'You are very quiet.'
The speaker had to repeat himself twice before I realised that he was talking to me. I looked up with a slight start. 'Oh, yes, I am, rather.' I frowned, wondering where I had seen this man before.
He was a civilian, I was glad to see, with smart clothes that had seen better days, and long fingers. You can tell a lot about a man by his fingers, from the broad, calloused fingers of a man who lived by honest toil to the pampered and soft digits of a fop. This man's fingers were neither calloused nor pampered, they were long but powerful, graceful but also used to work.
'May I introduce myself?' The owner of the fingers gave a formal little bow. 'I am Mungo Hetherington, Dr Mungo Hetherington, the family physician to Mrs Marie Elliot, and now to Mr Elliot as well.'
'How do you do?' I half stood up and gave a little curtsey. 'I am Dorothea Flockhart, a minor friend of Mrs Elliot, through her friendship with Emily Napier.'
Doctor Hetherington. I remembered where I had seen him before; he was the civilian who had helped the fallen pikeman during the Field Day at Portobello.
'Shall we sit down? We are making a bit of a spectacle of ourselves bobbing up and down across the table.'
'That is uncommonly sensible of you,' Dr Hetherington said.
We sat down simultaneously, and I wondered what to say next. I wished I had not come to this wedding; I wished I had not come back to this house.
'You are still very quiet,' Dr Hetherington said.
'I am not much of a conversationalist,' I wished the amiable doctor would leave me alone in my misery.
'Then you must permit me to converse for two,' the amiable doctor seemed to have no intention of leaving me alone. I tried to convince myself that it was better having him talk to me than for me to sit in solitary silence. At least he was a harmless sort of fellow and with a broad chin and misshapen nose, as ugly as sin.
I forced what I hoped looked like a smile. 'Thank you, Doctor.'
'That's settled then,' the good doctor said. 'I could ask many questions about you, Miss Flockhart, yet I fear your replies would be eloquently silent.' His smile was far more effective than mine, 'so instead, I think you shall have to endure my observations about the present company.'
I nodded, trying to appear more sociable than I felt.
'There, now!' Doctor Hetherington said. 'We have a response! That was all the encouragement I seek. Do you like to observe people?'
I had to reply to what was a direct question. 'I prefer to avoid them,' I said.
'And yet here you are at this most happy and convivial of gatherings.' Doctor Hetherington said. 'I believed that I knew all Mrs Elliot's acquaintances, so you must be a newcomer to her circle.' He continued without affording me the opportunity of replying.
I nodded again. 'I have known Mrs Elliot for less than a twelvemonth.'
'Excellent!' Dr Hetherington beamed. 'There you, you see? We are getting on like a house on fire.'
I ducked my head as Lady Pluscarden scanned the tables. It was a long time since I had felt as uncomfortable as I did at that wedding. The doctor was watching me, perhaps with his professional interest aroused, possibly out of compassion. I searched my mind for something to distract him.
'Are you a local man, Doctor?'
'I live just outside the policies of the Hall,' Doctor Hetherington seemed pleased to talk about himself.
'Have you been here long?'
'Eight years,' the doctor gave a sudden smile. 'Another ten and people will nearly begin to accept me as a local.'
'It will take longer than that,' I did not have to search for the words. 'Country people find it hard to accept strangers.'
'Oh?' The doctor's eyebrows rose, and he neatly passed the topic back to me. 'Are you familiar with the country then? Or are you a lady of the town?'
'I live in Edinburgh.' I closed the question as something far more important imposed on my mind. 'I do have one question for you, Doctor.'
Doctor Hetherington's smile could not have been broader. 'Ask away my dear Miss Flockhart, ask away.'
'That minister,' I indicated the elderly churchman who had married Marie to Gibbie. 'Is he also local?'
'The Reverend Brown has been here for the past five years,' Doctor Hetherington's words eased away one of my worries.
'Thank you,' I relapsed into silence again.
The doctor smiled, waiting to hear why I had asked such a question. I did not enlighten him. Fortunately, the meal began then, and we were too busy with soup and meat to have time to talk, which I hope saved me from the necessity of making any further disclosures to this garrulous and observant man. Wedding feasts are much the same, so suffice to say that the cooks did not disgrace themselves and the servants did not throw food into anybody's lap. Unfortunately, even a wedding feast of 1803 had a limit to the amount of food it applied to its guests, and when the servants had cleared the last course away and produced the glasses for the inevitable rounds of toasts, Doctor Hetherington was still there. I searched the table for sanctuary from his probing mind but, like Johnny Armstrong, I sought grace from a graceless face and there was none.
Emily and James were deep in conversation with the Campbells, and Captain Rogers appeared to have forgotten about me as he laughed and joked with his scarlet-jacketed colleagues. I did not look in the direction of Lady Pluscarden in case she recalled my face. I could only thank the Lord that this gathering did not retain the custom of keeping a chamber pot within the sideboard for the men's use during the meal. Like horses one can no longer ride, some habits of the good old days are best put out to grass.
The first toast was inevitable, given we were at war and Boney's mighty army was poised to invade: 'The King, God bless him.'
We all had to stand for that and drink back the red claret, imported from France by devious means and Leith smugglers.
'Confusion to the French' was next, and we all agreed to that.
'How strange,' Dr Hetherington observed. 'Drinking confusion to the country all the best families acknowledge as the cultural centre of the world and whose fashions most at this table are sporting.' He spoke in French, a language that everybody at the wedding would understand to some degree. I admired his cynicism and replied in the same tongue.
'The world is a strange place, Doctor.'
He raised his glass and eyebrows to me.
The toasts continued. 'To the bride and groom.' We all drank that one with enthusiasm, and then, as the claret began to affect heads, the accents broadened as the native voices overcame learned attitudes and imposed mannerisms. As Doctor Hetherington observed, 'the native Scot is coming through.'
'Thumpin' luck and fat weans'
'When we're gaun up the hill o' fortune, may we ne'er meet a friend coming down.'
By that time I merely sipped at my glass and did not indulge myself in the deep draughts that others did. I had no desire to end up drunk and incapable, especially in this house. Heavy drinking was another tradition that was best left in the past.
I heard Colin's voice growing louder higher up the table and saw Elizabeth put her hand across the mouth of his glass. I nodded; well done Mrs Campbell. Keep control.
Doctor Hetherington had also seen Elizabeth's action. 'There'll be trouble in paradise soon unless this night ends,' he said. 'Colin is a man with a temper when the wine gets in.'
I nodded, watching Gibbie Elliot, who seemed flushed as well. Marie was laughing at his side. I caught her eye and gave a small wave with my fingers. She responded happily, grinning down the table.
Other snippets of conversation came to me as the wine bit deep and chased away sense and decorum.
'Here's a lark!' I heard the words and thought that Gilbert Elliot spoke them although in the general hubbub I could not be sure. 'We can visit one of the low pubs in Whisky Row and mix with the lower orders.'
There was loud laughter after that, with some of the Volunteer officers drumming their glasses on the table-top until the crockery rattled and the si
lver wear sang. One gangly, ginger-haired scoundrel was especially demonstrative as he nearly clambered onto the table in his enthusiasm.
'Who is that?' I already guessed the answer.
'The Honourable Hector McAra,' the doctor said. 'The friend of everybody who he might need to advance his connections and a bad enemy for those he dislikes. He has powerful connections but few true friends.'
I nodded and said nothing. I had met the like before and thought of them with nothing but contempt. I had my reasons, especially for a man who shared the name McAra. This so-called 'honourable' shared the family shape and colouring. I watched as he sauntered across to talk to Lady Pluscarden, and tried to shrink into invisibility.
Lady Pluscarden pushed McAra away. 'That's surely great nonsense, sir!' Her voice was clear above the hubbub.
Well said, my Lady.
And still, the toasts continued.
'Here's health to the sick, stilts to the lame, claes to the back and brose to the wame.'
I was no longer even pretending to drink now and covered my glass as the claret made its inexorable rounds. I watched the men at the table and knew that the doctor was watching me. I wondered again if he saw me as a potential patient. Did I have some symptoms that interested him?
'Mair sense and mair siller,' came the next call.
'They call for mair sense while drinking themselves into insensibility,' Doctor Hetherington observed, 'and toast to more silver while spending their wealth on more claret in one night than a poor country doctor could afford in a month.'
I agreed with him. Despite myself, I was growing to like this garrulous man. 'Are country doctors so poor then, Doctor Hetherington?'
'As church mice,' Doctor Hetherington said sadly. 'If I had the funds, there is so much good I could do and so many people I could help.'
I studied him across the width of the table, wondering how genuine his words were or if he was only saying what he thought I wished to hear. He was about 30, I judged, the same age as me, and anything but handsome, with that short, broken nose above a wide mouth and a broad chin, while his forehead was unusually smooth. Except for that pugnacious nose, the doctor looked young for his years, while I felt immensely old.
I had not had much time to analyse Doctor Hetherington's words before the dancing started. I had been a famous dancer in my youth, but events had dulled my enthusiasm, and now I sat on the sidelines and watched as a host of busy servants cleared away the tables around me.
A four-piece orchestra appeared at the head of the room, and within a few moments, the floor was a bouncing array of men and women dancing together. Gowns flared around legs and boots thumped on the polished floorboards in synchronised unison as partners made their way up and down the line. Naturally, Marie was the leading lady, while I decided to remain seated. I saw a servant scurry up to Doctor Hetherington and hand over a slip of paper.
The doctor leaned towards me. 'You will excuse me, I know,' he said. 'One of my patients is near her time. I must go to her.' He showed me the note. It read:
'Come out here directly. I have got something to do. I have got to die.'
'Yes, of course,' I did not know why he showed me what his patient had written as we were no more than casual acquaintances. I watched him hurry away, and sat tight, planning how long I had to remain here before I could make my excuses and escape back home to Edinburgh. I calculated another hour would be sufficient for politeness and by that time the dancing should be taking up everybody's attention, and nobody would notice my absence.
Damn.
A uniformed man strode toward me, and I steeled myself to talk again.
'Would you care to accompany me onto the floor, Miss Flockhart?' Captain Rogers bowed most elegantly.
'I fear my dancing will be clumsy at best,' I said.
'Then we will be well matched for a pair of carthorses,' Captain Rogers extended a hand in invitation.
We did not touch of course. At that period before the scandalous introduction of the waltz, men and women did not have physical contact on the dance floor. In 1803 we were respectable in public, if not always behind closed doors. There were two worlds then, as there are now and one was the mirror image of the other, yet the reverse was as dark as the obverse was light, and bitter where the obverse was sweet.
As I had warned, my dancing was clumsy when I stepped onto the floor, with my feet forgetting where they should go despite the messages from my weary brain. It was more than ten years since I had last stood opposite a man in such surroundings, in the same room in the same house and on the same type of occasion.
The memories returned, more powerful than before so I had to fight away the prickle of the tears I thought I had drained from my soul over the past decade. I remembered the charming smiles, the oh-so-fashionable clothes, and loud laughter. I remembered the pale face as well, and the staring eyes, and my dreams of a future of bright promise that stretched before us.
'Come along, Miss Flockhart,' Captain Rogers stretched out a hand to steady me as I tripped over my laggard feet.
'Thank you,' I jerked back to the present.
'It's a Scotch reel next,' Captain Rogers said.
At one time, the Scotch reel had been a speciality of mine, with its alternate heying and setting, with the short four-line of dancers. That day I had to concentrate to remember the intricacies of the steps and the sequence of moves. I drifted again, back and forth in time as I allowed my feet to remember how to perform and pushed away the bad memories to concentrate on Captain Rogers, who had never done me any harm. It was unfair to punish him, even silently, for a past of which he could have no notion.
'You dance uncommonly well for a carthorse,' I forced out the words.
'I am endeavouring to keep up with a thoroughbred,' my gallant captain replied. 'I fear the next dance may show me to be a true clodhopper though.'
'And why is that, pray?'
'It is an eightsome reel,' Captain Rogers said.
I smiled at him. I could not remember the last time I had smiled. 'That makes it all the more interesting.'
For the first time in a long time, I began to enjoy myself, facing the challenge of an eightsome reel in company I did not know well. The ten years since I had last danced slid away as we bounced around that oh-so-familiar room and for a moment, for a few moments, for a precious, delectable agonising space, I was happy within my own limited world. I heard the skirling of the dancers and the rhythmic clatter of hard shoes on the wooden floor. I saw the swirl of gowns, and the gleam of candlelight on bare shoulders and gold braid and I allowed myself the luxury of forgetting.
By the time the eightsome ended, the passage of years was catching up with me, and my breath was coming in short gasps. I was glad to seek the sanctuary of a seat and discreetly fanned myself to calm the glow.
'May I join you?' My gallant captain asked. I consented at once for, in the wake of so many glasses of claret, he seemed a fine, brave soldier. We sat in companionable silence for a while as the chatter and light laughter drifted around us.
'Oh, heavens,' I said at last. 'You must think me all sorts of oafs for neglecting you after your earlier kindness.' I raked through my mind for something to ask him although in truth it was so long since I had last attempted to speak to a gentleman that I was rather at a loss. My questions to Doctor Hetherington would not be suitable for a military man, so I relied on the old standby.
'What sort of literature do you read?' I finally asked. 'No, don't tell me. Military manuals and the history of great generals, I'll be bound.'
'You won't be bound then,' Captain Rogers said. 'I've never read a military manual in my life.' He grinned. 'I follow orders on the battlefield and hope that my fellows follow mine.'
'How do you intend to defeat Boney then, if you don't know the theory of your profession?' That was a genuine question although I asked it in a flippant tone. The thought of Bonaparte's massive army poised to invade was never far from our thoughts.
'I leave the tacti
cs to the generals,' Captain Rogers said, and I knew by the shadows in his eyes that his answer was serious. 'I only have two lieutenants, a double-brace of ensigns and a company of rank and file under my command.' He was not smiling. 'My only tactics are the ambush and the bald-headed charge.'
'Bald headed?' I was cooling down now and lowered my fan.
'There was a famous general named the Marquis of Granby. He lost his wig during a mad cavalry charge and ever since we've used the term to go at it bald-headed, meaning to charge in full force.'
I did not know if that little anecdote was true, but it certainly made me smile. 'Have you ever been in battle?' I already guessed the answer. It was in the shadows in his eyes when he was not smiling and the way he walked. I could not describe it except to say Captain Rogers had an awareness, perhaps, but so much removed from the pointless arrogance of other men I had known in this same room.
'I have.' There was no humour in my captain's face now as his eyes darkened with memory. 'I have been in a battle or two and some outpost skirmishes.'
I took hold of his arm. It was hard as granite. 'You are a brave man,' I told him. I was neither praising nor exaggerating. Despite my best intentions, I was beginning to rather like this man.
He was not listening to me. Just looking at him I knew he was back in action in Flanders or Egypt or wherever it had been, marching the bitter winter fields or standing on burning sands, hearing the thunder of the French cannonade and the hoarse yells of cuirassiers, witnessing the carnage and courage of battle. It was a place we could never share.
'Do you wish to talk about it?' I kept my voice gentle so as not to break his mood. I wanted to know all about this apparently flippant man, not just the outward politeness but also the inner darkness, the fears and thoughts and experiences.
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 4