“So difficult to find suitable guests,” Morag continued. “Just us, I’m afraid. Most of our neighbors are half-wits, and the rest have criminal tendencies. There’s barely a teaspoon to be found after they’ve visited.”
“Ah, here’s Hamish. You’ve met, of course, dear. Our chauffeur, Brodie, is laid up with lumbago, otherwise he’d have met you from the station. Hamish kindly stepped in, despite being so busy. What would we do without you Hamish?” said Morag, turning a smile of affection on the gentleman newly entered.
Here was the uncouth individual from earlier in the day, except that he had taken a bath, and removed the leaves and debris from his person. Standing tall, the broadness of his chest was all too apparent, straining against the formality of his dinner suit. His hair curled at his neck, luxuriantly auburn, as was his beard.
Hamish, eyes a-glitter, looked at her with ill-concealed amusement and greeted her with a wry smile. “Our delightful London guest, here to teach us true refinement.”
She glared, answering, “I’m sure that the ladies of this house have refinement in abundance.”
Though she turned away to engage Constance in conversation, she remained aware of his physique, so alarmingly athletic. A vision came to her of him in loincloth and helmet, striding forth to do battle before the walls of Troy. He would put the most noble and virile of the demi-gods to shame. She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.
Still, she was glad to be wearing her crimson velvet. Open across the shoulders, and upper back, it made her a trifle chill, but bestowed undeniable sex-appeal.
It took much self-control for Ophelia to avoid looking down the table at the infuriating Hamish. Yet, how badly she wished to do so. To her dismay, and excitement, it was apparent that he was not only attractive but a wit. Of course, the more she commanded herself not to give him the slightest thought, the more he became all she could think of.
Wishing to offer her hostess praise, Ophelia commented, “The smoked trout pâté was divine, and the salmon en croute. Wonderfully fresh; quite the best I’ve eaten anywhere.”
“All from our own estate. I caught the trout and salmon myself this morning,” Hamish called down to her, fixing her with a steely gaze.
“It’s true,” added her grandmother. “We are fortunate in our cook, Mrs. Beesby, but we must thank darling Hamish for providing us with our supper tonight.”
“Perhaps he might take me out and show me how to catch them too,” Ophelia found herself saying, then cursing herself. Fiddlesticks! He’ll think I’m in a spin for him and his head is undoubtedly big enough as it is.
“Groping for trout!” interjected Sir Hector. “A filthy euphemism! Keep a look-out Morag or they’ll be rutting in the open air with the livestock!”
“Really Hector! Not all young people are debauched, despite the Bright Things and jazz and flappers and what-not. Behave yourself!” commanded Lady MacKintoch.
Ophelia dared not look at Hamish, feeling that he would certainly be laughing at her now. The shame! She felt flushed from head to toe. Rutting indeed!
“How is your season going my dear?” asked Constance. “Have you made new friends?”
Ophelia smiled at Lady Devonly, thankful for the change of subject.
“I did meet two lovely sisters, Baba and Nancy Beaton, whose brother, Cecil, takes the most delightful photographs. He’s promised to take mine one day, wearing nothing but feathers. I know it sounds naughty, but he’s not like that at all. It’s simply artistic.”
“As for the Bright Young Things, my mother vetoed any invitations that appeared unsuitable. I heard about midnight car chases and other escapades, of course. I’d have loved to attend Elizabeth Ponsonby’s ‘bath and bottle’ party. Daddy knows her father; they say he’ll become labor leader of the House of Lords. Well, they had the most spiffing time at St. George’s Swimming Baths. The dowagers sat like plump hens roosting, watching all the ‘improper’ behavior through their lorgnettes.”
Ophelia continued excitedly. “There was a top-notch Negro band from New York, playing the latest jazz. They danced until dawn and then spilled out to catch buses, still wearing their bathing costumes. Can you imagine!”
Haddock placed a dish of raspberry mousse before her, into which Ophelia plunged her spoon. “The newspapers called it depraved. Baba tells me there was a lot more going on in the pool besides swimming.”
“Nancy boys and mental defectives!” barked Hector, his moustache twitching.
“Well dear, perhaps no more about that!” Morag laughed, shaking her head. How she would have enjoyed being there, taking her place among the dowager hens.
“However, I’m all for young people’s frivolity. We who sent our men to fight in that dreadful war can be so dour, always looking over our shoulder for the ‘black dog’.”
Her gaze fell on the family crest on her dessert spoon. “My dear Hugo and my son, your uncle Teddy, Ophelia — both fell at the Somme.”
She raised her eyes and gave a small smile. “Let the young have their fun. Let them live. There’s been enough darkness.”
After dinner, as they gathered at the fire, Morag asked if Constance might recite some poetry. “Something clever… some Edith Sitwell?”
“Driveling idiotism,” grumbled Sir Hector.
Lady Devonly began, with an emotional air; clearly, Miss Sitwell was a favorite.
“What’s the trollop saying?” grunted Hector. “Speak up. All this mumbling!”
“Hector, you are too dreadful! What will Ophelia think? Perhaps you might play us something on the piano dear,” prompted Morag.
Ophelia began with some pastoral pieces. Sir Hector could be heard muttering, “That instrument needs tuning again. Bloody awful racket!”
On a whim, she broke into the Gershwins’ Someone to Watch Over Me, and then S’Wonderful. This delighted everyone; even Hector stopped grumbling and began tapping his foot.
She had continued to avoid Hamish’s eye but now found him at her elbow, the warmth of his body beside her on the piano stool. He invited her to join him in a duet of Lady Be Good.
“Delightful, my darlings,” cooed Morag, “The Gershwins are such a wonderful team, just as husband and wife should be: lyrics and music in perfect complement.”
Ophelia, caught between feelings of pleasure and embarrassment, fought to control her blushes. Hamish’s thigh was undeniably pressed against hers.
They played Tea For Two, which had Constance and Morag singing along, then Hamish broke into Sweet Georgia Brown, and Ophelia let him take over. His mastery of the piano far surpassed her own.
“Can’t beat some decent jazz. We just need Louis Armstrong on his trumpet,” said Hamish, his eyes alight with the music.
“I’ve most of the Creole Jazz Band’s records,” Ophelia admitted. “My mother hates all this, even though the BBC has been playing it on the radio. She says it’s immoral, that it encourages riotous behavior, but Daddy bought a gramophone and keeps bringing home new songs. He’s a fan too.”
“Do you remember, Constance,” began Morag, “When we stayed with the Batammariba tribe for the Eho festival? The drumming went straight through your bones. We kicked off our shoes and joined in barefoot. This song makes me want to get up and do a jig.”
Hamish finished with a flourish, to much applause.
“Bloody good I say. Makes a man feel half his age,” declared Hector, looking remarkably chirpy.
“Hamish, it’s been so long since I’ve heard you play. What a tonic!” beamed Constance. “We must have this jolly music more often.”
Morag agreed. “Thank you Ophelia. You’ve inspired us. Now, we ladies should repair to bed. Hamish, you’ll stay up and play dominoes with Hector won’t you. Haddock, some cocoa to my room as usual, please.”
As Ophelia made to retire, she saw Hamish tug his forelock, and smirk in her direction. She scurried to bed.
In the days that followed, Ophelia explored the house, and the tran
quil beauty of the grounds. She strolled the loch, and the lower slopes of the purple-heathered hills, gazing up at the more brutal peaks surrounding the castle. She hoped always, though without admitting it, to run into Hamish.
His work roused him early in the morning, so that he did not take breakfast with them, and then took him out in the forest through the long day. He failed even to appear at dinner, Lady Devonly explaining that he was spending his time largely in a hillside cabin while he undertook some clearing of the woodlands.
Ophelia roamed the castle’s long and draughty corridors, musing on the forty-three generations who had done so before her. The dungeons, she heard, dated from the twelfth century. It seemed that living in a state of permanent chill was the surest recipe for a long life, since innumerable aged Scots scrutinized her from their portraits. She imagined them rendered irritable by the scratchiness of their tartans and their icy beds.
While some parts of the castle were Spartan in appearance, cold seeping from the very stonework, most of the living areas had been decorated luxuriously, warmed by dark oak panelling and tapestries. Frolicking satyrs appeared to be a favorite theme. There were heavy brocades at the windows, deep sofas and plump cushions. Her room was no exception, boasting purple velvet drapes, a small bookcase of French novels, Russian poetry, and the plays of Oscar Wilde, and an inviting wing-backed chair, placed directly before the fire. The sensual air of her bedchamber could not have been more in contrast with her lace-frilled room in London; decorated in shades of peach, it was her mother’s idea of a fitting place for a young virgin to sleep.
Ophelia found herself often in the kitchen, since Mrs. Beesby enjoyed a natter, particularly if her helper were prepared to beat a bowl of egg white into submission. It was not long before Ophelia was able to turn the conversation to the mysterious Hamish.
“Dearie me, so very sad. No man should have to suffer such torment: ah, the perils of childbirth. It’s the Lord’s way and we kinna argue,” lamented Mrs. Beesby. “Nigh on five year ago, he lost his wife, and his wee bairn, within a few short hours one from t’other. ‘Twas a night as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat, and the mist thick all aboot the place, so the doctor couldnae reach the castle. Mr. Hamish’d only arrived a month, bein’ in Edinburgh wi’ his wife’s folk afore that. Oh the tragedy!” she wailed, indulging in the pathos of the sorry tale.
“How devastating…” choked Ophelia. She felt most dreadful for his poor wife and baby, and for him. No wonder he so often disappeared into the forest. She’d certainly been rude on first meeting. And he’d been such a brick, improvising on the piano; it had been a lovely surprise. She felt ashamed of herself. Beastly snobbery!
It was not long after this that the weather turned muggy. Even the biting midges seemed too oppressed to bother in their labors. Without a single Bohemian artist yet to distract her, Ophelia’s thoughts turned with regularity to the figure of Hamish. As she sat in the lightest of her muslin dresses, fanning herself and reading the novels of Miss Braddon and Mrs. Gaskell, her imagination transformed the heroes into dashing figures, sporting beards of auburn.
Noticing her dreamy expression and general listlessness, Morag suggested that Ophelia take out one of the horses, and she agreed readily. She was inspecting them, to see which might best suit her, when she heard footsteps in the tack room and turned to see Hamish, looking as handsome as she remembered. A flush bloomed through her body.
“Heard you were riding. Don’t mind if I join you? Here, take Esmeralda. She’s quietest,” he offered.
“That’s very kind,” Ophelia conceded, as Hamish saddled up the mare, fingers working swiftly. He whispered into the horse’s ear as he worked, stroking her neck. Esmeralda was, evidently, under his spell. She reached to nibble his sleeve as he placed the bit in her mouth.
Hamish could not help but notice that Ophelia was in good looks. Still, her London ways were rather irritating: fancy wearing a plumed hat and formal riding coat for a hack in the Highlands, especially in this heat.
“Remember,” warned Hamish, leading the horse out for her, “Take it easy. Esmeralda’s a good filly but she’ll take her head if you give her the chance.”
Ophelia felt a twinge of annoyance. She’d had enough of being told what to do under her mother’s eye. Moreover, standing in close proximity to Hamish was sending her knees a-quiver. It was a pathetic state of affairs. It was below her dignity to let him see the effect he was having on her. If, at that moment, he’d lunged at her in the same way that Percival had in the taxi, she knew for certain that she would not have struggled to get away.
I must take myself in hand, she thought and, rather out of the blue, found herself saying, “You needn’t be so patronizing. I’ve been riding since I was four! I know how to handle a horse.”
Red-cheeked, and wishing to hide her trembling lip, she set off at a gallop, heading towards the dense forest west of the loch. Hamish, barely having had time to saddle his own ride, leapt on. Standing high in the stirrups, he called out to her. “Slow down you fool!”
Ophelia, however, heard not a word, the wind having picked up. It came blowing down from the mountains, whisking away all good sense. She disappeared from view, spurring on Esmeralda to enter the trees.
As she rounded the second bend in the path, they came upon a stag, antlers lowered. Esmeralda, panicked, made an ill-timed leap to the side, to avoid being pierced by the deer’s horns. Ophelia clung on desperately as the horse twisted in mid-air, but found herself unseated, and thrown.
Hamish appeared moments behind her, as the stag darted away through the pines. Ophelia, dazed, reclined in a puddle of mud. It had taken some of the impact of her fall but she was sodden, and the stuffing had been knocked from her.
“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll do that again in a hurry,” Hamish said, his temper calming.
Ophelia could see, and feel, that she lay in filth. Slime oozed between her fingers, and her legs. She rather felt that she should sit up, but somehow lacked the will, or the inclination. Her mind felt disordered and she wondered if she might cry. Her ankle was throbbing.
“There, there,” she heard Hamish say. “We’ll get you up and sort you out. You’ve had a shock.”
He lifted her, one arm under her knees and the other across her back. She hadn’t been carried since she was a child, taken up the stairs by her father. Even in her muddled state, she thought how nice it was.
As he approached his horse, wondering the best way to place Ophelia on the saddle, Hamish realized that it had grown dark, menacing clouds having emerged over the crags. Fat raindrops began to fall, rustling the leaves above them.
The first flash of brilliance split the sky, and Hamish’s stallion let out a snort of fear. Esmeralda, who had been watching, also gave a fearful whinny. As a deep, monstrous rumble travelled across the canyon of the glen, the two horses decided that enough was enough, and bolted clear.
“Damn!”
“What’s the matter, Hamish,” mumbled Ophelia. “Do you want to kiss me? You can if you like. I expect you’re a very good kisser…” Her eyes closed and her body went limp in his arms.
He wasn’t bothered for the horses. They’d find their way back. He couldn’t carry Ophelia far though and she was beyond walking.
Another lightning tongue lashed the peaks, followed closely by thunder. The storm was coming closer.
She awoke upon a cottage sofa, to the sweet smell of burning wood. Hamish was crouched before the stove, feeding it logs from a basket.
Her velvet coat had been draped over a chair to dry. Rain beat heavily upon the window.
“I’m cold,” she said, making him look up.
“You’re awake then. That’s good. Your ankle is swelling. Try to keep it raised.
“It’s because I’m wet through,” she went on, and she was, every bit of her. The storm had finished what the puddle had begun. “Do you have a blanket?”
She began to lift off layers, casting each in a damp heap on the flo
or. There wasn’t much in the room but, from a cupboard, he brought her an old shirt, and two rugs.
“Don’t look.” She pulled her chemise over her head, and wriggled out of the last of her under things. She put on the shirt. It had been sitting a while and smelt of mildew. It was too rough to button closely, so she left the upper fasteners loose.
“This is your cabin isn’t it?” she said, rather obviously. Leaning against the wall were variously sized axes and other tools.
“Good that you’re talking again.” Hamish lifted down a bottle and poured some of the liquid into a tin cup. “Drink this. It’ll warm you.”
He took his handkerchief and dabbed a corner in the whisky, using it to wipe a streak of mud from her cheek.
A bright flash lit the gloom, followed by a low growl, as of a subterranean monster waking in its lair. The door shook.
“Who’s out there?” she whimpered.
“No one. It’s just the wind.”
“They’re shaking the door. Don’t let them in,” she sobbed, drawing a blanket close to her chin.
He sat beside her on the little sofa, and moved her legs across his lap, so that her foot was elevated. He held the cup and she took a sip. The fiery whisky numbed her lips, making them tingle.
She smiled. “It’s turning me warm inside; it’s the same feeling I have when I look at you.”
“You may not remember any of this in the morning,” he laughed.
The wind chose that moment to rattle the door again, in savage spite, and she jumped.
“Do you miss her?” she asked abruptly. It was a subject which, in her usual state, she would not have dared broach.
Hamish didn’t answer. The wind blew down the chimney, making the woodstove flare. At last, responding to her candour, he said, “I do think of her, often, yes.”
They sat in silence, she listening to his breathing, and looking at his profile as he gazed at the fire.
“Many have it a great deal worse than me but, sometimes, it’s as if I’m on a bridge and can’t see the other side. Not sure where I’m going. Can’t go back and too afraid to move forward.”