by Fiona Monroe
"Bridie, Bridie, it is I whom she suspects, child - she always has. I would not have told you this, except that I want you to understand that it is not because of anything you have done, that I must teach you no more. And everything that I said about your future prospects - perhaps it has not been kind of me to educate you above your station, when nothing can ever come of it in the end. Better for you to put a stop to it now - turn your thoughts, turn your heart, towards your duties as a woman. As a daughter, before long as a wife, and God willing as a mother. These are sacred duties, child."
Bridie could not help it. She began to weep. The kindness in his voice, the sorrow, somehow made her dismissal all the harsher. "Am I - am I never to see you again, sir?"
"Oh my dear, not at all, you will see me every week as everyone else in the parish does, and I hope you will always think of me as your friend. If ever you are troubled, come to me for counsel. It is simply that I may not carry on with our lessons. Now dry your tears."
Bridie made a great effort to gain control of herself. She was ashamed to give way to tears in the presence of her tutor, though she supposed he was her tutor no longer. "I must return these books, sir." She thrust the bundle towards him.
"Clarissa, the old Latin primer and Hamlet? No, my dear. You keep them as my gift to you, since I may no longer give you the gift of learning." He pushed the books gently back into her hands.
On her way home, stumbling and blinded by the tears that welled up insistently, Bridie clutched the parcel to her chest as guiltily as if it had been stolen. She ought to have insisted upon returning the books to Dr Menzies; he would have no longer pressed the gift upon her, had she told him the truth about her father forbidding her the use of books. Dr Menzies would of course have urged her to obedience, so she had lied to him - her beloved mentor and tutor - by failing to disclose her father's mandate, just as she was about to deceive her own father yet again by smuggling these books home.
She was a wretched girl, and she deserved to be miserable. Her only consolations were the guilty fact that she now owned three precious books of her own, and the reflection that things could not get any worse.
#
She discovered that she was wrong about this almost as soon as she reached home.
She had wrapped the books tightly in a length of old worn table cloth, the ones that she and Peggy were in the process of replacing, and she was sure that this would protect them from any harm. There was an ancient tree with a fissured trunk at the very bottom of the fair-sized garden attached to the house, where Bridie planted and tended rows of potatoes, neeps and kale, whatever would grow in the oft-harsh climate. Her father never went near the garden, so she felt safe in secreting her illicit parcel in the depths of the tree's hollow. She would find a way later to retrieve the books and hide them somewhere in her room, so that she could continue to read under the bedclothes.
Relieved of the visible evidence of her defiance, but feeling horribly ashamed of herself and fancying that her guilt must be plainly evident in her countenance, Bridie entered the house. It would soon be time for lunch, which her father and Callum ate in the parlour when they were not working on another part of the estate. Today she knew that they were both in the workshop, so despite the fact that he had insisted on her walking to Kirkhaven to return Dr Menzies' books immediately, her father would expect lunch on the table at one o'clock sharp.
She only hoped that Peggy had taken heed of her instructions that morning to knead the pastry and stew the hough for the meat pies, for it would be far too late to start it now. Peggy was a heavyset slow-witted lass of sixteen who would idle when she could, and as Bridie was responsible for managing her, she had more than once taken the consequences of the maid's incompetence. Bridie was hurrying towards the kitchen to see what work had already been done towards lunch, when she was startled by her father stepping out of the parlour doorway.
It was almost as if he had been waiting for her. She could not understand why he was not still in the workshop, as it was not quite midday.
To her consternation, her cheeks flamed and her breath caught in her throat. Her immediate thought was of her dreadful secret, the bundle in the tree. How could he have discovered her guilt so soon?
Her father had taken off his leather apron and rolled down his shirt sleeves, something he always did before sitting at table, but his hands were still grimy and there were soot stains from the fire on his face. His expression was curiously grim.
Bridie quailed. "F-father? It is early yet for lunch, I've yet to make the pies."
"Never mind the pies for now, child. Come into the parlour. I've something to say to you."
Trembling, Bridie followed him into the room. Her surprise mounted when she saw that Callum too was there, standing behind the table twisting his cap in his hands. It looked like he had just lumbered to his feet, from the armchair by the fire where Bridie had spent her ill-advised afternoon the day before.
Everything about Callum was lumbering. He was a great ruddy-complexioned youth of one-and-twenty or thereabouts, with bright red hair and freckles all across his face and arms. These arms, the fore of which were exposed now, were thick as tree-trunks. Bridie had rather liked her father's previous apprentice, Tam, who had always been ready with a joke and who had got the milliner's daughter in Kirkhaven with child, two years ago. Tam had vanished, and before too long, Callum Dobbie had arrived to take his place.
Her father had often talked about what an improvement Callum was over Tam, whose moral character he had always suspected, and whose work had left much to be desired. Callum was pious and industrious, he said, and would make a fine farrier.
Bridie was in no position to judge the quality of Callum's work at the anvil or in the stable yard, but she had reason to suspect that his professions of piety were a charade calculated to gain favour with her father. He claimed not to drink, but Bridie had heard that he had been seen drunk in the alehouse at Kirkhaven more than once. She herself had, the previous summer, witnessed him kissing some girl - and on the Sabbath - behind a hedge just outside the same town, while she had been walking back from her lessons with Dr Menzies. And there was just something about the way that he looked at her, when her father was not present, that made her uneasy.
Callum had wit enough to present himself as devout to her father, but not enough to misbehave further away than Kirkhaven. And really, beyond a kind of sly cunning, he had no brains at all.
"Bridie," said her father, "Callum asked this morning to speak to me, and I think you know why."
"I do not know why," said Bridie, in genuine puzzlement. Her father did not seem angry, though he was very serious, and she began to relax just a little.
"Modesty is pleasing in a young woman, Bridie, but honesty is more pleasing to the Lord. Callum has told me everything, and very properly applied to me for your hand. I have told him that it would have been better had he asked my permission before courting you at all, but since you seem to have behaved well enough, I have told him that I have no objections to your union."
"Our - what?" She could hardly speak. The shock was like a physical blow under her breast. She stared frantically at Callum, who gave her one tiny, sly smirk.
"I will go further," her father continued, as if she had not spoken, "and say that Callum is the best possible husband I could have hoped for you. I have never looked forward to your marriage. I haven't wanted to lose you. But in marrying this fine young man, you will not be going away. This house will be his home for the foreseeable future, and even - well, Callum. I may as well make it plain. I have no son, no son living in any case. Two dead, both as wee bairns. I have no-one to leave my few worldly possessions to, except my daughter, and what use would they be to her? A son would have followed me into the trade, and taken over the tenancy of this house and workshop. Callum, lad, when you and my Bridie are wed, that future will be yours." He clasped Callum on his wide, meaty shoulder.
Callum broke into a broad grin, which he quickly tempered
. "Thank you, Mr MacFarlane. Course it's Miss MacFarlane herself I care about. I'd wed her if she hadnae a penny in the world."
"I know you would, lad. May the Lord forgive my pride, but there's no better girl than Bridie between here and Aberdeen. Aye, she can be idle and forgetful sometimes, but a good dose of the strap soon sets her on the right path again. Her heart is pure, and she's dutiful and devout. She'll make you a fine wife."
"Thank you, Mr MacFarlane."
Bridie found her voice at last. "No!" she cried.
Her father's face darkened immediately, although there was a shadow of confusion in his expression. Bridie had raised her voice against him so seldom, that it might have been shock.
Callum, however, looked as if he relished her reaction.
"No?" said her father, after a dreadful pause. "What do you mean by shouting out in this way?"
"I'm sorry, Father. I did not mean to speak disrespectfully. But - no. I cannot marry Mr Dobbie. I don't want to marry him. He has not offered me his hand and if he had, I would have refused him. I do not - I don't wish to marry anyone. All I want is to keep house for you, Father."
Her father frowned, and glanced at Callum, then said, "But you will still keep house for me, child, when you are married. For me and for your husband too. We will all live together, just as we do now. The difference will be, I will rest happy in the knowledge that you are safely united to a hardworking, righteous man, who will be able to provide for you after I am gone. I worry about you, Bridie. I have worried for your virtue, ever since you grew so beautiful."
Her father had never called her beautiful before. He had never offered a single compliment on her person, nor would Bridie have expected it of him; vanity was sinful, and he would never have encouraged her to take pride in her appearance. Now, he made it sound like a fault in her. "I have never given you any reason to doubt my virtue!" she blurted out.
"I do not doubt it, child. But men are wicked, and women are weak. Callum will protect and guide you, even after I have been gathered to the Lord."
"Excuse me - please - I cannot marry Mr Dobbie. I do not want to. I will not."
"Bridie, be very clear. I forgive you, that you did not tell me that Callum was paying court to you. Make no mistake, you ought to have done so, but I understand. You are young and innocent, and your modesty tied your tongue. But now that Callum has confessed all to me, I will not tolerate further underhand dealings."
"There have been no underhand dealings! I did not tell you that Mr Dobbie was paying court to me because he never was, he never has!"
Her father folded his arms across his chest, and his expression became severe. "Bridie! I have never thought you likely to be fickle."
"I am not! I am not... fickle."
"Then I'll hear no more of this nonsense. No - not another word. Callum has declared his honourable intentions towards you, I have given him my blessing. I have told you why I believe this marriage to be in your very best interests. Now you will thank me, and go about your duties."
Bridie mumbled something that might have been thanks, and fled to the kitchen.
Chapter THREE
Bridie did not dare to retrieve her books that night, nor did she have any desire to risk the attempt. She lay instead in a state of turmoil, tossing and turning in the dark, her thoughts churning and chasing around like nightmares come to life.
She had made one further attempt to speak to her father, when she was alone with him in the parlour after dinner. Every evening, her father sat at the parlour table to tally up the day's accounts, write out bills and deal with any other matters of business that needed to be attended to. Bridie was expected to help him with this, as she wrote a fast fair hand and had an excellent grasp of figures.
"Father," she said hesitantly, as he slowly and methodically made small piles of the shillings, pennies, halfpennies and farthings that the day's passing customers had paid for their horseshoes and poultices, "please don't be angry, but I swear to you - Mr Dobbie made me no offer of marriage, before this morning."
Her father straightened the little heaps of coin. "It makes no difference."
"Father! Please! Don't you believe me? Surely you don't think I would tell you an untruth."
"Whether he spoke before or no, it makes no difference. He has spoken now, I approve the match, and he will make you a good husband."
"But I do not like him," she whispered.
"You will marry him, Bridie, and soon, and you will learn to like him. There's an end on it. I will hear no further word on this subject."
She drew in breath to protest again, to plead, but her father silenced her with a single forbidding gesture of his hand. He did not even have to raise his eyes from his counting. A long, long habit of obedience, respect and dread made her hold her tongue immediately, even on a matter of such desperate import. She knew her father's temper too well; there was a hair's breadth between angering him enough to draw that warning palm in the air, and finding herself bent over the table on the receiving end of the strap. She bit her lip, to stop even a discontented sigh escaping her, and said no more.
But in bed that night, she could not escape the torments of her thoughts. Was she really to be condemned to marry that dull, hefty lout, who had grinned at her shock and discomfort so slyly? She thought Callum Dobbie was very stupid, but he had managed well enough to manipulate her father with barefaced lies. Her father, who was in fact a clever man, must have realised from her reaction that Callum had misled him, but he had chosen his stand and she knew that he would not climb down from it. She also saw that he truly believed that Callum would make her a good husband, and that he sincerely wanted what was best for her.
She understood all of that. It was what made the situation so terrifying, and so apparently inescapable. Her father did not mean to be cruel. He never meant that, even when he was chastising her. He did his best to protect and guide her, and if that meant forbidding her the books she loved, or strapping her soundly, or making her marry a man she detested, then he would not flinch from his duty.
But how could she marry Callum? At least her father loved her, and was always fair, if strict, and a genuinely devout man learned in Scripture. He had never, as far as she could ever remember, punished her unjustly. She had earned every hiding she had ever had at his hands. Callum's affectation of piety sickened her, because she knew it to be false; she doubted he ever opened a Bible, if he could even read at all. And as his wife, she would be subject to his discipline. She thought of the brutish aspect of his face, and the raw strength evident in his huge meaty arms. If he beat her, it would be with a heavy hand and, she suspected with a sinking heart, for minor offences or even arbitrarily.
That would not be the worst of it, though. To be forced to be intimate with the great, sweaty, grinning hulk - to be obliged to lie naked underneath him, and have him force himself into her, violating her most secret place with his body - even to imagine it, she shuddered with disgust.
And then, to be trapped in this house forever, housekeeper and domestic slave forever, never allowed to read and study! She admitted a sad truth to herself then, in that sad and desperate night. Without consciously meaning to, she had in her heart looked forward to her father's death as a time when she might be free to learn as much as she wished. She had never been so wicked as to wish for her father's death, but she knew that she had comforted herself with this distant future good.
But she had not expected Dr Menzies to withdraw his patronage so suddenly and so completely, and she had certainly not expected to be manoeuvred into a marriage that would end all prospects of escape, and fix her in this life forever.
In the morning, Bridie found it hard to drag herself from bed. Her eyes felt hot and swollen from a night of tears and very little sleep. She went downstairs to find Peggy still scraping out the dead ashes from the grate in the parlour, a job she ought to have completed already. The girl was humming happily to herself as she worked with her usual ponderous slowness. Bridie had noticed tha
t the maid had seemed cheerful ever since returning from her expedition to Aberdeen, but she had been too preoccupied with her own troubles to think very much about it.
"The kettle should be on already, Peggy," she said reprovingly.
"Aye, miss. Sorry, miss. I'll no be two minutes."
Having no confidence in this promise, and knowing that her father and Callum would be downstairs very shortly, expecting a pot of tea to be on the table, Bridie went through to the kitchen to start the water boiling herself. She was shocked to find Callum sprawled in the rocking chair by the range, only half dressed in his work trousers and open shirt, his bulk dwarfing the spindly wooden seat. His legs were planted wide apart, his arms were folded, and he was gazing at her with great satisfaction.
"You're up late," he said. "I hope you're no going to be a slugabed when we're married, or I'll skelp your lazy backside raw."
"What are you doing in here?" she demanded.
"Is that any way to talk to your intended husband?"
"I have no intention of your ever being my husband, Mr Dobbie. Excuse me." She filled the kettle up from the water-barrel by the back door, noting that it was nearly empty; the weather had been cold, but dry. Peggy ought to have noticed that the day before and gone down to the burn to fetch more. When she turned back into the room, she found that Callum had stood up and had positioned himself squarely in front of the stove.
"That's no what your father says. You'll do what your father says, because you're a good girl, aren't you, Bridie?"
"I'll thank you to call me Miss MacFarlane, Mr Dobbie."
"I'll call you what the hell I want, since you're going to be my wife."
"Please get out of the way. I need to put the kettle on."
"Come on, Bridie. No harm in having a wee taste, eh?"
She almost lost her grip on the heavy copper kettle as he grabbed at her and tried to kiss her. She twisted violently in his grip and his lips mashed wetly against her ear. The lid came off the kettle and half its precious contents spilled all over Callum's shirt and trousers.
