He paused.
“They all think I should marry again. There’s a woman, the daughter of an old friend of my aunt. It would be an easy choice: become a husband again, have children.”
He smiled wanly.
The storm and failing daylight had made the room darker. Lit only by the stove, the shadows were palpably thick. Tremors continued to shake the roof and windows of the cabin.
How beautiful he is, she thought. There were golden threads in his beard and in his hair, like the copper brightness of the flames.
She fumbled with the buttons on the front of her shirt, opening them one by one. The glow from the stove lit the curve of her breasts.
Taking his hand, she placed it on her skin. His palm was more calloused than she’d expected.
He sat very still, as if to touch her further would break the enchantment.
He looked long at her, all but naked, light and dark dancing across her body. She felt him eating the sight of her. His eyes then moved upwards, found hers, and stared hard.
I should be blushing, she thought. I should turn away. But she didn’t.
He leaned forward, lips parted, and there was nothing in her but the melting desire to return the force of his mouth, to be wrapped tight in his arms, to feel the strength of him. Drinking deeply from her, his kiss was an ocean of torment and need.
He caught her face between his hands, looking again into her eyes, holding her still, suspended between past and present. Then, longing overcame him, and he became a creature of hunger, his mouth at her breast, consuming her, his beard rough at her nipple.
He grazed her belly, travelling an inevitable path. His hands were under her hips, raising her sex to meet his mouth, and the shock of his tongue made her gasp: a wonderful, terrible rapture. She forgot almost to breathe, choking with the pleasure of it.
His hands gripped harder, under her buttocks now, his face forcing her thighs wider, his tongue stroking her, plunging, curling to the nub of her sex, teasing her, making her twist in agonized joy. He devoured the openness of her.
She writhed, wanting more, knowing that there was more.
She took a handful of his hair in her fist, whimpering with the dreadful delight of it. He raised his head, eyes darkly dilated.
She watched as Hamish unbuttoned his shirt, and then his trousers, discarding them. It was the first time she had seen a naked man. His length, veined, and glistening, stood proudly from a shock of hair, golden red.
“I’m not afraid,” she said. There was nothing brutish here, she thought, nothing clumsy or awkward.
Calmer now, yet moving as if in the daze of waking sleep, of night-dreaming lust, he lowered his body to hers, pushing into the soft swell of her. She met each thrust as if she had known all her life for what her tender flesh was intended. Wordless, beyond language, she allowed herself to be enfolded in pleasure.
A last crack of electricity split the sky.
She woke to grey early light and chill, the fire having gone out. The brutal howling had passed and it was quiet, as if all nature had ceased breathing.
Ophelia was thirsty and muddle-headed, her limbs languorously limp, as if heavy with memories. Sitting up, looking expectantly for Hamish, her ankle throbbed. Tentatively, as if afraid of whom she might summon, she called out for him. There was no reply.
From outside, she heard the crack of splitting wood. She eased herself up, wincing, and hobbled into the morning air.
Hamish raised the axe again, letting it swing a full arc into the waiting log, tossing kindling to one side. She stood, without speaking, propped against the door, watching the strength of his shoulders.
How much can change in a single day, she thought. Never before had she felt such fluttering from her heart. Breathing now required concentration. It was happiness, she realized: an overwhelming joy.
He stooped to pick up the wood and turned, seeing her.
“You’re up then.” He smiled wanly but without the warmth she had been expecting, and without meeting her eye. “Go in and sit down. You need to keep that foot up.”
Searching his face, she felt the blood drain from her. A chasm opened in her chest, dark and cold.
“Hamish?” she prompted, feeling her voice quiver.
“I’ll chop more wood, and then head up to the house to collect the horses. Clearly, you can’t walk on that ankle.”
“Last night…” she began, but words failed her. There was too much she wanted to say.
He looked over his shoulder, and she saw that his expression was closed. He gave no reply.
Her tears welled, and died, curbed by anger. What had happened between them had been wondrous. She refused to believe that he couldn’t feel the same way.
She sat watching the flames after he had left, her heart numb.
It was some time before she heard footsteps running up the track and, shuffling out, saw that Hamish had brought Murray, the stable lad, with him.
“Oh Miss Ophelia,” he puffed. “Mr. Hamish says you’ve turned your ankle an’ spent the night ‘ere in the cabin. Must’ve been right awful. Come on m’lady, put your arm over me shoulder an’ I’ll help ye onto Rosie. She’s slow but sure. You won’t come to no ‘arm.”
She felt Hamish’s avoidance of touching her, letting Murray take most of her weight, helping more to steady the horse than to support her as she pushed her good foot into the stirrup. He’d fitted a side-saddle, so that she might sit more comfortably, but the awkwardness of it still had her wincing. She bit her lip.
Murray led her horse, while Hamish went on slightly ahead. They made their way slowly, tree branches having come down, making the going difficult. It was little more than two miles to return, but the uneven path jolted her repeatedly.
It was impossible for her to speak to Hamish with Murray there. No doubt, that was why he’d brought him.
To compose herself, she focused on the stream filled to brimming, rippling over stones and roots, and then the loch, running high upon its banks. Her eyes, however, kept straying to Hamish’s back, turned adamantly against her. The air, cool and clean, was like breathing cold water, rushing in, raw and ragged.
At last, arriving at the castle, Murray helped her down. Indecorously, Ophelia was obliged to slide off the saddle into his arms; he was stronger than she expected.
“I’ll take over from here,” Hamish told him curtly, leaving Murray to lead the horses away. He offered her his arm stiffly.
“My dear! Oh! How worried we were!” exclaimed Morag, appearing on the steps, rushing forward to hug Ophelia. “That terrible storm!”
She took Ophelia’s other arm. “Murray said he saw you both ride out yesterday, only minutes before the storm started gathering. Constance assured me that Hamish would look after you both, and she guessed of course that he’d take you to the cabin if there was any trouble.”
Ophelia smiled wanly. Morag’s warmth brought a lump to her throat. How lovely it was to have someone saying kind things to her, although she feared it would make her cry.
Constance appeared then, full of solicitous concern. “Your poor ankle! And you must be ravenous my dear, not having eaten since yesterday luncheon. Hamish, would you tell cook to bring up some venison stew to Ophelia’s room, with plenty of thickly buttered bread, and a pot of tea.”
Hamish nodded his assent and departed, leaving her in the care of the two dowagers.
“Let’s get you upstairs and into the bath first,” said Morag, “Then, we’ll tuck you into bed.”
They took her, step by step, most carefully, and then undressed her as the water ran, making Ophelia feel quite four years old again.
“We’ll be back in a few minutes dear,” Constance said, once they’d helped her into the tub. “Just call if you need us.”
Feeling most dreadfully tired, Ophelia eased her shoulders under the water.
Hamish had brought alive some new part of her. With no thought for decency, she’d surrendered to him, and he had surrendered to her. A li
ght had flared brightly within her, and had been just as abruptly extinguished.
She closed her eyes, against the welling tears.
Ophelia spent the next few days in bed, visited regularly by the two elderly ladies, bringing her treats to tempt her appetite, and news on the plans for Morag’s coming birthday dinner.
Listless, she reclined, gazing vaguely out of the window, knowing that the visitor she most wanted would be unlikely to appear, yet longing to see him. She picked up books repeatedly, but without the will to read them. She endured the days as best as she could, cursing and crying, then retreating into silence.
The doctor came and pronounced the ankle merely sprained rather than fractured. He bandaged it and said she’d be fine within the week, and to try her weight on it as soon as she felt able.
By the time Morag’s birthday arrived, she was able to hobble down to the drawing room, giving heartfelt kisses and her birthday gift (the improvised wrapping of some of her own Penhaligon’s soap), but retired back upstairs afterwards, wishing to avoid the flurry of activity as their guests arrived through the day. Hamish was nowhere to be seen.
“Do come down tonight my darling,” Morag had entreated her. “We’d so love to have you join us.”
From her bedroom window, she watched cars arriving, and greetings being given. Towards early evening, a very smart Daimler pulled up, its occupants already in dinner attire. For them, Hamish appeared, coming down the steps to welcome them: a tall, slim man, with dark hair and a moustache, and an elegant woman, her hair white-blonde, wearing a silver coat. Ophelia watched as Hamish took her kisses not only on each cheek but on the lips. She placed her arm through his and they disappeared inside, laughing.
So that’s it! Ophelia realized, her anger returning.
She pushed a brush roughly through her hair, slicked rouge to her cheeks, and gave herself a boldly painted lip. Her appearance was improved but her eyes bore evidence of anguish, looking more huge than ever in her pale face.
She chose a comfortable favorite from her wardrobe, a dark dress speckled in emerald green beads. It had a stain on the back of the hem, which wouldn’t shift, but she doubted anyone would see. She slipped it over her head, and rang for Constance’s maid to help her limp downstairs. Mary brought with her a garish orange and brown checked sash: the tartan worn for centuries by the MacKintochs.
“It’s for you to wear m’lady,” explained Mary. “Lady Morag sent it for you.”
Among those at dinner were spinster cousins of the family, Evelyn and Alice, the reverend of the local kirk, a sprinkling of the few respectable neighbors, and Colonel Faversham, who’d served with Morag’s husband years ago. She’d known his type as soon as she’d laid eyes on him: a member of the bottom-pinching brigade. Even Lady Devonly’s posterior wouldn’t be safe.
Glamor was provided by the owners of the Daimler: the Comte de Montefiore, and his sister, Felicité. The latter was a vision, her tall, lithe frame clothed in a diaphanous gown of rose-petal pink.
Ophelia felt disheveled in contrast, as if her vitality had been sucked away, much like the mulligatawny soup, slurped into the quivering mouths of this seeming sea of ancients at her end of the table.
Further down, she could see quite clearly that the Comte’s sister, all elegance, was flirting with Hamish. A throb of shame suffused her cheeks, almost as vivid as the aching pulse in her ankle.
“No better than dogs,” she heard Sir Hector mutter, to her right, seeing Hamish place a kiss upon Felicité’s hand.
The tartan sash felt suddenly as if it were suffocating her. She pulled it over her head, casting it behind her.
On her left, the Comte de Montefiore, without speaking, perused her décolleté. Despicable man, I shall ignore him! He had a particular Mediterranean air, darkly dangerous, with features in unusual proportion, his nose and eyebrows being too large for his face.
The Comte nodded at the unassuming personage of Lady Mildred Faucett-Plumbly, and her rotund spouse, enjoying his lamb chop with gusto. “There is a place for physical allure. If a woman cultivates the sexual appeal of a parsnip, she will find herself bedding a cabbage.”
“I’m sure they’re both perfectly lovely, and deliriously happy,” she snapped, adding, “In their own way.” Of course, she didn’t believe so for a moment, but felt that to agree with the Comte would be disloyal to the more vulnerable members of her sex.
Colonel Faversham caught her eye. “Now young lady,” he began. “Nice looking gel like you oughtn’t to be single; too much temptation to fall into wicked ways. Don’t deny it! I know the urges of the young. Best put a husband in your bed!”
“Lascivious swine!” grumbled Sir Hector.
Ophelia felt a surge of warmth towards him.
“Don’t you agree, vicar?” barked the Colonel, jabbing a conspiratorial elbow at his dining companion. Reverend McAdam looked most alarmed. Of the Presbyterian faith, the abundant charms of Mrs. McAdam had warmed his marital bed for nigh on forty years. He felt the Colonel’s remark impertinent.
Ophelia’s gaze was upon Hamish, willing that he look at her, that he show some sign as to what had passed between them, some acknowledgment.
Misses Evelyn and Alice Craigmore, meanwhile, were admiring the figure of the Colonel, falling upon his lamb with energetic mastication. They had lived their whole lives in respectable spinsterhood, at 17 Durness Walk, in the grand city of Aberdeen.
“Not bad for his age Evelyn,” remarked Alice. “Solidity of frame, a decent moustache, and good teeth.”
“Yes, he might do. Powerful stamina I’d imagine,” replied her sister.
It was a game of theirs, to weigh up the merits of gentlemen as prospective husbands. They liked to be thorough in their examination. Most men, sadly, failed to meet their exacting standards. Sixty-two years of spinsterhood quite spoils a woman, since she is permitted indulgence of every fancy, and finds herself much freer, in mind and body, than her married counterparts. The sisters had never found a man (it had not occurred to them that, in fact, they might require two) worthy of their surrender. However, the Colonel was scoring highly.
“One can sense some men’s enthusiasm,” Alice mused. “He’d be like a terrier down a rabbit hole.”
“Dreadful you!” exclaimed Evelyn.
Ophelia wondered if the spinsters realized their supposedly private conversation was perfectly audible to others around them.
It was Lord Faucett-Plumbly who turned the conversation to politics, remarking to Ophelia his surprise at her father’s recent support of the women’s cause.
Ophelia, in no mood to be challenged, flew to his defence. “Daddy is more forward-thinking than most people realize. He’s always been in favour of women’s suffrage.”
“With all women over the age of twenty-one now voting, we’ve added five million to the electoral roll. We may outnumber the men at the next election,” declared one of the Ms. Craigmores.
“Poppycock!” spluttered Hector, “Women are physically, mentally and morally inferior to men. Can’t be trusted to vote! They should be at home, raising their children. Leave politics to the men, eh Hamish?”
Before Hamish had a chance to reply, Morag intervened. “Really Hector, we are not utterly incapable of understanding the issues of the day, despite our late Queen Victoria’s thoughts on the matter. I too was a Suffragist, in my younger days.”
“Hear, hear,” declared Ophelia, “Look at Lady Astor, taking her place in the House, and Margaret Bonfield. Who knows what they, and other women, might achieve. We could soon have women serving on the cabinet, or even as Prime Minister! I wouldn’t mind standing myself, perhaps, one day…”
She heard Hector snort and mutter, but found herself suddenly animated. She’d had no idea that her grandmother had been active in promoting votes for women. Her mother’s support for the movement had been more in thought than in deed; Ophelia couldn’t imagine Lady Daphne chaining herself to railings.
She urged, “Women do need to
be heard. My father voted for the Women’s Employment Act too; it’s a travesty that marrying precludes so many women from working. Can our lives have purpose in simply looking after a husband? It’s abominable that it didn’t pass the House.”
Looking the length of the table, she saw then that Hamish’s eyes were upon her, gazing intently, as if seeing something for the first time. He held her in that look, and her heart, which she had been trying so hard to steel against him, trembled in her breast.
Several conversations erupted, everyone now having an opinion to contribute; all but Felicité, who was whispering to Hamish, allowing her hair to brush his face. Ophelia saw him turn and smile in return.
Hussy! thought Ophelia. Never had she been thrown into such a paroxysm of jealousy. It was too sick-making. She took her glass and emptied it in three gulps. None of the dry sticks surrounding her seemed to notice. Haddock, however, appeared over her shoulder, to refill.
Resentment gnawed at her, making her feel the ache in her ankle all the more.
“I see who you are watching. The ring is almost upon the finger, I believe.” The Comte’s voice was cool.
She felt a pang of fear but retorted, “I’ve no ambition in that direction; to marry is to become an exhibit.”
“You wish to flutter free.” He nodded. “But beware of scorching your wings. The deadliest flames are the most enticing, and to you especially, I think.”
Ophelia glared at him and took another swig of Pouilly-Fumé.
Fortified by alcohol, Ophelia declared most loudly, “I’ve been reading Radclyffe Hall’s Well of Loneliness. They’re saying that she’ll be tried for obscenity, just for writing about women falling in love with other women. Where’s the freedom if we can’t even write what we like!”
Lady Faucett-Plumbly looked most uncomfortable, but Morag came to Ophelia’s aid.
“Sounds marvelous my dear. Please do lend me your copy.”
Constance remarked, with seeming innocence, “Hamish has lent me his copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Would you believe, Mr. Lawrence’s heroine bears my name. And he’s quite right; woman cannot live for the mind alone. Love only ripens when body and mind are content.”
