He caught up to her along the rocky shore. The gusting wind had freed several golden curls from the confines of the tweed cap and they danced across her freckled cheek, obscuring the expression on her face.
“Just where do you think you are going?”
She didn’t turn around. “As you no longer need a caddie, sir, I am free to return to my own concerns. Just as you are finally free to return to London. And Woolsey Hall.”
“Yes, I’m . . . free. Quite free.”
She swallowed hard, seemingly confused by his odd words. “I—I didn’t have a chance to offer my congratulations back there, sir. You showed great courage and determination on the course today, and I’m very happy for you. I know how much this victory means to you.” Her voice seemed to be ebbing away. “I—I should like to see what you have in mind for the improvements you mentioned,” she added in a near whisper. “Perhaps one day, you might have time to send me a sketch.”
“A sketch? Is that all you would like?”
Not trusting her voice, Derrien looked out to sea. “You know, I have been thinking . . .” He reached out and gently turned her chin toward him. “It seems a great shame to break up such a successful partnership.” There was a wetness on her cheeks that could have been flecks of salty spray, or perhaps tears. “I could use a hand if I am to finish the designs for the Duke on time.” “But . . . that’s utterly impossible!”
“Why?”
“You can’t really mean that you would consider hiring a female to help on one of the most important commissions in all of England. It would cause an uproar if it were to be known.”
“By now you should realize I pay little heed to the strictures of convention. What matters is that you have a rare talent and imagination. I should very much like you to consider . . . the position.”
“B—but I’ve never seen the Duke’s estate in person, so I could hardly be of much help. Besides, you must return to London right away and I—I have the plans for
Rossdhu House to think about and must arrange a visit there. So you see, it is quite out of the question.”
“Ah, a logistical problem?”
She nodded.
Marquand paused. “Well, then it is a good thing we are in Scotland and have no need of reading the banns or even of a special license. If we marry tonight, we could pass by Loch Lomond on our honeymoon before journeying South.”
Derrien blinked. “But you can’t possibly think of marrying me!”
“Why ever not?” There was a warmth to his expression that belied the chill wind blowing in from the sea. “Is the position of wife so very less appealing than that of caddie or assistant designer? I promise you, the recompense would be a good deal more . . . satisfying.” Her gaze dropped to the toes of her scuffed boots and when she answered, her voice was barely audible. “You know quite well the reason.”
“You think you don’t fit into my world? Well, neither do I, and thank God for it! I engage in trade, which is no doubt a worse sin than yours in the eyes of my peers!” He hesitated. “But perhaps what you meant was that the idea of a titled English lord for a husband is still repugnant to you. I had hoped you wouldn’t hold that against me.”
She dared raise her eyes. “You mean . . .”
“I mean that we make a smashing team, my dear Derry. What say you to continuing the partnership?” She threw her arms around him, trying not to cry. “You mean it? You are sure you don’t prefer a lovely lady in silks rather than a brat in breeches?”
“I have never been more sure of anything in my life. London may glitter with all manner of polished ladies, but I have found my true Diamond here in the rough of St. Andrews.” He hugged her close and his mouth came down to capture hers in a kiss that left no room for question as to how deeply his passion ran. His hands twined in the silky splendor of her curls, knocking the cap to the ground for the last time, then trailed down the arch of her spine to the rounded curves below. “In fact, you must be sure to wear breeches often in the privacy of our home,” he murmured, pulling her hard up against his muscled thighs. “Though I shall insist that they be cut a good deal snugger than these.” Then he kissed her again with a searing urgency, his mouth drinking in the heady taste of her. To his elation, she responded with an equal ardor.
As their embrace became more intimate, their hands roaming beneath the folds of damp linen shirts, it couldn’t help but occur to him that only a short time ago the idea of behaving in such a mad, impetuous manner would have been unthinkable. What an utter fool he had been to imagine that a conventional bride would be any more right for him than the role of a conventional gentleman in Society! Fortune had indeed smiled on him the day his carriage had headed north. By taking the biggest gamble of his life, he had won something infinitely more precious than any tangible treasure.
“D—does Woolsey Hall have a golf course nearby?” she asked after his lips had finally come away from hers.
Marquand’s eyes danced with laugher. “Actually there is a splendid tract of pasture land along the river that I have been eyeing.” His boot began to draw a few lines in the sand. “If we move some earth, carve out a series of pot bunkers and plant a few trees to create . . .”
Her mouth came up to stifle any further words. “I should love to see a sketch of it, Adrian,” she said between torrid kisses. “But perhaps it could wait until later.”
Author’s Note
For those readers unfamiliar with the sublimely delightful and infuriating game of golf, a few short short historical notes and explanations may serve to clarify some of the terms and scenes that appear within the story.
St. Andrews is recognized as the birthplace of golf, with references made to the game as far back as the fifteenth century. (Proclamations were issued banning golf on the Sabbath because it was interfering with archery practice, a requisite for defending the realm. A modern day law announcing such strictures might well foment revolution!) The Old Course at St. Andrews is perhaps the most revered spot in golf, a magical tract of flat linksland with a storied history and tradition unmatched by any other golf course in the world. Its bunkers, or sand traps, do indeed all bear names, with “The Beardies,” “The Spectacles,” “Hell,” and “The Principal’s Nose” being just a few of the wonderful monikers. All manner of legendary matches have been contested on its fairways and greens, from the feats of Old Tom Morris, the first real superstar in golf, to the play of modem hero Tiger Woods. While there is no account of the match played within these pages, such a sporting wager would not have been impossible.
The equipment used during the early 1800’s was a far cry from the high-tech gear available today. Clubheads were fashioned from hawthorn, pear, and apple wood rather than titanium or other high-tech metallurgy. Shafts were made of hickory instead of graphite or steel. The ball was made of bull’s hide cured with alum and then stuffed with feathers. Hence it was called a “featherie.” Featheries were replaced during the 1850’s by balls made of gutta-percha, a gum derived from certain Malaysian trees. Today, technology allows all manner of two piece, wound, double cover, balata, surlyn, etcetera. (Don’t ask.) There was no such thing as tees during the early 1800’s. The caddie—who carried the player’s clubs under his arm rather than in a bag over his shoulder—simply built a small mound out of sand on which the ball was placed. The terms “long spoon,” “short spoon,” and “baffing spoon” refer to clubs that are are roughly equivalent to the driver and woods of today. Irons were not used as much, and the sand wedge did not come into existence until well into the twentieth century.
The original thirteen rules of golf were drawn up in 1744 by the Company of Gentlemen Golfers in Edinburgh. They were adopted by the Society of St. Andrews Golfers in 1754. The Society has since become the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. Its imposing clubhouse, built in the 1850’s, stands at the eighteenth green of the Old Course, and it is still the arbiter of the rules of golf for the world except the United States (where the PGA calls the shots). The list has become cons
iderably longer over the ensuing years.
Some of the characters mentioned in the book are real. Hugh Philp worked in St. Andrews during the time period and his graceful, beautifully crafted clubs were highly sought after even then. Today he is considered the Stradivarius of clubmakers and an example of his work would bring a fortune at auction. The Robertsons were the leading makers of featherie balls for generations. Lastly, I have taken liberty with ascribing a passion for golf to the Duke of Roxburghe and his son, the Marquess of Bowmont. But the present Duke is a fine player with a single-digit handicap. He has recently built one of the finest new courses in Scotland, aptly named The Roxburghe Golf Course, and its signature hole does run along the Teviot and an old Roman viaduct.
As for my own game—well, as more than one of the characters says in the story, golf takes a lifetime to master. If you are lucky. So does writing, so I shall be rather busy for the foreseeable future.
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