A Highland Bride (Bonnie Bride Series Book 1)

by Fiona Monroe

  It was nearly dusk and the air was growing icy cold when, at long last, they arrived at the sparse village of Scourie. Flora's initial impressions were scarcely favourable, as she huddled her blanket round her and took in the handful of rough stone cottages and the looming gloomy bulk of the church, which seemed to be the only building of any size or importance. On this freezing February afternoon the village's single street was deserted and silent, though smoke rising from each rooftop suggested that there were people huddled behind shuttered windows within the rustic dwellings. Further down the road up the glen they had passed great pillared gates, which Mr Farquhar told her was the entrance to Lochlannan Castle, seat of Sir Duncan Buccleuch, the laird whose estate extended across the whole of the glen, and who would be their principal neighbour. In Scourie village, the manse was the only dwelling of quality.

  It was reached at the end of the village lane through a gate and a garden. Mr Farquhar halted the trap in front of the gate and hollered something in the local tongue, which brought out a man who had perhaps been watching out for them, and who had the general appearance of a groom. He took charge of the trap and led it away, while Mr Farquhar handed Flora down and opened the gate for her.

  It was by now almost dark, and Flora had only the impression of a long, low building of two storeys, with a light burning cosily in one downstairs, unshuttered window, before the front door was opened and she was ushered into a small flagstone hallway.

  Assembled there to greet them was the entire permanent staff of the house, with the exception of the outdoor man who was attending to the horse and cart. It consisted only of a housekeeper, a spare, weathered-looking woman who introduced herself as Mrs MacDonald, and a strong, handsome lass of eighteen or nineteen whom Flora had to assume was everything else. This girl was described as ‘Phemie' by her superior servant, and with something of a sneer.

  "Phoebe?" said Flora doubtfully. It seemed an unlikely name for a Highland maidservant.

  "Phemie, if you please, ma'am," said the girl, curtsying. "My proper name is Euphemia."

  "And a fine daft name that is for any God-fearing parents to give a girl in her station in life," said Mrs MacDonald. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I wanted to change it to Mairi or Sine when she came here last year, but Mr Leuchars - the old Minister, sir - would have me leave it as it was."

  "Let the girl be called by whatever name her father wished," said Mr Farquhar. "And now, Mrs MacDonald, if you would be so good - Mrs Farquhar and I have had a long and tiring journey, we would appreciate tea and supper, and a good fire."

  "At once, sir."

  There was something reminiscent of Mrs Burness about Mrs MacDonald, Flora thought, the same kind of sternness. She was resolved not to be intimidated by her, however. She was no longer merely the younger daughter, she was mistress of the household and Mrs MacDonald was in theory answerable to her; not, as it had often seemed in her father's house, the other way round.

  Mrs MacDonald showed them into a very comfortable sitting-room, where a tea-table was already laid next to a cheerfully blazing log fire. Flora sank thankfully into the armchair, extremely glad for the softness of an upholstered chair after the strain of the journey, and let the heat of the fire thaw her frozen nose and fingers. Mr Farquhar said he would inspect the house before the meal arrived, but Flora was content to sit for the while in comfort and warmth.

  It was Phemie the improbably-named maid who brought in their tea-things, and Flora studied her with interest as she laid out the cups and comestibles. Whereas the harsh weather of the region had coarsened the housekeeper's face over the course of years, the young girl's complexion had as yet only been freshened to a high attractive colour by the winds and frosts. Though by no means delicate, she was a bonnie-looking lass and the careless locks of hair that escaped from under her cap were bright chestnut.

  "Phemie," she said, "are there any other servants here, besides you and Mrs MacDonald?"

  "There's John the groom, ma'am, but he sleeps in the stables, and there's old Peggy that comes down from one of the crofts to do the laundry and other rough work, but she goes home at night. So yes, ma'am, just Mrs MacDonald and I who stay in the house."

  It seemed a meagre establishment to Flora, who was accustomed to liveried indoor men and invisible kitchen-maids who did not emerge from the basement to deliver tea to the family, but she determined that she would have to be content with living more modestly than before. After all, Scourie offered two great advantages over her Edinburgh life. Here, nobody knew of Mr Campbell of Charlotte Square and therefore, nobody cared about Margaret's disgrace. And here, though the household was small, she was its mistress.

  * * * * *

  Flora was too tired, and it was too dark, for her to see much of her new home that night. Almost straight after supper she sought her room, which was - although the principal bedchamber of the house - small and simply furnished, with a modern oak bedstead, a washstand and mirror near the window, a cabinet of drawers and a dressing-table. She looked rather apprehensively at this last to see whether there was a hairbrush waiting for her, but its surface was adorned with nothing but a lace cloth and an empty crystal glass perfume bottle.

  She heard Mr Farquhar's tread on the main staircase, which creaked, just as she was nearly ready for bed. By the time Mr Farquhar entered, she was sitting at the dressing table, brushing out her hair with her own hairbrush, which thankfully was a small, fancy silver object, clearly quite unsuitable to use as an instrument of correction.

  Her husband stood behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her in the mirror. "You are very lovely, Flora," he said, and kissed the top of her head.

  With a surge of boldness and warmth, Flora turned and put her arms around his neck. He drew her up and kissed her deeply, and she gave herself happily into his embrace. It was so sweet and thrilling to press her whole body against his and feel the strength of him.

  "I hope," he said, loosing his clasp on her and looking into her face, "that you can make me proud of you."

  "I will try, sir. Have I not been... have I not behaved well on the journey here, after..."

  "Aye. It gives me hope that my judgement was not in error. I think your essential nature is sweet and true, however faulty your education has been. You have shown me these last three days since I chastised you, that you have heeded your lesson and have made an effort to amend your conduct. But now we are at home in the Manse, Flora, this is where your true worth must come to trial. I will guide and correct you, but you must be vigorous in your efforts to become a living example of a true Christian wife."

  When he had spoken to her like this before, Flora had merely nodded meekly and thought of her wedding night to come. Now she was beginning to understand that these were not mere words from the pulpit, but a real and solemn duty that she had committed to without seriously believing that she would have to fulfil it. She felt abashed.

  He must have seen the shadow pass over her face, for he let go of her arms and said, "I am going to show you something now."

  He crossed to a cabinet on the opposite side of the bed, near the door. Like all the furniture she had observed in the Manse so far, it was of plain, solid, modern construction, sturdy but not ornamental. He opened the top drawer, and took something from it.

  Flora quailed when she saw what he had in his hand, for he brought it forward and held it out to display it to her. A long, flat, wide strip of polished leather, with a maker's stamp at one end, split into two tails at the other. It was curled over on itself as he removed it from the drawer, but as he showed it to her he unfolded it to its full extent. The leather, which looked dense, was full half an inch thick.

  "It is my late father's tawse," he said. "I felt its sting as a boy, many a time, and it did me much good."

  "Oh, sir, it looks so fearsome... I could not bear it."

  "Oh, you will bear it, if and when you need it, Flora. Don't be downcast, Flora," he said, cupping her cheek and lifting her face. "You know I will
only chastise you if you deserve it."

  "Aye, sir," she whispered.

  He removed his jacket. "We will share this bedchamber and this bed," he said. "I do not hold with this modern fad for husbands and wives to have separate quarters. It is unscriptural. We are one flesh."

  Flora was glad of it, and of the change of subject.

  He kissed her mouth lightly, then returned the fearful tawse to the top drawer of the cabinet. Fervently, Flora hoped that he would never have occasion to open that drawer again.

  Chapter Five

  Flora very much enjoyed her first Sabbath day at Scourie, being as she was at the centre of attention and admiration at the first service of the day. Before her marriage she had endured many miserable weeks without attending services of any kind, knowing that she was failing in her Christian duty, apprehensive in dark moments at night for her very soul, and - if she were truly honest with herself - missing the opportunity to gaze on the handsome assistant minister. And now, what bliss to walk into the soothing white atmosphere of a wholly new church, on that handsome minister's very arm, still warm with the memories of lying in his arms that morning.

  For the first time he had taken her by the morning light, waking her in the first shafts of sunlight with his mouth on her breast and entering her hard and urgent while she was still dazed with sleep. It was delightful to remember that as she passed by the many curious, eager faces, all of them - from the lowest peasant to the laird's mother and sister - keen to catch their first glimpse of the new minister and his bride. It was no wonder the church was packed solid with people, large as it was. Mr Farquhar's arrival had been the most highly-anticipated event in Scourie for many weeks past, Phemie had told her while serving breakfast that morning, and when news had reached the populous that he was to bring a bride as well, excitement had reached previously unknown heights. Even in Edinburgh, the advent of a new minister at one's local church excited gossip and intrigue, and Flora could well imagine how large such an occasion would be in a place like Scourie.

  Best of all, none of the whispering and nudging, none of the smiles, were malicious. Nobody knew that she was Miss Flora Campbell, the sister. Mr Farquhar had been quite right. She was the Minister's bride, and she gloried in it.

  Scourie Kirk was large, far larger than the tiny village would seem to require; but as she looked around the congregation, Flora supposed that the area it served was wide, and that many of these people had come a fair distance. Indeed, Mr Farquhar had told her that this was the only kirk for miles around. Most of the congregation were of the peasant class, turned out in their smartest shawls and jackets, but there were also tradesfolk and a few families of quality seated near the laird's pew. Sir Duncan Buccleuch himself did not appear to be present, but the stately elderly lady and the elegant young lady beside her were clearly his mother and sister. The laird was, as Flora already knew from Phemie's ready information, unmarried and ‘a wild one, ma'am'.

  After the service, Flora was introduced to the ladies themselves by her husband, who was previously acquainted with the family. She formed the impression that the old lady, at least, considered even the five minutes that they conversed to be time most graciously bestowed by her. Miss Buccleuch by contrast was gentle in manner, pretty in a dark way, and had a kind and intelligent eye, and Flora hoped that she might get to know her. She had seen already that there would be little female company for her in Scourie, however much she was supposed to be acting as a model of womanly conduct to the congregation as a whole. As far as friendship went, Miss Buccleuch might well be the only young lady near at hand.

  Lady Buccleuch issued a somewhat chilly intimation that they would be, she supposed, invited to dine at Lochlannan Castle ‘at some time', and Miss Buccleuch added a warmer hope that she might call on Flora at the Manse. Flora agreed to this eagerly, then wondered uneasily afterwards as they were walking back to the Manse whether she ought to have asked Mr Farquhar's permission first. He seemed to have a solemnity about his expression which troubled her.

  "Mr Farquhar..." she said hesitantly, as they reached the gate which separated the church grounds from the lane that took them to the Manse. "Have I done something wrong? Was I right to agree to Miss Buccleuch calling on me without asking your leave?"

  He stopped and put his hand on the gate, frowning. "You are mistress of the Manse, Flora. It is your place to invite visitors and of course you must receive calls from any lady in the parish, particularly if they need assistance or advice. You do not need to seek my permission. It is one of your duties."

  "But... you are displeased."

  He sighed. "I'm not displeased, Flora. I am concerned. I am, to tell the truth, pondering my own dilemma with regards to that family."

  "That family? Do you mean, the Buccleuch family?"

  "I do. They have an evil reputation. The fact that they would be within my pastoral care was my one reservation when accepting this ministry, and I have prayed about my spiritual cowardice ever since."

  Flora was intrigued. "What reputation?"

  He scowled at her. "I would not bear false witness against my neighbour. I know no ill of Miss Buccleuch, as far as I have ever heard she is a virtuous and amiable young lady. In fact you may do her service by counteracting the poor example she has at home."

  He would say nothing more, and grew sharp when she tried to press him for details of the evils perpetuated by the Buccleuchs. Flora was not disheartened, for she knew she could rely on the ever-chatty Phemie to provide the information.

  "Oh aye, ma'am," Phemie said readily, when Flora summoned her on a pretext the next day while Mr Farquhar was out visiting a sick parishioner. "The old laird, Sir Wallace, was mad. Mearanach, pardon ma'am, that was the word my mother used. My mother was housemaid at the Castle and she said he had baths of sheep's blood, and they said he hunted virgin lasses in the glen and carried them off to the hunting lodge to have his way with them, him and his wicked friends all at once." Her eyes grew wide, dancing with enjoyment. "And then both his sons were born wild, there was a first wife, ma'am, the first Lady Buccleuch, who was gentle and pretty they say and came from the Western Isles, well - he broke her heart, my mother says, and her son ran away to sea after she died, and was never heard of again, and they say he became a pirate." She pronounced the word with relish. Flora had noticed already that those of the locals who spoke English well did not use Scots, but pronounced the King's English with a pure, clear, lilting accent. "But nobody has heard of him, ma'am, for years and years, and he's been declared dead. Then Sir Wallace married again, his present lady, or widow I should say, and there were two children, a girl and a boy, but my mother says the boy was always fiadhaich, wild, and never checked. And when Sir Wallace died of his excesses - quite insane, they say - the boy became laird as quite a young lad, because his older brother was reckoned to be dead. And now they say he's going the way of his father - "

  She broke off as Mrs MacDonald came into the drawing room after a perfunctory knock, looking displeasure at both Phemie and Flora. "Excuse me, Mrs Farquhar. Phemie! Get back to your work, girl, and curb that tongue."

  "Oh, it's quite all right, Mrs MacDonald," said Flora quickly, as Phemie almost ran from the room. "I asked Phemie to tell me about some parishioners."

  Mrs MacDonald looked unimpressed. Her flinty features darkened and she said, with only the most superficial deference, "If you'll take my advice, ma'am, you won't listen to idle gossip and scandal-mongering from silly ignorant crofting girls." And she went, without waiting to be dismissed.

  * * * * *

  Not long afterwards, Flora was going by the passage to the kitchen on her way upstairs to fetch a book, when she heard Mrs MacDonald's voice raised loud in anger. It was plain that she was berating poor Phemie, perhaps for the looseness of her tongue. Feeling guilty, Flora paused to listen, and even edged along the short corridor that separated the family part of the house from the compact service quarters.

  It was certainly Mrs MacDonald's sharp, str
ident tones, lecturing angrily, but she was talking in the Gaelic and Flora of course understood not a word of it. She heard one low, submissive response, presumably from Phemie. She was just wondering if she had the courage to intervene and defend the girl, for she really felt that Phemie had only been following her orders, when she heard the unmistakable thwack of leather on flesh. There was a short pause, and then it came again, accompanied by a sob of pain.

  "Mrs Farquhar?"

  Flora jumped. Mr Farquhar was in the hallway, his gloves and hat in his hand. He looked at her enquiringly.

  "Oh, Mr Farquhar," said Flora in a rush, keeping her voice low. "I am afraid I have got the maidservant into trouble. I think Mrs MacDonald is punishing her, but she was only doing what I asked her to!"

  There was another smart crack and another gasp.

  Without another word to her, Mr Farquhar went towards the kitchen. Flora tripped after him apprehensively.

  Flora had only been in the kitchen once before, when Mrs MacDonald had given her a complete tour of the house. Like everywhere else in the Manse, it was much smaller than the well-appointed modern kitchens in her father's Charlotte Square townhouse. It was a low-ceilinged, smoky room, crowded with pots and pans and jars of provisions and hanging sides of game, and dominated by a great blazing hearth and a wide, scrubbed wood table that filled up most of the floor space. Phemie was bent over this table, her hands clutching its far end, her rough work skirts lifted over her waist to expose sturdy thighs and a bare bottom already marked with red welts. Mrs Macdonald stood over her, a doubled-over working man's belt in her hand. As they entered, Mrs MacDonald dropped a curtsy and Phemie half-rose from her position to look round and see who had come in. Her face was red and tearful. As she moved, her skirts fell back over her legs.

  Mrs MacDonald snapped something at her, and she leaned over the table and hid her face again.