Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore
Chapter 16
At eleven in the morning, Victoria Station was swarming like an anthill beneath the vaulted glass-dome ceiling. Trains arrived at platforms with an exhausted hiss; luggage carts squeaked past alongside rapidly clicking heels. A sea of hats heaved around Hattie, top hats, feathered ladies’ hats, countless dull brown workmen’s hats, the caps of station staff. She still felt as exposed as on an empty plain—since climbing from the cab at the east entrance, the back of her neck prickled as if someone was following her. It couldn’t be; Lucian had left the house at dawn. The horrid man. He had come to her bedchamber at midnight to inform her that she would accompany him on his travels to Scotland. She had begun packing the moment he had left—the mere thought of being stuck in the Scottish wilderness with the abominable male had greatly hastened her plans for France along. The stale station air coated her mouth with the sweetish taste of coal and steel. Poor Bailey. She hoped there would be no troubles for Bailey, whom she had tricked into distracting Carson so she could flee through the kitchen entrance. Through her netted black travel veil, her gaze clung to the number-seven platform sign in the near distance as if it were a beacon. Her brain played tricks on her; she kept seeing a familiar powerful male shape from the corner of her eye and her stomach plunged every time. She tried pushing faster through the crowd, but her hems were heavy with sewn-in jewelry, and her right arm was burning from the bulky weight of her carpetbag; she had fair overstuffed said bag with spare gloves and chemises, stockings, a nightgown, and a bodice matching her current skirt; hygiene articles; her watercolor case, sketchpad, and sewing kit; the current edition of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide; her brush; suffrage journals; and some provisions including a large tin with toffees she had grabbed from the pantry. After closing the bag’s latches with great difficulty, she had tucked her parasol on top. She would have to visit Marseille posthaste to order new dresses, hats, and gloves …. A man stepped into her path, and a scream stuck in her throat. Lucian. His face was as dark as the devil’s.
No.
She made to run. “Excuse me,” she whispered to the gasps of consternation, “excuse me,” as her bag bumped against skirts and knees. But her gown was too narrow for running, and her luggage heavy like a boulder, tearing at her arm. Lucian was by her side in a heartbeat. “Allow me,” he said tightly.
She veered to the left. “Let me be.”
He snatched the bag from her hand. Her feet kept walking of their own volition. She’d go regardless; she would go without her belongings …. Lucian looped his arm through hers; feeling his muscular body against hers was a shock, and she moved blindly for a beat. He was not exerting any force. It then registered; his grip was light, light enough to dare her to break free. But she didn’t. She didn’t. He leashed the raw strength of an ox behind his measured hold, and the people around them … their disapproving faces, their shocked exclamations … the visions of that kept her compliant. Her ears were hot, and angry tears needled her eyes.
“Let me go,” she managed. Lucian guided her straight past the entrance to platform number seven. Dread exploded in her chest. “Let go,” she said, frantic now, “let go, you … miserable brute.”
His lips pressed into a line, and his quiet anger flared around his form, dark like shadows. Farther and farther he maneuvered her away from her platform, and she followed; she was allowing him to drag her to her demise in the middle of a crowd, amid the screams of whistles and blaring announcements ….
“Mademoiselle.” An older gentleman with a tall hat and thin mustache was strolling alongside them, his tone jovial. “Mademoiselle, puis-je vous aider?”
May I assist you?
They had attracted attention. Mortification stung her cheeks, and she knew not where to look. Lucian glanced at the man over her head. “Don’t bother my wife.”
“Ah, matters of the heart, oui?” The Frenchman gave a knowing little laugh. “Mes condoléances, monsieur—les rousses viennent de l’enfer.”
A whole barrage of French reproofs jumbled through her mind at that, but the gentleman had already faded back into the surrounding hustle and bustle. She glanced up at Lucian’s stony face and decided to beg. “Please—I’m missing my train.”
“Your train’s right there,” he said, and turned onto platform number eleven. A Great Northern train was ready on the tracks and belching plumes of thick black smoke. She moved through the wafting soot in frozen silence—was he abducting her? Sending her to a remote estate? Bedlam?
“Where are you taking me?” It came out as a croak.
He nodded at a young man in station staff uniform while he pulled her up the coach stairs. “To Scotland,” he said. Vaguely, she registered the plush splendor of a private railcar. Lucian guided her to the table booth next to a window. “Have a seat.”
Dumbfounded, she plopped down on the bench. “Scotland,” she repeated when he took his seat across from her. “But your departure was tomorrow.”
“That used to be the plan,” he said. “I decided to reschedule.”
She glared at him in disbelief. “Did you lie in wait, to see whether I was leaving? And had the train readied just in case?” When he was silent, she cried, “What sort of madman does such a thing?”
His elbows came down on the table as he leaned in. “What sort of madwoman travels to Europe on her own with nothing but a handbag?”
Europe—how did he know?
A whistle screeched, and a shudder went through the train.
She shot to her feet. “You cannot just abduct me.”
He scoffed. “It’s travel for business, not an abduction. And we need it.”
“We?”
“Our marriage needs it.”
“What?” She felt so wholly unmarried to the scowling creature looking up at her, his words triggered genuine confusion.
Lucian fixed her with a dark eye. “We’re married,” he said. “You don’t like it, because you’re angry with me, but you running away won’t change a thing. We need to … we need to mend it. So. Sit down.”
She remained standing. “Mend it,” she repeated, feeling dizzy. “Mend it—Mr. Blackstone, this is entirely unmendable.”
“I hadn’t taken you for someone who gives up this easily,” came his cool retort.
How dare he. And yet. She had allowed it. She had allowed him to put her onto this train, for fear of causing a scene. A tide of self-loathing made her cringe. She whipped back her veil. “Perhaps,” she said, increasingly reckless with emotion, “perhaps I simply don’t consider our farce of a marriage worth the effort.”
His expression hardened. “All right.” He flicked his hand toward the arrangement of red velvet settees, the blue ceiling with the chandelier, the elaborately carved wooden trellis partitioning the car into a dining area and a drawing room. “This is my—our—private car. As is the next one. Yell or throw things if you must. Or you could order some tea and accept the situation.”
Yell and throw things? She was too well-bred for such tantrums, and after last evening’s revelations, certainly too jaded. She took a deep breath and lowered herself back onto her seat. “You are a horrid, loathsome man,” she said quietly.
“And you are my responsibility,” he replied unmoved, “So don’t expect me to idly stand by while you try to get yersel’ killed, robbed, or raped.”
Her bland smile did not mask her surging fury. “France,” she said, “was a dream of mine. How perfectly safe the world would be for women to follow their dreams if it were not for men interfering at every turn, wouldn’t it?”
“And as long as it’s the way it is, I’ll keep you from traipsing across the continent on your own.”
She bit back a screech. “I demand an annulment.”
He tensed and jerked his gaze to the window instead of gracing her with a reply.
The train lurched into motion. She stared at his cold profile while her hands were curling into fists to the labored clanking of the wheels. A bruise was smudged across her husband’s jaw, making him look terribly common. This man had squashed her one bid at rebellion without a second thought. Because he could. Not a hint of sweat on his brow; it had cost him nothing to bodily drag her from her path. Fire seemed to move through her veins, swelling hotter and higher until a whole blaze was roaring through her and she had never known such incandescent rage.
“Fine,” she said. “I shall go to Scotland with you. But I shall be the stone in your shoe.”
Lucian continued to look out the window.
“The thorn in your side.”
Still he ignored her, so she leaned closer. “The poison in your soup.”
This, at last, caused a reaction—he faced her. “Careful, beloved,” he drawled. “You’ll find yourself sharing every meal with my loathsome person and take the first bite of all my dishes.”
“Beloved,” she said, astonished. “As if you know what love is. As if I could love you—as if anyone could. You are a most wretched soul, one who must resort to scouring the jail to find staff, one who must resort to betrayal to take a respectable wife; you are an upstart and I became a social failure the day I wed you. No, what I would love is to see you brought to justice, and the least I can do is promise that I shall never, ever love you.”
He was deadly still by the time she’d finished. There was only the sound of her panting, and she had a wretchedly sick feeling in her stomach.
“Are you done, then?” Lucian said. His eyes looked dead, too.
“Yes,” she whispered. In her lap, her hands were shaking. The words had shot out in such harsh, clear, rapid succession, surprising her. They must have been there all along, forming a neat queue while waiting for a moment stripped of all civility to burst into the light. This was not like her.
Lucian came to his feet. His shoulders were still tense enough to snap when he disappeared through the partition to the next car. She sat nervously watching the door, the fierce rush of energy abating only slowly. Another husband might have raised his voice or slapped her. She had risked it; she had wished to see him wounded with the fire of a thousand suns, for hurting him equal to her own hurt seemed the only way to make him see. Her attack had failed to inflict even a scratch. He expected no love; of course he didn’t.
She took off her glove. The wedding ring had a dull sheen, pretending to be inanimate metal, but she could feel its aliveness, its derision. The finger it encircled felt numb. She gripped the ring and pulled. It didn’t budge; her fingers had swelled from carrying the bag and the heat of her agitation. She tugged violently, only to hurt her knuckle. The ring remained in place, and it felt as though she were being choked around her neck. This should have been a symbol of love. Instead, it was her scarlet letter.
Outside the window, the blackened brick walls of slum houses were sliding past, leaning against each other like rotten teeth, like tombstones. In a barren backyard, a woman was beating carpets on a line while children in rags chased a ball through the dirt. What misery, Hattie thought, what misery. Beneath her feet, the tracks kept slipping away and putting miles between her and life in London, and perhaps in one last bid for relevance, vivid memories returned: Zachary, ever protective … her mother, meddling with the minutiae of her life … her father, allowing her to go up to Oxford because she was useless at the family business. Chaperones and officers following her every step. Catriona accommodating her foolishness, Lucie abandoning her holidays … Annabelle going to the jail for her …. Her skin itched as if it were too tight. Protection to the point of asphyxiation. She had once thought this a proof of love, but it was almost certainly a consequence of her being deemed lovely, foolish, and possibly weak. And she was sick of it. She wasn’t a mindless young girl. She wasn’t a breakable bauble. Now she knew why girls were not allowed to feel anger—there was a reckless hope in it, and power. She would not loathe the compliant woman she had been this morning, oh no; she would direct this precious anger outward, and her gaze forward. Les rousses viennent de l’enfer—redheaded women are from hell. Lovely was dead. Enter the witch.
Harriet ignored him for the entire nine-hour ride to Edinburgh. When he returned to her coach to see whether all was in reasonable order, she was lounging on the divan, reading a book, and eating toffees from a tin. She hadn’t granted him a glance, so he had retreated to his own car to deal with his correspondence. At noon, he went to ask her to take lunch with him, only to find her indulging in a selection tea cakes she must have packed, and she looked at him wordlessly and with polite disdain until he withdrew. He sat eating his food, not tasting a thing. His chest felt oddly tight, and loosening his cravat hadn’t helped. His wife hated him. Worse, she didn’t respect him—no woman bestowed wifely affection on a man she didn’t respect. He should dismiss her anger as irrational female theatrics like his etiquette handbook advised, for no man in his right mind would have let her go traveling by herself. France. If she wanted to bloody go to bloody France, he’d take her there, Paris, Lyon, Marseille, whatever she fancied. As soon as he had sorted out Drummuir. Until then, it shouldn’t bother him. Instead, he was staring at her empty seat while he joylessly chewed and swallowed and acutely felt all of last night’s bruises. He must have been looking forward to shared meals as pleasurable as their lunch in Shoreditch. What was wrong with him?
He pushed his unfinished plate away and picked up an article detailing various speculative economic scenarios following an income tax reform. The words on the page failed to sink in.
As if I could love you—as if anyone could.
Well. He knew he wasn’t lovable, not since he’d been a boy, anyway, and he had only known it then when Sorcha had put her sticky little hand upon his cheek and told him she loved him, so he had no expectations in that regard. But hatred?
During the stop in York, he sent a telegram to the hotel to order a coach to Waverley Station at eight o’clock. When they reached Edinburgh, the sky was the color of lead and proper fat splats of rain were drumming on the ribbed glass ceiling of the railway station. A gust of wind near ripped the umbrella he was holding over Harriet from his hand when they stepped outside. “Welcome to Scotland,” he murmured. The air was damp on his face and tasted fresh. An illusion. To the left loomed the turreted silhouette of Edinburgh in dark uniform color as though the whole city had risen from the same giant rock, for soot and smoke had coated the soft sandstone of every house with the same black stain. Farther to the east, the old castle kept watch over the city through the mist as it had for the past eight hundred years. He felt a yearning pull deep in his chest and a sorrow at the sight, a blend of emotions expressed best by the lone skirl of a bagpipe. This was why he disliked going north.
Once settled in at number twenty-five George Street, a town house hotel where Robert Burns had purportedly liked to take rooms in his day, Harriet immediately made to flee his small chamber through the door that led to her room.
“Tea is downstairs in half an hour,” he said to her back.
She stiffened, halted, and turned to him. “You mean supper.”
He took a deep breath. “You’d call it supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m requesting your company.”
Her mouth flattened. “I have nothing to wear.”
She looked fatigued, he now noticed, with curls of her hair loose around her face and faint blue smudges beneath her eyes. He wouldn’t relent; he would take hatred, but no more disrespect. He untied his cravat. “You should find a trunk with dresses in your room.”
She gave him a suspicious glance. “You had a trunk packed for me?”
He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “It seemed sensible.”
“When?” she demanded. “When did you have my clothes packed?”
“Matthews picked some up at Harrods while they readied the train.”
Her eyes were slits. “Gowns off the rack?”
“They’ll do.”
She muttered something under her breath.
“The train to Fife leaves at eleven o’clock tomorrow,” he said grimly. “Purchase whatever else you need in the morning.”
She pursed her lips. “No doubt you think Cockburn Street will do.”
He stopped unbuttoning at hearing the word cock from her mouth. “What?”
“Cockburn Street,” she enunciated slowly. “The street where one can find the finest supplies in all of Edinburgh, according to Bradshaw’s Travel Guide.”
“Aye,” he said, feeling heated. “It’s pronounced Coburn Street, but yes, you’ll find everything there.”
“Are lady’s maids for hire on Coburn Street?” she said. “I require one, since you forgot to invite Bailey along.”
Uppity brat.
“Say the word,” he said, and dragged his gaze over her disheveled appearance. “I’ll undress you. Assist with your bath, too.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, unwillingly aroused by the thought of her soapy, slippery body beneath his hands, and wasn’t surprised to find her gone when he reappeared.
Though she looked very pretty in the russet-colored gown the Harrods shop assistant had suggested, dinner would have been more palatable without her company. The small dining room should have attracted her attention; it was underground with low vaulted ceilings, whitewashed walls as thick as a castle’s, and torches burning in iron-cast sconces, but she was very much preoccupied with examining her fingernails after taking off her gloves. She did smile at the waiter, a wide, sweet smile that left both Lucian and the lad a little stunned.
“Is the lobster very fresh, I wonder?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man replied, his gaze flickering uncertainly between her and Lucian. “It’s fresh from the firth every day, ma’am.”
“Lovely. I so love a fresh lobster.” Her smile sparkled in her eyes, and the waiter blushed.
“Bring the lobster for a starter,” Lucian said. “And the lamb for the main course.”
She was so outrageously clumsy in her attempts to provoke him that it shouldn’t have bothered him, not one bit. He still felt as irritated as if the place were swarming with midges, because despite the clumsiness, it had worked; he knew he’d commit a minor crime in exchange for such a smile from her.
She seemed to enjoy her wine and drank rather much of it, and later, she deftly plundered the fat lobster tail with her utensils. “I was wondering where you put me in your ledgers,” she said, glancing up as she pulled the soft white meat apart on her plate. “On the one hand, your return on me should be immense. On the other, I suppose I’m a depreciating asset since both my looks and my ability to bear you children shall fade with time.”
His etiquette guide for the discerning gentleman recommended a man stoically endure any mean-spirited remarks and unreasonable demands a woman directed at him, as those were the only weapons she was permitted, and in any case, her weak mind and volatile sensibilities weren’t her fault but a lamentable consequence of the nature of her sex. That had sounded like bollocks to him, for he had seen women chase after men while brandishing a skillet, and he had witnessed them stoically clean up tragedy and bring whole families through winter on their own. But now, faced with this sweetly smiling creature dissecting a crustacean on her plate with merciless precision, it all made sense. He ate in silence. Time was on his side. The law was on his side. Those were still the facts. It was but a feeling that the playing field had leveled today.