The Shooting Season

by Isobel Starling

  I was still a little flustered from the unfortunate incident in my sleeping compartment and wished for refreshments and silent contemplation. And so, spotting a pair of unoccupied chairs at the end of the lounge carriage I vowed I would sit quietly, take my supper, drink a glass of Port wine, and watch the hours of darkness go by until I became sleepy enough to retire.

  I sat heavily in the straight-backed claret leather chair, rested my head, and closed my eyes. I listened to the musical cadenced sounds of the train wheels on the steel track below. I had always found the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train to be lulling. I let my mind wander and was near in a doze when a light Scots voice said,

  “Mr. Hannan, sir, I have the supper you requested.”

  I opened my eyes to see Cummings leaning over me, his eyes sparkling in the light of the crystal wall sconce. He held a tray with food and a goblet of warm mulled Port, the steam dancing from the lip of the cup. He bent and laid the tray on my lap, and then unraveled a napkin.

  I waved my hand. “That will do, thank you. I can tend to myself.” I grumbled morosely. With my peculiar mood, I did not want this man’s attention any longer than necessary. He passed the napkin to me, nodded, and turned to go. My betraying eyes darted to observe the roundness of his firm young buttocks. No, no, no. What was I doing? My hand automatically leaped to my chest so I could feel the shape of my silver cross and banish the impure thoughts from my head.

  Before me, on the platter, I had been served a hearty vegetable broth, with warm buttered crumpets. I took a deep draught from the goblet and sighed as the hot spicy Port caused a conflagration in my belly, warming me through.

  I ate in silence. To the right of my chair, I could see the nightscape rushing past the window, and to the left, I could see the legs and dazzling ankle boots of the traveler. Watching the silver-tipped laces shimmer and sparkle as the man’s body moved with the jerks and shudders of the train made me smile. I admired a man who was not afraid to step out of line and display his individuality. He was the kind of man I would never be.

  Cummings returned to take my empty tray. I paid him no mind, looking away and focusing on the view through my window. I watched the smoggy cityscapes vanish as we sped down the track, to be replaced by a clear starry night sky. Silhouettes of trees gave form to the distant countryside of Buckinghamshire, and my own cheerless reflection in the window was my ever-constant companion.

  “Excuse me, my friend?” I looked up to see a finely attired man standing beside the empty chair in front of me.

  “Would you care for a little company? Railway journeys can be frightfully boring, don’t you think?”

  I was immediately taken by the way he addressed me as his friend and that his accent was of the Americas. I did not believe I had many friends these days, more colleagues, and acquaintances. I was intrigued. My eyes raked the man’s well-cut form. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his hair was dark brown and worn to his nape. He displayed a thick beard that framed a squared jaw and near feminine lips. He had curiously sad hazel eyes, and I felt a pang of sympathy, for he had clearly traveled a long way, was lonely and in want of a companion. I was not completely unsociable and did enjoy conversation, so I let my guard down and gestured to the chair in front of me. The man sat, clasped his hands on his lap and his smile lit up his whole face, making him appear years younger than I had initially believed. That smile made my innards coil.

  “Forgive my impertinence sir,” He said. “But have we met before? I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”

  The approach was startling and unexpected. I kept a small circle of confidants. My acquaintances at the club were primarily from my school days, or clients of my auction house who kept my favor so that they might find an advantage when something they wanted to purchase came to market. I had not seen this man before, I was sure of it. I would have known, after all, the man’s American accent, stylish garb, and confident attitude were traits I was attracted to and would have remembered.

  “I don’t believe we have met before,” I admitted.

  “John Edwards of Massachusetts,” The man said, his hand reaching for mine. I was not wearing my leather gloves and an awkward moment hung in the air as I looked at the man’s naked skin. His hand was slender, pale and his fingers were long and nails manicured. My heart throbbed with the anxiety of what I was about to do. I fixed my features, hiding my discomfiture.

  “Benedict Hannan”, I introduced leaning forward to take his hand.

  “Charmed,” Edwards drawled.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards,” I said as our skin touched and fingers entwined. His hand felt small and soft in my own large oafish hand but touching his skin did not make me erupt into a ball of flame, in fact, it felt surprisingly good.

  “Oh, please, call me John!” He said in a manner so boyish that it made my gut clench for reasons I did not want to think of.

  “Very well, then you must call me Ben.” I cajoled.

  “I’d rather call you Benedict. It’s such a lovely distinguished name, don’t you think?” John admitted, unmanning me as his cheeks coloured.

  If I had not consumed my goblet of Port and felt the relaxing warmth of the liquor in my veins I would have reacted differently, and steered my behavior in another direction, but I as had drunk the whole cup and wanted a second, I looked at the intriguing American who sought my company, and smiled.

  Mr. John Edwards and I conversed for hours. He spoke of his journey across the Atlantic. I learned that John enjoyed art and antiquities, was well-traveled, and appeared to be moneyed. I did not realize the lateness of the hour until I noticed we were together alone in the lounge, the other travelers having gone to bed. I checked my pocket watch and saw it was one a.m.

  “Goodness. We quite lost ourselves!” I said meeting John’s smiling eyes.

  “We did!” He was sitting low on his chair, legs parted, the dregs of a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and his pipe in the other. The position drew my gaze to the bulge at his crotch.

  “Only a few more hours until we cross the border, yes?” He said, tapping the smoldering remnants of his pipe tobacco into an ashtray.

  I did not want this conversation to end. John fascinated me. He was quick-witted, knowledgeable, and well-spoken. I had enjoyed my hours with him more than I’d taken pleasure in human interaction for some time.

  “Are you traveling for business or another matter?” I asked, for the hours of conversation had flowed seamlessly and neither of us had yet divulged why we were on the overnight train to Scotland.

  “I have some business to attend to outside of Glasgow.” He said cryptically. “You?”

  “I also travel for business.”

  “Well, I do hope the weather holds. I’ve heard Scotland’s a harsh mistress in winter!” He said.

  “That she is, that she is.” We stared at one another as our conversation ceased and my mouth went dry. I did not know what I wanted to say. John looked a little lost, and tongue-tied himself. I knew I needed to retire to my compartment, but this meeting felt somehow unfinished.

  “Are you in London often? You must pay me a visit. I run Hannan’s Auction House, in Fitzrovia. We could have dinner at my club?” I ventured with a hopeful raised brow.

  “Thank you. That would be an excellent reason to visit London.” John agreed, but to my deep disappointment, I noted he did not formally accept my invitation. He placed his empty glass on the side table then stood tentatively, and bowed his head.

  “Goodnight, Benedict. You’ve been the most entertaining company. Thank you. I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” And with that, he turned and strode through the empty lounge towards the sleeping compartments, the silver lace clasps on his splendid boots jingling with every step. I wanted to follow him, I truly did, but to my eternal regret, I did not

  .

  The Collectors

  Tuesday 21st December 1897

  I slept fitfully on the small cot bed, my mind replaying the co
nversations with Mr. John Edwards of Massachusetts. Meeting him had made me feel a little less curmudgeonly and alone for a few hours. In my secret self, I hoped I would see him again one day, for he was the type of interesting man I would truly like as a friend.

  I did not know where John alighted, but when I departed the train at Glasgow Central Station I searched for him in the crowd but did not see him.

  It was a well-known fact that in Scotland the celebration of Christmas Day was abolished in 1640 and even though the ban was officially repealed in 1712 the Scottish Church still looked down upon the celebration of Yule and punished any who was discovered celebrating the festival. The Scots folk didn’t even get so much as a day of rest while Queen Victoria’s entire kingdom celebrated Christmas. So as I looked around Glasgow Central Railway Station it was business as usual and there was none of the decorations, trimmings, and boughs an Englishman expected to see. The Scots people would focus their celebrations around New Year’s Eve which they called Hogmanay.

  I needed to take a second train on the West Highland Line that would take me to Fort William, an old garrison town that lay at the foot of Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the whole of Great Britain. The letter in my breast pocket stated that when I arrived at Fort William a carriage would await to take me to the Glenlair Estate. I hoped to be at the house by midday.

  The West Highland Line train departed from Glasgow Central Station at 8 a.m. The train carriage was less luxurious and packed to the gills with travelers heading to the towns dotted along the railway line. I was lucky to get a window seat and as the luggage racks were full my case sat beside me on the seat, attracting glares of consternation from other travelers in want of a seat but preventing yet more unwanted public touching. The train trundled through Glaswegian suburbs towards Helensburgh, and then up into the hills. The first snow of the season was finely dusted upon the distant, verdant hills and the sharp pale blue of the winter sky turned the painterly landscape into a work of art. The train ran along the shores of Loch Lomond and my heart swelled in my chest at the perfect beauty of the highlands. We sped on towards Ardlui Station, then to Crianlarich, Orchy, Rannoch, and the remotest railway station in the whole of the kingdom at Corrour.

  Some four hours later when the train eventually arrived at Fort William Station the once blue skies appeared bruised and threatened snow. There had been less than an hour between me receiving my letter, and boarding the Caledonian Sleeper. My valet had done his best to pack my trunk with things he thought I would need, but ordinarily, such a task requires more preparation. I knew when I stepped off the train that I was not prepared to cope with a harsh Scots winter. The arctic air froze my every vaporous exhalation and I should have been wearing fur-lined boots and thick stockings! The few passengers who had remained with me on the train alighted and went on their way, but, as instructed, I remained waiting outside the station in the frigid biting wind with my trunk, case, hat, and cane, wondering what the bally hell I was thinking to take this journey in the bleakest month of the year. My leather gloves and boots did nothing to ward off the cold and although it was the fashion, my top hat felt clumsy and completely inappropriate for the coming gale.

  Three other men also waited outside the remote granite station, stamping their feet on the frozen ground and walking back and forth to keep warm. They all seemed far better prepared, wearing garments that appeared continental in design. One man sported a fur hat with ears like a spaniel that tied at his chin to keep his head and face covered and warm. I was rather envious of that hat!

  I did not have to wait long for the black carriage displaying a gold crest on each door. It came trundling down the highland road, pulled by two huge black Clydesdale draft horses. It turned out that the other men were also traveling to Dunecht Hall. Although the thought of sitting with three other men in the back of the carriage made me anxious, I had no choice but to comply. It was freezing and I would not be left at the station to await the return of the carriage. We all climbed aboard and were glad of the traveling blankets and furs provided, and so with the body heat and blankets we were soon thawing.

  My companions introduced themselves as Mr. Cecil Drew, who, when he removed his winter hat and looked me in the eye I recognized. He was a collector of fine art and he had attended my auction rooms many a time. I did not know the man in the hat with the spaniel ears who introduced himself as Mr. Artur Engles of Germany, or the third man, Mr. Claude Philippe, who said he had traveled from Paris, France and endured the bleakest of boat journeys across the English Channel. As we chatted I discovered that they had all received an invite to Dunecht Hall for the private sale, but by the sound of it, as they had traveled further they had been given more notice to travel than I.

  “It was much of a surprise for me to receive the missive,” Mr. Philippe admitted.

  “I never had ze pleasure of meeting Lord Ardmillan, Gods rest his soul.”

  I laughed privately at this preposterous pea-cocking. Lord Ardmillan was a thoroughly reprehensible, unpleasant, and immoral man and none who had met him could say it was a pleasure.

  “I knew of his collection and for many years and we communicated by letter”. Philippe continued.

  “I also did not meet Lord Ardmillan”, Mr. Engles made the sign of the cross at the mention of the late Lord.

  ”But I am acquainted with his son,” he added.

  Hearing of his acquaintance with Euan made me curious. I looked Mr. Engles over and wondered whether their acquaintance was business or pleasure. Mr. Engles wore small round brass-rimmed spectacles that made his eyes appear mole-like. He had a waxed moustache and the thick brown fur hat with the spaniel ears was tied tightly at the chin, covering most of his face. I would have to bide my time and enquire further into his acquaintanceship with my secret ex-lover.

  The carriage took the Achinore Road west out of the village and traveled beside Loch Linnhe. The conversation was genial, but all of us kept our cards very close to our chests. I did not add much information to the conversation; primarily I hoped none of these men coveted the same item I did. I did not want to give away what I was traveling all of this way to purchase, and neither did my companions.

  Although interminably cold, the West Highland scenery took my breath away. The mountain, Ben Nevis, was unmistakable; snow-capped and appeared wild and romantic in the distance. I had not been in this area since that fateful autumn I spent in the arms of Lord Ardmillan’s only son, and my fondness for the area was renewed by nostalgia. The thought of seeing Euan again after all these years made my heart palpitate. My feelings for him had been so all-encompassing in my youth that I was willing to risk my immortal soul to continue our illicit trysts. But God had intervened and our affair was not to be. On our return to Edinburgh University Euan’s behavior towards me changed, and then his eye fell on another boy, and another. Euan later married the daughter of a Duke, and fulfilled his duty, fathering twin sons, but from the talk I overheard at my club, the match was not a happy one. Even though, publicly, Euan remained Lord Ardmillan’s doting son, when he did venture into town with his set, the rumor was that he debauched himself in ways that meant a speedy retreat from society always followed to save the family reputation.

  Euan Ardmillan had just made his fiftieth year and as I had not set eyes on him for what felt like a lifetime, I wondered if, like me, he was perpetually lonely, fearful and felt the years of regret crowding him.

  More than an hour after we stepped onto the coach we neared Ardgour, where the Glenlair Estate stretched out over forty-thousand acres of wild Scots landscape. As the carriage passed through imposing wrought iron gates and started up the steep hilly roadway to Dunecht Hall I stared out of the window. The road was lined with ancient Scots pine trees. The snow was beginning to fall thick and fast at once shrouding the winter sun, and turning day into night. The hardy Clydesdale horses seemed well-used to the weather and did not slow their pace.

  When we arrived at the hall the blizzard surrounded us on all sid
es, shrouding what should have been a stunning view of the Loch and the Bens. All I could see was the front porch and a withered elderly lady at the door. The housekeeper, Mrs. McKelvie, was so thin and frail I worried a gust of wind might blow her away. She stood beside tall carved timber double doors, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a knitted hat placed at a jaunty angle on her head.

  “Come away in sir’s, quick as ye can. We don’t want te let the heat out!” The Scotswoman cajoled in a stern, almost matronly way. Young stable hands appeared, first to assist the carriage driver to remove our trunks from the roof of the carriage, and then to tend to the horses.

  I gingerly stepped out of the carriage, hoping I would not slip on the icy ground. I made it into the hall and greeted Mrs. McKelvie, for I knew her from my last visit. I was surprised that she remembered me; I was surprised also by the sparkle of fondness in her milky pale eyes.

  “Ah, welcome back sir.” She cooed and her gnarly hands gripped my cheeks and she held my face as if I were a child. I was appalled that she had touched me without permission.

  “Lemmie get a look at ye, son. Mah old eyes aren’t as good as they use-te be!”

  I permitted the peculiar, almost motherly intimacy because I could not rightly refuse it.

  “Yer lookin’ well Mr. Hannan, but yer freezing. I’ve set a big fire, go warm yersel.” Mrs. McKelvie ordered.

  I had mixed feelings about returning to Dunecht Hall. My memories of the month I had spent here during the shooting season were of myself as a young man so lost in the rugged Scottish wilderness and overcome by desire for Euan that he did not care about the future. I recalled that it had felt like I’d stepped out of time and societal rules did not matter. I did not recognize myself as one who would become so besotted and reckless as to lose myself completely to sin, but as Euan Ardmillan matched my desires we did lose ourselves. We found we had plenty of time alone to indulge when the other guests hiked up into the hills to hunt pheasant and grouse.