The Blackhouse Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  Particularly when she thought of Lord John, she could not bring herself to be comforted.

  She listened restlessly to heavy treading above her as, she supposed, the servants took themselves to bed in the attic. She heard, from some deeper region of the house, the brief cry of a young child, quickly soothed and silenced. She was thinking of getting up to seek a glass of water, when she heard footsteps, the firm close of a door and voices in the room directly next to hers.

  The head of the bed was placed against a wall which, Bridie realised, must be the dividing wall between the guest room and the master bedroom next door. It did not seem to be a very substantial partition, because without in the least meaning to eavesdrop, Bridie could hear almost every word being spoken behind it.

  Mr Farquhar was talking in a stern, low voice. His very tone sent a quail of recognition through Bridie; he was obviously angry, and lecturing his wife in a controlled, yet implacable way.

  "You showed disrespect towards your husband in front of guests," he was saying. "And not only that, Flora. You set a very poor example of wifely conduct to a young woman who is about to be married herself."

  Mrs Farquhar made some quiet reply that sounded tearful and a touch defiant.

  "That is no excuse!" The minister's voice raised a notch. "You must learn to control yourself better than that, Flora, especially in circumstances such as these."

  It was not so easy to distinguish Mrs Farquhar's words, since she was speaking low and tremulously, but Bridie thought she could detect petulance in her tone.

  Then she was startled to hear her own name.

  "Miss MacFarlane will be MacAllister's to deal with, from tomorrow," said Mr Farquhar. "She clearly needs to learn some basic deference too. But all you should be concerned with is your own conduct, your duty to me, and the example you set as the minister's wife to others."

  She mumbled in reply.

  "Aye well, we'll make sure of that. Come here."

  Their voices dropped, and though Bridie could still hear an exchange between the minister's low, stern tones and his wife's tearful replies, she could not make out what they were saying. Then, with shocking suddenness, came the unmistakeable crack of flesh striking flesh, sharp as a pistol shot.

  Bridie held her breath as this first ringing slap was followed by another, and another, in slow but relentless succession. She did not know how she could be sure that the blows were made by an open hand on a bare backside, for she had never been punished that way herself; just that the noise was utterly distinctive, and sounded excruciating. After seven or eight slaps, Mrs Farquhar began to whimper and moan. After a dozen more, she was sobbing and wailing out loud.

  Bridie had no difficulty in making out her words now, punctuated though they were by gasps and screams as the pistol shot cracks rang out again and again. "Oh - no - I'm sorry - please - please - it hurts - please - I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" And she descended into gulping, wordless sobs as her husband brought his hand down, unheeding and implacable, just as hard as ever.

  She would never scream and cry so over a skelped behind, Bridie thought with some scorn, though it did sound as if the minister's hand was a heavy one. She squirmed in sympathy, and was glad when at last it stopped.

  There was some more, quieter speech between them. Mrs Farquhar's replies now sounded much more subdued and repentant, and Bridie could tell that she was struggling to regain command of herself. Mr Farquhar, for his part, seemed kind and tender.

  Bridie closed her eyes again after a minute, trying once more to drift off to sleep, feeling bad that her own ill-judged display of knowledge had been the inadvertent means of earning her hostess a hiding.

  But then, came another noise, a low moan, a gasp, and a steady creaking. For half a second Bridie wondered if Mrs Farquhar was being punished again; then she realised what was happening, and without warning, her whole body seemed to set on fire. As she lay listening to the little cries and groans, which mounted in fervour and intensity, she stole her hand between her own legs and touched where it burned.

  A cry that sounded muffled in a pillow, and a deep groan, were followed by silence.

  Bridie lay quivering with longing, yearning for she scarcely knew what. When she at last fell asleep, her dreams were startling.

  And when she awoke, with a shock and a pounding heart, she could still feel Lord John's naked skin against hers.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Angus stood uneasily before the altar, wondering even at this late stage whether the girl would really make her appearance at the door. He did not wish to appear nervous in front of Mr Farquhar, or that he was in any doubt about what he was doing; or, indeed, that he half-believed that she would back out. So he kept both feet, itching as they were in hose and laced boots, planted firmly on the floor, and did not turn around until he heard the door to the kirk open.

  And there she was, on her father's arm; a vision of loveliness, her glossy raven curls piled on her head, her figure tall and slender, yet curving very promisingly beneath her simple muslin gown, her astonishing lucid dark eyes downcast in her pale face. He had scarcely been able to believe it when he beheld her for the first time in the rain, bedraggled and sodden though she had been. Despite what Dr Menzies had claimed, he was expecting nothing in the way of beauty, beyond the normal comeliness of youth. He had taken it from Dr Menzies's poetic proclamations that she was not pockmarked or crippled or outright plain, and he had really hoped for nothing more than an ordinarily presentable girl of twenty. He would have been satisfied with such. Instead, he had stood under the downpour and gazed in awe at the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.

  No, not even Margaret. In that moment, Margaret became his Rosaline, whom Juliet's beauty had outshone 'as daylight doth a lamp'.

  When she appeared at dinner that night, dry now and neatly dressed, he had difficulty in keeping his eyes from her. He felt chagrin; he had made such a point that he cared only for a good understanding, and a degree of education, and he was almost too mesmerised by her charms to pay much attention to what she was saying.

  Almost, but not quite. Her quick wits shone through the banal conversation at table, her eyes - when he could catch them, as she seemed bashful - glowed with intelligence, and when she had the audacity to correct Mr Farquhar so wonderfully inappropriately on an obscure line of Scripture, he had felt his heart catch on fire. True enough, she should not have spoken up to the minister like that and he knew he was going to have to watch that she was sufficiently respectful; but just at that moment, it had been sublime.

  How could such a girl have remained unmarried until the age of twenty? And perhaps more pertinently, why had such a girl consented to this arrangement, when she must surely have had her pick of local lads? He wondered with a prickle of unease whether there was some drawback that Dr Menzies had cunningly failed to disclose; but most of all, he feared and half believed that she would change her mind and simply not appear at the kirk.

  But here she was, looking tense as any girl might when about to marry a man she had met the day before, but resolved. Angus let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He vowed to do everything he could to put her at her ease once they were alone together. He had found it difficult to sleep the night before, consumed as he had been with frankly lustful thoughts shot through with senseless guilt. They were going to be married, it was not sinful to desire her, not 'committing fornication in his heart' to anticipate their wedding night in his dreams. But the rational part of his mind, which always dogged him, was all too aware that since the girl was a stranger to him, the wedding would effectively be a formality. How could they really be married in the sight of God if they did not know each other?

  He could only hope that they could get to know each other very quickly indeed. Before nightfall, if at all possible.

  As she drew level with him, she raised her gaze to meet his at last. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile, but her eyes were black pools of fear in a white face. She looke
d like a roe deer, about to bolt.

  Was that what she wanted, he wondered? Was she tempted to flee from this, even now? He did not know whether it was well of him or not, but her naked unease made him more determined than before to go through with this. He wanted to take her to himself, protect her, guide her, overcome her fears and make her happy.

  He scarcely paid attention to the words of the service, so occupied was he with these thoughts. As the minister joined their hands together and pronounced the benediction that bound them together in holy matrimony, Angus rubbed his thumb against her warm, soft palm and squeezed her fingers gently. She answered with a ghost of a smile around the corners of her mouth.

  It was a start.

  #

  Bridie found herself handed up into the trap by her new husband - her husband - before she was truly aware that the wedding ceremony had begun. She had been in such a state of fright throughout it that her heart hammered double time in her chest all the while, and she had thought at several points that she might really faint. Now it was over, and she was out in the soft warm air of a glorious summer morning - the rain from the day before had cleared away entirely, and the day had dawned golden and brilliant - and she was a married woman, with a bright circle of gold on her left hand to prove it.

  She no longer felt afraid. It was as if she had traversed an abyss on a narrow bridge, and come safely to the other side. She felt only numb relief, now that the deed was irreversibly done.

  "God bless and protect you, child," said her father, clasping her hand as she sat high in the trap. "I would not have had you go so far from me, but - mind that you be a good wife, and obey your husband, and work hard for his comfort."

  "Aye, father. I will, I swear it."

  He opened his old worn overcoat and brought out a cloth-wrapped package. Bridie realised immediately what it was, though she was not sure why he was trying to hand it to her.

  "Your wedding present, child," he said. "All you will ever need."

  She took the bundle into her lap, and unwrapped one corner to reveal the edge of their venerable leather-bound family Bible. It had been no surprise to Bridie that her father had brought it with them on their journey, and she had read passages to him every evening, but it amazed her that he seemed to be leaving it with her. "But father - was this not your own grandfather's?"

  "Open it," he said.

  She unwrapped the Bible and did so, turning by instinct to the front flyleaf where the family's history was recorded. The date of her great-grandparents' wedding was written inside the cover in ancient, faded copperplate, as was her father's birth, his brothers and sisters', her father's wedding, her own birth and that of her two older brothers, gone ahead to Heaven. And below these familiar lines was a new one, freshly inked in her father's careful hand: 5th June, 1818 - Brìghde Mairead m. Angus MacAllister, tacksman to Sir Duncan Buccleuch, Lochlannan.

  It was there, in writing. It was real. Her father had even used the Gaelic form of her name, which her mother had originally given her.

  "What further use is a family Bible to me, child?" said her father softly. "I have God's word in the old cloth binding back at home. This was always for you. Write the names of your own bairns in there when they come, God willing."

  Tears prickled in her eyes and she threw her arms around her father's neck.

  Before she knew it, her new husband was jangling the reigns of the sturdy-looking pony yoked to the trap, and they were rattling away from the small group standing in front of the church. Bridie clutched the Bible to her breast and watched through a film of tears as her father receded from view. It occurred to her only now that she might never see him again.

  With the stranger she had just married by her side, Bridie felt terribly alone.

  #

  "I'll start as I mean to go on."

  Bridie was stirred out of her awed contemplation of the soaring landscape around her by almost the first words her husband - her husband - had spoken since they had left Scourie behind. At first the silence had been profound and embarrassing, but then Bridie let it become comforting. Sideways glances at his massive, impassive frame seemed to suggest that he was content not to speak, did not expect her to say anything. If she did not have to say anything, she could not say the wrong thing.

  Now it seemed that he had simply been biding his time, perhaps making sure that they were truly alone on the road. They were climbing up into the glen, the track following the banks of a river that was scarcely more than a wide stream tumbling over rocks. The glen was bounded on both sides and as far as the eye could see by jagged, naked peaks, the land by the riverbanks stripped with dreils of tatties, neeps, kale and barley oats. Bridie had noticed this manner of agriculture before as she and her father had travelled into the Highland region, the old-fashioned interweaving of narrow strips of different crops across land unbound by hedge or dyke. There were no fields, as she was used to seeing in the rich farmlands around Aberdeen.

  Once or twice she noticed a flash of silver in the river, and clearly saw a huge silver fish leaping upstream. Salmon, she thought, with a quick pulse of interest, for she had never seen the fish in their natural habitat. If the place they were heading for was called Baille nam Breac, then salmon must be abundant here.

  A question sprang to her lips, but it was stifled by shyness. She could not be the one to speak first.

  And now he had, and he had spoken in the Gaelic.

  Startled, she took a moment to process his meaning.

  "We don't use English out here," he continued. "Half the villagers don't speak a word of it. Are you understanding me, Bridie?"

  "Tha," she said hesitantly, repeating the verb as affirmation. There were no words for 'yes' and 'no' in Gaelic, oddly.

  He had used her name. a Bhrìghde, the vocative case, as in Latin. Did any other European languages have a vocative case, she wondered? He had also switched to the familiar pronoun thu, though he had addressed her with the politer plural sibh the evening before. She wanted to say something about this, but she did not have the vocabulary to express these thoughts in Gaelic.

  "You're to call me Angus," he said.

  Aonghas. The vocative would be Aonghais, she thought.

  "We have no use in the township for 'mister' or 'miss' or any of those Sassenach forms," he added. "I am Aonghas MacAlasdair and you are Brìghde bean Aonghais Mhic Alasdair."

  Angus MacAllister's wife.

  "But to tell you the truth, I am mostly known as Aonghas Mor. We have an Aonghas Dubh as well, you see. There's no other Bridie, but I imagine they'll find you a nickname soon enough anyway."

  So, he was known as Big Angus. Bridie couldn't help smiling to herself.

  "Well?" he said gruffly.

  "I hope..." She tried to gather her words. "I hope that it will be a kind one."

  He laughed. "They would not dare give the tacksman's wife an ill name."

  They rattled along in renewed silence for a few minutes, while Bridie tried to think of how to say what was on her mind. Remarkably, being required to speak in an unfamiliar language had entirely removed all her shyness about speaking to him at all. It was a challenge to retrieve vocabulary from the depths of her brain, and remember how to form sentences correctly, and concentrating on this overcame her awkwardness.

  She was flummoxed as to how to address him. If there was a word for 'sir' in Gaelic, she did not know it. Eventually, she decided to take him at his word and said, tentatively, "Aonghais?"

  "Aye."

  "Do you have books in the Gaelic? Or is it possible to get them? I would like very much to improve."

  "Aye, many, though mostly they are poetry. I have the first eight books of the Iliad translated into the Gaelic, for instance."

  "Oh! Really? Homer's Iliad?" Bridie could scarcely believe it.

  "Aye. By a fellow called McLachlan."

  "I had not imagined such a thing existed."

  "Do you know the original?"

  "No," she said, shamefaced. "I h
ave never learned Greek. Do you?"

  "Aye, Greek and Latin both. I have all the ancient works at home."

  "I... should like to learn Latin and Greek. I know a little Latin, but..."

  "One tongue at a time, wife. Let's perfect your Gaelic first."

  "Some say..." She hesitated.

  "Aye?"

  "Many would say that it is useless to learn a backwards language like Gaelic."

  "Is that so? Many would say that it is useless to learn a language that no man on earth still speaks, like Latin and Ancient Greek."

  "Oh, but that is not so!" she said eagerly, the words coming from the recess of her memory more readily as she grew animated. "You know that is not so. Those languages open up a wealth of learning and poetry - and open a window on - on - " She stammered to the end of her Gaelic, then determinedly ploughed on. "A window to times past. Great - " She spread her hands. "Great towns - people - thoughts."

  "Great civilisations, you mean?" he said, with a twitch of a smile.

  The word was so similar to its English counterpart that she knew it must be a direct borrowing, and she might have guessed it. Most Gaelic words bore no relation to English. Bridie huffed in frustration, and Angus laughed out loud.

  It was at that moment that Bridie began to feel that perhaps, perhaps she really had taken a right turning.

  It was as well, for there was no turning back.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  They came upon the township suddenly, after a rise in the path. Some children, barefoot and wild, were running along the road towards them, and Bridie saw columns of smoke and mounds of stone and heather that seemed to grow from the ground itself.

  She let Angus hand her down from the cart, and looked about herself in amazement and dismay. When he had talked of the baille, mentally she had translated that to 'town', and had an image of solidly-built houses arranged along a street, as they had left behind in Scourie.