Chloe

by Freya North

  Suddenly, she went quite cold and yelped involuntarily.

  ‘He has the key!’ she wailed to the night. ‘Fraser has the key.’

  Chloë had money for a cab but black taxis in Edinburgh are a rare and restricted commodity, and during the Festival they are gold-dust indeed. She did not feel like hunting down a minicab but felt even less like walking. She could hear drunken revelry, raucous singing, a row, and she did not want to come across any of the perpetrators. She hated the city, hated Edinburgh, she did not feel at home, at ease here. She wanted to cry but she hadn’t for months so why do it now? The last time she had cried had been for Jocelyn; by comparison, to cry for oneself seemed profane.

  Jocelyn, Jocelyn, why am I here? What should I do and where should I go? What should I be? And where? How soon? And will I know? And how will I know?

  Jocelyn wouldn’t be answering her tonight but, ten minutes later, she sent a black cab.

  Chloë hovered outside Mrs MacAdam’s, willing the lace curtains to twitch. All was still. And hideously quiet. It was half-three in the morning. With butterflies in her stomach and a hard, painful tightness to her throat, Chloë rapped on the door as merrily as she could. And waited. And rapped again. And rang. And waited. Lights came on and in the silence of the street she could make out the muffled thuds of stairs being descended. All went quiet. Chloë knew the spyhole was being consulted. A chain rattled.

  ‘Mrs Buchanan!’

  ‘No key,’ said Chloë forlornly, her eyes cast away from Mrs MacAdam, her Scots accent forgotten, ‘very sorry.’ The door was opened and Chloë taken under Mrs MacAdam’s arm. The landlady did not ask, she did not have to. She’d been a landlady long enough. She’d seen it before, been through it before. Men!

  ‘Tiff?’ she suggested at the top of the stairs. Chloë nodded. ‘I’ll go down and chain the door then!’ she said in a kind, conspiratorial way. ‘Off with you to beddy-byes!’ Chloë could not even manage a meek smile but she twitched one corner of her lip and it seemed to satisfy Mrs MacAdam.

  Mr and Mrs A, can you hear me? I can’t do all this by myself.

  You might have to, Chloë.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Fraser did not show up for breakfast, Chloë did not feel like it. Mrs MacAdam made no comment. Chloë left the house and waved every four steps to the corner. She felt supremely irritated and desperately hurt, rather as she had with Gus, so she reacted in a similar way by taking herself off for a little excursion. The three late nights were taking their toll so she ventured no further than the Mound and the welcoming portal of the National Gallery. There, she ignored time and travelled the day away. She went to a peasant fête in the seventeenth century, gossiped with the court ladies in the eighteenth, and stood alongside a handsome duke from the nineteenth. One of the court ladies knew Mr and Mrs Andrews and instructed Chloë to send them her heartiest regards.

  ‘He was quite a catch!’ she said ambiguously behind her fan, glazed eyes peeping coyly over the top of it.

  ‘I’m sure,’ replied Chloë, adding that he seemed very happy and settled. The lady raised her eyebrow but said no more. Chloë decided not to dwell on it. Historically, it seemed that men, of whatever sexual persuasion, were weak-willed and far too fickle.

  She lazed on the comfortable leather couches and allowed the reverential quiet of the gallery to soothe her. The invigilators were discreet and she did not notice them. She spent much time in each room, alternately walking and then sitting, peering close at the works and observing them from afar. She was lost and quite happy. Their worlds felt safe and preferable. She didn’t have to acknowledge the here and now. She needn’t even have been in Scotland.

  Oh, but if not Scotland, where then?

  She perused another room of paintings.

  The wonderful thing about art is that these painted characters seem so at ease with their lot within the canvas.

  We all paint our own pictures. It is knowing when to lay down the brush and be content with the result.

  When Chloë met William after lunch, in a small anteroom before the grandiose display of Victorian painting, her heart was captured for the whole afternoon.

  He was beautiful in an unassuming way; almond eyes set either side of a plain nose; a sensible, sensitive mouth, and softly waved hair parted slightly off-centre. He seemed older than his twenty-eight years, a strong chin and smooth brow suggested a kind but guarded man, a gentle disposition tinged perhaps by a certain sadness. For a while, they just gazed at each other, not speaking, not really needing to. Chloë did not want to. William could not. William Stuart, Earl of Dunreath, had died in Naples in 1862 of scarlet fever but the marble of his commemorative bust and the incisiveness of the sculptor’s touch brought him to life with little need for imagination or persuasion at all.

  Chloë touched her fingertips along his cheek and let them journey down, over and under his jaw to his neck. Closing her eyes, she let her whole hand travel down his neck to the dip at its base and stroke there awhile. When she opened her eyes he was gazing at her intently. He did not have to ask. Chloë stood on her tiptoes and came even closer to him, her eyelids dropping slightly with the weight of emotion. She kissed him very slowly, softly, on the side of his mouth and then travelled to the centre of it with her tongue tip. Slightly salty. She pressed her lips full against his, first cupping his lower lip, then his upper. Marble, it seemed, was far more luxurious than skin, and just as smooth and warm.

  Encroaching footsteps prevented Chloë from lingering and brought her back to the present. William now stared beyond her and way past the young gallery guard who had sat down quietly. And though Chloë stood directly in front of him and fought hard against blinking, William’s eyes, which appeared to have seen so much, now saw nothing. Chloë thought how Brett’s stare had often been thoroughly stony, yet William’s eyes, though stone, had just penetrated her more deeply than those of any other man. She could not bear the injustice that the centuries kept them apart, that William had died so young, that the presence of the young invigilator now prevented one final, vital kiss. She left the room with a soft, light step and did not turn to look back. In the gallery shop there was a postcard of William Stuart, Earl of Dunreath. But it was not him at all, merely a photograph of his marble portrait bust.

  ‘Chloë! Oh, my sweet, sweet girl!’

  Fraser was pelting along Princes Street towards her. For some reason, she turned to check that she was the Chloë of his attentions. A daft half of her hoped it might be otherwise, for he was still hollering, running, getting closer and causing much attention.

  ‘Chloë!’ He was quite breathless and wore a moustache of tiny beads of sweat. ‘Chloë!’ he panted, dropping his hands on his knees and allowing his back to heave until it started to steady. ‘Chloë!’ he murmured, scouring her face and twitching his brow in as imploring a way as possible. Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders and sought her eyes. Even when he had them, she refused to unclench her pursed lips. ‘Chloë!’ he whimpered in a dejected, small voice, eyes cast down, shuffling slightly.

  ‘Where on earth are your shoes?’ Chloë asked. ‘Why are you in your socks?’

  She continued to walk and he followed a respectful step behind her, jigging and skipping to avoid the footfalls of the passers-by and the noxious deposits of their dogs. Initially, Fraser babbled an effusive and long-winded apology omitting any true explanation. Soon, though, he fell silent; relieved and grateful that Chloë had neither made a scene nor reprimanded him publicly. The fact that she was walking his way, or at least tolerating his accompanying her, was good news. A very good sign. Good luck.

  As they walked beyond the hub of shoppers, Chloë kept up her pace and her silence, Fraser trotting at her heels compliantly.

  ‘Shoes?’ she asked eventually over her shoulder. ‘Socks?’

  ‘Och, Chloë!’ Fraser cried earnestly, taking her elbow and giving it a sharp tug to make her stop. She did so reluctantly, still refusing to look at him. ‘MacWallader, will y
ou not just hear me?’ She cocked her head and regarded him through slanted eyes, raising an eyebrow to suggest he commence what had better be a convincing soliloquy.

  ‘My sweet girl, I’ve been looking all over for you. I did wrong – majorly – and I know it and I feel wretched. I feel wretched because an apology is not enough, but more I feel wretched because I know I’ve hurt you. I cannot quantify the value of your friendship. I realize now that I need it far more than I thought I needed the passion last night. Tell me I can still have it? Earn it back?’

  ‘Why the socks?’ Chloë repeated because, though she had easily forgiven him, as was her wont, she also did not want him to know that just yet.

  ‘I returned this morning – late morning. With him. We were in the bedroom. Mrs MacMad knocked and entered.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Chloë gasped horrified, a gamut of lewd images cavorting across her mind’s eye.

  ‘No!’ Fraser exclaimed. ‘We were not – well, we were just talking. On the bed. Clothed – but on the bed. Mrs MacMad said, “Mrs Buchanan has gone out.” And then he said, “you told me I was Mrs Buchanan!” Really camping it up, he was. The tart. Anyway, we both started laughing uncontrollably – exacerbated by illegal substances, I’m ashamed to add. So she threw us out. I did not have time to collect my shoes which were, of course, by the front door. I’ve been pacing the streets ever since. Look, my toe! Look at the time, it’s nearly six.’

  ‘And where, might I ask, is he?’ asked Chloë so she could bite back a smile. Fraser, however, saw it. He put his arm gently around her shoulder and touched her ear lobe with the tip of his nose.

  ‘There’s only one Mrs Buchanan,’ he said fondly. ‘He was an aberration. Anathema! Anath-a-my-mistakes! I thought it was love last night. But found it only to be lust – and limited – this morning. Surprise bloody surprise. And he? Where’s he? He was so scared of Mrs MacMad that he practically shat his troos! Certainly, he was last seen scampering down the street in a very strange way! The poof!’

  Chloë laughed a little and then fixed Fraser an uncompromising and searching stare.

  ‘You hurt me, you did.’

  ‘I know,’ he nodded gravely.

  ‘You’re the first person whom I’ve actually really cared for who has done so.’

  ‘I am?’ he said quietly.

  ‘You are,’ Chloë confirmed, looking away and then looking at him, ‘and it hurt.’

  Fraser looked at Chloë’s shoes and then up at her face. Pale, she looked tired and pale and he hated himself. She looked as fragile as porcelain, certainly she was as precious as it. He sighed, touched her cheek and slipped his hand down to cup the back of her neck. He drew her face towards his and placed his forehead against hers. One of her ringlets tickled his nose. He ignored it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘MacWallader.’

  ‘Please don’t do it again.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t.’

  Chloë returned to Mrs MacAdam’s while Fraser hid around the corner, revving the engine and giggling to himself.

  ‘Hello, my deary deary dear!’ Mrs MacAdam chirped from the midst of maroon velour.

  ‘Mr Buchanan?’ asked Chloë, batting her eyelashes. She watched Mrs MacAdam falter but pretended not to notice. Mrs MacAdam shrugged her shoulders and ushered her to the plump settee and the offer of the mintless humbugs. They sucked in silence, Mrs MacAdam’s dilemma almost deafening. Chloë crunched her sweet first.

  ‘I’d better pack,’ she said in English before clearing her voice and infusing her Scottish lilt, ‘take everything with me. I’ll not be going home. I’ll go to my mother’s in Aberdeen. Should he return, please tell him nothing.’

  Mrs MacAdam pulled her thumb and finger across an imaginary zip over her lips. Chloë packed and sneezed.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked Mrs MacAdam. Knowing her penchant for deposits, Chloë was most surprised when Mrs MacAdam gave the air a quick wave and mouthed ‘He’ll pay’. Chloë mouthed back ‘You sure?’ ‘Oh aye!’ moved Mrs MacAdam’s mouth. Chloë gave her a smile which she hoped was meek and not guilty and offered her hand for a firm, farewell shake. On their way to the front door, the women stopped and regarded Fraser’s shoes for a long moment. Finally, Chloë turned her head away from them and walked past. Neither spoke; both had their reasons.

  ‘Goodbye, and thank you,’ Chloë said to Mrs MacAdam from the doorstep.

  ‘Don’t you worry about waving, Mrs Buchanan,’ said Mrs MacAdam, ‘your hands are full and you’ve enough on your plate.’

  ‘Shoes?’ Fraser enquired.

  ‘Heavans!’ Chloë exclaimed, wide-eyed and winsome. ‘I quite forgot. Silly, silly me!’

  That night, Mrs MacAdam stripped the bed in the Gold Room. The next morning, she burned the sheets. A week later, she put Fraser’s shoes on the bonfire and burned them too.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  By mid-September, Chloë was convinced that Scotland was at its most beautiful. The midges had gone, and so had most of the tourists. The streams and waterfalls remained energetic and the hills sighed with colour. The heather shimmered purple and brown, the bracken shone auburn and russet and so did Chloë. The days for the most part were dry and, though still long, they were now tinged by a breeze that was essentially gentle but sang of the proximity of autumn. Buzzards wheeled lazily in the afternoons while red deer welcomed the camouflage of autumn and to spy one was a gift indeed. Most treasured, though, were the eagles. Irrationally, Chloë would often pray that a distant buzzard hugging the hills or skimming the sky just might be an eagle. ‘You’ll know when it’s an eagle,’ Fraser assured her nodding sagely. ‘You’ll not doubt it. You won’t think to wonder if it might be a buzzard.’

  She came across an eagle at close range one afternoon, sitting somewhat incongruously on a short telegraph post in the field behind the garden at Braer. It regarded her directly but remained quite still, its neck feathers lifted and lowered by the constant breeze. Chloë stopped and sat, hugging her knees, on a boulder. It was an eagle all right, not just because its size so dwarfed that of a buzzard, but because its poise and its stare contained such authority and presence, its estimation of its spectator undoubtedly supercilious. Chloë wondered whether to call for Fraser but decided to keep the moment all for herself. It was unlikely there would be another. She watched the bird but never saw it blink. Something caught its attention and it craned its neck, the feathers following the movement like chain-mail. Oh, to reach out and touch it, sneak a feather perhaps! The bird returned its uncompromising stare to Chloë and she found herself smiling warmly at it.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Eagle!’ she said softly, raising her hand in a meek salute. It continued to observe her as if she were very strange indeed and then, with a slight shift and a practice wing flap, it took to the air calling, calling. Wee! Chlo-wee!

  Chloë scrambled to her feet and shielded her brow with her hands so she could follow the bird. It alighted on a distant branch. She raised her hand and waved expansively. The eagle remained motionless and it occurred to Chloë that, unless she had known where to look, she would never have noticed an eagle there at all. How many times had she missed one, she wondered. How often had they been watching her? What did they make of her? Was she recognized? Acknowledged? She waved again and was charmed and delighted that the eagle took to the air. The bird seemed to skirt the very edge of the sky and then suddenly he was amongst the clouds, circling and assessing and enjoying himself very much. Down he swooped and then soared again. Down he came and skimmed across the treetops fast. Wee! Chlo-wee! With a tilt of his wing-tip he commanded the wind to take him up again and, riding the thermals, he wheeled and hung and seemed to be flying for the sheer hell of it. And then he was gone. Chloë was not sure when she lost him but though she scoured the skies and prayed and pleaded, he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’d like to be an eagle,’ she said to Fraser later over a humble supper of oatcakes and crumbly cheese.

  ‘And I’d like to be a bus drive
r!’ responded Fraser, pulling a face.

  ‘No,’ Chloë insisted, ‘I’d like to be an eagle – or at least, like one. They seem to have such control and they seem to be so self-sufficient.’ Fraser conceded defeat. Chloë continued, ‘Eagles seem to have a consummate understanding of the purpose of their lives, don’t you think? They do what they do so very well; they learn how to ride the thermals and how to use the wind to their advantage. They blend in with their surroundings and yet they add to them too.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Fraser earnestly.

  ‘I guess that’s what I crave,’ said Chloë, a little forlornly, ‘to really fit in somewhere, to feel so utterly at ease, in control and strong. That my surroundings should nourish me so.’

  Fraser fell silent and dabbed at crumbs on his plate, eventually looking up at Chloë with dull, drawn eyes.

  ‘September’ll be gone afore long,’ he said quietly. Chloë nodded. ‘Could you be an eagle here, do you think?’ he asked. She shrugged and tipped her head. ‘Will you not stay a wee while longer, Chloë MacWallader? Build a nest?’ Chloë did not respond. ‘Just test out your wings some more before you fly on? Fly away?’ Fraser implored.

  Chloë smiled at him and stroked his cheek. ‘I cannot start to build my nest until I’ve found the bough. It may be here, but I can’t know that unless I’ve flown on – I’ll never fly away, Fraser, never from you. I’m probably more of a homing pigeon than I’ll ever be an eagle! But pigeon or raptor, I now know that I have to see just how far my wings can take me. They don’t feel very strong at the moment, that I can tell you, but they do feel like they need a stretch, an airing. If I fly free, I can fly true. As yet, I’ve been neither high enough nor far enough.’

  ‘When’ll you go, my girl, lassie mine?’