a keen amateur naturalist, and the author of several acclaimed editions. We met while I was travelling in West Africa, with my dear Hugo, God rest his soul, making our study of the tribes of Dahomey.”
Looking about, Ophelia could see that the drawing room boasted ample evidence of those travels: a set of most alarming masks being placed upon the far wall, sporting what appeared to be real hair and teeth.
“Lady Devonly, though married at the time to the British Ambassador, accompanied us on trips into the interior several times, compiling her own fascinating catalogue of native parrot species. Take us as your example Ophelia; choose wisely, and marriage need not be too much of a bore.”
Constance smiled benignly and patted Ophelia’s hand.
Morag lowered her voice. “My own marriage was a blissful joining of the sexes, founded on equality of intellect and passion. Not so my brother Hector, whose bride ran away with the gamekeeper. He has never been the same. His own estate he gambled away and has spent most of his life in abject resentment against the world and all in it. My darling husband, having the empathy of the angels, insisted that Hector should live out his days with us, but I fear the arrangement is not always inclined to make us merry.”
“Of course, there’s Hamish, Constance’s nephew. Darling boy has been with us about five years now, managing the estate. He’s a wonderful help, so practical! It’s his way of coping. So much tragedy; a man needs to keep busy…”
“You’ll meet Hector this evening. Poor thing has been suffering with the flu. He’s been creeping towards the grave so long that the Reaper has grown tired of waiting for him to shamble within arm’s reach.”
Ophelia, pouring everyone another cup of tea, wondered if she might help herself to a third slice of cake.
“You must tell us about Paris dear,” Constance prompted. “It’s so long since I’ve been. Are the women still as chic? I recall their corsets being laced so tightly that they daren’t even laugh. I could never wait until the end of the day, to whisk mine off. You’re lucky to have avoided those fearful contraptions. Today’s fashions are much less constricting.”
“It was wonderful,” Ophelia began, relating some of her excursions and adventures. Even under the watchful eye of her mother, between clothes fittings and endless trips to galleries, she had tasted a little of the bohemian lifestyle: artists lounging in cafés, discussing all manner of philosophical topics. They spoke of sex as they might of the weather. She’d strained to listen, employing her schoolgirl French to eavesdrop on those conversations. Breathing the Parisian air had surpassed all expectations. The place positively buzzed with possibilities.
“Ah yes,” sighed Constance
, recalling her own youthful days in that enchanting city.
Morag admitted, “We’re generally quiet here, but we’ll have twenty to dinner on the occasion of my birthday. Among them will be the Comte de Montefiore, whom you may find amusing, and his sister. Their mother was a dear friend of Lady Devonly many years ago. We have hopes that, perhaps, there may yet be wedding bells in a certain quarter.” She clapped her hands excitedly. “They spent some days here last spring. We’re very fond of them.”
Ghastly, thought Ophelia. I expect the Comte will be a cad: all moustache and teeth. He’ll want me to laugh at his awful jokes and there will be constant pouncing. No doubt his sister will be frightful too, full of simpering. It’ll be like London all over again.
“Ah, it’s past midday,” beamed Lady Morag, beckoning the butler forward. “Haddock, it’s time for a cocktail. Three gin fizzes if you please.”
Meanwhile, down in the servants” quarters, a parallel conversation was afoot. “It’s been a goodly time coming,” said the cook. “Mr. Hamish has been too long without a wife. No man should be left lonely in his bed of a night.” Neither the footman nor the gardener could disagree. As for little Hettie, the scullery maid, she sighed forlornly and continued scrubbing the potatoes. She’d keep Mr. Hamish’s bed warm anytime he liked, with or without a wedding band on her finger.
“My angel, what jolly company we are,” declared Morag, as Ophelia joined her grandmother, heading down the stairs to dinner that evening.
“Tripe!” proclaimed Sir Hector, blowing his nose noisily into a handkerchief.
Ophelia felt inclined to agree, looking at the fearsome visage of her great uncle and at the army of atrocious ancestors glaring at her from the walls, the eyes of some disdainful, others demented, like nocturnal creatures disturbed by the sudden lighting of the dining candles.