The Blackhouse Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  He stepped back furiously, with a filthy curse that, had her father heard it, would have likely had him turned out the house.

  "I'm sodden!" he cried. "You little bitch, you did that deliberately!"

  "Aye," she said, panting, although she had not. "And if you lay a finger on me again I'll do worse."

  "I'll tell your da!"

  "I'll tell him you tried to defile me!"

  He snorted. "One wee kiss? I'll show you defiling."

  He advanced on her again, soaking wet as he was, and she could not evade him before he rammed her against the wall with the force of his body. He planted one meaty, knuckled hand over her breast and squeezed, hard enough to make her bite down a squeal. Even in her fright and disgust, she was afraid to cry out and alert her father. She did not really believe he would actually try to ravish her, not here under her father's roof, and what protection was her father likely to offer her anyway? Her father was, after all, proposing to let him ravish her legitimately. Shame made her want to keep this violation secret.

  She strained aside her head, desperately avoiding his demanding mouth. Close up he smelled, as she had thought he would, of rancid sweat and stale beer. He stopped trying to gain her mouth, but leaned down and fastened a kiss that was more like a bite on the bare skin above the modestly scooped neckline of her dress.

  It hurt, and she tried again to push him off, and she was beginning to feel that she had no choice but to scream for her father when Peggy came into the kitchen carrying a bucket of ashes.

  The maid saw them immediately, and her mouth gaped open with evident enjoyment. Callum released her breast and lifted his mouth from her neck, but did not at first let go the arm that pinned her to the wall. Bridie thought she might now have escaped, but she was frozen in mortification.

  "Miss MacFarlane and me are to wed, Peggy," said Callum, with a slow grin. "What do you think of that?"

  "I hope you'll be very happy, sir!"

  Bridie hung her head while he made a point of straightening his shirt, then he swaggered out the door past the maid saying, "Mind that breakfast's no late, now."

  When he was gone, Bridie fell to her knees to recover the kettle and its lid, and to conceal the trembling in her legs. So much of the water had spilled, that she doubted there would be enough to fill the teapot nor make the porridge, and there was very little left in the water-barrel.

  "You and Mr Dobbie are engaged, miss?" said Peggy, avidly.

  She could hardly deny it, now that the maid had witnessed her in such a compromising embrace. Peggy had probably not been able to discern that her mistress's part in it had been unwilling, and even if she had, it mattered little. Peggy's only interest in life - the thing which occupied all her thoughts, as far as Bridie could determine, and certainly formed almost the whole of her conversation - was news, particularly news of an impending wedding or a potential scandal. She fastened upon any rumour or scurrilous scrap of gossip, and repeated it everywhere. With a sinking heart, Bridie knew that her supposed engagement to Callum Dobbie would be all round Bridge of Auchtie and halfway to Kirkton before the afternoon.

  "I'm going down to the burn to fetch water," was all she said in response. It ought to be Peggy's job, but Bridie was desperate to escape the house. "Make sure to grill the oatcakes while I'm away."

  #

  The beginnings of grey gloomy dawn made the shapes of the cottages, the barn and the trees visible as black bulks in the biting air. Bridie had not thought to wrap on her shawl for the short walk down to the burn, but she scarcely heeded the cold. She was still shaking with the shock of Callum's assault, and trying to work out what she was going to do. There seemed so little that she could do.

  It was all very well to say, and to feel in her immediate panic, that she would rather die than become Callum Dobbie's wife. Self-destruction was not something she could ever seriously contemplate. It was a mortal sin which would bar her forever from the gates of Heaven, and she had no intention of sacrificing her immortal soul simply to avoid Callum Dobbie in this life. Besides, she did not want to die, not at all. Despite everything, her heart still flamed with the hope of youth.

  Equally, running away was something she knew she would never do. Quite apart from the duty she owed to her father, and her whole life so far had been about the duty she owed to her father, she had no place to go. Before this week, she might have asked Dr Menzies if she could somehow be taken into his service, perhaps as some kind of assistant to his housekeeper with extra duties in the Sunday school. Dr Menzies had more than once hinted that he would like to keep her closer to hand, help her with her studies and have her assist with his work in educating the children of the parish poor. Much as she would have loved such a change in circumstance, Bridie had always demurred and put her obligation to her father first. But this prospect was now closed to her forever. And even if Dr Menzies had not felt obliged to dismiss her because of his wife's jealousy, she doubted that he would have approved of her intending to defy her father's wishes for her.

  All that remained was the hardest path of all; of sticking to what she felt was right, and steadfastly maintaining that defiance. Of simply refusing to marry Callum, despite her father's anger and despite Callum's own vile importunities. She must be as strong as Clarissa, who stood unbending against her family's demands that she marry the loathsome Soames. How little had Bridie imagined, while devouring the start of the novel only two days ago, that she would soon find herself situated so similarly!

  But Clarissa's story was not destined to end happily, Bridie thought. To escape the hated suitor, she had left the protection of her father's roof and put herself in the power of the charismatic, evil, seducing Lovelace. Bridie suspected that this was a very foolish thing for the hapless heroine to have done, and she thanked God that there was no like temptation in her own life.

  The problem was, if Callum persisted in forcing himself upon her - and he had taken the very first opportunity, almost, to make the attempt - then her reputation would soon be hopelessly compromised and she would have no real choice but to marry him anyway. She had no hope that Peggy would not spread scurrilous rumours of the embrace she had witnessed that morning.

  She considered again whether she should tell her father about what he had done, and her fears about what he might do further. Again, a deep feeling of shame confounded her. She would find it hard even to form the words about such a subject in her father's presence, and she was sure that he would believe Callum's version of events rather than hers. He might even hasten the wedding because of it, to ensure that there was no possibility of scandal arising.

  She dipped the pitcher into the sparkling, icy water of the burn, making her whole hand red and numb. The sun was above the horizon now, peeping through the trees and glinting on the tumbling stream.

  Perhaps, she thought dully as she trudged back up the path towards her back gate, it really was her duty simply to obey her father, and submit herself to be Callum's wife, and endure whatever she must suffer at his hands, and take comfort in the knowledge that she was, if nothing else, obedient and chaste. Perhaps this was a trial, set for her by the Almighty, to test her humility. But the prospect of a whole life stretching out ahead of her bound to Callum Dobbie, forced to submit to his lust whenever he chose, and forbidden all books and learning was so appallingly bleak that she could not believe the Lord would be so cruel. Had he not given her the wits she had, and the thirst for knowledge that she had, for a reason?

  She prayed fervently as she walked. Dear Lord, if this be Thy will for me, then give me strength to accept it and to submit to it with a glad heart. If not, then give me the strength to fight against it. Please, dear Lord, send me a sign so I may know Thy will - or deliver me, deliver me, Lord, from this fate. In the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord, who said, Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Amen.

  She felt somewhat calmer after she had put her troubles in the hands of the Lord, and the simple rising light of daw
n lifted her spirits. As she passed back through the gate at the bottom of the garden, her eye fell on the old tree. She laid the pitcher carefully on the ground and, working quickly, she reached into the hollow and pulled out the first volume that met her fingers. It happened to be the first volume of Clarissa, the most compromising of her treasures but perhaps the text most relevant to her at present. In a moment, she had tucked the book securely into the waistband of her petticoat, well hidden under her skirts and work apron.

  She had taken the opportunity to retrieve the book now because it meant she would not have to find occasion later in the morning, when the light was brighter, to go down to the bottom of the garden. It was possible that either her father or Callum would go out in the course of their work during the morning, and she felt desperately in need of some solace. Wicked disobedience or not, she simply could not fight the temptation.

  Peggy was grilling oatcakes and turning over kippers with paralysing slowness as Bridie came back into the kitchen, singing an old Gaelic song in her surprisingly tuneful voice. It was something about how she had given her love to the fair one, and though the melody did not seem to promise a good outcome, Peggy smiled as she sang.

  Bridie nipped into the pantry and swiftly secreted the book in the space behind the flour bin and the wall. She had hoped it would fit, and it did, snugly. It was as safe there as it could be anywhere in the house; neither her father nor Callum ever went into the pantry - they hardly ever entered the kitchen - and the flour bin was a big, heavy, stoneware container that sat permanently in its place on the floor. She and Peggy scooped flour from it when needed, and filled it once a week from a sack from the miller, without ever moving the bin.

  She was safe. She felt almost cheerful, almost optimistic again as she finished preparing breakfast and helped Peggy carry the teapot, porridge tureen and fresh oatcakes through to where her father and Callum were waiting at the parlour table.

  "It's late, child," was her father's morning greeting.

  Bridie muttered an apology and took her place at the table, while Peggy returned to the kitchen to fetch the herring that had been grilling aromatically on the range. They smelled delicious, but they were not for her. Only the men warranted the luxury of fish at breakfast, to fortify them against the day's work ahead.

  Bridie too had a day of work ahead, she thought resentfully as she spread butter on an oatcake, and a moment later she was ashamed of her ingratitude and presumption. She avoided even glancing in Callum's direction, though she was painfully conscious that he was gazing openly at her.

  "Aye," Callum said, with evident relish. "I told her I winnae put up wi' idleness when we're wed."

  Her father merely nodded in approval.

  Every time something was said that assumed her betrothal to Callum was a fact, and she did not speak up to contradict it, she was drawn tighter into the trap. Bridie realised with a sick, sinking sensation that she was already choosing the route of least resistance, and allowing it to happen. But how could she create a scene over breakfast? It was always a brief, business-like meal, eaten swiftly, with thoughts focussed on the day's impending labours. If she was going to try to make a stand, it would have to be after the end of the working day.

  She did not relish the prospect.

  "We're away to Ross MacCrimmon's first thing," her father said after a period of eating in silence.

  "Both of you, father?"

  "Aye. He's got three mares and an old carthorse to be looked at. If we both go, we'll be back before the morning's end."

  This was good news, although Ross MacCrimmon's farm was not as far away as she would have liked. Anything that removed Callum from the house was a blessing, though, even if not for long; and of course, with her father out too she would have the chance to snatch a few minutes' reading.

  She would be far more careful this time.

  Chapter FOUR

  She made quite certain that her father and Callum were gone, by watching them dutifully and waving goodbye until they had turned the end of the road.

  The house and its attached forge stood directly on the main road from Aberdeen, which ran through Kirkton, past the great entrance gates to Dunwoodie House and eventually reached the more northerly city of Inverdoun. Bridie had never been further from home than Dunwoodie House in one direction and, twice a year or so, Aberdeen in the other. Day to day, Bridge of Auchtie and Kirkton formed the bounds of her world.

  Travellers often stopped at the forge, of course, and sometimes she had the chance to hear news and tales of further afield. At least once a day the mail coach thundered past, mere feet from her parlour window, carrying letters between Aberdeen and Inverdoun. Whenever she had a moment, whenever her father was not around to think her idle, Bridie liked to linger at the door for a while to see what she could see.

  Today, however, she hurried back indoors and ordered Peggy to clean out the upstairs fireplaces. "I'll be going through some accounts in the parlour, so I don't want to be disturbed."

  "Yes, Miss." Peggy's vacant eyes glazed over.

  The girl could not read, and the very sight of open pages intimidated and alienated her. Bridie knew that by opening her father's account books on the table, and spreading about some bills, she would form an impenetrable smokescreen. It was hardly Peggy's place to question what her mistress was about, but she did not want the maid to inadvertently bear any tales. Peggy would be completely incurious about anything that involved paper and words, but she would probably recognise a novel as such, and she must have picked up the fact that Bridie had been in trouble for reading them.

  She retrieved Clarissa from behind the flour bin while Peggy was clattering clumsily about in her father's bedroom overhead, and covered the parlour table with business papers. In the midst of the stacks of bills, she opened the novel. If she heard Peggy's step in the hall, or anyone else's for that matter, it would be easy to cover the book with one of the papers.

  Lies, more lies and deception, she thought with a deep twinge of guilt, which faded to the back of her mind as soon as she began to read.

  In fact, despite the heroine's situation being reminiscent of her own, Bridie found - as she always did when she was reading, especially a novel - that she forgot all her troubles as she sank into the world behind the pages. She was quite determined only to allow herself half an hour, so that there would be no risk at all of being caught again, and so that she would be sure to start preparations for the evening's meal in good time. The memory of her recent hiding was still fresh, and she was terrified of landing another one. If her father caught her flagrantly disobeying him again in the same way, and so soon, he really might make good his sometimes threat that she would not sit down for a week.

  And yet, she was not so afraid that she was not risking it anyway. After the shock of Callum's proposal and her father's approbation of it, and the misery closing around her, she felt that she could not do without a little solace. While she was sitting comfortably, avidly following the adventures of poor Clarissa Harlowe, the strap seemed like a distant threat, or at worst a fair price to pay for present happiness.

  Nevertheless, she took care to glance up at the clock every time she reached the end of one of the novel's fictional letters, and she had positioned herself so that she was facing the window that looked out directly to the road. She could see everyone who rode by, or passed on foot. Occasionally a cart trundled along, laden with sacks of oats or urns full of milk, and once a small herd of shaggy horned cattle ambled past the window, drovers urging them along with cries in the Gaelic.

  So she noticed immediately when four very smart horses trotted into view, their beautifully groomed silver manes and matching grey coats gleaming white in the morning sun. A moment later, and she could see the carriage they were pulling; a handsome private coach, only lightly splattered with the dust of the road, emblazoned on its side with coat of arms of the Marquess of Crieff.

  This was worth leaving aside Clarissa and her tribulations for a moment, and
standing up to go to the window to get a better view. If she had not been so guiltily occupied, she would have opened the front door to watch the Marquess's coach go by. Was the Marquess himself within, behind those velvet curtains? Or perhaps even the young wife he had married the summer before, shortly before the old Marquess's death, a beautiful English lady of the very highest degree?

  Bridie had, a few weeks ago, attended a Christmas service held at the chapel in Dunwoodie House for all the estate workers and their families. It had been an innovation of the new Marchioness, who had graced the occasion with her presence, and had caused some consternation amongst the more elderly and pious of the parish; celebrating Christmas at all, while no longer illegal in Scotland, was still not really encouraged by the Kirk. The candles, choirs and indoor greenery smelled strongly of popery to many.

  Bridie's father had been amongst those uneasy about the new Marchioness importing the Christmas celebrations of her homeland to Dunwoodie, and had not wanted to attend the service himself; fortunately, however, he had not forbidden Bridie to go in the company of Dr Menzies and his wife. Bridie had got her chance to see Lady Crieff in person, after having heard so much about her.

  People talked about her beauty, because that was what people always did talk about when any woman - great lady or crofter's daughter - was lately married. It was true whether there was much beauty to speak of or not. What interested Bridie much more were the reports of Lady Crieff's learning. She was the daughter, the only child, of an English Duke, had grown up in one of the grandest of that country's many grand houses, was supposed to have brought hundreds of books from the library there, was said to speak five languages including Latin, and it was even claimed that she had studied for a time at the University of Bologna. Given that Lady Crieff was scarcely older than Bridie, she was not sure how much of this she believed. If only half the reports were true, however, then the new Marchioness was by far the most highly educated woman that Bridie had ever set eyes upon.