by Fiona Monroe
Flora looked round and down and saw a tiny, shawl-wrapped figure shuffling towards the carriage. "Mr Farquhar! Stop, stop, please."
With a questioning look, her husband pulled the reigns and halted the carriage. It was a busy street, and they earned the curses of some other travellers around.
Darting round the horses and other traffic on the street with a deftness and boldness of a lifetime lived in the heart of the Old Town, Flora's former nursemaid Auld Nettie came up to the carriage and held up her hand. "Miss Flora! Thank the good Lord I caught you afore you left. I heard only today you were married…" The old lady looked with kindly, questioning eyes towards Mr Farquhar. "Forgive me, Miss Flora, I wanted to say goodbye, and God bless, and wish you every happiness."
"Oh, Nettie!" Flora sprang down from her seat and embraced the small woman. "I'm sorry I didn't come to say goodbye!" She realised guiltily it had never entered her head. "But as you can see, I was married this very morning to a splendid gentleman, a minister of the Kirk, and we are off to his new parish far away in the Highlands."
"Aye, aye. My daughter heard it. I'm fair pleased. And to see you looking so well and so happy. Remember what I said, my wee lamb, when you moved way over yonder." She meant across the former Nor Loch to the New Town, which as far as Old Nettie was concerned might as well have been the Highlands already. "If you need Old Nettie, just send word, and I'll aye be there for my wee lamb."
Flora promised that she would, and squeezed the old lady's fragile frame tight once more, and hopped back up into the carriage.
She was surprised to find, as they rattled out of the city, that there were tears in her eyes. She blinked and averted her face, hoping that Mr Farquhar would not notice.
“Are you quite warm, my dear?”
Her lip trembled as she made a slight reply, and then she found Mr Farquhar slowing the horse for a moment as he bunched the reigns into one hand, and used the other to tuck the travelling blanket more securely around her. As they left the city of her birth, her new husband gave her shoulders a single squeeze.
* * * * *
They travelled as far as Stirlingshire that day, where Mr Farquhar was acquainted with a family by the name of Abernethy, of Ardun House. They had received a kind invitation, he told her, to stay overnight at Ardun on their journey.
"Mr and Mrs Abernethy are very good, God-fearing people," Mr Farquhar said of them as they travelled. "Like your father, Mr Abernethy is an Elder of the Kirk and Mrs Abernethy is widely known in these parts for her good works. They have one son, who is overseas at the moment I believe, and a daughter, Grace, who is about your age."
Flora was pleased to think that she would have the company, even if only for one evening, of a girl her own age. It made meeting the formidable-sounding Abernethys less intimidating, for she was not used to visiting country houses. And she was also conscious of the fact that she came there as a bride, in all the glory of being a married woman, so however fair and well-bred Grace Abernethy might be, she would have the upper hand.
Mr Farquhar's words cut into her thoughts. "In fact, with Miss Abernethy, you may begin straight away to practice your role as an example of how a good young Christian wife behaves."
Flora had been thinking more along the lines of showing off her smart Edinburgh fashions, and whispering to her smugly and coyly about the wedding night that awaited her, but she smiled and said agreeably, "Yes, sir."
Ardun House was approached by a long, winding gravel drive lined with skeletal trees. In summer and autumn their appearance must have been glorious, but in the gathering gloom of a winter's afternoon they were bleak and lowering. Their way was lit by a single smoky carriage lamp, and Flora was glad that they had managed to reach their destination before night finally closed in. She realised she was very cold and stiff as Mr Farquhar handed her down from the carriage.
The house itself loomed above them, a dark and indistinct mass of black wet stone with gleams of light escaping here and there through gaps in the shuttered windows. She thought she saw a tower over to the right side of the frontage, but then they were whisked in through the great doors by a butler who was evidently keen to get himself back into the warm interior as soon as possible.
They were met in the grand entrance hall by Mr and Mrs Abernethy and their daughter Miss Abernethy, who was a merry-looking fair girl of nineteen, with dimpled cheeks and an easy, if shy smile. When Mr Farquhar made the introductions, Flora was thrilled to hear herself called Mrs Farquhar for the very first time. Or, at least, the first time in the hearing of people of any consequence. Grace Abernethy, she thought, looked as awed and envious as she knew she would have been were their positions reversed.
She recalled last autumn, before the blow had fallen, when her father entertained a business acquaintance and had allowed her to join them for family dinner. The gentleman, a Mr Smith or Smythe or some such, looked very young, and had an even younger wife. Margaret told her in a whisper that Mrs Smith or Smythe was only eighteen years of age. Flora had herself just turned nineteen, and she had sat throughout dinner watching the girl in fascination as she giggled and answered her husband in lively tones. She even patted his hand at one point, and called him ‘dear John'. True, she had thought this remarkably vulgar and ill-bred – Mr Smith or Smythe was little more than a shop-keeper when it came to it, and his wife was probably even lower – but that a girl a year younger than herself was allowed to touch a man's hand, would call her husband by his Christian name and would, when their bedroom door was closed and the shutters pulled to, strip her clothes off and tangle naked limbs with his - she felt burning envy, and burning longing both at the same time, as the fish soup passed round the table. Not that she would have had Mr Smith or Smythe for all the fish in the Nor Loch, whey-faced silly-looking weakling that he was.
And now, here she was not many months later with a husband of her own, and one any young lady could be proud of, and night was drawing close. She hoped he did not intend to wait until they reached their new home to fulfil their marriage vows.
Mr and Mrs Abernethy were exactly what she had expected them to be from Mr Farquhar's description. The gentleman was tall, upright, spare and very dour, and his lady was short, stern-faced and had a flinty, penetrating voice. They both looked too old to be parents to a girl as young and fresh as Grace.
They had arrived near the dinner hour, and so were shown immediately to their bedchamber so that they could prepare. Flora felt another thrill as the housekeeper, who had guided them, closed the door on them both. She was really alone, with her husband, in the room they would share tonight.
The housekeeper had said something about ‘the tower room' and led them up an enclosed stone spiral staircase. The chamber at the top was round and massive, its plain distempered walls hung with mounted antlers, great bronze embossed plates and oil paintings of people in old-fashioned clothes. Heavy brocade curtains were already drawn across the windows. But to Flora's eyes, the room was dominated by the solid oak four-poster bed, with velvet drapes and an incongruous modern silk coverlet.
She felt herself blush, and looked away from it, hoping that Mr Farquhar had not followed her gaze.
He had already removed his outer jacket, revealing his white shirt below, and was looking in his trunk for his dinner jacket. He was, thought Flora, a man capable of seeing to his own needs, without the attendance of a valet. Her father was helpless without MacLean.
As he removed his cravat, the front of his shirt flapped open and she had a glimpse of black curling hairs across a broad, muscled chest; she could not look away as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, and bent over the washbowl. His forearms, too, were covered with black hair, thick and powerful. She watched in fascination as he ran his large hands up and down, soaping away the dust of the journey. In just a few hours, those same hands would be caressing her own bare flesh.
The reality of this came to her in a shiver, catching her breath in her throat and igniting a flush that began deep
between her legs. When he straightened up over the washbasin and caught her stare, his sudden smile – the crinkle of his bright blue eyes – made her cheeks flame.
"My toilet is very simple," he said, fastening his cufflinks and knotting his tie. "I shall leave you to complete yours in privacy, and see you in the drawing room."
"Thank you," she said, for now it came to it, she found she was overwhelmed by confusion. She did not quite feel ready to disrobe in front of him, even as far as her undergarments.
"Now remember, Flora." He took her hands gently.
She overcame her embarrassment and looked up into his face and smiled. In his smart dinner attire he looked even more handsome than before, and much less like a minister.
"This is your first appearance in company as a married woman, and the wife of a minister of the Kirk. There is a young lady in the house who will look to you for guidance in manner, speech and virtuous submission to your husband. I expect you to make me proud of you."
She nodded, trying to look solemn, but she was bubbling with the excitement and dread of what was to come and could barely focus on his words. With a sweet kiss of her fingers, he was gone, and she waited until she heard his footsteps echo away down the stone steps before she flung herself onto the bed and felt its firm, yet yielding feather mattress under her. Only a few hours more, and she would no longer be a maid.
* * * * *
The dining room of Ardun House was a long, wood-panelled chamber, and the dark oak of the floor and walls seemed to absorb the light of many candles. Having been used to living in an airy, modern house, Flora found the heavy old Scots baronial mansion, with its low ceilings and glassy-eyed deer heads, a little oppressive.
She had the inexpressible delight of being invited by Mrs Abernethy to lead the way into dinner, ahead of Miss Abernethy. It had not occurred to her that this distinction was, of course, her due now as a married lady, as was the position of honour at the right side of Mr Abernethy next to the head of the dining table, where the first course was already laid. Her husband was seated beside her, and Grace at her father's left side, opposite her.
"Perhaps," said Mr Abernethy, who had a very deep and sonorous voice, "since we are honoured by the presence of a minister of the Church, Mr Farquhar would do us the goodness to say grace."
Flora bowed her head while her husband obliged. She noticed that Miss Abernethy kept her eyes downcast and her hands clasped as if in private prayer for some little time after Mr Farquhar had pronounced the final amen.
The servants brought in the soup in old-fashioned tureens.
"I do not, Mrs Farquhar, have the honour of knowing your esteemed father," said Mr Abernethy in his slow voice. Every syllable was stretched out, making his sentences twice as long as they should have been. Flora found that her mind was wandering even between one word and the next. "He is an Elder, Mr Farquhar tells me?"
"Yes, sir, at St Andrew's in George Street. Edinburgh," she added, remembering that these people might not even know where and what George Street was. To her and everyone she had ever known, it was one of the arteries of the world.
"And a merchant, dealing in wine?"
"Yes, sir. And fine spirits."
"A merchant." Mr Abernethy repeated this, and turned his attention back to his soup.
She saw that though her eyes were still demurely downcast, Miss Abernethy's mouth twitched upwards in a delicate smile.
A footman helped Flora to some thick brown soup with chunks of game meat floating in it, and her buoyant mood deflated as effectively as if someone had punctured her with a hat pin. She glanced sideways at Mr Farquhar, but either he hadn't heard or he was choosing to ignore the slight. She had expected to impress the young lady of this house, and now she was sure that far from admiring her and her married status, Miss Abernethy despised her as the daughter of a tradesman.
"Aye, my faither is a merchant," she said, and in her indignation she found herself lapsing into the broader Scots she had picked up at her nursemaid's knee, before her governess insisted on more eloquent language. "There's nae shame in it. My faither is one of the wealthiest men in Edinburgh and has one of the finest hooses in the New Toun, as well as he's an ordained elder o the kirk."
Mr Abernethy laid down his soup spoon and turned a formidable gaze on her, staring at her for a full moment before looking past her and addressing her husband. "Mr Farquhar, you have married a wife who expresses herself very decidedly. She'll want taking in hand."
"I assure you, sir," said Mr Farquhar, and his tone grave and matter-of-fact, "the matter will be seen to."
Flora bristled again. She felt that her husband ought to be speaking up to defend her, and not allow these people to reflect ill on her father and, by extension, her. Instead, she feared that he was going to deliver some tedious lecture on respectful behaviour towards one's hosts, like the many homilies on Christian wifely duty that she happily let wash over her.
"I will always speak decidedly when my dear father is concerned, sir," she said distinctly, refusing to be cowed. "He is the best of men and the best of fathers, and one of the foremost citizens of Edinburgh. He has nothing to be ashamed of."
To her disgust, Grace Abernethy actually snorted and said something quietly into her spoonful of game soup.
It would have been wiser to have pretended not to have heard, but Flora could not be wise. Her temper and feelings of humiliation were racing high. In a forced, false sweet and polite tone, she said, "Excuse me, Miss Abernethy. I did not catch what you said."
"I said," Grace repeated, in a clear loud voice, "that from what I hear from my correspondents in town, he has something to be ashamed of right enough."
"Grace!"
The voice came from the foot of the table, sharp and whip-like. Its effect on Grace was immediate and startling. She hung her head, her face paled, and she looked very frightened all in an instant. She did not look towards her mother nor speak again, but toyed at her soup with her eyes downcast until the servants approached to remove the bowls.
Flora seethed. Miss Abernethy might have been silenced by her mother's reproach, but the insult had been given. Worse, she now knew and could not forget that far from leaving her family's troubles behind her in Edinburgh, they had followed her here. Not only did these landed gentry with their gloomy house, horrible old-fashioned crack-glazed crockery and worn-looking curtains look down on her family for being new money, they also knew about their disgrace. She was angry with herself for being stupid enough to imagine that they did not. They were scarcely fifty miles from the city, and of course Miss Abernethy at least was likely to have acquaintance there. Letter-writing, gossiping acquaintance.
Mr Abernethy continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, addressing Mr Farquhar and speaking of the roads, the improvements in the Highlands, and the prospects for the peace continuing. Flora was almost tempted to interject with, "My sister hopes the peace continues, as she is currently residing in Paris," just to see what a hornet's nest that would stir up. But of course, she said no such thing. Her anger towards Margaret burned as darkly as her resentment against the Abernethys, against everyone who had cut her and looked pityingly or scornfully upon her since that terrible day in December.
Only Mr Farquhar had not, in fact. She glanced aside at him, longing again that he would say something to put down Miss Abernethy's rudeness, or to defend her by saying that though her sister had sinned, she and her father were blameless and should not be condemned. Then she could perhaps touch his hand, and call him ‘dear Iain'; though she knew in her heart that she had too much real good breeding to do any such thing, tradesman’s daughter or notInstead, he continued to reply courteously and unconcernedly to Mr Abernethy on the subjects of the day.
Even this conversation fell silent as the servants arrived to remove the soup tureens and bowls, and to carry a great joint of beef, a dressed goose, a side of venison and a ham hock to the table, along with dishes of vegetables. A footman brought forward some bottles of
wine which were placed before the master of the house. Flora studied them with interest, her place of honour at Mr Abernethy's side giving her a vantage point. Although the butler must have given them a quick wipe with a napkin, thick dust still adhered to the edges of the labels, which bore the crest of Chateau Haut-Brion. This was one of the five Premier Grand Cru Classe, the very finest wines of the Bordeaux region of France, and its vintage was 1798.
"Chateau Haut-Brion!" she said. "From before the war, and a good year."
"My cellars are well stocked, Mrs Farquhar, I assure you," said Mr Abernethy.
"Papa is so relieved that the peace makes the import of Bordeaux and other French wine so much easier. He says we have missed some very good vintages almost entirely." She was determined to show that she was not in the least abashed by her father being in trade, by talking about that trade openly. But she was also an enthusiast, and could not help becoming animated by the sight of the eighteen-year-old Grand Cru. Even her father, canny Edinburgh man of business that he was, very rarely brought a wine of such quality to table.
Mr Abernethy made no reply, but beckoned to the footman.
Flora stole a glance at Grace to see whether she was inclined to sneer at her display of knowledge of the wine trade, but Grace's demeanour had changed. Her eyes were downcast, her mouth was tense, and she looked nothing less than acutely miserable.
The footman ceremoniously drew out the long cork from one bottle, and poured a little for his master to taste. Mr Abernethy nodded his approval, and the footman stepped round behind Flora to fill her glass first, as befitted her position as lady of honour at the table.
"Excuse me," said Mr Farquhar, quietly but firmly.
The footman completed pouring the wine in a fine arched stream before turning to him enquiringly.
"No wine for Mrs Farquhar or myself, I thank you. We do not indulge in intoxicating liquor of any kind."