Yesterday's Promise

by Michele Paige Holmes

  He held his hand out, indicating I should go before him. I wished that he had taken my hand in his, or placed it upon his arm as I had seen Anna’s husband do so many times. My trembling fingers were left with only the rickety railing to hold for support. I clung to it, my trepidation rising with each creaking step.

  At the top we turned right and made our way down a long, narrow hall, to a door with peeling paint. Away from the others so no one will hear if I scream? Curse you, Anna, for all your vast knowledge of things that ought not be known.

  Collin turned the knob and pushed the door open. He stepped inside, and after a few seconds’ hesitation I followed. The room was stark— iron rail bed, smallish stand, a chipped washbasin, and along the far wall, my trunk. Plain curtains hung at the lone window.

  “We leave at first light. Be ready.” Collin stepped from the room, closing the door as he went.

  “Wait.” I put my hand out, grasping the knob. “You— you’re not sleeping here?” As soon as I’d asked the question, I realized how foolish it was. Of course he’d be sleeping here. He was probably just giving me a moment to change and get into bed.

  “I’ll be in the next room over. Lock the door.”

  “But, Ian— the others— they weren’t waiting downstairs to see that, to ensure—” I broke off quickly, my mind finally realizing what my mouth was saying. Heat crept up my face. What is wrong with me? Do I want him thinking I expected to be intimate?

  “Good night,” I muttered, not daring to look up. I released my grip on the door and expected it would close at once.

  Instead, Collin continued to stand there with it partway open. “We’ve spoken vows, Katie.” His voice sounded strained and weary. “No physical act will strengthen the truth of the promises I gave you. You have my word. We are well and truly married. Nothing further is required.”

  With that he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him. I turned the lock, lest he change his mind, then sagged against the door in short-lived relief, as some other, completely foreign feeling raged inside.

  He really doesn’t want me. This final rejection hurt badly. I told myself that there were far worse things than having a husband who didn’t care for me. I was safe— and free— if only for a little while.

  Nothing further is required. I would be grateful for this respite.

  For the first time all night, my stomach unclenched, and I anticipated a pleasant evening to myself. I ran to the window to look at my surroundings and saw that the forest grew right up to the back of the inn. I wrestled the window open and leaned out, close enough to touch the nearest tree. Glancing down, I caught sight of a light bobbing between the branches below. It swayed momentarily, then steadied, lifting in the air to reveal a set of eyes staring up at me.

  Ian’s mane of inky black hair didn’t quite blend in with the night, and the white of his teeth when he flashed what could only be called a sinister smile sent chills up my spine. I backed away, slamming the window shut and letting the curtain fall into place. I would not be enjoying a cool breeze or the view tonight.

  As I crossed to my trunk to fetch a nightdress, decidedly wicked laughter echoed up the wall from outside.

  Ian was right about Collin, and he knew it. But worse, he knew that I did, too.

  My mouth and cheek stung. I touched my lip and brought my fingers away bloody. Fury burned within me, but I kept silent.

  Laird Campbell sat again and pulled his chair closer. “I mean to deal fairly with you, lad, but you must learn your place.”

  “I’ll never have a place here. I’d rather die than be your servant.”

  “I don’t want you for my servant.” Laird Campbell leaned forward over the table, looking at me intently, searching my face. “I want you to grow up well and marry my Katie. You’re to be a leader to your people and hers as well.”

  Chapter Six

  Wanting to get my mind off the MacDonald brothers— both of them— I took a thorough assessment of the tiny room. I discovered the basin to be full of water, and beside it was a towel that appeared to be clean, to my delight. After some minutes of awkward wrestling with hands behind my back, I managed to get out of the grey silk and my corset and slips. Being free of such encumbrances lightened my mood considerably, and I grew cheerier yet when I had made good use of the water and towel.

  Dressed in a clean shift from my trunk— the night and tiny room being too stifling for a sleeping gown— I lay back on the bed, thinking over the day’s events. While this tavern room wasn’t my attic, I felt grateful for the privacy it afforded after such a trying day. A part of me, a tiny part, to be certain, felt a little bereft.

  I had worried over tonight, but I certainly hadn’t imagined spending it alone, in a roadside inn that appeared to be at least a century old, and with a husband as eager as I to avoid intimacy. It puzzled me and wounded my pride. I tried to dwell on the positives. By this arrangement, Collin had spared me a great deal of embarrassment, at the least. His words suggested that this reprieve was to last beyond tonight, indefinitely perhaps. This was fine with me, though I realized that I wanted him to like me, to know who I was beyond the heritage he found so offensive. Perhaps tomorrow would be better and we would start anew.

  I could hope.

  I could also think of little else. I did not enjoy being at odds with anyone, particularly the man I was now destined to spend my life with.

  It was strange to realize that a little over twenty-four hours ago I’d been in my attic, my biggest worry getting a painting ready for Mrs. Gotties.

  I’ll never finish it now. Thinking of all the paintings I’d left behind soured my mood. Imagining my mother and Timothy and Anna all together— without me— made my heart ache. My evening alone was turning to self-torture.

  Almost before I realized what I was doing, I was out of bed and rummaging through my trunk for my sketch pad and charcoals. Art had always soothed me; why should it not do so now? Time and my worries began to slip away as my hands sketched first broad and then more detailed lines. The image before me was starting to take shape when a sudden thumping from the next room over startled me.

  I pressed my palm flat to the thin wall and listened. The sound of stretching rope came from the other side as the bed’s occupant settled in.

  I sat facing the wall, imagining Collin on the other side of it. So close and yet... It had been the same all day. Though I’d been able to see him then, it was as if he had built an invisible wall between us. Looking directly at me might have breached the wall, so he’d managed to avoid that as much as possible, looking through or past me instead. Touching of any sort was dangerous, too. The reason he’d made certain I had my own horse to ride? Talking too seriously or in any detail was also to be avoided, as was anything that might allow us to be at all close, to behave as husband and wife ought.

  I let my hand slide from the wall and scooted away, returning to my drawing. Moonlight was just beginning to come through the curtains, and I remembered something Father had told me long ago whenever he had to go away for a time.

  It’s the same moon shining down on us always. When you miss me, look at the moon and know I’m looking at it, too, and thinking of you.

  Was that true still? Could he still see it and think of me? Missing Father only made me sadder, so I forced my thoughts elsewhere, shading and reworking the sketch in front of me.

  My mind still traveled the past, thinking of our family, specifically Anna. She was on her wedding trip, too, somewhere in Europe, with opportunities to see the cities and art and culture I’d always longed to. And at night... I’d no doubt that she did not sleep alone.

  By contrast, I was heading to the forsaken north, to Scotland, land of barbarians— a term more believable than ever thanks to some of the acquaintances I’d made today. I envisioned a life of misery ahead of me unless I could unravel the mystery that was Laird Collin MacDonald.

  At last, when the moon was nearing its zenith, light spilled through the faded curtains and ca
me to rest on the picture in my hands. I set my charcoal aside and looked at the paper, into the deep-set and serious eyes of my husband.

  We stared at one another for some time, while I silently asked him a dozen questions. Of course he did not answer, but looking at him helped nonetheless. I’d drawn a man who had not had an easy life. One who was faced with tough choices and who shouldered too much responsibility. Though the lines around his eyes were deep, those around his mouth were not. Collin did not smile much, if ever.

  Does he laugh at all?

  I set the sketch pad in the trunk and returned to bed, feeling that this time sleep would claim me. As I drifted off I made one more promise to myself and to my new husband.

  I’ll make you smile, Collin. I will.

  “Marry a Campbell?” Lead them? The old man was more addled than I’d realized. I wondered that no one else in his clan had stepped forward to claim his position.

  “The clans will never be what they were.” He removed his hand from on top of mine, but his look remained hard, a silent threat that he wasn’t as infirm as he appeared, and I’d do well to sit up and listen. For now I heeded the warning, biding my time for the perfect opportunity to escape.

  “In coming years the clans will dissolve altogether,” Laird Campbell continued.

  “We’ve risen from beneath the English thumb for centuries,” I argued. “We’ll do so again.” Or at least the MacDonalds would.

  “It’s not the English who’ll destroy us,” Laird Campbell said solemnly. “The clans will turn on their own. Lairds will forget their responsibility to look out for those under their care. Like the English, the Scotsmen will turn greedy and selfish, thinking only of power and gain.”

  It was the pot calling the kettle black, and I was sure the old laird could see the thought in my eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke to the sound of someone beating down my door. “Katie, are you ready? Are you in there?”

  Who is Katie? I rolled over, opening one eye briefly, trying to guess the time by the light coming through the window.

  “Oh my!” I sat up quickly, hand to my pounding chest as I stared at the unfamiliar room. I’d been dreaming of home. Only dreaming.

  A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Laird MacDonald— Collin— filled the doorway, ducking his head to enter beneath it. His mouth curved downward, and his eyes drew together as he looked at me pointedly.

  “In Scotland it is customary to answer when called.”

  We are not yet in Scotland. “I was asleep.”

  “You’re not ready?”

  This much was obvious— to me, anyway, but he appeared so perplexed that I felt the need to laugh. Only the situation was not amusing. Not at all. Angering one’s husband first thing in the morning on the second day of marriage was not good.

  “We are all waiting for you.” He could have been Ian, so cross was his face. How had I not seen their resemblance yesterday? Likely because I’d not wished to. Nor did I now.

  “I’m sorry.” Apologizing already, and we’re not even five minutes into our day. “I’ll hurry.” Glancing down, I was mortified to realize that I still wore only a shift and had been sleeping on top of the covers. Without the window open last night, the air in this upstairs room had felt stifling.

  Collin had already turned away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  As soon as the door shut behind him I was up, stumbling across the room when my legs refused to carry me properly. The memory of yesterday’s six-hour horseback ride was suddenly quite fresh in my mind— as well as in every other part of my body. With hands outstretched, lest I fall, I made my way toward the open trunk. Grabbing a lightweight petticoat and the first gown I came to— one of my black mourning frocks— I began dressing, only to discover that I had another significant problem.

  Getting undressed had been difficult enough, but how was I to begin to go about lacing my corset? With an exasperated sigh, I set to doing everything else that I could— putting on petticoats and the corset over— without having it done up properly— pulling on my stockings, garters, and shoes, running a brush through my hair, hastily repacking my trunk. That I’d accomplished so much in only ten minutes seemed nothing short of a miracle, and when Collin knocked again, I gathered my cloak over the front of my petticoats and stays, then opened the door and met him with a smile.

  “Good morning.” Let’s do our best to make it good, shall we?

  “Let’s go.” Collin stepped aside so I might exit. “Alistair and I will get your trunk.” My mother’s cousin stood in the hall just behind Collin.

  Oh dear. I’d believed Collin would come for me alone, or at the least that he would notice something amiss with my outfit. “Thank you,” I said, then swallowed what little pride I had left, stepping backward into the room and beckoning Collin to follow. I lowered my voice. “I am in need of assistance. I cannot lace my corset.” I felt a blush heat my face as I turned sideways, gathering my hair so he might see my predicament.

  Instead of helping, he stepped quickly away— almost as if I had the pox— and muttered some oath in that Scot’s brogue of his. He pulled the door closed so quickly it nearly hit me in the face.

  I heard Alistair’s admonishing voice in the hall, followed by Collin’s terse reply, then two sets of footsteps marching swiftly toward the stairs.

  Disconcerted and feeling an absurd desire to cry, I fell back on the bed, wondering if perhaps they would just leave me here and go on their way, one less troublesome Englishwoman in tow. The ceiling above me blurred, and I squeezed my eyes shut against it and the apparently fragile state of my emotions.

  I pictured Ian’s triumphant look, were he to see me now, and that was enough to cease my tears before they fell. I rose from the bed and looked around the room, contemplating what I must do next.

  Collin is not used to being around women. That is all. He did not realize I would need help. I surprised him with my request. I did not particularly believe any of those rationales but kept repeating them as I splashed the last of the basin water on my face.

  I wound my hair into a knot and put on a bonnet, then opened my trunk and withdrew a handkerchief to wipe my misting eyes. The sketch of Collin stared up at me. I slammed the lid on it with more force than necessary.

  “Stare at that all day,” I muttered, and somehow felt better for it.

  Yet another knock came to my door— this one softer than the first two. I continued my pout as I opened the door to one of the tavern maids. “I’ve been sent up to assist you, Miss.”

  Mrs. He’d not even bothered to tell her I was a married woman. “Thank you,” I said. She followed me into the room, and I turned my back to her. I twisted the wedding band round my finger as she did up my laces. The ring had to have taken Collin a considerable amount of time. What had he been thinking as he made it? Had each link of the engraving only strengthened his resolve not to care for me? If so, why had he even bothered to give me a ring?

  Because the Campbells expected it. It was a required part of the act.

  “There now, Miss. You’re together all right.” The barmaid curtsied again, and I smiled my gratitude.

  “Best not keep the gentlemen below waiting any longer,” she suggested. “The one, especially, seems in a rare temper.”

  “A temper, to be sure,” I agreed. I was starting to suspect, though, that it was not rare. We made our exit, and Alistair and Donaid headed up the stairs, presumably to fetch my trunk.

  Collin waited near the tavern door, a basket held awkwardly in his hand. He thrust it toward me as I joined him. “You’ll need to eat today.”

  Kind of you to think of that. I was about to ask him how I was to manage holding onto the basket, let alone eating, while riding a horse, when I caught sight of the carriage out front. It was the same we had started in yesterday— only it looked as if someone had taken an ax to it since then. I walked outside for a closer look.

  The door had been chopped off just abov
e the handle, so that a hole— easily large enough for a man to fit through— made up much of the one side. In addition to this, all of the glass windows were gone, the curtains and coverings pulled aside and secured at the corners inside the carriage. The seats were still intact, as were the floor and roof, but with the sides opened, it seemed almost an entirely different vehicle.

  A strange lump had formed in my throat, but I willed it— and the accompanying emotion— away. This could not have been done for me as a kindness. Not from this husband. “What have you done to your carriage?” I asked when I had gathered my wits and trusted myself to speak.

  “Ian did it, actually,” Collin said. He’d come up behind me. “I thought a bit of hacking might be a good outlet for his anger. Altering the carriage was my idea.”

  “It’s— brilliant.” Standing close to the door as we were, I could feel the breeze blowing through from the other side. Sunlight spilled through the glassless windows, illuminating the seats and floor. The carriage had transformed from a dark tomb to something light and airy. I could ride in it without fear.

  “You did this for me?” The lump in my throat returned. How many times had I attempted to ride in a coach over the years and met with disaster? Father had finally resigned himself that I should have to sit out with the driver, and we had always had to take great care when and how we made any sort of trip— with plenty of guards on well-traveled roads, and during the daylight only.

  Those accommodations for my fear had been nice, necessary. But never had Father considered, or would he have, I knew, destroying a vehicle for my comfort. That Collin had done so, when it was perhaps the only carriage his people had use of, began a curious warmth deep within me.

  “I thought you might be sore after yesterday’s ride,” he said.

  I guessed this was as much of an admission of his thoughtfulness as I would get. I was starting to understand my husband, to realize that he did not want or expect gratitude from me— for some reason it made him uncomfortable— and he was not going to go about building our relationship or behaving toward me in any customary way.