A Highland Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  ‘Dearest Nettie, Your last kind words to me when I saw you in Cowgate, on my wedding-morning, were that if I needed you, I should send word. Well, Nettie, I do have need of someone, for I am miserable. My husband uses me cruelly. He beats me regularly, for the slightest offence, and this morning he has thrashed me black and blue, for trying to help a poor servant girl. I can scarce hold the pen to write these few words, for he hurt my hands as well. I dare not write to my father, as my husband has told me that my father gave him his blessing to use me as he saw fit. But I am sure that if my dear father knew how cruel my husband is, his heart would soften, and he would take me home. Please dear Nettie, go and see my father and plead for me. From your poor Flora.'

  Unlike many servants, Auld Nettie was well schooled in her letters, and had in fact taught Flora her first ABC. Flora knew her address in the Old Town, and wrote that on the outside of the letter more carefully. Then she puzzled how to get it to the post, since she was not permitted to leave her room.

  She went to the window and looked down, and with a fierce surge of delight she saw old Peggy stumping down the kitchen path, her plaid shawl wrapped around her body. She would have finished her work for the day, and was on her way back to her own cottage, to do as much work again for her brood of children and grandchildren. Flora opened the window and called down to her. The word post was much the same in the Gaelic, presumably acquired from English in the first place, and she had no difficulty in making Peggy understand what she wished her to do. She dropped the letter and a penny down the short distance from the window, and watched as the old woman stumped away towards the village.

  Then she slumped onto the bed and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  When she awoke, it was fully dark. She fumbled for the tinder-box and lit her bedside candle, and listened to the sounds of the house to try to work out where everyone was. According to the clock on the mantelpiece it was six o'clock, so Mrs MacDonald must be working in the kitchen making dinner and if Mr Farquhar had returned, he had not come to her.

  She began to feel very lonely, and cold. The fire was set, but unlit, and she shivered and pulled the blankets around herself. Her backside and thighs still ached, though the burning sting had subsided. What filled her soul now was remorse, and shame, and a species of horror that she had behaved so badly. She lay for near an hour, unmoving, running through in her mind every word that Mr Farquhar had said to her while she was prone and exposed across the bed, and feeling the truth of it all so deeply that she wept again.

  Where was he now, and would he ever look upon her kindly again? She wept for that, too. She was so afraid now that she had disgusted him forever, that he would no longer take her in his arms and kiss her. Was she pure in her soul? She thought she was, but how could she possibly prove that to him? She was wretched that he doubted her.

  Then she thought of the letter she had written and sent, and it felt to her like an act of madness. She thought of running to the post-house and retrieving it, but she was still forbidden to leave her room. It was possible that the letter would go astray, heading for such a distant destination, and anyway Auld Nettie would likely pay no heed to it. Perhaps, she thought, she would write again and tell her to disregard it.

  Edinburgh, with its narrow lanes and towering buildings closing out the sky, and its great wide raw streets in a permanent state of construction, had been the whole world to her. She had scarcely ever left it all her life. And now, it seemed so remote and irrelevant. Her world was the clean wild air of the glen, the unimpeded sky, the people who seemed so much more vivid here; and her husband, whose naked flesh had lain so often against hers, who filled her up and made her explode with pleasure, and who was disappointed in her.

  She was roused from the downward spiral of these musings, close to tears again, by Mrs MacDonald arriving with another tray of food. Mrs MacDonald had also brought an earthenware jar, with some pungent, jellied substance within.

  "Mr Farquhar asked me to bring this to soothe you, ma'am, if you like."

  Flora said eagerly, "Mr Farquhar is home?"

  "No, ma'am. He left me instructions before he left this morning." The housekeeper looked at her for a moment, then said, "Mrs Farquhar, I think the best thing is that you get ready for bed. I'll light the fire, and then I'll help you with this."

  Flora made no protest, and slowly and gingerly disrobed and put on her nightgown while Mrs MacDonald busied herself about the fire. She had not dared yet to inspect the damage inflicted by the tawse, though there was a dressing mirror in the room.

  Once the fire was blazing, the room had a much more cheerful atmosphere.

  "If you lay down on the bed, ma'am, I'll put this on."

  Flora was not happy about this, but she was still in too much pain not to wish for anything that would give her relief. She settled on her stomach and shivered as she felt Mrs MacDonald pull up the nightdress. It did not make her feel any better to hear the housekeeper make a soft exclamation at the sight of her thoroughly chastised backside.

  "That will be sore a while," she said, shaking her head. "This will help a little."

  The first touch of the housekeeper's fingers on her bruised and burning skin was agonising, and Flora couldn't help squealing. Not very gently, Mrs MacDonald rubbed the salve into the welts on her buttocks and thighs, and Flora had to bite her lip and clench her fists into the pillow until she had finished. Afterwards though, a coolness spread through the injured area and she felt more comfortable.

  She ate a little of the mutton chops and mashed turnip, again standing, but her heart was what troubled her most now. It was another two hours, and the fire had burned low, before she heard the longed-fortread on the stairs, and when Mr Farquhar himself came into the room she forgot herself sufficiently to run into his arms. The relief when she saw he looked kindly upon her was overpowering.

  But she lay awake that night, though she was wrapped in his strong warm arms. In was in part the dull throbbing in her nether regions that kept her from sleep, but every time her mind teetered towards happy oblivion, a memory of the letter intruded. Guilt burrowed in her heart like a tiny worm, and loomed large as a snake in the dark silent hours of that and many subsequent nights.

  * * * * *

  But by the morning of the ball, no reply had come from Auld Nettie, and nor had her father written to Mr Farquhar or turned up in person to bear her away. She had made sure to write to her father a few days ago in the most cheerful terms, praising everything about Scourie and her life at the Manse, speaking most warmly of Mr Farquhar, and generally trying to convey how happy she was. She was not unaware of how hollow and false those words might seem if he had already seen her tear-stained letter to Nettie, however. He might imagine that she was desperately acting a part.

  .

  Mr Farquhar came into the bedroom just as she was admiring the final result of her preparations. When Jane had scurried away, he stood behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders. He was looking as smart as she had ever seen him, in impeccable evening wear. She met his blue eyes in the mirror, and her heart surged.

  "Now remember, Mrs Farquhar," he said. "Tonight you will be seen by everyone of any importance in the county. You will be an object of interest, people will be watching you. Some may know of your family's misfortune. I want you to hold your head high, and to comport yourself with decorum and dignity as befits the wife of a minister of the kirk."

  "Yes, sir. I always try to, you know I do."

  “I know I will be proud of you. You look beautiful.”He gave her shoulders a squeeze and kissed her hair.

  Flora determined now to put the whole business of the letter out of her mind. Nothing should spoil her perfect enjoyment of the evening ahead. She clasped Mr Farquhar’s boldly in hers, and they set out together.

  Chapter Eleven

  They travelled the few miles to Lochlannan Castle in the pony and trap, driven as usual by John. Flora felt somewhat self-conscious arriving in such a manner amidst the crowd
s of smart carriages with their glossy horses, carriage lights and liveried postilions, but Mr Farquhar said firmly, "A minister of the Kirk should live simply and frugally, and take pride in it. Our Lord arrived in Jerusalem on the back of a humble donkey." So she kept her chin high as he handed her down from the trap, and escorted her through the unimposing main door up into the central hall.

  The gloomy castle had been transformed for the occasion into a palace of light and brilliance. The thousand candles that she recalled Phemie telling her about seemed like they had been all mounted in the central hall, and a vast fire roared in the noble hearth, something she had never seen there before. But this was merely an atrium through which the guests were led. When they were escorted to the drawing room and announced, its opulence surpassed anything she might have imagined.

  She lingered at the entrance, entranced, gazing in wonder at the glittering chandeliers, elegant gowns and feathered head-pieces. The drawing room, where she had paid a series of unsatisfactory calls on Lady and Miss Buccleuch, was unrecognisable. Nearly all the furniture had been removed to create space for the throngs of guests, and the crowd was so numerous that scarcely anyone turned their heads or took any notice when the footman announced their entrance. Indeed his voice could barely be heard above the noise of the room and the orchestra.

  Miss Buccleuch was an alert hostess, however, and almost at once came over to greet them. That evening she was looking radiant, and far more animated than usual, and she took them round to introduce them to all the principle guests with whom they were not acquainted already. Flora had by this time met most of the important families who lived within the wide radius of the parish, but she had not even caught a glimpse of Sir Duncan Buccleuch himself, and the young laird had brought a large party of friends up from London.

  She was fascinated by these people, mostly young gentlemen, from the far-off great city, with their strange voices and even stranger manners. They seemed very loud and free to her. She was introduced to a Mr and Mrs Stanley, who both looked barely older than she was and were extravagantly dressed, and the Honourable Mr Charles Thorpe, who had almost no chin and bulging, boiled eyes, and Viscount Daventry, whom Miss Buccleuch quietly informed her was the son and heir of the Earl of Exminster.

  This last, evidently the most notable of the London party, was also the most charming. He was a young man, but old enough to have lost the gangling rawness of extreme youth, and he was extremely handsome. When he was introduced he took Flora's hand and pressed it to his lips, and looked directly into her eyes with a smile that crinkled the edges of his in a way that she found most appealing. Those eyes flashed with intelligence and good humour.

  "The Minister's bride," Lord Daventry said, in the clipped drawling tones of the English. "Where in this land of hills and heather did you find such a blooming rosebud, sir?"

  Mr Farquhar bowed stiffly without replying, muttered, "My lord," and steered her away with a firm hand on her elbow.

  Flora was bemused. She said, once they were out of earshot, "Sir, did you not wish me to talk to the Viscount?"

  "No. I did not. I could not insult our hostess by refusing the introduction, but we will not become further acquainted with Lord Daventry or anyone else in his set."

  "Why not? He seemed well-mannered and most courteous."

  "I know little of the reputation of the others, but Lord Daventry is a notorious rake and libertine. His exploits are well known. He was cited in the divorce of Lady Anne Wetherby, but to my certain information that was merely one adventure amongst many, involving ladies of his own station and those far below. I would not have him so much as lay eyes on my wife, far less a hand - even in courtesy."

  She was surprised by the warmth of words, and the tightness with which he pressed her hand to his breast; the very hand, she realised, that Lord Daventry had kissed.

  She was not introduced to the laird Sir Duncan himself until a little later, but when Miss Buccleuch asked them to come over and meet him, Lord Daventry was at his very elbow. Flora did not know which way to look, curious as she was to see Sir Duncan. Mr Farquhar's vehemence on the subject of the Viscount had alarmed her.

  Sir Duncan looked far more like Flora's image of a dissipate aristocrat than Lord Daventry did. He had a strong, cruel mouth, a rather ugly nose, a dark complexion and a flop of greasy hair, and he spoke in a loud, uncouth voice, breaking into bays of laughter and oaths. Beside him, Lord Daventry was gentlemanly refinement personified.

  "So you're the new minister," said Sir Duncan. "Damn me, you're not as old as the last one, but you look mighty stiffer. I see you managed to bag a beauty, too. I say, Daventry, do you know who this is?"

  Flora realised with horror that he was indicating her, and that Lord Daventry had accordingly turned his gaze on her. His lordship had an interested smile hovering just behind his eyes, though his face was grave and polite. "Mrs Iain Farquhar, I believe, Buccleuch."

  "Only the sister of the same Miss Campbell who ran off with Count de Felice, you remember that? Damn me, if Miss Campbell looks anything like her sister, I don't blame the old Conte." He threw back his head and shouted with laughter, and the Hon. Mr Thorpe and Mr and Mrs Stanley joined in.

  Flora wanted to sink into the very floor in mortification.

  Miss Buccleuch said immediately, "I see Mr and Mrs Montgomery have arrived, I must introduce you both," and steered them away.

  Flora went willingly, her cheeks red and her heart pounding. She had not been certain whether Miss Buccleuch and indeed her mother knew of her family's disgrace, but now it was evident from Miss Buccleuch's swift, well-bred tactfulness that she did indeed. Perhaps that was why she had always been withdrawn, after all. Despite Mr Farquhar's warnings that Sir Duncan was a libertine whose household was, as he had said, not so particular in its morals, the respectability of the two ladies was nonetheless not in question. Perhaps, given her brother's disgraceful reputation, Miss Buccleuch felt she had to be particularly careful with whom she associated otherwise.

  She did not dare look at Mr Farquhar. She felt that she had shamed him, through no fault and no action of her own. To have exposed him to those remarks was horrible. She said nothing beyond the minimum to Mr and Mrs Montgomery, a well-dressed and highly respectable older couple, although Mr Farquhar was eloquent and polite. He seemed unaffected by Sir Duncan's indiscreet remarks, and gradually Flora began to feel more comfortable.

  * * * * *

  When the first dance was announced, she had become separated from Mr Farquhar, who had been taken away by some gentlemen of the parish to talk business at the other side of the room. Flora was left making conversation with some young ladies whose names she had already forgotten. She turned as she heard her name pronounced loudly, and saw that she was being approached by Sir Duncan with Lord Daventry at his side.

  "Here she is, Daventry," said Sir Duncan. "Mrs Farquhar, I hope you intend to dance."

  Alarmed to be addressed directly in this manner by the laird, Flora merely curtseyed.

  "Then by God, here's the perfect partner for you. Daventry!"

  Lord Daventry bowed, and said in his more refined and modulated voice, "Mrs Farquhar, I would be extremely gratified if you would honour me with the first dance."

  "Now how can you say no to that, Mrs Farquhar?" said the laird, clapping his friend on the shoulder and beaming at her.

  Flora had stammered an assent before she knew what she was doing. It was impossible to refuse something urged on her by her host in this manner, and an invitation given so politely too by the gentleman himself. Besides, she very much wanted to dance, and she was not already engaged. If she refused Lord Daventry, and in Sir Duncan's hearing, and sat out these first two dances, she would be obliged not to dance at all for the whole of the evening. That would have been a wretched disappointment.

  She had little time to think about it, at any rate. Almost immediately, the orchestra struck up dance music, and the couples began to assemble. Miss Buccleuch was at the head of
the set, as a matter of course, with a handsome gentleman whom Flora did not recognise. Flora allowed Lord Daventry to take her hand and lead her onto the floor.

  It was the first time Flora had ever danced in public, since she had, most unusually, not come out before her marriage. She was a little nervous that she should not make a mistake in her steps, and she was relieved to find that it was a simple country dance. She was less pleased to find that she was directly behind Miss Buccleuch and her partner and Sir Duncan and his in the set; of course, she realised, that as the highest-ranking gentleman present, Viscount Daventry was given precedence. She felt rather conspicuous as she and the Viscount danced, and she caught sight of Mr Farquhar watching them with a frown.

  "I must apologise," said her partner, when they were back at the bottom of the set, "Mrs Farquhar, for the unpardonable rudeness of my friend."

  "Oh! No, sir." Flora was unsure what to say. His manner was so gentle and seemingly kind, she was confused and disarmed.

  "It is not something that ought to have been mentioned, far less made a crude joke of. I fear Sir Duncan, for all his sterling good qualities, has no idea how to behave towards respectable ladies. He spends far too much time in the company of we reprobates, and far too little amongst virtuous women such as his mother and sister, who would teach him a modicum of delicacy."

  Flora could make no comment on that, but she felt she ought to reply in some way, so after a moment she said, "Miss Buccleuch is a very agreeable young lady."

  "Yes, and she is cooped up here in this God-forsaken castle, where all her agreeableness counts for naught. She feels it! Look, there she is with Mr Ross. He'll be Sir John Ross one day, but will his family ever countenance being connected with hers? I doubt it."

  "Why is that, sir?"

  "Why, Mrs Farquhar, I might have thought you would understand."