by Fiona Monroe
So, she ought to burn the note unread, and think no more about it or Lord John Dunwoodie. For half a moment more she made herself consider this, but then she turned the paper over and opened it.
My Dark Lady
By the time you read these words, you will be the wife of another man. Another will have kissed the crimson lips I adore, another will have run coarse hands through those glorious ebony tresses, another will have trespassed on that snowy-soft bosom and even plundered the priceless treasure I hoped so much would be mine.
Oh, my adored one, have you any idea how thoughts of this man with you torment me? If you had but half an ounce of love for me still in your soul, you would not have subjected me to this torture. You would not have left me, to give your precious self sight unseen to a boorish Highland peasant? You were meant, my love, for better things.
I do not propose that you flee your husband and take refuge in my protection. I know your fine principles; but I know your heart, also. You loved me, and I am sure you love me still. My own passion burns as bright and pure a flame as ever, and always will. I beg of you only this: look into your own heart, fearlessly and honestly, and ask yourself whether it is right to share a bed with one man when your love belongs to another.
I hardly know what I write. I saw Arabella's letter on the hall table and I stole it away before Grieves could send it to the post. The man will be on the prowl again shortly. I can bodge up a pretty good seal. Oh Bridie, Bridie, how could you do this to me? I want to write poetry, I want to admonish you in poetical flourishes, but I'm reduced to plain language and incoherent begging. I can't eat, I can't sleep, my nights are tormented with ravishing dreams of you.
Give me a word, give me hope. Let me hear one kind word from you, or I will perish.
Your abject wretched slave
JGD
Bridie could hardly breathe by the time her senses had taken in the scrawled lines. She had to go back and re-read each word individually, as if she were puzzling them out in Latin, before she was confident she understood their meaning fully.
The worst of it was, her heart was pounding and she felt like she had awoken from a deep stupor. Everything around her - the sunlight falling on the wall of the manse, the bee settling on the rose, the carrying sound of Mrs Farquhar's voice from within the house - had become flat and dreamlike. Reality was this piece of paper, and its distant author.
With a huge effort, with as powerful a resolve as had allowed her to pull away from Lord John in the woodland clearing, Bridie folded the note over and over until it would get no smaller, then pushed it under the string of her petticoat.
"Bridie!"
It was Angus, calling her from just within the house. He stood, his bulk framed in the French windows, watching her.
Bridie put the back of her hands to her flaming face, trying to draw the heat from her cheeks. Had he seen her put the letter under her skirt?
"They've rung the lunch gong," was all he said.
"I'm coming!" she called back, hoping her voice sounded normal, and hurried in.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
It was only when Angus asked her, at the lunch table, what news there was from her home that Bridie realised she had not so much as glanced at her letter from Lady Crieff; the legitimate letter, the one she had been so thrilled to receive only half an hour before. Her confusion was extreme, because she could hardly confess that she had not read it. How else could she account for the time she had spent in the garden? She realised that she must have spent far longer than she thought, simply staring at those few scrawled lines from Lord John. The folded piece of paper dug into her hip, a constant reminder of her guilt.
"Not much," she mumbled. "I didn't have time to read it all."
Angus asked nothing more and carried on eating in silence, but Mrs Farquhar became unhelpfully inquisitive about Dunwoodie, and Bridie had to answer many questions that made her self-conscious and nervous.
The kitchen would have a range, with a proper fire. She wondered if she could find a reason to go in there. But that was not so easy, as a guest in the house. There was a housekeeper and some kind of kitchen maid, they would both think it odd if she barged into their domain and started burning things, particularly something she had removed from her undergarments. She would just have to wait until she got home.
So the note was still there, chafing her as she walked, as they began the long trek up the glen after the evening service. It was Angus's usual practice to look through his own correspondence as they went. So, at last, and as casually as she could, Bridie unfolded Lady Crieff's letter. Even as she did so, she caught herself hoping that her ladyship would mention her brother-in-law.
My dearest Bridie
Many apologies for having taken so long to fulfil my promise to write, but as you might imagine, I have been much preoccupied with concerns that could not easily be ignored! I am delighted to be able to tell you that I am safely delivered of a fine boy, who arrived in the world strong and healthy and continues to thrive. I myself am very well and quite recovered. God has blessed me indeed, in so many ways.
For my dear husband's sake I am, as you might expect, overjoyed that the child is a boy. For my own part, and my honoured father's, I was indifferent as to sex; as you know, the Duchy of Westmorland may pass through the female line, and my father wished only for a healthy grandchild to inherit the title after me. For the Marquess, however, the matter is of supreme importance, and he is as much relieved to have an heir at last as he is gratified to be a father.
We have called the boy Henry, after the late Marquess. Although he holds the courtesy title of Viscount Atholl as his father did before succeeding to the Marquisate, he will be known as the Earl of Kendal, a courtesy title granted to the male heir of the Duke of Westmorland. These seem a great many honours heaped upon such a tiny head!
I wish you could see how small and sweet he is. I have him in my arms right now, as I lean forward over him to write this letter; for I am most a la mode, and have eschewed the use of a wet-nurse in favour of the fashionable London practice of supplying his nourishment myself. I fear honest Nanny Guthrie does not approve, and lectures me as much as she dares...
The letter went on in this vein, and Bridie soon realised that it was to be almost entirely about the baby. Lady Crieff had found enough to write about an infant scarcely a month old to fill two pages and cross one, a feat which astonished Bridie. She was of course very happy that the child had been born healthy and that the Marchioness was safe and well, but she did wish that her former mistress had thought to give her news of some of the people Bridie had left behind.
Towards the end there was, in fact, a mention of her father, to the effect that Lady Crieff had seen him in church and spoken a few words with him and that he seemed well ('though I think he misses you, as do I'). She wrote nothing at all about Lord John.
It was not, Bridie reflected, reasonable to expect that she should. Lady Crieff probably thought that the subject would be a painful one, best avoided altogether; and it was not, after all, as if Bridie were a member of the family, entitled to news. The Marchioness of Crieff was doing her a very great honour in corresponding with her at all.
But look at this, I have rambled on for nearly three pages now about little Henry and myself, without one single enquiry about your own situation. I do hope that you are finding your new home, your husband and married life in general pleasant and congenial. I really am very curious to know how you get on. The only news I have had came from Dr Menzies, who received a letter from your husband positively singing your praises and thanking him profusely for finding him so beautiful and intelligent a wife. So I know that he, at least, is very well satisfied! Do write as soon as you can and tell me everything.
I hope from the bottom of my heart that you will soon be blessed as I have been, and will know the joy of clasping a little one of your own to your bosom.
Bridie sighed, and when Angus looked around at her, she knew that the sigh had been an aud
ible one. She was reminded anew that Lady Crieff's sunny, grateful outlook, her sweet disposition and inclination to expect and see the best in everything around her, was both charming and a little irritating. How could she write back and express her true feelings; that she hated living in such primitive conditions, that she feared being trapped for weeks in the winter months, that her life was one of drudgery after all, and that moreover, she had a dreadful suspicion that her heart was not pure? The very last thing she wanted at that moment was a little one to clasp to her bosom, although she acknowledged with a sinking dread that she would doubtless get one anyway.
"Bad news?" asked Angus.
"No... indeed not, very good news. Her ladyship is safely delivered of a baby boy, an heir for the Marquess."
"Hmm. That is good news. Why did you not share it at lunch?"
"I - had not read the part of the letter where her ladyship mentioned it."
"Her ladyship left such important news for a postscript?"
"N-no, I - I did not read her ladyship's letter at all, in the garden. I sat for a while and thought of other things, and then you called me in before I could start it."
It sounded ridiculous even as she said it, and she felt her face colour again. Almost unconsciously, her hand went to where the note from Lord John was still tucked below her skirt.
Angus, though he must have noticed her answer was odd and her demeanour uncomfortable, said nothing more about it. They walked mostly in silence back to Baille nam Breac.
#
Bridie knew as they approached the blackhouse that they would not find it empty. There was nothing as sophisticated as a chimney incorporated into the construction of the roof, not even a hole to let the smoke out; the weather in winter could be so severe, Angus had explained, that they could not afford to allow any way for heat to escape or snow or icy rain to get in. The smoke hovered in a hazy layer just above sitting height, but did gradually permeate out through the thatch and tiny gaps between the dry stone walls. When the fire was blazing instead of merely smouldering, it was possible to see a faint haze rising from the house into the sky.
Oighrig had not gone to church that day, saying that her father did not feel up to the walk, and she did not want to leave him without company. It was no surprise to Bridie to find her kneeling by the fire pit, cheerfully stirring a pot full of what smelled like mutton stew. She had laid out cutlery on the floor, a plate was warming in the embers next to the fire, and there was a jug of ale ready. Oighrig greeted them with a radiant smile.
"Here we are, Angus," she said. "Your dinner's all ready for you."
"I'll have it later." He put his bundle of letters on the table. "I'm going to check on the cows before it gets dark."
He ducked straight back out of the door.
Her smile becoming less beaming, but somehow more satisfied, Oighrig unhooked the cooking pot and nestled it onto the embers to keep the contents warm. Then she settled herself down, kneeling before the fire, and began to sing to herself softly. She was evidently intending to wait for his return.
"Oighrig..." Bridie began uneasily.
The meandering notes of the ballad faded on her lips, and she turned her vaguely bovine gaze upwards. "Aye?"
She had noticed that speakers of the Gaelic could imbue this one syllable, seadh, with a wealth of meaning, for all that it was in itself a meaningless interjection. Oighrig's seadh was challenging, defiant and triumphant all at once.
"Thank you for making dinner. But there was really no need. I meant to serve some cold pork from yesterday."
"Angus needs a better dinner than cold pork."
"I won't cook on the Sabbath. We're commanded to rest from our labours. I'd rather you didn't either - not under my roof."
Oighrig's mouth twisted with what looked very like scorn.
"And," Bridie continued, gaining resolve as her normally placid temper rose, "I think it's my place, not yours, to decide what Angus needs."
At this, Oighrig actually let out a short, mocking bark of a laugh.
"Excuse me?" Bridie simply could not ignore this outright rudeness.
"You decide what Angus needs, a Bhrìghde Bhòidheach?" She managed to cram Bridie's township nickname with disgust. "You met him what was it, six weeks ago? I have known him since I was a little girl, and looked after him since I was fifteen. Four years I've cooked for him and made his home comfortable."
"I know, and I'm sure Angus was well satisfied with your services, but now he has a wife, and - "
She gave another snort, which made Bridie break off mid-sentence. This really was too much. Nervous strain, and guilt, had wound Bridie up to uncharacteristic ill-temper, and the accumulation of six weeks of irritation with this girl erupted into anger. "Excuse me, Oighrig Ruaidh? What do you find to laugh at?"
"'Satisfied with my services'?" She mocked her accent. "Aye, he was well satisfied with my services. Better satisfied with mine than with yours."
"Get out of my house! I don't want you coming here again. I don't need your help. Angus doesn't need your help."
"Oh, he does. He told me. He needs me still, because you are like a cold dead pig when he takes you in bed. I'm the one who sets him on fire."
"What?" Bridie genuinely thought, for a moment, that she was failing to understand Oighrig's words. She could not be saying what she thought she had said, she must have misinterpreted the Gaelic.
"Dè?" Oighrig repeated, again mimicking her accent. "Didn't you know? Didn't anyone tell you? He took my maidenhead last summer, at the Laird's wedding ceilidh, and many a time since then he's taken me into the leabaidh-dhuinte. He comes to me still, when he needs some real pleasure."
Bridie felt sick and faint. Oighrig's face was gleaming with malice and glee and complete, unassailable confidence. She struggled to force any words from her suddenly bone-dry mouth, but before she could articulate a syllable the hide flap formed the blackhouse's front door lifted and Angus ducked back in.
His expression darkened as he saw that Oighrig was still there. Oighrig herself smiled demurely, got neatly to her feet, and said, "Goodnight, Angus. Your dinner is still warm by the fire."
She all but blew him a kiss as she wriggled past him to the door.
#
Bridie lay awake for hours that night. The doors of the leabaidh-dhuinte no longer closed out the world, but shut her in with her torment.
Angus was a sleeping bulk beside her, his broad back turned towards her. That night, for the first time in many days, he had not reached for her.
She had absolutely no idea what she should do. To confront Angus with what she had learned seemed impossible; she did not dare start slinging accusations, she did not dare question him. It was ingrained deeply in her soul that she must accord her husband respect, as great a respect as she owed her father. Greater than, indeed. She would never in a thousand years have directly questioned her father's attitudes or actions, though she had resented some of them in her heart.
But then - her father was a thoroughly moral, pious man, whom she truly believed had never knowingly committed a sinful act. She had thought Angus also to be God-fearing and upright, and the disappointment on finding that he was not burned her to the soul. She felt covered in shame herself, cheapened and used.
Was it only that morning that they had been cheerfully discussing their planned prayer meetings in the township? He was a hypocrite.
The letter from Lord John she had shoved into the deepest recess of her trunk, which now sat in the corner of the bedroom and served as her own private storage space where she kept her few clothes and keepsakes. She had meant to burn it on the peat fire, but she had ceased to think of it at all in the immediate aftermath of Oighrig's revelation. She retained one dim, dangerous thought; here was a man professing to love her, showering her with professions of devotion. He was a bad man, but he had never claimed to be anything else. He had wanted to defile her, but he had been honest about that.
She felt defiled now anyway, and Angus had
never spoken words of love or even of affection to her. Perhaps he loved Oighrig still. She lay drenched in poisonous dread, an emotion so powerful it was like a physical sensation.
She could not have believed it possible, but at some point late in the hot, tortured night she must have fallen asleep. She awoke, much later than usual, to the sounds of Oighrig clattering about in the next room, singing as she prepared breakfast.
#
As soon as she was alone again, Angus having left to tend the rigs and Oighrig - as always - absenting herself shortly after, Bridie hid herself in the bedroom and retrieved Lord John's letter. Then she curled up in the corner of the leabaidh-dhuinte with a candle - the room, having no window, was dark even on the brightest summer morning - and read it through again, slowly.
Its impact was very different now that her dreams of marital happiness were shattered. She had been appalled yesterday by her own powerful, tremulous response to Lord John's words, but now her guilt seemed like an over-reaction. Angus had actually been lying with another woman, a woman who lived on his doorstep, when he married her, and had lain with her since. Had, if Oighrig was to be believed, mocked and belittled her. Merely reading, and even keeping a letter from a man whose advances she had always firmly rejected seemed nothing in comparison.
