by Fiona Monroe
"I am prepared to face down any disapproval from my superiors in the church," Farquhar said firmly. "I do not need their permission to marry anyone, and my appointment to the ministry of Scourie Kirk has already been made. Perhaps it will prevent me ever rising any higher in the church, but I had no great ambitions to do so anyway. To lead a useful and virtuous life within a parish where I can daily bring souls to God through example and preaching is all I ask of life. And to safeguard, redeem and educate a young lady whose reputation and very soul is in the gravest danger - that is an end worth any sacrifice."
Mr Campbell let out a long breath. "You will take her very far from me."
"I will, sir. But that is another advantage of my situation. In the parish of Scourie, no one will know of the scandal. In this great city you think that the affairs of Edinburgh are the affairs of the whole world, but out in the Highlands, folk know and care only about what happens in their village and the next along the road. Your daughter will arrive at the manse as Mrs Farquhar, her reputation untainted by association."
His prospective father-in-law nodded gravely and a little sadly. "And you will... educate her, you say?"
"I must be frank again, sir. If Miss Flora, as Mrs Farquhar, behaves towards me as I witnessed her behave towards you this evening, then I will correct her. It would be my duty as a husband."
"Well, well. I give my permission and with thanks - but only if Flora will agree to it herself. I will not force her into marriage."
"Sir," said Farquhar a little angrily, "I hope you think better of me than to imagine I would wish to marry her against her will."
"No, no. Indeed. Well, I shall ring the bell and have her brought down immediately."
* * * * *
As soon as she had closed the door on her bedroom, and on the officious Mrs Burness, Flora Campbell regretted having left the dinner table so impulsively. She had always found it difficult to control her temper, and she had been so wretched and alone since her sister had left - and the atmosphere in the house had been so ghastly - that she was now on the verge of tantrum or tears almost every moment.
She was slightly sorry for shouting at her father, but her regret was mainly that her outburst had deprived her of the chance to dine in company with Mr Farquhar.
Probably, she thought as she flung herself moodily on the bed, the unexpected presence of the minister in the dining room had been what had unsettled her in the first place after her disappointing, frustrating afternoon. She had called on her great friend Caroline Sinclair in George Street, and had been told by the footman who answered the door that Miss Sinclair was not at home. As she had been going back down the front steps, she had glanced backwards, and caught a glimpse of a white dress and a staring face in an upper window. Caroline had been at home, but had simply not wanted to see her. Or perhaps her father had forbidden her to receive her, now that she was tarred by the ugly brush of Margaret's sin.
Humiliated and furious, Flora had not gone home as she ought. She had wandered in Princes' Street Gardens alone, drawing curious glances from passers-by concerned to see a well-dressed young lady abroad unescorted and unprotected. When the dark February night closed in so early, she wrapped her pelisse tighter and made her way to the Theatre Royal at the end of Princes Street, to watch the early theatre-goers and the lights and the carriages and hear snatches of music from within. She had not been allowed to go out to the theatre since Margaret's elopement. She had not been allowed to go anywhere. She felt that her life was over before it had begun and that none of it was her fault. It was so desperately unfair.
It was only when two men, drunk and swaying slightly, tried to talk to her that she came out of her resentful daze and stormed back home. They were gentlemen, and it was a well-lit street with plenty of people about, but she had never in her life been spoken to abruptly and outright by anyone to whom she had not been introduced. There was only one possible reason that these strangers could have approached her; they must have thought she was a woman of the town, looking for business outside the theatre. It shocked her into realising the impropriety of her situation, and she hurried home as fast as she could.
She had not realised the lateness of the hour, either. She had not intended to draw attention to her extended absence by missing dinner. The old witch Mrs Burness was angry with her, and then she had been faced with the unlooked-for presence of the man she had, before her sister's disastrous flight, spent so much time watching in church as he sat on the benches below withered old Mr Guthrie. Time that ought to have been spent instead with her head bent in prayer.
She had not told even Margaret about her secret and perhaps ridiculous passion for the new assistant minister. Margaret had always thought clergymen to be far too unglamorous as a species, certainly compared to the glittering attractions of a uniform, or a title, or at least a published quatrain of poetry. While Margaret talked of her balls, and her beaux, Flora - who was not yet out - thought secretly of the severe, magnificent whitewashed interior of St Andrew's and the dark-clad, dark-haired and powerfully built man who sat below the altar and sometimes would lift his startling blue eyes from his prayer book and look directly into hers. She was sure, of course, that those moments were accidental. She even wondered if he was disapproving of her wandering mind, because there was always a hint of sternness in that blue gaze.
But she could not help wondering what could lie underneath that severe black clerical outfit, and in her more dangerous moments in bed at night she would give her imagination free reign. It seemed so unfair - once again - that Margaret was somewhere many miles away by now, indulging perhaps at this very moment in all the sensuous pleasures of the flesh. Embracing her dashing Italian Count, as naked as he, his hard muscles pressing against her soft hot skin. As these images flooded through her, her breath came short and faster.
She got restlessly to her feet and went to the window to look down at Charlotte Square far below, trying to ascertain whether Mr Farquhar had left yet. He would not have come in a carriage, his lodgings in George Street were no distance away. She could see nothing in the street but pools of light from the lamps and a solitary night watchman clipping along the broad pavement. It was all so different from the press and bustle of what they now called the Old Town, where the family had lived for most of her life in the top two storeys of a tenement overlooking the Royal Mile.
There was a sharp knock on the door, which Flora knew at once was Mrs Burness.
"Go away," Flora snapped.
"Miss Flora, your father wants to see you in his study."
"I'm getting ready for bed. Tell him I shall see him in the morning."
To her extreme annoyance, the woman actually pushed open the door uninvited and therefore saw immediately that Flora was not in any way dishabille. She was, in fact, still fully dressed for the dinner table. Flora turned away from the window and glared at the housekeeper. She had conceived a hearty dislike of Mrs Burness, who had come to work for the family only two years ago when they had moved into this smart new house. Auld Nettie, who had been their combined housekeeper and nursemaid in the ‘auld hoose', had been pensioned off. She hadn't wanted to leave the frowsy midden of the Old Town and live out her last years in what she saw as a cold and remote suburb.
"Miss Flora," said the crone again, "your father is very insistent that you go down to his study."
"Oh very well!" Flora swept passed her and tripped lightly down the two curving staircases that took her from her bedroom to the ground floor and the flagstone tiled entrance hall. Forgetting her regret over her earlier discourtesy towards her father, she deliberately neglected to knock on the door of her father's study and entered the room unannounced.
Her father was in his usual leather armchair by the fireplace, an unsmoked cigar and a glass of brandy on the occasional table beside him. And standing near to the hearth, his hands locked behind his back, his tall figure dominating the room, was Mr Farquhar. He stared and frowned at her sudden unannounced entrance. That feelin
g that she had often had in church, that he disapproved of her, came back strongly. She felt herself blush, but she could not unlock her gaze from his. Such startling blue eyes, in such contrast to his black hair.
"Come in, Flora my child," said her father, and his voice was gentle.
Flora had definitely picked up from Mrs Burness's tone the suggestion that she had been summoned to her father to be upbraided for her behaviour at dinner, but now she relaxed a little and came into the room. She curtsied to Mr Farquhar, still blushing.
"Mr Farquhar has something to say to you, my dear, and you can be assured it is with my full permission and approbation."
She looked up at Mr Farquhar again, fully this time. He was staring directly at her and paused for several moments before saying in a firm voice, "Miss Campbell, I wish to offer you my hand in holy matrimony." And as if demonstrating this, he took one hand from behind his back and offered it out to her.
Flora was overcome with confusion, dumbfounded, and the beginning of a warm thrill that radiated from deep within her stomach and spread its delicious tendrils through her body to the tips of her fingers and her lips. Her breath was caught away by the surprise, and she could not speak.
"Miss Campbell," he said again, in a rather warmer tone, "if you would do me the honour of becoming my wife, it would make me very happy."
"And I!" she said in an impulsive rush, hardly knowing what the proper response was. Since his hand was still held out, she grasped it as if in friendship and found her own slender hand enclosed in a firm, hard grip that promised more than that. "Yes, Mr Farquhar. Yes!"
Chapter Two
The wedding, which took place only a week later, was a very private affair. Farquhar knew that Mr Campbell would by no means tolerate any kind of public exposure for his younger daughter, while all of Edinburgh still talked about the shame and disgrace of his elder. It suited him too. He did not like public spectacle and while he was prepared to weather any criticism from the Kirk about his choice of bride - Miss Flora Campbell was a pure and virtuous girl, whatever her faults of temper and whatever the sins of her sister - he did not want to draw undue attention to his marriage, either. The ceremony was performed by another of the assistant ministers at St Andrew's, at a quiet hour of the morning, and with only Mr Campbell in attendance. The plan was to set off on the four day journey into the Highlands immediately afterwards.
In the week leading up to the wedding, Farquhar took every opportunity he could to get to know his bride-to-be. Although he had been watching her in church almost surreptitiously for months, because she was not out in society she had not attended formal dinners either at her father's house or Mr Guthrie's manse. He had seen and occasionally spoken to Miss Campbell, but not Flora.
Her instant warm acceptance of his proposals had surprised him. It had gratified him. Still, they did not really know each other, and Farquhar was anxious to find out for himself what he had let himself in for; besides, of course, charming dark eyes, a sweet supple figure and a fair cheek that blushed so prettily and readily. Those were all very well, but he had made a solemn promise to her father and, in private devotions, to God to steer an innocent soul away from the dangerous waters that had engulfed her sister, and teach her how to be a properly dutiful and submissive wife. He needed to know how hard his task was likely to be.
So, accompanied by the Campbell's worthy housekeeper, Mrs Burness, as chaperone, Farquhar spent several mornings strolling with Flora in Princes Street Gardens and the Meadows. The weather was fair enough for February, and as they walked in the weak winter sunshine - Flora's small hand tucked into his arm - he told her a little about how their life was going to be.
It was evident that she was a little disappointed, at first. She had assumed that he was going to remain as assistant minister at St Andrew's, and take a house suitable for a married couple in Edinburgh. He could see that she was taken aback by the news that instead, they were almost immediately going to remove to somewhere far remote from the city where she had lived all her life.
But it pleased him and encouraged him to see that she soon saw the advantages of moving so entirely from the society where her family's name had become so odious, where everyone whose judgement mattered would whisper, "There she is, the sister of that dreadful girl," and where even her closest friends now snubbed her. It pleased him because it suggested that she was tractable, and not deeply ill-natured.
"I shall be mistress of my own house," she said happily.
"You will be more than that, Flora." He had taken to calling her Flora almost immediately, intimate though it seemed. He was ten years older than her, after all. "You will be mistress of the manse and wife of the Minister. Scourie is not a populous parish, so I will be the only shepherd of souls for miles around. You will have to be an example of virtuous womanhood for all others of your sex, from the crofter's daughter to the laird's sister."
"I'm... not sure I could do that," said Flora. "I'm so young."
"With God's help and my guidance, you shall," he said firmly, pressing her hand.
He thought he heard Mrs Burness make a sceptical noise in her throat, and when he glanced aside at her sharply, she definitely had a rigid, contemptuous expression on her face. Clearly the housekeeper had no very good opinion of her young mistress's ability to provide a model of Christian feminine virtue. Perhaps she had reason; but he felt a flare of indignation that she should disparage her young mistress so blatantly, and he squeezed Flora’s fingers more tightly against his breast.
He waited until they had some time entirely alone together in her father's house before he talked about this further, and more seriously. He needed her to understand something more about her life would be.
"Flora," he said, "in two days' time we will be husband and wife, and we will set off for our new home in Inverness-shire."
They were in the fresh and elegant drawing room of the town house, in the hour before dinner. Flora was already prettily arraigned for dining, in a simple sprigged muslin gown trimmed with lace, her hair dressed in dainty curls around her forehead. She looked charming, but it had already occurred to Farquhar that once she was mistress of Scourie Manse, she would have to adjust her dress to be less fashionable and more modest.
Flora nodded and smiled, making a lovely dimple in one cheek.
He left his position by the window and joined her on the sofa. "I know that our engagement has been of short duration, but holy matrimony is a very serious undertaking—"
"I know! I want so very much to undertake it. I'm not afraid."
"And," he continued, "as I told you yesterday, your position as my wife will be more important than most young ladies could ever be upon entering the married state."
She nodded, her eyes dark and eager.
"It will be my duty as your husband to steer you and guide you, and correct you if you go astray. Do you understand?"
"Oh yes, sir. I'm sure I want to be a good wife to you, and I promise I will."
"That's good, and of course you will be making solemn vows before God on Tuesday to love, honour and obey me, but you must also understand that if you err, I will set you on the right path. "
She continued to nod earnestly. "I wish you would, Mr Farquhar. It's all so new to me, and it sounds so serious a responsibility."
"Well. I'm pleased to find you prepared to be dutiful and submit willingly to my authority."
"Oh yes! Always."
Farquhar was happy to find her in the right frame of mind. He put her little hand to his lips and kissed her fingers gently, a brief warm foretaste of the feast of delight that would soon be his.
* * * * *
The wedding vows solemnised, the sad farewells said, and Mr and Mrs Farquhar were on their way out of the great city on the long, arduous journey to Inverness-shire.
Flora was in huge high spirits. She had thought she would have been overcome with sadness to leave her father, but the last few weeks since Margaret's elopement had been so ghastly that getting o
ut of that atmosphere was nothing more than sheer relief. And of course she was excited to a pitch of fever to find that she was really now Mrs Iain Farquhar, and that within a very few hours she would really, truly be allowed to embrace her handsome new husband. She could almost not sit still in the carriage as it rattled uncomfortably over the cobbles of the Royal Mile towards Cowgate, her heart beating fast in her breast as she tried to imagine how he would look when at last he had taken off those dark, sober garments.
Mr Farquhar had already explained to her that unless there was snow or other bad weather to cause delays, it would take four days to reach Scourie in his newly-acquired trap. He had bought the vehicle from his relatively modest means to serve both as a conveyance for himself and his wife to their new home, and as a vehicle to use in his parish work once there. They took no servant with them, a suitable household would be waiting at the manse when they arrived. Indeed there was only just room in the small open carriage for the pair of them and Flora's three very large trunks of possessions.
Mrs Burness had been disapproving while helping her to pack. "You'll no be needing they fancy goons whaur you're gaein, Miss Flora."
"Oh, I shall, Mrs Burness!" Flora twirled on her heel. "I shall be the Belle of the Highlands!"
Mrs Burness shook her head as she folded another muslin. "That Mr Farquhar will see you richt if I'm no mistaken."
Flora hoped that he would. She stole another glance at her husband's face, which was even more handsome in its strong profile as he drove the horse along so proficiently, and shivered happily inside her travelling rug. He caught her looking at him, and for one long dangerous moment took his eyes from the road ahead to meet hers with a small, warm quirk of his mouth. They were both heavily muffled against the cold of the journey, but Flora felt that her skin was burning with anticipation underneath.
Just as the trap was about to pass under the arch between the Royal Mile and the Cowgate, she heard a thin, wavering call. "Miss Flora! Miss Flora!"
