The Blackhouse Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  She had managed only one clear view of the great lady as she walked up the aisle, and had time only to see that she was tall and fair and dressed in the height of elegance. She looked, in truth, like a princess. Bridie had to curtsey as she passed, so missed her chance to peer into her face for any signs of acute intelligence. Could a lady speak five languages and study at an Italian university without it leaving some kind of visible mark upon the countenance? She had wanted to look into her eyes, but of course she could not, and the moment had passed.

  Now, she thought, she might be within a few yards of the Marchioness once again, and just as fleetingly. She watched the stately progress of the carriage wistfully. It was going along at a walking pace, and even seemed to be slowing down.

  It was slowing down. One of the two heavily-muffled liveried coachmen raised his long whip, and shouted and rattled the reigns. With a deal of clattering, hoof-stamping and snorting, the carriage came to a rest in the yard before the workshop.

  Bridie whipped off her work apron, smoothed down the skirt of her housedress and rushed out of the front door to greet them, her heart hammering with apprehension. She had not thought that any of the four magnificent grey coach horses had been walking as if it had thrown a shoe, but she presumed that one of the beasts needed urgent attention of some kind. The Marquess's personal horses were tended by Tam Coulter, the master farrier resident at Dunwoodie House stables, and as far as she knew her father had never been called to assist with them.

  "Good morning, sir!" she called to the coachman, as he climbed down from the box. "May I help you? I'm sorry, neither the farrier nor his apprentice are here at the moment. Shall I send for them? They should be back within half an hour if I send the servant now."

  "We've no need of a farrier, miss," said the coachman, briefly doffing his big black hat. "Her ladyship is feeling poorly and needs rest and refreshment. I'll thank you to offer her some tea and a comfortable seat."

  "Oh! Of course!"

  And indeed, with a little bustle and the hovering attendance of the younger coachman, an older, dark-haired woman, smartly dressed in grey, was handing the Marchioness of Crieff herself down the carriage steps.

  Overwhelmed with confusion, Bridie curtseyed deeply before the great lady.

  "My lady needs to sit down, child," said the older woman impatiently, in a heavy French accent. "You have a parlour, no? Take us there."

  Bridie dared to look up, directly at her ladyship, and was startled for a moment. She saw, not the fair and distant princess of the night of the Christmas service, but a girl of near her own age whose face was pale as milk. She stumbled slightly against her maid's arm and sagged forwards, clamping her hand to her mouth. Then she broke free of her grasp, ran to the verge of the road, and was ingloriously sick into the ditch.

  Instinctively reacting to a fellow creature in distress, hardly remembering that it was not her place to approach the Marchioness, Bridie hurried with the French lady's maid to her side. Lady Crieff took Bridie's arm, while her maid, tutting and crooning, produced an embroidered linen handkerchief and helped her wipe her mouth.

  "I feel a little better now," she said, in a faint but steady voice. Her accent was beautiful, smooth, exotic, each word like a clear crystal.

  "If it please my lady, come into my parlour," said Bridie.

  Between them, they guided Lady Crieff through the small hallway into the parlour, and Bridie helped her to settle in her father's armchair, the best one by the fireplace. She was glad that Peggy had already set a fire blazing cheerfully in the small hearth, giving the modest room a cosy aspect on this cold morning. It was nonetheless incredibly strange to see the Marchioness, in a fine travelling cloak, satin-trimmed bonnet, fur stole and delicate white kid gloves, perched on the edge of the chair where her father usually sat in his working clothes. She was leaning a little forward, still rather pale.

  "Would my lady like tea?"

  "Yes, thank you, that would be very welcome. And something to eat, if you please - a little cake, perhaps?"

  Bridie summoned Peggy, whose promptitude suggested that she had been hopping about just behind the slightly ajar kitchen door, and ordered tea and some of the shortbread they had baked the afternoon before. Peggy's slightly protruding eyes bulged further and her mouth dropped open at the corner as she saw that it was indeed the great lady herself, in the humble parlour she swept every afternoon, in her master's very chair. She seemed unable to suppress a giggle as she dropped a clumsy curtsy and dashed away to fetch the refreshments.

  Bridie was embarrassed by the gaucheness of her servant, and indeed the very superior lady's maid sniffed and gave the door a chilly look.

  "May I help my lady in any other way?" Bridie asked awkwardly, not really sure how to address herself to the Marchioness. She had never in her life spoken to, or been taught how to speak to, a person of such exalted rank. Perhaps she ought to talk only to her maid instead, but it was impossible to ignore the unwell-looking woman who was sitting right in front of her. "We have no apothecary in Bridge of Auchtie, but I can ask someone to ride to Kirkton to fetch Mr Law."

  "No, no, indeed that will not be necessary. I am not really ill." She smiled wanly. "It is to be expected, apparently. A little tea, a little something to eat, and I shall be quite all right again presently."

  A clatter announced that Peggy was bashing open the door with her shoulder, bringing in the well-used old wooden tray hastily piled with teapot, cups and slabs of shortbread. Bridie did her best to serve her noble visitor and her attendant as if she were pouring tea from the finest Spode bone china, instead of their old stained earthenware pot.

  The Marchioness sipped from the thick plain pottery mug and nibbled on the roughly-broken biscuit quite as graciously as if they were, and Bridie began to relax a little. Colour returned to Lady Crieff's cheeks, too, and now Bridie could see how pretty she was. She began to glance about her.

  "You have a very comfortable home here, my dear. What do they call you?"

  "Bridie, my lady, Bridie MacFarlane. I'm the daughter of John MacFarlane, the farrier here."

  "Is your mother alive, Bridie?"

  "No, my lady. She died when I was eight years old."

  "So do you keep house for your father?"

  "Aye, my lady."

  "From what I can see, you do a fine job."

  Bridie curtseyed. "Thank you, my lady."

  Her ladyship put the half-drunk mug of tea down on the small table by the armchair, and got to her feet. She seemed remarkably and completely revived. Bridie expected her to take her leave, but she seemed in no hurry. Instead she wandered around the parlour, peering curiously at the bookshelf - which contained nothing but business ledgers and of course, the family Bible - and at the sampler mounted above the fireplace, which Bridie had spent a year embroidering at the age of twelve and quoted John 14:6, I am the way, the truth and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me. She saw the strap hanging on its hook, and touched it lightly.

  "I have so often driven past this house, and others like it," she said, with a charming smile. "And wondered very much what kind of homes were within. I have been inside the wretched cottages of the poor, of course, on charitable visits, here and on my father's estate where I grew up, but I have never had occasion to enter the private home of a prosperous worker. This is quite novel to me, and intriguing. Forgive my curiosity. Is this your only sitting-room?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  "And you eat your meals in here, too?"

  "Yes, my lady. There's no other downstairs room besides the kitchen."

  "And how many servants do you keep?"

  "Only a maid-of-all-work, my lady. We divide the labour between us."

  She had reached the table, and swooped upon the open copy of volume one of Clarissa. "Clarissa!" she exclaimed. "Do you read novels, Bridie?"

  Bridie's heart sank. In her haste to attend to their illustrious visitors, she had completely forgotten about the compromising book.


  But the Marchioness was smiling prettily, her clear blue eyes shining.

  "I - I don't just read novels, my lady," Bridie stammered. "I've read Milton, and Shakespeare, and Gibson's histories, and I'm studying Latin, too. I want to read Virgil and Ovid. I - at least I was, my lady."

  "There's no shame in reading novels, Bridie. At least, I do not believe so. How does the authoress of Pride and Prejudice put it in her new work? I would have to look up the exact quote, but she says something like novels are where all human nature is to be found, delineated in the best-chosen language. Northanger Abbey. It came out last month in London and I had the volumes sent to me by the fastest possible courier. No, I adore novels, and I will not apologise for that."

  "My lady, is it true that you studied at an Italian university?" Bridie blurted out, before she could stop herself.

  "Be silent, girl!" snapped the French maid. "You will not question her ladyship."

  "Fontaine, hush. It is quite all right. Yes, my dear, I spent a year in Bologna, studying natural philosophy and mathematics. I wished to expand my understanding and education beyond the humanities, where I admit my natural inclinations lie. You need not look so impressed, I was a very poor student."

  "They admit ladies there, my lady?"

  "Oh indeed, in fact they had a woman professor for many years, though she died before the turn of the century. You are very well spoken for a girl in your station in life, Bridie, and surprisingly well-read. At least, surprising to me. You will have to forgive the ignorance of a foreigner. Is such learning a usual thing amongst the common folk of Scotland?"

  "I - no, I don't think so, my lady. Our minister took notice of me at an early age, and has taught and encouraged me, my lady."

  "Would that be Dr Menzies, of Kirkton?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  "He seems a very sweet old gentleman, and I like him now all the more. I am an ardent disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft - have you read her Vindication of the Rights of Women?"

  "No, my lady."

  "She argues that inequalities between the sexes are created by education, which favours male supremacy. If women were educated equally, the balance would be restored. Well, that is a matter too large and complex to be addressed now, but in short, I approve of Dr Menzies championing the education of a girl, and I shall tell him so when I see him next." She smiled.

  Bridie's heart ached, the pain of her dismissal from Dr Menzies's patronage surging up anew. She could not bear to admit the complicated reality of the situation to Lady Crieff, but she winced to think of Dr Menzies's embarrassment when his patroness bestowed this praise on him. But she smiled weakly in return, and replied only with a curtsy. It was likely that the great lady would not remember her at all, in any case.

  She was startled to hear a voice in the hallway, and a moment later the door burst open. Her father stood in his work clothes, still with his hammer in one hand, and looked aghast at the Marchioness. Bridie had never seen quite that expression on her father's face before; shock, fighting with a curious mixture of anger and something like fear. As soon as he saw that it was indeed her ladyship, he stepped back into the doorway and made a deep bow.

  Bridie realised that the anger was for her, and she quailed, though she could not exactly work out what offence she had committed in entertaining Lady Crieff. Her heart began to beat faster, and she was suffused with dread. At least Callum did not seem to be with her father.

  There was a silence which was painful to Bridie. She knew her father dared not address the Marchioness out of turn, and she also knew how proud he was of his status as master under his own roof. It was hard to witness her father rendered mute in his own home.

  Fortunately, Lady Crieff was as gracious as she was sweet tempered, and she stepped forward immediately to put him at his ease. "You must be Mr MacFarlane, the farrier. Thank you so much for offering me refuge in my distress. Your daughter here has been a charming hostess, and I am quite recovered."

  "My lady," said her father, after a pause. It was clear he had no idea what it was appropriate to say to her. His eyes sought Bridie, and she could see the reproach in them.

  "We have had a delightful conversation about literature, women's education and the much-underrated benefits of novel reading," she continued.

  The blood froze in Bridie's veins. Her father's brow darkened.

  "You have a very clever, as well as a very lovely daughter, Mr MacFarlane. I expect you're very proud of her."

  Now her father's eyes had found the book, still in Lady Crieff's dainty gloved hands. It was as if he could not help himself, even in the presence of their august visitor. He thundered, "Bridie! Is that the book, the novel, I bade you return at once to Dr Menzies?"

  Before Bridie could stammer out her confession and futile apologies, the Marchioness said with an artless smile, "This volume here, Mr MacFarlane? Oh no, this is my own, it is volume one of Mr Richardson's Clarissa. I often amuse myself on carriage journeys with reading, and just as often, as today, I pay the price of sickness. Novels are my weakness, I confess, but as I was saying to Miss MacFarlane, I feel that the art form is unjustly maligned. Well, it has been delightful to meet you and your lovely daughter, but I fear we must be taking our leave. My husband will be anxious for my return."

  Without seeking permission from her father, and feeling rather stunned, Bridie escorted the Marchioness and her maid out onto the street. He hung back uncertainly in the doorway, his hat and hammer held awkwardly in his large scarred hands.

  To her further surprise and confusion - but not a little joy - Lady Crieff, in parting, leaned forward and folded her into a brief embrace. "Your father forbids you novels?" she murmured in her ear.

  "All books, my lady," Bridie whispered back, before she could allow herself to consider whether this was a confidence a dutiful daughter ought to impart.

  "Ah. I shall borrow this for a while, and find a way to return it to you discreetly."

  Then she was gone, handed into the carriage by the disapproving Frenchwoman, a boot and a swirl of cloak vanishing from sight. Bridie stood in the middle of the road to watch the carriage as it rattled sedately away, wondering if she would ever have such a conversation with any woman ever again. For a few exhilarating minutes, it had scarcely seemed to matter that she was one of the most exalted ladies in the land, and Bridie was nothing but a farrier's daughter. She had spoken to her as one woman of learning, to another. And Lady Crieff's quickness of mind in perceiving her situation with regards to the book, and her kindness in acting upon it so boldly, had stunned Bridie.

  "Bridie!" called her father, ominously. "In here, now."

  She sagged and trudged back towards the house, her steps heavy with dread. It had been a sudden and quite unexpected dream, and now she must face the cold light of day.

  #

  Her father might not have been able to question the Marchioness's claim that the book belonged to her, but the deception did not spare Bridie all of his wrath. She was well aware that her father suspected it was the same book, in any case. He was not by any means a stupid man, and he had eyes to see that it had been the same edition, in the same cheap cloth binding; a binding that a great lady like the Marchioness of Crieff would be unlikely to order from the bookseller. Her novels doubtless arrived richly dressed in tooled leather.

  So he could not accuse her directly of disobedience in this matter, but she knew that the thorough strapping she got anyway was in part a punishment for this unacknowledged offence. And, she suspected, as an expression of his anger at her initial defiance over Callum's proposal. He would not compel her to marry a man she disliked, would certainly not beat her into submitting to his will in such a matter; but her protests had angered him nonetheless, and she felt the fire and bite of that fury as he brought the strap down across her backside harder than ever, again and again, until she could not hold back her tears.

  The official reason for her punishment was that she had behaved impertinently and shamed him by speaking too fr
eely to the Marchioness, and on subjects that it was not her place to mention at all. Bridie made things worse by attempting to protest that it was Lady Crieff who had initiated all the conversation and brought up the forbidden topics of women's education and novel reading. She knew she ought not to argue, but she felt compelled and briefly emboldened by the Marchioness's support.

  She regretted that courage as folly by the time she was face down over the table again, gripping the edges and clenching her teeth to stifle her moans as each lash fell harder than the last. She had never resented a hiding so deeply in her heart, either, though she supposed she had earned it through her disobedience over the books. It felt, however, as if her father was punishing her for something that she could not have helped - the Marchioness's visit, and their conversation - and something that she did not repent of, her dislike of Callum Dobbie.

  Not submitting in her mind to the punishment as a just chastisement seemed to make the sting of the strap much sharper, and by the time her father had finished she was sobbing out loud. Nor could she easily compose herself when he told her in a disgusted tone to rise, and get about her duties.

  She shuffled to the kitchen with streaming eyes, trying to ignore the fiery throbbing in her backside and thighs and the devil's worm of anger in her heart as she stacked the used tea-dishes by the sink for Peggy to wash later. Peggy was, not unusually, nowhere to be seen, but Bridie was thankful for that. She needed some time alone, to dry her tears and let the worst of the smarting subside.

  She stopped between the sink and the range, and stood to rub where it ached with both hands, trying desperately to quell the burning. She would feel this for quite some time yet, she knew, and it had been so unfair. She leaned her hands against the small table and closed her eyes, fresh tears welling under her lashes, waiting for the soreness to ease.