The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  But it was Monty.

  No “but,” she corrected herself.

  It was Monty.

  “Madam,” he said in his gruff way, “that’s enough for today.”

  Fiona looked up at him and with a grimy palm wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I’ve more thistles to pull up. It won’t take but an hour or so.”

  “Madam,” he said, “your hands.”

  She glanced at them. Not only were they filthy, but they were scratched and bleeding in several places. “Oh,” she said, feeling oddly embarrassed, as if she’d been caught out in some way. “It’s nothing. Is there something you need?”

  “I thought you might wish to look at the beehives with me.”

  “Not today. Thank you.”

  “Very well.”

  But he continued standing there, looking at her from underneath craggy eyebrows.

  Finally she said: “What is it, Monty?”

  “Only the bees, madam.”

  “Perhaps another time. Tomorrow, or the next day. Or next week.”

  “Aye, madam,” he answered, stolidly, and left her. To her prickly spear thistles and her damaged hands.

  So relentlessly did Fiona attack the thistles that by the time she’d bathed and changed for dinner, she was almost late. She smiled impartially at Alasdair, Isobel, Duff, and the servants ready to begin serving the meal. It wasn’t so bad, she thought, as she lifted a spoonful of an exquisitely clear beef consommé. It wasn’t so bad living on this plane of existence. Today, for example, had gone by fairly quickly. Why, the days and the months and the years would simply fly by. There was no excuse for the secret sadness that seemed to pervade every inch of her and make her feel as if the sheer weight of it would cause the floor to collapse beneath her. Thank goodness for one’s pride.

  A few spoonfuls of the consommé, she found, was enough. Her stomach felt full of the sadness. She managed a bite of the glazed ham, a nibble of the savory jelly, half of an asparagus toast. None of it tasted particularly good, either. After she had rejected the pork cutlets, a duck ragout, the cauliflower with a creamy velouté sauce, the apple loaf, and a lemon soufflé, she gradually became aware of the fact that she was being stared at by her tablemates.

  She looked back at them. Duff and Isobel, she noticed without any particular interest, shared a smiling conspiratorial glance. Alasdair was somber.

  “What ails you, Fiona?” he said gravely.

  “Nothing, laird, I assure you.”

  “You do not eat. ’Tis troubling to me.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself. I am well.”

  “Shall I ask for something else to be brought?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Fiona—” Then he stopped. And he said, “What happened to your hands?”

  “Nothing. A little work in the garden.”

  “But—”

  He had that baffled look on his face again.

  She didn’t care. Wouldn’t care. She was an automaton, good enough to be liked, but not worthy to be loved. Everything was fine. You couldn’t lose what you never had. Time marched on. She smiled pleasantly, looked away, had a sip of wine.

  And so the evening meal went by. As did the subsequent interval in the Great Drawing-room. Quietly, with every appearance of placidity, she mended another torn altar cloth, and neither flung it to the floor nor shoved her work-box off the sofa. For the most part she kept her eyes on her stitches, concentrating on making them uniformly tiny and even, one after the other. The tiniest, most even stitches ever sewn. As if she were competing in the world championship for Best Repair of an Altar Cloth (White Linen of Excellent Quality, Origin Likely Dating to Early 1800s, Several Rips in Fabric Due to Unknown Causes, Possibly Aging and/or Neglect). She did not, once, look at those green velvet curtains, not even for a second. For all she cared now, they could stay up forever, or until hell froze over, whichever came first.

  Isobel and Duff seemed to be finding a great deal to say to each other, but she paid no attention to them, and very little to Alasdair, either, who was up and down, pacing restlessly around the room, until finally Duff commented jovially:

  “Lad, you’re like a prisoner in a cell.”

  “Or perhaps an animal in a cage?” put in Isobel, obviously meaning to frame things in a more positive light.

  “You ought to get some exercise tomorrow,” Duff added, in a kindly way. “Remember how, when I first came here, you used to go out and chop wood until the axe-head would fly off? I nearly lost an eye one day.” He laughed.

  Alasdair did not laugh, or smile, and Duff’s own smile faded. With concern, he asked: “What’s the matter, lad?”

  Alasdair finally came to a stop opposite the sofa on which Fiona was sitting. She knew this but did not lift her head from her sewing. After all, she was busy competing for the Best Altar-Cloth Repair Award of 1811.

  “I’m waiting for Fiona,” said Alasdair. “It’s time for bed.”

  Once, and quite recently, too, Fiona mused, these words would have thrilled her to her very soul. But now they were just that —words. Conveying information but without evoking an answering response within her. “I’m not quite finished, laird.” How affable and polite she sounded! How easy it was to manufacture the tone, too. Dreadfully easy. “You needn’t wait up for me.”

  He sat. “I’ll wait,” he replied grimly.

  “As you wish.” One stitch, another stitch, and another after that. She could feel him staring at her, but composedly she sewed on. The chatter between Isobel and Duff dried up, and altogether, she supposed, another rather awkward scene was being enacted here in the Great Drawing-room. Oh well. The tea-tray came and went (she had nothing), the moon rose or sank (she hardly cared); one stitch, another stitch, another after that. Then: “Well!” she said brightly. “It’s done, and quite nicely too, if I do say so myself.” She folded the cloth, put away her sewing things, rose, daintily patted back a yawn.

  “Good night,” she said pleasantly to Duff and Isobel, whose expressions reminded her a little of blanched almonds, poor dears, and then she turned to Alasdair. “I’m ready, laird.”

  He stood. Together, with an odd ceremoniousness, they left the drawing-room and without speaking made their way to their bedchamber. Alasdair ushered her inside, then shut the door behind them.

  “Let’s talk.”

  “Dear me, how chatty you’ve become,” Fiona said lightly. “In a moment, then, laird,” and she whisked herself off to her dressing-room. When at length she emerged, in one of her ruffled high-necked nightgowns, he was already in the bed. Oh, not for her to run over there and wrench away the covers in a wild rush of passion. No, sedately she went to her side of the bed and got in, plumped up her pillows, pulled the covers snugly around her armpits, fixed her eyes in the dimness on the canopy overhead. Just like old times. Could people die from sadness? she wondered. And just how much would it hurt?

  She feared it would hurt very badly indeed.

  “Fiona.”

  Alasdair’s deep voice.

  “Yes, laird?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Certainly. What would you like to talk about?”

  “About us.”

  “Well, as to that, laird, you’ll have to do all the talking. As I trust I’ve already made clear, I’ve nothing to contribute. I am, of course, happy to listen, as a good wife should.”

  There was a silence, empty and vast.

  Fiona stared unblinkingly above her.

  Alasdair slid closer to her in that immense bed.

  “Fiona,” he said.

  “Yes?” she answered politely.

  “I want you. I want to finish what last night we began.”

  In his voice she could hear the desperate urgency which she herself had experienced some twenty-four hours ago. She could feel the bewitching heat of his body. Could smell that fascinating scent which she’d come to associate with him alone, soap and clean damp hair and just a musky trace of the stables.

&n
bsp; And she felt—nothing.

  Nothing could penetrate the sadness which had apparently turned her into a living statue.

  But neither did she resent his words. In all fairness, she had to admit, yesterday in this very bed she had tried to do the same thing.

  “Fine,” she told him. “Just a moment, and I’ll lift up my nightgown for you.”

  “What?”

  “As a dutiful wife, naturally I will accommodate you, laird.”

  “Oh my God,” he said, revulsion in his tone, “stop it, Fiona. I’ll have none of that.”

  “As you will. I’ll wish you good night, then.” And she turned on her side, presenting him with, should he care to peruse it, an excellent view of her back. A kind of shield which would conceal the fact that she was crying. Silently, without sobs or sniffles; simply a stream of tears falling, one after the other, as if they sprang from an infinite well.

  It was on the following morning, when Fiona had stepped onto the front portico to check if the weather was sufficiently auspicious for wash day, that she saw Sheila sitting on one of the stone steps, loudly weeping. Quickly Fiona went to her, and placed a gentle hand on the little girl’s bony shoulder.

  “What’s the matter, hinny?”

  Sheila raised a wet, woebegone face. “Oh, lady, I was running to help catch a chicken that got loose, and I fell.” She pulled up the dirty hem of her gown to show Fiona a pair of badly scraped kneecaps. “See?”

  “I do see. Won’t you let me clean those poor knees? I have some very nice salve for them, too.”

  “All right.” Slowly Sheila stood, wincing, and suddenly a strange, opaque look came into her pale blue eyes. “Why must trouble come in threes? Why, lady?”

  “I don’t know, hinny. But I do know that Cook has made a lovely batch of gooseberry dumplings. Maybe you’d like one after we fix you up?” Fiona watched as the little girl’s face cleared and she swiftly nodded. Hopefully there wouldn’t be two more incidents to plague poor Sheila.

  But, of course, Fiona could not have guessed that Sheila wasn’t referring to herself but to the troubles of some other person entirely.

  The days passed. Fiona went about her business, Alasdair went about his. The harvest this year was abundant and the weather benign; the threshing barn of old Norval Smith was promptly repaired, made even better than new; the bull sent by the Colling brothers was pronounced entirely satisfactory. The dinner party hosted by the laird and his lady was talked about for some time, so elegant, so enjoyable an affair it was. The very pregnant farmer’s wife was successfully delivered of healthy twin girls. Everyone marveled over how nice the altar cloths were looking. Isobel’s beautifully attired dolls were much clamored for by the little ones of the clan, and Duff took to fashioning sticks into delightful little fishing-rods that were equally sought after.

  In fact, everything really was going remarkably well. Somehow, though, in some mysterious way, somehow the atmosphere at Castle Tadgh, which had been brightening, dimmed bit by bit. It wasn’t palpable, it wasn’t anything you could touch or quantify, but there it was. Yet nobody could have suspected that despite his usual smiling, easygoing exterior, the laird was greatly troubled. Or that behind her calm, pleasant façade their lady took refuge from her anguish in an inflexible pride.

  No one could have had any way of knowing that the laird and lady lay far apart from each other in the night, so divided in their relations that they might as well have been in separate beds, separate rooms, separate countries.

  Isobel, perhaps, had some inkling of this deep estrangement, and more than once, as doggedly she read on through the Tome, sad tears would drop onto the timeworn pages, and carefully, so carefully, would she dab at them with her cheap, lacy, ineffective handkerchiefs from Edinburgh.

  A fortnight after Sheila had fallen and hurt herself while pursuing an escaped chicken, she sat in a corner of the Great Hall, playing dolls with Lister’s niece Erica. Abruptly she froze, as if hearing a disturbing, far-off sound.

  “That’s one,” she said mournfully, and hugged her doll close.

  The next afternoon, having been implacably ordered by her grandmother to climb into the wooden tub set before the crackling fire in their cottage, Sheila briefly interrupted her stream of complaints to say, to Dame Margery’s bewilderment:

  “That’s two.” And then: “Oh, Granny, I hate taking baths, everybody knows that bathing makes your skin fall off. Do I have to wash my hair? Soap gives you freckles, Granny, and I’ve got too many of those already. Why do I have to be clean for the feast tomorrow? I’ll just get dirty all over again. Oh, Granny, the water’s not hot enough, and also my fingers are getting all wrinkly. If you make me stay in here any longer, they’ll be that way forever.”

  While Sheila was taking her bath, Fiona realized that her woman’s time was upon her again. She was not pregnant. And the way things were going between Alasdair and herself, she never would be. Alone in her dressing-room, she thought of the Bonni, or the James, or the Maisie, or the Archibald—such beautiful, beautiful baby names—who would never be, and of the loving family she had once hoped to create with Alasdair.

  She was tired. There was a low cramping in her belly. She wanted to lie down, to sleep away the afternoon, forget about her cares for a little while …

  But there was so much to do.

  Cook had asked her to come taste the dishes she had already prepared. Mrs. Allen wanted to go over last-minute arrangements for the decorating of the Great Hall. Lister was waiting for her to review the list of wines he had selected. A man from the village, the leader of the musicians she’d engaged, was downstairs, needing her approval of the songs they were to play tomorrow.

  And so on.

  And so forth.

  Fiona looked absently into her mirror. Gracious, she thought, but I’ve become the skeleton Janet Reid once taunted me about. How she’d laugh to see me now! And those circles under my eyes — I look like some kind of ghastly clown.

  She shrugged at her reflection. She left her dressing-room. And she went back to work.

  Alasdair walked slowly downstairs toward the Great Hall, alone. Feeling very much alone. He could hear the clatter and bustle from below, servants talking and laughing, musical instruments being tuned up, little snatches of this and that being played. It was all very cheerful, and it only served to highlight the desolation within him. He felt, he imagined, much as a man did who’d been clouted in the head by an oar—vigorously and repeatedly. Such a man would be dazed, befuddled; the world around him might even stop making sense to him.

  What had gone wrong between himself and Fiona?

  How had things gotten so bad?

  If he could have, he’d have left the castle at sunup, and stayed away till late in the night. He was in no mood for a party. For a dirge, yes, or an exhumation. But he was the laird, and nothing short of illness, incapacitation, or actual death would keep him doing his duty, which was to preside over the evening’s festivities.

  He walked on, hoping that in his eyes wasn’t the stunned, hopeless look of a man who’d been savagely beaten within an inch of his life.

  It was, everybody agreed, the best clan celebration anyone could remember. The food, the drink, the music—all were simply splendid, and the Great Hall had never looked so convivial and inviting. It was a grand thing for the clan, everyone said, when the laird had married the lady. And just see them now, sitting up at the high table—he so tall and handsome, she so lovely and kind. Just like a king and queen. And so happy together! Oh yes, a grand thing for the clan. Here—have another ale, won’t you?

  Fiona sincerely hoped her face wouldn’t crack in two from all the smiling she’d been doing. The muscles in her cheeks had begun to pain her. But it was as nothing compared to the hurt in her heart, so she supposed she could keep on looking pleasant and gracious for as long as the celebration went on. In a sense, she mused, it was all a play, and she was merely an actor performing her part. And sufficiently well, too. There would be
no applause, no standing ovation, but it was nice, at least, to see everyone enjoying themselves.

  Although not quite everyone, she suddenly realized, even as Duff, at her left, leaned toward her and said, “Lass, where’s Isobel? Is she unwell?”

  “I’ve no idea, Uncle. She sent no word. I’ll ask for her maid—”

  “Nay, lass, you’re needed here, and why call her maid away from the fun? I’ll go tap on her bedchamber door.”

  “You might also try the Little Drawing-room. That’s where she often spends her mornings, I believe. And let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I will.” Duff stood, and surprised Fiona by briefly placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a good girl,” he said, and went away, and Fiona sank again into her abstraction.

  More food, more wine and ale, more music, more of everything. Time passed, and passed, and passed, and the cheerful noise levels in the Great Hall went up and up, obviating the need to try and make stilted conversation with Alasdair. He sat next to her at the high table, magnificent in a dark jacket and tartan kilt, his dark-red hair spiked upwards a little above his forehead in a way she loved with ridiculous fervor. She wanted to run her fingers, languorously, through his hair. Wanted to kiss him, for hours on end. There was no denying it: she ached for him, body and soul, but never again would she reveal it, never again risk being hurt that way once more. She would infinitely prefer to be torn apart by wolves. In fact, she’d go out into the woods and look for them if necessary. She smiled at a group of children, pretty flower garlands in their hair, who had joined hands and were spinning in a circle in time to the music.

  She had, quite frankly, nearly forgotten about Isobel, and was therefore startled to see her come into the Great Hall looking as if she’d seen a ghost. Duff, his expression as grim as Fiona had ever seen it, had one arm around the tottering Isobel, and in the other he carried the Tome.