A Highland Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  "As a minister of the Kirk, I consider it inappropriate. As my wife, it is inappropriate for you likewise."

  "My father is an elder of the Kirk and he does not consider it inappropriate! He could hardly do so in fact without the most abominable hypocrisy, given his line of trade. And after all, did not Our Lord bless the Wedding at Cana with good wine? Did he not bid us to commemorate his death by—"

  "That is enough!" cried Mr Farquhar, in a harsher tone that she had ever heard from him. "Mrs Farquhar, you will hold your tongue."

  Her heart thumping with fury and the blood high in her cheeks, Flora took a great swallow of the wine.

  From across the table, Miss Abernethy had lifted her gaze at last to watch her with wide, amazed eyes. Her silly mouth had fallen open a little.

  The wine was truly delicious, a great vintage worthy of its noble antecedents, but it turned sour on her palate as she realised how deathly a silence had fallen around the table. Both Mr and Mrs Abernethy were also staring at her, their flinty faces carved from stone, and as for Mr Farquhar, he had turned those very blue eyes on her with a cold, unyielding glare.

  Abruptly he rose from the table and Flora felt the sharp tug of her chair being pulled back none too courteously. Confused, she responded automatically and stood.

  Mr Farquhar towered over her. She tilted her head upwards and met his gaze boldly, though the hard lines around his mouth dismayed her. "You will leave this table and retire to your chamber," he said quietly.

  "But I haven't even had—"

  "At once, Flora!"

  His voice was a sudden lash of anger. Flora, her face flaming, took one more look at the people gathered around the table - Mr and Mrs Abernethy dour-faced and grim, Grace actually smirking - and stormed out of the room, brushing past the footman who had to step aside smartly to let her past. She realised even as she went that she ought to have stopped to curtsy to her hosts, but she was too angry and ashamed to care. Humiliation and fury burned within her as she half-ran up the wide baronial staircase, and blundered through the corridors until she found her way back to the spiral staircase that led to the tower room.

  She slammed the door, leaned back against it, and gave way to a brief storm of furious tears.

  Chapter Three

  With what different feelings from before did Flora pace the tower bedchamber!

  At first, she expected Mr Farquhar to follow close behind, and to remonstrate with her in private before escorting her to re-join the company. She resolved that she would refuse to go back down to dinner, and played out a scene in her head where he scolded and then begged, and she stood firm to make him understand how hurt she was by his failure to defend her father and herself. And then to order her not to drink the exceptional wine their hosts had been so kind as to offer, and to send her to her room like a child! She clasped and unclasped her hands as she circled the floor, moving restlessly from window shutters to fireplace to bed across the somewhat threadbare rug.

  But when the clock on the mantelpiece struck eight, it was apparent that he had not himself left the table. She had been here more than half an hour, and it now seemed likely that he had sat down again and continued to eat dinner as if nothing had happened. Her anger mounted, tinged through with resentment and not a little hunger. She had eaten a few mouthfuls of game soup, no more. One did not eat too much soup, to leave appetite enough for the spread of roast meats that formed the most substantial part of dinner. Mr Farquhar had ordered her away from the table in full sight of the rich venison and beef before she had tasted a single morsel. It was her wedding night, and she was hungry and increasingly lonely.

  Flora sat on the bed and cried again, sadly and more bitterly this time. If her husband had decided to stay with the company, then there was the whole of the first course, the second course and the dessert course to be got through, and after that the gentleman always sat around for an entire age at table drinking port and smoking their horrid cigars and talking about the dullest things imaginable. The ladies escaped to the drawing room, but the men took forever to join them. If Mr Farquhar saw all this through, it could be over two hours yet before he came to her.

  And so it proved. At just before ten o'clock, there was a soft perfunctory knock on the door and it opened to a maidservant, coming in with a basket of logs.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," she mumbled.

  She was here to make up the fire, which she did without further comment.

  Flora wondered if the girl would be perplexed at her being up here all alone, while the company was downstairs. It was just as possible that gossip about the scene at the dinner table had already reached the servants' hall. Servants always knew everything. She wrestled briefly with her pride, then asked, "Is dinner over?"

  "Oh yes, ma'am." The girl placed a few more logs on the fire and the flames leaped upwards cheerily.

  Flora moved towards the door, which the girl had left open, wondering if she would hear the sound of Mr Farquhar's tread upon the stone stairs. She did hear a noise, but it was of a startling kind. Not footsteps, but something that sounded like a cry. It was a sharp, high-pitched cry, filled with anguish. A few seconds later, it came again. To Flora's imagination, it was louder and more pitiful than before.

  "What is that noise?" she asked, in sudden apprehension. It was a fearsome thing to be alone in a tower, in a house that was straight from the pages of a novel by Mrs Radcliffe, hearing distant cries in the night.

  The servant hoisted the log basket and, burdened by its weight and awkward shape, began to shuffle out. As she reached the door, there was another cry, and this time it was most definitely a scream.

  "That'll be Miss Abernethy, getting a hiding," said the servant, unemotionally. "I'll shut the door so it doesnae disturb you. Good night, ma'am."

  Appalled and curious, Flora waited until she judged that the servant must have gone, then she pushed open the door again and slipped quietly down the stairs. The tower staircase was behind an open arched doorway that gave onto square landing, with a corridor beyond leading to the main staircase. Flora peered round the corner into this passage, wondering if the reported hiding was being administered behind one of the many doors along its length. The cries had stopped, but now she could distinctly hear a muffled sobbing and sharp female tones, though she could not make out any words.

  Then she heard a heavy tread and shrank further against the wall, ready to bolt back to the concealment of the tower staircase. Her heart jumped in case it were Mr Farquhar coming in that direction. But the footsteps stopped, and she risked another glimpse to see the straight upright back of Mr Abernethy opening a door quite near her.

  He went into the room, leaving the door ajar, and Flora stared in astonishment. She had a clear view into part of what looked like a lady's bedroom, and she thought it must belong to Miss Abernethy. She could see the foot of the bed, and kneeling forward over it, her head and arms out of view but her posterior presented outwards and upwards, was Grace. Flora recognised the fabric of her gown, a fashionable white muslin with little spots. She was making gulping, sobbing noises, which subsided to gasps as her father entered.

  "Has she learned her lesson yet?" Mr Abernethy's voice said.

  Mrs Abernethy moved into Flora's field of view. She was holding something long and dark in one hand, and resting it in the other. It flopped slightly, and Flora perceived it to be a belt or strap of some kind. "I think she could benefit from a wee bit further instruction from her father, Mr Abernethy."

  From the bed, Grace gave a strangled wail and her body quivered, though she did not move her position.

  "Wheest!" said Mr Abernethy sharply. "Hold your noise, girl. If you don't want a skelpt hide, you should learn to guard your tongue and talk respectfully to guests under my roof. You put me and your mother to shame with your disgraceful scandalmongering, and to a minister's wife too."

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Grace gasped. It sounded like a plea, desperate but subdued.

  "Aye, but not as sorry as you
will be once I've finished with you."

  He raised his arm and brought the strap down on Grace's behind with a tremendous crack that made Flora jump, and Grace let out a shriek far more anguished than before. Her body bucked upwards, but stayed kneeling. As her cry trailed into bubbling sobs, she sank back into her original position as if she were hugging the bed.

  "Close the door too," Mr Abernethy said. "We don't want to disturb the household more than necessary."

  Mrs Abernethy made towards the door and Flora suddenly darted away, fearful of being seen. She pressed her hands over her ears as she ran upstairs back to her chamber, but she could not quite shut out the snap of leather on skin and Grace's shrieks and wails until she reached the sanctuary of the tower room.

  * * * * *

  Much shaken by what she had witnessed, Flora lost no time in undressing, loosing her tumbling chestnut hair and changing into her long cambric nightrobe. She no longer wished for the consummation of her wedding night. She had decided that if Mr Farquhar ever did deign to join her, she would pretend to be asleep. She felt disinclined to wait for him any longer.

  She climbed into one side of the musty-smelling bed, its heavy sheets feeling slightly damp in the chill settling over the room, and blew out the bedside candle. The only light in the room now came from the still-burning fire, casting a comfortable orange glow and deep dark shadows.

  No wonder Miss Abernethy had looked so perturbed after she had made her impertinent remark and been rebuked by her mother. Flora had thought her a silly goose to be so downcast by a sharp word, but of course she must have known that her real punishment awaited her at the end of the evening. How awful to have to sit through three courses of dinner, and conversation afterwards in the drawing room, knowing that an appointment with that cruel-looking strap awaited her at the end of it. Flora had felt dislike for Grace Abernethy, but she pitied her now. Her own father had never once punished her, nor allowed any governess or servant to lift a hand to her or her sister.

  She was tired from the fatigues of the journey, and despite her hunger, and her anger towards Mr Farquhar, and her distress at witnessing Grace Abernethy's chastisement, her eyes grew heavy. She was very nearly asleep when a heavy tread on the stairs shocked her wide awake once more.

  She half-opened her eyes so that she could peer through her lashes, but kept still. The tall, broad figure of Mr Farquhar stood in the doorway, his face cast into long shadows by the light of the fire. She could not see his expression.

  "Get out of bed." His voice was stern, with no hint of warmth.

  Her heart sank and she realised then that she had been expecting him to apologise. She closed her eyes tight and lay unmoving. She heard him stride towards the bed.

  "Flora." He must be standing directly over her. "Let me make this very clear. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to obey me.”

  She opened her eyes and sat up, glaring at him. "I was asleep!"

  "And that, madam, is a lie. You were not asleep. Get out of bed!"

  With a sharp exhalation, Flora flung back the covers and dropped her bare feet to the rug. She stood before him, aware in a rush of confusion that she was actually alone in a bedchamber with a man, and in a state of undress.

  He was still fully clothed in his dinner jacket. The rich smell of cigar smoke clung around him, although she doubted he indulged himself. It gave her one small stab of homesickness, for her father had that aroma on him when, after dinner, he would find her and kiss her goodnight before retiring early as he always did.

  "Have you anything to say?" he asked coldly.

  "I have! Indeed, I have!" The frustration and disappointment of the past few hours burst forth. "I thought you might have taken my part at dinner, and not allowed Mr Abernethy to speak slightingly of my father being in trade. And then when Miss Abernethy made mention of my poor sister - how could you stay silent then? And then, to forbid me wine, and send me away from the table like a child—" She broke off, because he had turned on his heel from her and paced away towards the fire.

  With one hand on the mantelpiece, he appeared to be gazing into the fire. When he spoke, it was in an almost reflective tone. "I left you alone during the course of the evening partly because I felt that it was a courtesy due to our hosts, but chiefly to give you time to reflect on your behaviour at dinner."

  "My behaviour!" cried Flora.

  "I fully expected to find you contrite.” He made a heavy sigh. "And yet instead I find you full of defiance and insolence, disobedient and dissembling, and blind - quite blind - to your errors.” He turned to face her again. "Flora, have you really no idea why I am angry?"

  He did not seem angry. He seemed very calm now. She was confused, and cast about in her mind, and said, "I drank the wine after you asked me not to. But—"

  He held up a hand. "You drank the wine, Flora, after I ordered you not to, defying your husband quite openly in front of our hosts and Miss Abernethy. But before that, you spoke most insolently to Mr Abernethy, a gentleman many years your senior, an elder of the Kirk, and our host."

  "He insulted my father!"

  "He did not insult your father, Flora. He remarked that he was in the wine trade, which is quite true. You yourself heard an insult in that."

  "Miss Abernethy smiled!"

  "Miss Abernethy is a young lady of too-lively temperament who requires firm guidance and good example. It is her parents' duty to provide that guidance and it is yours, as I told you even before we arrived here, to be an example of proper, well-bred, submissive behaviour as the minister's wife. Instead, you spoke with outrageous insolence to her father, disobeyed your husband and then argued with me - argued with me - when I rebuked you. You went so far as to reference Scripture in your abominable defiance." His voice had risen.

  Flora suddenly saw the events at the dinner table represented in this light, and was forced to admit in herself that she had behaved with some lack of decorum. At home, her father would merely have sighed and shaken her head. Margaret's temper had been far worse than hers, and bold words and storming off from dinner had been a not-infrequent occurrence.

  As if reading her mind, Mr Farquhar added, "It was clear to me from what I witnessed in your father's house that faulty indulgence on his part allowed his daughters to behave in this manner. If the fault had been corrected sooner, your sister would have had better principles, and could not have come to her sad end."

  Flora knew this was true. She hung her head and said, "I am sorry, sir. I will be better."

  "Aye. You shall. It is time to teach you where such transgressions lead you, so that you will be truly sorry, and remember in future."

  Flora was uncertain of his meaning, and watched warily as he looked around the room as if searching for something. He carried the candle he had brought upstairs over to the old-fashioned dressing table in the corner, and picked up an object which proved to be a heavy-looking mahogany hairbrush. "This will do," he said, coming back to the fire.

  "I have brushed out my hair already, sir, and besides, I have my own brush."

  He tapped the hairbrush against the palm of his hand a couple of times. “For this first lesson,” he said, “and for these offences, something more serious than my hand is required... firm though my hand can be. I recall that in my younger childhood, my mother used a hairbrush similar to this to very good effect."

  Flora had listened to this with mounting horror, a sickness settling in her stomach. "Mr Farquhar! You do not propose to beat me with that?"

  "I am going to punish you for your conduct this evening, Flora, and teach you to behave better in future. This is my duty as your husband. I explained before we were married that I would instruct you in the proper way of a minister's wife."

  "But I didn't know you meant to do that!" She backed away towards the bed.

  "Flora! Come back here”

  "No! I won't let you!"

  "Mrs Farquhar! It is not yet one full day since you stood before God and promised to obey me in all t
hings! You are my wife and it is my absolute right to chastise you as I see fit."

  "My father will hear of your cruelty!" she cried, running for the door.

  "Your father fully understands his own failings towards his daughters and the disaster it has brought upon his family. He is entirely in agreement that I should save you from the same fate."

  She got as far as the door, and had laid her hand on the knob before Mr Farquhar added in a commanding tone, "Flora! If you leave my presence now, I will take it that you have forsaken your marriage vows, and no longer wish to be my wife. I will return you to your father's home tomorrow, in disgrace, and you will never see me again."

  Breathing heavily, her heart hammering, Flora hesitated. The idea was too appalling. Her mind raced over the consequences of such a development. Her situation would be intolerable. Not only would she compound the disgrace her sister's elopement had brought upon the family and quite sink her father under it - for folk would say that there must have been some dreadful scandal, for Miss Flora Campbell to return immediately to her father's roof - she would herself be trapped forever. Married, and yet without a husband and a home of her own. She would be condemned to perpetual spinsterhood with no hope of release, unless in the extremity of Mr Farquhar's death.

  She had no choice. She lifted her hand from the door, and turned back towards him, pressing herself against the wall. Her legs felt weak.

  "Come here and kneel across this armchair by the fire," he said, in a gentler tone, pointing with the hairbrush. He seemed almost saddened.

  She shook her head and began to cry.

  There was no time to move or react as he strode across the room, picked her clear off her feet, carried her easily to the fireside, and flung her across his knee. "Then we will do this the hard way," he said, slightly out of breath. "With extra instruction for your disobedience. "

  She struggled against him, her long hair tumbling into her face, seeing the weave of the rug, breathing in wood and dust and the smoky tobacco smell from the fabric of his breeches. He was far too strong for her to have any chance of escape. With insuperable force, he held her arms down with one hand and pinned her legs between his thighs, so that she felt her bottom rise up exposed and vulnerable. And then, to her horror and shame, he pulled at the fabric of her nightshift.