A Strange Scottish Shore

by Juliana Gray

  “Are you mad? Close those at once!”

  “It’s morning, my love.” He braced himself on the ledge and breathed in deep. “Good, clean sea air. Take in a lungful. Clears the head wonderfully.”

  I wrapped the bedclothes around me and glanced at the hollow by my side. “Did you—?”

  “Sleep with you? Of course I did. As you so astutely pointed out, I had no choice, except to creep downstairs and find a pallet in the kitchen, which would certainly excite comment in a new bridegroom.” He grinned. “You cuddled me.”

  “I did not!”

  “I’m afraid you did. Took me rather aback, at first. And then I understood you might be cold, so I did what was proper.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Cuddled you right back, of course. Do you mean to say you don’t remember?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Dash it all.” He tossed a woolen garment on the bed. “In any case, while you were wallowing in luxury, I made my way downstairs and found you some suitable clothing. Don’t thank me. It’s no more than any devoted husband would do, to ensure his wife’s properly dressed. Why, what’s the matter?”

  I snatched the dress and made a tent with the bedclothes. “You’re far too cheerful. It’s oppressive.”

  “I’m afraid I’m always cheerful in the morning, Truelove. Another of my many sins. Don’t you remember, when we were in the Mediterranean together, hunting after Max?”

  “I always assumed it was because of—well.”

  “Not at all. You’ll recall, that charming interlude with Mrs. Poulakis took place but once. You and I shared a great many more mornings together that had nothing to do with—well. More’s the pity.”

  I emerged from the bedclothes, fully dressed. Silverton stepped back to inspect me, and his eyes grew soft. “Here,” he said, and he drew a thick silver chain from the leather pouch at his waist.

  “What’s this?”

  “A belt. You link it around your waist, like so.” He reached around me and fastened the chain in place. “A wedding gift.”

  “From Magnus?”

  “No. From me.” He gave the end a little tug, as if to make sure it was properly fastened, and then he stepped back again. Though the sunlight doused his face, I couldn’t read his expression. He neither smiled nor frowned, only studied my midsection as you might study a portrait on a wall. “The married women generally wear them here.”

  “But we’re not married.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, “but the point is that everybody thinks we’re married. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He held out his hand. After the slightest hesitation, I placed my palm against his, and he drew me gently to stand before him on the floor.

  “The stone’s cold,” I whispered.

  “I’ll get your shoes.”

  • • •

  By the time we reached the gatehouse and ducked outside, the clouds had rushed in to cover the sun, and a fine drizzle came down on our heads. Silverton didn’t seem to notice. I drew up the hood of my cloak and glanced sideways.

  “Aren’t you going to get wet?” I asked.

  “Why, yes. I suppose I am.” He took my hand and hurried me across the courtyard, whistling.

  “Don’t you mind?”

  “Of course not. When it rains, the fish come to the surface.”

  “The fish? What fish?”

  “The fish I catch, Truelove. Didn’t I tell you? I’m a fisherman by trade.”

  • • •

  We hardly spoke as we walked down the wet lane to the village, and to Silverton’s hut beyond. I wasn’t sure what to say. He must have been joking, of course; he was a man of some standing at Magnus’s court, despite his preference for simple living, and I simply couldn’t imagine the charming, gregarious Marquess of Silverton engaged in so humble and so solitary an occupation as fishing. So I didn’t ask him any questions, for fear he would mock me for believing him. I hunkered deep into my cloak instead, as the drizzle turned into a shower, and tried to make sense of everything. How I might make some kind of contact with Max, how I might help him to help us.

  “Who’s J ?” Silverton asked suddenly, just as the hut came into view.

  I stumbled on the path, and his hand tightened around mine, saving me from the fall. “J ? I don’t understand.”

  “Last night. When you cuddled into my chest. You called me J . Is that the chap, then?”

  There was no point in lying. “Yes,” I said.

  “Ah.” His hand stayed snug around mine, the rhythm of his stride remained steady. “Your life is your own, of course. I only wish to know whether he hurt you. And whether, I suppose, you still have some regard for him.”

  “I have no regard left for him at all,” I said. “I can’t imagine why I said his name.”

  “Habit, perhaps?”

  “The habit was of very short duration. But I suppose it’s possible.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. I assure you—”

  He lifted my hand and kissed it. We had nearly reached the hut, and I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: a length of netting, hung neatly upon a row of hooks along the back wall of the hut.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. I was only curious. Here we are. Shall I carry you over the threshold?”

  “Certainly not.”

  But he scooped me up anyway and heaved me through the doorway, groaning so loudly as he went that I couldn’t help laughing. He set me down in the middle of the floor and said he’d be back directly, he was just going to fill the bucket from the well.

  “I can do that,” I said.

  “Do you know how?”

  “I can learn.”

  So we filled the bucket together and brought it inside, and Silverton laid a fire and showed me where to find yesterday’s bread and the cheese and the apples, if I was hungry.

  “But what about you?” I asked.

  “Me? I’m going fishing. It’s late, of course, but not too late to catch something for supper, if I’m lucky. Tomorrow, on the other hand—why, what’s the matter?”

  “I thought you were joking!”

  “Joking? Why should I joke about a thing like that?”

  “But I don’t understand. Why on earth?”

  “To make a living, Truelove. Everybody has to make a living.”

  “But you’re—you’re—”

  He smiled. “Not anymore, am I? And I couldn’t simply live off Magnus’s largesse. For one thing, the other men were jealous enough of my influence. It doesn’t take much to get a man accused of sorcery and magic and all manner of dangerous habits. Or a woman, as you’ve learned. Magnus was the one who suggested the fishing trade. Gave me the boat and the nets.”

  “But what am I to do while you’re gone?”

  “My dear. I suppose you’ll have to discover that for yourself. You’re a clever, resourceful woman. The island is your oyster, I believe. I’d ask you to join me, but I well remember your unfortunate aversion to seaborne adventure.” He was gathering apples and bread and putting them in the leather pouch at his waist. “Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. They daren’t touch you now. And you’ve got your silver belt for good measure, just in case anyone’s minded to forget whom you belong to.”

  “I belong only to myself,” I began, but he was already pulling a blade from the basket near the hearth and testing its edge with his finger and didn’t seem to notice.

  “Of course,” he said, holding it out to me, “it never hurts to have an insurance policy, of sorts. You can stash that in your pocket. Just don’t fall on it.”

  I snatched it from his hand and started to make some indignant reply. He leaned in and kissed my open mouth.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said. “A tender kiss good-bye from my bride, before I stride out the door for the day
’s labor. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll have my pipe and slippers waiting for me on my return? Newspaper folded and dinner hot on the table? Cherubs scrubbed and cheerful on the rug before the hearth?”

  With that, he fled for the door while I searched for something to throw.

  • • •

  Not until later did I realize what he was about that morning, with his good cheer and his kiss and his swift absorption into the routine of daily labor. I only remember staring at the door and listening to the sound of his whistle in the cool, damp air, rising above the noise of the drizzle on the roof, and feeling nothing but a profound, almost admiring astonishment.

  And then, as the whistling died away to leave only the miserable rain, the creep of uneasiness.

  I stood for some time in the center of the room, considering the unexpected turn of the day’s events. It was still early, and the hours stretched ahead, as interminable as the rain. First I went to the window, trying to catch some glimpse of him, and then I put on my cloak and went outside, down to the pebbled edge of the shore, and at last I saw him, scrambling about what must have been the harbor, untying a long wooden boat from its mooring against a crude dock. The wind was picking up, but he didn’t seem to notice, any more than he minded the rain. He climbed into the boat and found an oar, which he used to maneuver the boat into open water, at which point he unfurled a sail from the single mast. His movements were sure and graceful, and I remember thinking to myself, Why, he’s happy. He’s enjoying himself.

  The sail filled with wind, and Silverton settled down to the tiller in the stern. The boat swept past the shore, and as he came alongside that piece of rock—you couldn’t really call it a beach—on which I stood, he looked toward me and raised his hand, as if he’d known I was there all along. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was smiling.

  • • •

  When Silverton’s boat had shrunk to a mere speck on the rough, rippling sea, I turned and went back into the hut. I was cold and wet, and I warmed myself by the peat fire, which had gained strength in my absence. I added more fuel and longed for tea. Just one cup. Even coffee would do. Something civilized. I stared at my pink, chilled fingers and said aloud, “It’s up to you, Truelove. You’re a clever, resourceful woman. The island’s your oyster.”

  I half expected an answer from some corner of the room. A queenly voice admonishing me for my folly, offering imperious advice I had no intention of taking. But there was nothing. No Queen, or my father, either. I was alone.

  I rose from the fire and went to the chest under the window.

  It wasn’t my chest, of course. It was too big, and there was no secret compartment. No, this was an ordinary chest, containing only Silverton’s ordinary things, but I opened it anyway. The hinges squeaked faintly. The scent of damp wool and leather rose from within, and I lifted a few layers of clothing, neatly folded, until I came to the object at the bottom: the object for which I had searched the other night, before Silverton himself interrupted me.

  I drew it out from beneath the clothes, the various items, and carried it to the pallet by the wall. The leather was smooth and unmarred, almost exactly as it had looked in the shop where I had purchased it; almost identical to its appearance in the railway carriage en route to Edinburgh; practically the same as I had last seen it, in my bedroom at the North British Hotel. Perhaps the buckle was a little tarnished, and no wonder, in this climate. It was not locked, however, so I sprung open the fastening without hindrance and stuck my hand inside.

  If Silverton were speaking the truth—and I had no reason to doubt him—the papers in my fist had lain inside this portfolio for three years, even though by my own clock, I had placed them there only a week earlier. The paradox was nearly impossible to comprehend, and as I stared at the first page, and the neat, familiar lines of my own handwriting, it seemed I had laid that ink in another age. Well, I had. But another age in my own lifetime, more like the years that had passed in Silverton’s reckoning. How quaint, how earnest, how utterly naïve were those words I had written in my study in Belgrave Square, the one Max had kindly fitted up for me in the ducal town house until my office at the Haywood Institute for the Study of Time should be ready for occupancy. The words blurred before me, and I wiped at the corners of my eyes.

  I don’t know what you expect to find.

  I looked up.

  Over here. By the fire.

  I turned my gaze to the hearth, and I thought I saw a faint shimmer in the air, distorting the black curve of the cook pot, the iron tongs resting against the stones of the fireplace.

  “I don’t know, either,” I said, “but at least it’s something, isn’t it?”

  No answer.

  “Why did you take the trouble to find me here, if you haven’t got anything useful to say?”

  Because I must, I suppose. One does one’s duty.

  “And how am I your duty?”

  My dear girl. Haven’t you discovered the reason for that yet? I sometimes believe you aren’t nearly as clever as your mother. Certainly not in the essential ways.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean. How do you know my mother?”

  Did. How did I know your mother.

  “Isn’t she there with you?” I asked, with a certain degree of irony.

  There was a faint sniff. No.

  “I don’t know why you should haunt me like this, when my own mother doesn’t. You’re the last person I need about me. I don’t even know you.”

  But I know you, and that’s all that’s necessary. Your father—

  I sat forward. “Yes? My father? Is he there?”

  Not at present. This sort of journey requires a great deal of effort, you understand. I don’t know why you must insist on getting yourself into these terrible fixes. And even now—

  “I only did what I thought was right.”

  Yes. (A sigh.) That’s the trouble, isn’t it? These things always begin with someone meaning to do right. Well, you’ve done it now, and I can’t say I’m as disappointed as I ought to be. You have that scoundrel Silverton to keep watch over you, and given the available alternatives, I suppose you’ve done well enough. He has his faults, but he shall take great care to ensure that your days of unseemly adventure are quite over. I must admit, as I watched the ceremony yesterday, I felt a certain—

  “You were deceived. I am not married to Lord Silverton.”

  I beg your pardon. I saw a marriage ceremony.

  “Nonsense. It was a farce, a convenience. I never gave my consent.”

  Phisht. You’re married in the eyes of the law. The eyes of the world. In my eyes, which are the only eyes that matter.

  “And when we return to the twentieth century? Our own world, our old habits. He will regret matrimony soon enough, and as for me . . .”

  She waited, shimmering, for me to finish my sentence. She seemed to have moved closer, near the chest, where the grim light from the window distorted her shade into tiny ripples of air.

  As for you? (Gently.)

  “I will be miserable at his misery.”

  Either she was thinking this over, or she was fading entirely. She seemed to make some movement, and I had the idea she was sitting on the chest. As I turned my attention back to the papers in my lap, she spoke at last.

  And if you never return, my dear? You are prepared to forgo all the pleasures of marriage, all the comforts of a family to sustain you in this wilderness?

  “I shall never give up trying to return. I shall never give up hope.”

  You haven’t answered the question, my dear.

  I stared keenly at her, or rather the disturbance of light and atmosphere that marked her presence. “Why do you ask me these things? Will we return? Can you tell me that, at least?”

  No, she said simply, and before I could ask her what she meant—whether she was forbid
den to tell me, or whether she really possessed no knowledge of my future—the air next to the window went still.

  I rose from the pallet with a cry. The papers slid to the floor. I stepped over them, toward the window, and fished the empty space frantically with my two hands, calling her name, but my palms remained empty, my cries went unanswered. A few drops of rain reached through the deep window recess and wet the side of my cheek. I let out a long, wild scream of frustration and dropped to my knees, hitting the chest over and over with my fists, until all my remaining spirit was gone and I rested my head and my arms on the smooth wooden lid and lay there, staring at the wall, gasping for breath.

  At what time I realized I was not alone, I cannot say. I felt the stir of wind first, the chill, damp breeze cutting through the warmth of the peat fire. I thought this was only a gust making its way through the window, for I had not closed the shutters, and then I felt his presence: hot, large, steaming with rain and patience.

  I lifted my head and turned. My right hand reached for the dagger in my pocket.

  The room was dark, and he stood silhouetted against the gray sky outside, filling the doorway, smelling of smoke and wool and perspiration. It was not until he stepped forward into the room that I saw who he was.

  Magnus.

  • • •

  I am accustomed to large men. They seem to recur in my life with extraordinary persistence. My father was of average height, but His Grace, the Duke of Olympia—not Max, but his august great-uncle and predecessor, that great lion of the previous century—was a giant. He reached nearly six and a half feet, topped by a head of hair so silver as to be white, and the loose-limbed breadth of him, even as he reached his ninth decade, made him seem as if he contained all England inside his skin. Sometimes I believed he did.

  But for all his great size and formal bearing, the duke was only a man. He ate and drank, he laughed and occasionally swore, he suffered deeply and he triumphed mightily, he fell in love late in life and never stopped until his last breath. When my father died, the duke informed me that he should be grateful if I did him the honor of stepping into Mr. Truelove’s position as private secretary, and he said this in so kind and so delicate a manner, so changed from his usual air of immense authority, that I accepted at once. Thus the fateful trajectory of my present life began.