by Fiona Monroe
He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. "You know that is impossible."
"No. It is not impossible. We could go back down there to Canongate Kirk and be wed this very afternoon, if we could find a minister with a free half hour."
"Oh, yes, and then live on what? I cannot support a wife, I won't be able to support a wife until I've qualified and built up a practice—not for many years! You knew that very well when you accepted me. You promised to wait for me."
"I would have waited for you, but there is no more time! My landlord will not allow me to stay in the rooms my mother let, and I have nowhere else to go. Nor do I have anything—anything at all—to live upon."
He looked in horror, then thrust his hands deep in his pockets and marched on.
His silence was terrible. Catriona hurried to keep up with his long strides, her heart filled with dread.
"I thought your mother would have left you something," he said at last, like an accusation, stopping abruptly.
"No. Nothing."
"Surely you have family somewhere."
"No. Only some relatives by marriage of my mother's sister, who died long ago."
"Who died—the relatives by marriage, or your aunt?"
She sighed, and told him the whole story of her mother's connection to the family of Buccleuch. "When my mother married my father, it was against the wishes of her guardian, her brother-in-law Sir Wallace. He disowned her, and my aunt died only two years later. My mother always said that Sir Wallace drove her to his death because he blamed her for their elopement."
"You tell me now that you are related to the Buccleuchs of Lochlannan?"
"Only very distantly, by marriage. Do you know of them?"
"Certainly I do. They are one of the principal families of Inverness-shire. Lochlannan is a great estate in that country."
She knew that Mr. Carmichael's home was somewhere in the depths of the Highlands, where he was one of seventeen children of an almost penniless assistant minister of the kirk. A slightly less impecunious uncle who was also his godfather was helping to fund his medical studies, although he also had a small scholarship that he was under great pressure to retain.
"Look," he continued, "that makes everything clear. You must apply to them for assistance."
"But why cannot we be married? Then we could take a cheap room somewhere, and I could find pupils to teach music as my mother did, and make a little income that way, while you finish your studies."
He flung up his hands and made an inarticulate exclamation of exasperation and annoyance. "And when you have a child, and then another, and then another, and we are all crammed into one dismal ground floor room at the bottom of some close, how will I finish my studies? And how will you teach music or anything else? No! I will never marry without being in a position to support a family. If you had seen my mother's struggles, if you could know what a poor broken-down man my father is, if you had grown up in a house where you had to fight sixteen brothers and sisters for enough to eat—you would never ask it of me, nor wish such a life for yourself."
Catriona walked away from him a little, her heart sinking lower and lower.
"Catriona," he said, in a softer tone.
The use of her Christian name arrested her, and she flicked him a look of reproach. What right did he have to take that liberty, when he seemed determined that they should marry only after many years had passed, if ever?
He was looking at her pleadingly. "I have this one chance to make something of my life, but it's a damned slow business, and a hard one. If we married now, it would end with me giving up my studies and we would be poor as the devil forever more. You must at least write to your mother's relations and see what they can do for you."
"I know what they can do for me."
"What?"
She explained to him what Mr. Guthrie had told her about the bequest from Sir Wallace, which had only come to light upon her mother's death, and she had hardly had a chance to finish speaking—to make it plain what the conditions attached were—before he caught her in his arms, and actually kissed her. She stiffened in surprise as he lifted her briefly in the air and spun her around.
"Twenty thousand pounds!" he cried. "Oh—Catriona! It is the answer to my every prayer!"
"But do you not understand, it is a condition of the bequest that I become the ward of the present baronet. I would have to go and live with these perfect strangers until I come of age, a full two years away!"
"But that is perfect! They are offering you a home until we are able to marry. And that will be not at some indeterminate time in the future, but in two years only! With the income from twenty thousand pounds to live on, it won't matter whether I'm qualified by then or not. And when I am qualified, I can use some of the capital to buy into a practice! God knows how long it would have taken me to do that otherwise. Oh, this is everything to us." He clasped her arms and kissed her again, his face shining with joy.
"No!" she said, pulling away. "Mr. Carmichael, no, no. I have told Mr. MacIntyre to write to Sir Duncan Buccleuch and tell him that I will not accept the bequest."
"You have done what?" His expression changed abruptly from sunshine to thunderclouds.
"I will not live with, I will not put myself under the guardianship of, the family which disowned my mother and drove my aunt to her death."
"Oh, hell, that would all have been mad old Sir Wallace's doing. He was well known as a raving lunatic the length and breadth of Inverness-shire. Old women still scandalise each other with tales of his hunting maidens in packs through the glen and the like. From all I've ever heard the son is just a commonplace wastrel and the old dowager is respectable enough. I think there is a sister too. It will be a fine home for you."
She felt herself weaken, though it was rather a sickening realisation of a trap closing around her. "You really wish me to go so far away, and for so long?"
"By God, if there's twenty thousand pounds at the end of it, two years is no time at all. Think what it means for both of us! When did you tell the old man to write to Sir Duncan?"
"Oh... only this afternoon."
"Then there is no time to lose! We must go to his office directly and tell him that you have changed your mind." He had taken hold of her arm and was steering her around. "No. Wait a moment. I had better not go with you. We cannot have Sir Duncan or any of the rest of the family knowing that we are engaged, not before you have command of your fortune. They'll likely object. We must keep it a secret."
A secret engagement! The very idea was repellent to Catriona, who hated underhand dealings. Her mother had given her blessing to her betrothal to Mr. Carmichael, and indeed Catriona had made her acceptance of his proposals conditional on her mother's approval. The idea that she would conceal something of such importance from the man who was to stand in a parent's place made her conscience uneasy.
But then, what did she owe him? As Mr. Carmichael propelled her down the path, a new idea began to form in her mind. If she had no choice but to go into exile amongst the family who had ruined her mother's life—if she had to go against what she knew very well were her mother's wishes—then perhaps she could find some way to redress those wrongs. The thought fired her up and lifted her spirits. At the very least, she might be able to find out the truth behind her aunt's sudden untimely death.
And if that truth turned out to be what her mother had so often hinted—and she could find proof somewhere at Lochlannan Castle—then vengeance could be within her power.
In the event, haste was unnecessary. Mr. MacIntyre had not got so far as writing the letter to Sir Duncan declining the bequest, far less despatched it. Catriona had the impression that he was not very surprised to see her back again, even so soon.
She signed the papers with a heavy heart, despite her new resolve to seek retribution. It was impossible not to tremble a little at giving herself into the custody of someone quite unknown to her, and whom Mr. Carmichael had described as a 'commonplace wastrel'.
"I will write to Sir
Duncan by express this very afternoon," said Mr. MacIntyre kindly. "He will, I should think, send word as to the arrangements he wishes to make for you."
She could only hope that these arrangements would involve funding her journey to Lochlannan, but she was too proud to say so to Mr. MacIntyre. Nor had she told him about the precariousness of her living situation.
It was not pleasant to lie quite alone at night, listening to drunken shouts from the close and nameless bangs and shrieks from neighbours within the building, and to hear no other breath. Even Effie, the pale little farm girl, was no longer curled up in her place by the hearth. The very day after her mother died, the child had said she had found a place as scullery maid in a great townhouse in the New Town. Catriona had seen no way of continuing to feed the girl anyway, so she could hardly resent her wishing to better herself. But she now had to light the smoky old fireplace herself and cook her own meagre meals over it, getting soot under her fingernails and risking her gown. Before long, she would be in no fit state to present herself at any gentleman's house.
It did not take her long to sort through and pack her meagre store of possessions. Her few poor sticks of furniture, including the ancient spinet, she was leaving for Mr. MacIntyre to sell. One evening found her sifting through her mother's melancholy collection of papers: an old dressmaker's bill, pathetically preserved, a note in her father's hand asking her to meet him in 'the old mill', the playbill for a performance of Dido and Aeneas at the Edinburgh Theatre, a sheet of music manuscript with tender annotations scribbled in the margins, and the letter. The last letter her mother had ever received from her sister, and the only one she had kept. Catriona read it through again, with a sick feeling at her heart.
My dearest, most beloved sister,
I hope to God that you are well—that Mr. Dunbar treats you kindly, that you have found all the happiness in marriage that you could ever have wished for, and which has so entirely passed me by. I hope, too, that this letter reaches you. I am taking risks in writing it, I will take still greater risks to send it. But I am filled with such awful forebodings that I fear I may have no future chance to tell you how much I love you. Every day I thank God on my knees that my little sister has escaped my vicious husband's evil power, and is happy now with the man she loves.
Kitty, he blamed me fully for your elopement, and would not believe I had no hand in it. The last two years have been no more nor less than hell for me here at Lochlannan. My only comfort, my little Roderick, will soon be sent away to school. When he goes, there will be nothing left for me. Whatever my fate, whatever you hear of me, believe that I loved you to the last.
Be happy, my darling Kitty, and may God spare you the sufferings that have befallen.
Your devoted sister Jane Buccleuch
It was dated Lochlannan Castle, 5th June 1785. She remembered when her mother had first shown her this letter. She had been only twelve years old; too young, she now thought, to be troubled with such a sad piece of family history. Her mother had wept, and Catriona of course had wept at the sight of her tears.
"I did wonder," Mrs. Dunbar had said, "Whether she meant to... destroy herself. But I could not believe it, because of the boy, and your father agreed she would not do so wicked a thing. Now of course I know that she had a premonition of her death. See! The letter is dated only three weeks before she was struck down with her last illness."
Only four days later, Mr. MacIntyre sent a messenger to summon her to his offices.
"It would seem," said the old lawyer, "that Sir Duncan responded to my letter with very great promptitude. Indeed he sent a man of his own with his reply, not wishing to trust even an express courier. He expresses himself very properly... let me see... here it is..." Mr. MacIntyre held up a letter written on excellent quality paper, in a strong, sloping gentleman's hand. "'My late father always spoke highly of Miss Catherine Macleod and frequently expressed regret at her unfortunate marriage. I am most gratified that her daughter, my step-cousin, is to return to the family, and I will do everything in my power to carry out my father's wishes in discharging my duties as her guardian.' There, Miss Dunbar. What could be kinder?"
"Unfortunate marriage!" cried Catriona. "That is hardly kind."
The lawyer peered at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles, with rheumy eyes. "In point of fact it must be admitted that in terms of pecuniary advantage, your mother's marriage was most unfortunate. Well, well. Sir Duncan also writes that he has already despatched his own coach and his steward, a Mr.... Craig to escort you to Lochlannan. He should be here in three days or so."
"So soon!" she exclaimed, though the reality was, it could not be soon enough. She would have to vacate her rooms in Souter's Close in six days' time.
She left a note for Mr. Carmichael at the Medical School, which was her usual way of communicating with him, letting him know how soon she was to leave and expressing the hope that they might meet before then. She felt very melancholy as she wrote it, as it was borne in on her that they might not see each other at all for a full two years. Even corresponding might be difficult, since she was to keep their engagement secret. She vowed that she would overcome those difficulties somehow.
No word came from Mr. Carmichael in reply before she received another summons from Mr. MacIntyre, and was introduced to a pallid, sombre man in travelling clothes who looked like he had only just alighted from a coach after a long journey. This was Mr. Craig, Sir Duncan Buccleuch's steward. He greeted her with brusque courtesy and hoped she would be ready to set off for Lochlannan at an early hour the next morning.
She was not much cheered by this first encounter with someone from the Buccleuch household. Mr. Craig seemed hardly friendly, let alone welcoming. Her doubts about what she was doing were strong and troubling, as she dropped off another note to Mr. Carmichael to tell him that he must visit her with no further delay.
Catriona possessed a single travelling trunk, of ancient manufacture, that had belonged to her mother. It was one of the few fine things from her days of affluence that had not been sold to buy bread and fuel. This trunk was now packed with Catriona's meagre collection of possessions, and stood in the centre of the tiny parlour. She had decided to throw caution to the wind and set a decent fire for once, so that she could spend her last night in Souter's Close in comfort. After tonight, there would be no need to worry about where the next pound of coal was coming from.
The thought did not console her as it ought. All day, she had been waiting for any sign of Mr. Carmichael. It was now past nine o'clock and twilight was setting in, and the room—which never got much sunlight—was deep in gloom. She had begun to fear that she would not see him at all before her departure, when she heard a quick familiar step below.
She had been running to the window to look down every time there was a quick set of footsteps, and had always been disappointed. But this time she caught a glimpse of a long figure that was definitely him, just ducking into the doorway.
It was only as she opened the door to his sharp rap and he stepped boldly into the room that she realised how odd the situation was. They were alone together, entirely alone in the apartments.
She realised also that there was the smell of spirits on his breath.
"Catriona," he breathed, and took her in his arms.
She allowed him to hold her close just for a moment, then pulled away with some force. "Why did you not come sooner? In the morning, I will be gone, and God knows when we will meet again."
"I know. I know. That is why you must be mine."
"I am yours, you know I am. I gave you my promise."
"No. Truly mine, tonight. Just once before we part for so long. We are all alone here. No mothers, no landladies, no servants—no damned reason not to."
It took her a moment to understand him, and when she did she backed away from him. "Mr. Carmichael, I believe you have been drinking, or you would not insult me like this."
"Why is it an insult? Love is no insult." He advanced towards her, gr
abbing for her.
She stumbled against the trunk, and pushed his reaching hands aside. "Leave. Go. Go now."
"Not without a kiss, not without some sweet memory."
She weakened, her heart hammering, and she let him enfold her in his arms and place a hot, wet kiss on her mouth. He tasted of cheap whisky and tobacco.
The kiss became harder and more insistent, and he tried to force her lips apart with his tongue. It felt like a slimy battering ram. When she tried to end it, he grasped her more tightly and clasped her breast through the thin fabric of her gown.
He had her pressed against the wall now, for she had retreated into the room as far as she could go. As she felt him squeeze her breast she put both her own hands on his shoulders and pushed as hard as she possibly could.
It was his turn to trip against the travelling trunk, stumbling almost off his feet. He had to reach out to steady himself against the other wall. His eyes were wide and wild, his hair was tumbling over his forehead into his eyes. "God damn it!" he cried. "You could be kind."
"And you could be a gentleman!" she shouted back. She was aware that their raised voices could probably be heard by all their neighbours above, below and around, but her reputation in the close was of no matter now. She would be gone far away by tomorrow night.
"Nobody would know." His voice was hoarse, and he was advancing towards her again. "How can I let you go to strangers for two years, without making you my own?"
She fought to keep her voice low and reasonable. "Mr. Carmichael—it is by your wish that I am going at all. I would have married you, indeed I will marry you still, even at this extremity. I can tell Sir Duncan's steward when he calls for me tomorrow that instead, I am going to the kirk to be married."
"And would you then... now... if we are to be married in the morning..."
She said nothing, she made no move either to back away or to repel him. He let out a breath like a gasp and gathered her against him, crushing his mouth to hers once more. She felt his hand run down her back and caress her bottom, while the other found her breast.
