Billie's Kiss

by Elizabeth Knox

  Billie Paxton nipped Murdo’s earlobe. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I want to. You mustn’t say we mustn’t.’ She put her open mouth against his throat and moved under him.

  Nothing Murdo had in his head had this immediacy. He raised her against him, her cloth-covered, stayed upper body, her warm hair gathered against his bare skin. He felt then that it might be possible to grow something in the world’s only hospitable place, the space between their bodies, the warm inches of air where they came apart and came together.

  The moon was in the room. The floorboards gave tongue. Murdo felt himself vanish. Then the smooth intricacies of Billie’s hair choker were against his lips again.

  AT FIRST light, Billie got up off the wooden floor, where they had slept, teased by cold breezes, indeterminate in direction. When she got up something trickled down her legs, warm, exhausted, no longer viscous. She stooped and wiped with her petticoats.

  Murdo helped her on the ladder. And, resting frequently, they helped each other along five miles of paths at the edge of the sea. Though Billie was light-headed when they stopped, she’d turn her face to find his mouth, as starved and sour as hers. They were constantly turning toward each other, like doors hung crooked that always swing shut, or pages in a book with a too stiffly bound spine.

  They stopped on the banks of a burn to wash their hands and faces. Murdo brushed the worst of the mud from Billie’s hem and boots, wiped his own with grass. He transferred his wallet to an outside pocket, where it swung in lighter counterpoint to the revolver. He buttoned his coat. They walked arm in arm into Southport.

  At a draper’s and haberdashery Murdo bought a hat, told the youth at the counter his size, tried several, smoothing his hair and tipping each on tenderly over the contusion, now scabbed black, and in a fan of purple-and-brown bruises.

  Murdo then went on to buy Billie petticoats, a skirt, a shawl of the big cloth – there were no coats in her size – a bag, stockings, and, at a grocery, soap, scent, and a comb. Then he purchased bread and cheese, apples, a knife, and a big stoneware bottle of ginger beer. They walked down to the pier, where they perched on mooring posts and ate, he handing her bread by the hunk, cheese and apple by the slice, so she wouldn’t eat too quickly.

  A steamer, small and riding high, stitched its way through the reef between Dorve and Southport. Its stack smoke floated, a dirty wraith over the white sea to the east.

  Gulls settled on the pier and began to shuffle nearer to the man and woman. Billie had the hiccups. She jerked periodically, and watched Murdo push packages into her new bag. He pinched its catch closed and put it in her arms. He helped her up and walked her to where the pilot usually moored. Anyone seeing them, standing against the quiet morning sea, her bag a bundle clutched close to her chest, might have asked: ‘Who are the couple with the baby?’

  Billie listened to Murdo’s instructions. She’d find twenty pounds in the bag, in the small slot pocket directly under its catch. It was more than enough. She should go by carrier overland from Dorve to Luag, then buy passage for Oban. Lastly, a train to Glasgow, and Andrew Tannoy, at this address. ‘Repeat it to me, Billie,’ he said.

  She did.

  ‘I can’t leave Clara,’ he said.

  Billie could feel his heart beating, so hard it made his body shake. His hand was in hers, his pulse tapping her wherever they came in contact.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Billie said. ‘Isn’t it quicker for you, too, by sea, Dorve to Stolnsay?’

  ‘The pilot rests before his next leg. I have counted the hours. I have made a comparison, and it’s quicker overland,’ he said. ‘I will rest,’ he promised, though she hadn’t asked.

  The small steamer was at the pier. Murdo moved Billie back from the noise and bustle of landing. The wind blew a smut against Billie’s forehead – a burning kiss.

  ‘I chose you,’ Billie said.

  Murdo said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  14

  Priming Charge, Base Charge

  FOUR DAYS after Billie Paxton ran away, and two after Kirsty was found sore-footed in a fan of grass cropped to the nub beside the ditch where the trap’s wheels were snagged in a snarl of reeds, Kiss Castle’s shy, Gaelic-speaking tweeny tapped on Geordie’s door. It was Sunday, and most of the household was at Stolnsay Kirk. Geordie was packing, his own bag and Ian’s – dried and aired – with the few things he meant to keep. The packing process was Geordie’s second sort-through of his brother’s possessions for, at the first, he’d kept not only what was precious, and personal, like correspondence, but anything that might later prove material evidence. As Geordie looked at these discards now, his former judgements seemed less a careful husbandry of evidence than a boyish certainty of cases to be put and culprits to be confronted. The sea-spoiled objects still seemed to hold the residual heat of his wishful anger.

  The tweeny put a finger to her lips and pinched Geordie’s sleeve. He followed her to the bathroom on the landing. At its door he heard the sound of water gushing into a tub. The girl opened the door and left him.

  The room was already softened by steam, its black-and-white-tiled walls perspiring. Geordie pulled the chain that opened the louvres and sat down beside Murdo on the bench against the wall. He took stock of Murdo while the man watched his bath fill. Murdo said that it wasn’t quite a bed with clean white sheets, but it would do for now. ‘I need help with my clothes.’ Then, faintly defensive, ‘I had a fall from my horse.’

  Geordie helped him remove his coat. ‘When you fell was this all you had on your upper half?’ he inquired.

  Murdo grunted.

  Geordie inspected the signs of battering.

  Murdo said that the girl would fetch some bandages. He wanted Geordie to bind his shoulder; he’d broken his collarbone.

  Geordie got down on his creaking knees to remove Murdo’s shoes. Murdo stepped out of the stinking pile of his clothes, and said, as he stepped into the bath, ‘Throw them away.’

  Geordie said nonsense, he’d send the coat and trousers down to the laundress. Then, in response to a muttered remark, ‘It isn’t parsimonious to spare someone else’s expense, Mr Hesketh. Is the word “frugal” not in your vocabulary?’ Geordie stooped to gather clothes and shoes. He said he’d find a shirt that could spare a sleeve.

  ‘Get my best – shirt, shoes, suit,’ Murdo said. He was craning about trying to see his injured shoulder. ‘How bad is it?’

  Geordie sat on the edge of the tub and washed his hands, then he began to clear away resinous blood, and lymph like blistered varnish. He was gentle and took his time. Murdo turned his head at a hard angle and Geordie watched his top lip quiver. Geordie had never known anyone more susceptible to kindness, and less inclined to take it kindly.

  ‘My best clothes,’ said Murdo, ‘for an interview with James.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Geordie. ‘Do you know where Miss Paxton is?’

  ‘I sent her to Glasgow and your Mr Tannoy.’

  ‘Did Lord Hallowhulme … offer her insult?’ Geordie asked, delicate.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. That’s all.’ Murdo stared at the brass taps. He seemed relieved, perhaps that Geordie had simply asked and, answered, hadn’t pressed for any further explanation. Geordie picked up Murdo’s wet hand and put the soap in it. He said he was sorry now that he hadn’t reported what he had seen at Hallowhulme’s salmon hatchery. ‘But you always had a low opinion of the girl, Mr Hesketh. Billie’s manner was unaffected, so you decided that she knew too much.’

  ‘She was born knowing,’ Murdo said, ‘in compensation for her incapacity.’

  Geordie puffed up and Murdo glared at him, merely irritated, but intimidating – naked, injured, touchy, and still quelling. ‘Don’t defend her,’ Murdo said. ‘She ran away as much from Henry Maslen’s inattention, as from James’s unwanted attentions.’

  ‘Then why take your cousin to task?’

  ‘I’m finished with James. And this helps.’

  Geordie repossessed the bundled clothes. He removed M
urdo’s wallet and revolver from his coat pockets and put them down on the chair by the tub.

  ‘When you return can you wash my hair, Geordie? I can’t lift this arm.’ The arm stirred, the water in the bath made its harmonious lapping. A tap dripped, the sound reflected sharply from the tiled walls. Geordie looked at Murdo’s profile, a face that, although exhausted, remained taut, shaped by confidence and command. Geordie began to have his doubts. He remembered his collapse at Ernol, Murdo practically jollying him out of his distress. There was something in Murdo’s face, shining like a clear sky in a high wind, wind without any other weather. Geordie didn’t want to be exposed to it. He questioned his strength. Any knowledge that could transmute Murdo Hesketh’s brute vitality might kill Mr Betler, might strip the flesh from his bones.

  Murdo fell asleep while Geordie was washing his hair. The suds spilled and glided on the water, mingled with a silt of dissolved blood, and the black tea stain of peat. Under the water Murdo’s form shifted shape and size, like the highest point of a wicked reef, submerged at high tide.

  Geordie thought, Poor Ian. Then, along the same lines, ‘Poor Lord Hallowhulme,’ he said, aloud. ‘He was out of his depth with Billie Paxton. I’m convinced his gallantry did have a gradual design. But in his admiration he was helpless.’

  Murdo was awake again, he leaned forward while Geordie rinsed the suds from his hair. ‘James thinks that if a thing is carefully planned, it will go according to plan,’ Murdo said.

  ‘That’s a line from Minnie’s play, did you know?’

  ‘Really?’ Murdo pushed his wet hair back, subsided while Geordie made lather in a shaving mug. He tilted his chin to Geordie’s razor. A minute later he stood, and Geordie gave him a towel. He draped his head and scrubbed his hair, one-handed. His voice was muffled. ‘Or, rather, James is so involved in his planning – its detail – that he can’t imagine deviations. He’s thorough in all situations he can provide for, but there are things that are invisible to him.’

  ‘Like spirits,’ said Geordie. ‘The Isle loud with noises.’

  ‘He’s no Prospero.’ Murdo emerged from the towel, his thick, fine hair a raised pelt. He told Geordie that, on a picnic several summers ago, there was a little bit of play where each family member had to name his or her favourite character from Shakespeare.

  Murdo had finished drying, ineffectually. He was unable to fasten the towel around his waist, and dropped it. Geordie had him step into his drawers. He made a bow in the drawstring.

  ‘Sorry to be so helpless,’ Murdo said.

  Geordie found a spot on Murdo’s ribs, free of bruises, and patted him there.

  ‘Minnie chose Jacques, from As You Like It. An artist and philosopher, she said. And James said, “All talk. One of Mr Shakespeare’s gloomy, hesitant hairsplitters.” James himself chose the Duke from Measure for Measure, and Minnie – fighting back – said, “That awful man! Who schemes everyone out of their passions and organises them out of their fate.”’

  ‘Please – only shallow breaths while I bind this. And stand up straight.’

  Murdo pulled himself erect. When he continued though, his tone was dreamy. ‘Ingrid chose Antonio from Twelfth Night. We thought she’d say Olivia – her part. Antonio was like Ruth in the Bible, she said. Whither thou goest, I will go. She said, “No one in Shakespeare loves like Antonio.”’

  Geordie knew why he was being told this. But he kept quiet, only split the end of the bandage and made a neat knot. He worked Murdo’s shirt on without sacrificing a sleeve. Then trousers, braces, waistcoat. ‘Where is your watch?’ Geordie asked, and saw the light change in Murdo’s face, a storm of pallor. After a moment Murdo said, ‘My watch hasn’t worked since it went in the sea.’

  ‘Of course.’ But Geordie had a very clear recollection of Murdo’s fob. The mourning fob, jet, a beautiful piece. Again he felt he was gathering evidence and, to disguise a transparently thoughtful silence, he asked, incidentally, what Shakespearean personage Murdo had chosen?

  ‘I’ve little imagination and a great deal of vanity, so naturally I chose Hamlet.’

  ‘I see. So, when you spring out on James this afternoon that’s what you’ll declare: It is I, Murdo the Swede!’

  ONE QUESTION in particular, of all those he deflected, caused Murdo pain. He’d left his watch in the tower at Ormabeg. He’d be caught – but why should that matter to him, who had courted an end, who had been full of amorous thoughts where the holes in his Colt’s swing gate were black beauty spots on sleek gun steel. What hurt was that, when he gave his lie to Geordie, Murdo remembered that, on the day after the Gustav Edda sank, when he asked Johan Gutthorm, ‘What does your watch say?’ Gutthorm had replied, ‘My watch isn’t keeping correct time.’

  OBERON AND Titania, with Puck and Peaseblossom in attendance. Geordie saw that Lord and Lady Hallowhulme, Jenny, and Henry Maslen were first through the door. Then the three Tegners, and Rixon and Elov. The men left their hats on the hall table. Jenny gathered the ladies’ hats by their ribbons, her hands full of flower baskets, it seemed.

  Geordie, watching this sight for the last time, committed it to memory: the figures blending with the hall’s dark wood as they moved about shedding outdoor clothes, against the hall windows’ textured light and modest amount of colour – a heraldic device of a salamander in the flames, and a motto about what the ‘Princes of the Earth’ might do with the permission of the last Laird. (The man who built Kiss, who imported tons of topsoil for his plantation on the Nose, then had to sell the whole island.) Geordie committed all this to memory and the past, and consoled himself with thoughts about his roses, his cosy butler’s pantry, and his cat – even eager for its reproaches.

  Minnie had dawdled, and came in last, stumbling on the doorsill. She was still reading Sherlock Holmes.

  Geordie stepped up to the family, showed himself. He asked Lord and Lady Hallowhulme if he might have a word with them. He was packed, he said, leading them away down the hall toward Lord Hallowhulme’s study. Clara inclined her head. ‘If there is anything you’d rather have sent on to you?’ she said. And, ‘You will be sure to take leave of the children.’

  ‘Certainly, Lady Hallowhulme. I don’t sail until seven.’

  ‘And you’ll remember us to Mr and Mrs Tannoy – we had them to dinner once at Port Clarity.’

  Geordie nodded. He stepped ahead of Clara and opened James’s study door. Clara moved her skirt, an ostentatious gesture of unwillingness, so that Geordie felt he was herding and cramming her into the room. She gave him a look of cool inquiry, then went on. Hallowhulme seemed to notice nothing amiss – he simply followed his wife, making a little shuffle around Geordie, and muttering, ‘Capital houseguest, Betler. Sorry to see you go.’

  Henry Maslen was already in the study, speaking to Murdo. He spun toward the door, blushed, said, ‘Excuse me!’ to his employer. To Murdo he said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hesketh.’ He then departed in a hurry.

  Geordie was glad Murdo had given Henry Maslen news of Billie’s whereabouts. He had thought Murdo might leave that more pedestrian task to him. It was clear from Henry’s look as he left the room – self-conscious, but relieved, and completely free of rancour – that Murdo hadn’t spoken to him about Hallowhulme’s attentions to Billie. Good man, Geordie thought of Murdo, not to scotch Maslen’s chance of advancement, and make him feel he should fight a duel.

  Lord Hallowhulme favoured Murdo with the astounded and affronted look he often assumed when surprised by an unexpected visitor.

  Clara put a finger on Geordie’s wrist. ‘Mr Betler, could you please tell Ward to go ahead and serve lunch.’

  ‘Of course, Lady Hallowhulme.’

  Murdo moved some books and papers from a chair before James’s cluttered desk. He took Clara’s hand and had her sit. ‘Geordie,’ said Murdo, dismissing him.

  ‘Well – I’ll leave you to it,’ said Geordie. He glanced back from the doorway and saw Lady Hallowhulme looking at him as if in appeal, an expression of desperatio
n breaking through her usual dull breeding. And, with the stern self-assurance of a doctor prescribing an uncomfortable but effective course of treatment, Geordie closed the door on her.

  ‘GEORDIE IS no longer in my confidence,’ Murdo began. ‘He imagines that I mean to take you to task, James, for kissing Billie Paxton.’

  James paled and began to bluster – a completely natural reaction – and Murdo managed to appear odd and inhuman himself as he pushed on. ‘Clara, you’re here as my witness.’

  ‘Murdo. Dear –’ said Clara. ‘Please.’

  Murdo moved from the window where he had blended, his body with a high-backed chair, his hair with the sun in colourless glass. He felt like a wolf, peeling off from the pack, beginning to trot nonchalantly around into a flanking position, brushing its sides on snowy tree trunks as it goes, coy, as if its only intention is to clean its coat. Murdo stopped in front of James and said, ‘Rory Skilling is a slovenly man of rather limited ability. That surprised me. Really, I was astonished to see someone clever fall back from a scheme of intricate design on something crude – for want of a better word. Besides, I’d have thought that, after Johan Gutthorm’s mistake, you’d have preferred to see to things yourself.’