Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore
Chapter 17
When they resumed their journey the next day, the sky was a blustering display of dramatic white and gray swirls on blue, an El Greco the size of infinity. The Firth of Forth flowing alongside the railroad tracks sparkled like silver coins in the sun, another lovely sight over which to ignore a husband. The husband sat across from her, wearing a well-fitted navy tweed suit, a gray paisley waistcoat, and a deeply brooding expression that would have been alluring had she not resolved to despise him. At least he was keeping his word: he hadn’t made any attempts to claim husbandly rights last night. And he hadn’t as much as blinked when she had purchased half of Cockburn Street right under his nose this morning. Four large crates with costly frippery she had no intention of ever using were now on their way to Belgravia. She couldn’t bankrupt him this way, but it had been quite enjoyable to try.
She glanced at him. His shoulders were relaxed and the dark fans of his lashes lowered against his cheeks as if he were dozing. He never slept enough; he went to bed late and rose too early, that much she had learned about him. A loving wife would fuss over this, and she felt fresh resentment rise because he had forever taken such small, caring rituals from her.
He woke when the train rolled right down into the bustling harbor of Granton and came to a halt at the waterline.
She pointed at the large sign looming on the banks: Granton– Burntisland Ferry Service.
“Do they mean to move the entire train onto a boat?”
“It’s a roll-on ferry,” Lucian said, his voice distractingly scratchy.
“I see.”
His bleary gaze fell to her hands, clamped around the edge of her seat. “It’s been running well for thirty years,” he said. “It won’t have its first capsizing today.”
She reluctantly released her grip, determined not to show him her apprehension. How infuriating, she thought as the ferry carried train and passengers across the firth, that for thirty years such masterful feats of engineering allowed people to move freely and quickly across vast distances and uninhabitable terrains, and yet a woman must not go shopping or to a gallery by herself. It was too dangerous, they said, for her reputation, her virtue. But who did the endangering? Men. How convenient for men as a group that the misdeeds of a few elevated each one of them to the status of protector and rendered women dependent on them, so that in turn they could legitimately drag them along to Scotland whenever they saw fit. Proof that progressiveness wasn’t a matter of possibilities—who and what was to be included in the progress was a matter of will. Man would probably circle the globe in a flight apparatus before women had power over themselves.
In Burntisland, they changed into a battered-looking old train to continue the journey away from the coast, up north. The scenery soon changed into sweeping green valleys dotted with sheep and crofters’ cottages, and there was a vastness to the land that made the observer breathe deeply. Still, when they finally alighted at the one-track station stop in Auchtermuchty, she was exhausted. Her pocket watch said it was close to five o’clock, and she stood by despondently as two young Scotsmen loaded their trunks onto an old-fashioned black coach outside the station. She endured another hour of being bounced around on a badly sprung seat before the vehicle gradually creaked to a halt on an abandoned plain—in front of the only building far and wide. The Drover’s Inn. She eyed the place through the window with growing alarm. The gray stone building was two stories high under a dark slate roof, an irregular patchwork of old, weathered features and newer extensions, which gave the impression the house had somehow organically grown by itself over time. There was an aliveness about it; in fact, the entire structure was leaning to the right with some urgency, as if it had at some point been frozen during an attempt to flee.
She shuddered. “Something is wrong with this house.”
Lucian leaned forward to look more closely. “Appears to me like most of the inns I’ve known in Scotland.”
His face was so near hers she could smell the shaving soap on him. She pulled back, and he shot her a dark look and opened the coach door with a vigorous push. She followed him to the entrance of the disturbing building on stiff legs. Next, she screamed and jumped with great agility as she found herself under attack by clawed, swiping paws. A black bear, rearing on its hind legs in the corridor, its maw forever open with a silent roar.
“It’s quite dead,” Lucian remarked, and she realized she was pressed up against his side.
She quickly stepped away. “A very helpful observation.” She still had a hand over her hammering heart when a short, stout woman hurried toward them from the shadowy depths of the corridor. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, and the corners of her eyes were furrowed with lines from frequent laughter and squinting. “I’m Mrs. Burns,” she told them, a little breathless, “I’m one of the proprietors—the other is my husband, Mr. Burns, who awaits you inside. I hope your journey was uneventful; we’ve been having lots more rain than usual at this time of the year and the roads are all muck. My sons will bring your luggage straight to your room, sir.” She looked at Hattie, then she nodded at the bear. “Don’t let Alistair frighten you, ma’am; he’s a good lad. Follow me, if you please.”
The low black ceilings and wooden walls of the inn were coated with dust. Antiquated gas sconces lined the narrow corridor and spilled orange light over antlers, wings, and paws—stuffed woodland animals were stacked atop one another in glass cases and on shelves mounted on the walls with little space between them. By the time they’d reached the reception desk, Hattie felt weak and haunted by undead creatures. The tall, bald man behind the desk greeted them with great enthusiasm. Probably not many guests ever found their way to this forsaken place or stayed for long. Perhaps they never left?
“The telegraph I sent yesterday mentioned my wife needs the service of a lady’s maid for the duration of our stay,” Lucian told him as he signed the ledger. “I pay London rates.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Burns. “I’ll fetch my daughters. One wee moment.”
He disappeared through the heavy curtains to a back room.
The silence was as absolute as at the bottom of a lake. A stuffed raven sat on the desk next to the bell, its head bent at an inquisitive angle.
She turned to Lucian. He was looking straight ahead, very stoically.
“Whatever made you choose this peculiar place?” she hissed.
“It’s the only one there is near the mine.”
They stood intimately close together, but given their strange surroundings, she was reluctant to put distance between them.
“It’s ghastly,” she said. “I expect the bear Alastair and his friends will all come alive at midnight and feed on the guests.”
Unexpectedly, he placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her a little closer. “There’s an etiquette guide that says a woman’s vocation is to be amicable, admirable, and delightful,” he murmured into her ear, his voice deep like a distant roll of thunder. “Consider reading it.”
“Hmm,” she murmured back, “sounds crusty—I’d consider burning it.”
Her pulse was high from his touch, but he withdrew his hand and his jaw clenched, very satisfying to behold.
Mr. Burns returned with his wife and two young women barely out of girlhood. Their brown hair hung in thick plaits over their shoulders and they regarded her with overtly curious blue eyes. “Miss Mhairi Burns and Miss Clara Burns,” Mrs. Burns introduced them. “At your service.”
Lucian turned to Mr. Burns. “They speak English?”
“They do,” said Mr. Burns. “The Drover’s Inn is frequented by international guests.”
Miss Clara Burns had a dusting of flour on her forehead, and Miss Mhairi’s hands were still red and damp from scrubbing something. How dreadful, to be adding to their chores.
She addressed the one who had been introduced as Mhairi. “You are the elder one?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl performed a wonky curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Burns,” Hattie said. “It is our honeymoon, you see, and it shall be so much more convenient with your assistance.”
The girls’ faces fell. “A honeymoon.” Mrs. Burns looked put out. Even Mr. Burns seemed taken aback. Lucian was looking at her warily from the corner of his eyes.
“Well,” Mr. Burns said brightly. “This is a first-class establishment. It is run very orderly, it is very quiet, very unique. An excellent choice for a honeymoon.”
His wife shot him a sour look.
He closed the ledger. “We’re at your service.”
“Wish you hadn’t forgotten there was a bride,” Mrs. Burns said to him. “We would have put a basket together.”
“Yes,” Mhairi said. “Ma’am should’ve had a newlywed basket.”
Hattie gave them all a tremulous smile. “How terribly kind.”
The women rallied. “It’s a delicious basket,” Miss Clara said enthusiastically. “We’ll add the best shortbread.”
“And blueberry jam.”
“And cured ham.”
“Well, go on, then,” Mrs. Burns barked, “don’t just stand there discussing it.” She turned back to Hattie. “Apologies for the delay of the basket, ma’am. Had we known there’s a bride …” She shook her head.
“You’ve the best room, with the best view.” Mr. Burns joined the collective effort to comfort her over her dismal honeymoon, inflicted upon her by a no doubt dismal husband, and to her dark delight she felt Lucian’s temper beginning to broil.
“We’ll add a bottle of Auchtermuchty, best vintage,” said Mrs. Burns.
“Auchtermuchty.” Mr. Burns gave Lucian a conspiring nod. “Best whisky in all of Fife.”
Their room upstairs was possibly the least best in all of Fife. It was small and tired and smelled like a basket full of old linen. The right side was occupied by a lumpy bed and a wardrobe. Straight ahead was a single window with a patched armchair underneath; to the left, the fireplace and a curtained side entrance. At the center of the chamber, a scarred table wrestled for space with their luggage. A black folder lay atop the table, and Lucian went to pick it up with a keen expression that said he had been expecting to find it here.
Hattie went to the window and pushed aside a careworn curtain. The view was drab: a dirt path winding through a heather field, and in the near distance, a double row of gray-stone cottages and what looked to be industrial structures. It was doubly drab because if it weren’t for her husband, she would now be overlooking the roofs of Paris or romantically fading lavender fields in Provence. You shan’t take France from me forever, she vowed silently.
“I had hoped for vast, proper mountains in Scotland,” she said out loud. “This looks like East Anglia, flat as a crumpet.”
“Fife is part of the Lowlands,” came Lucian’s voice.
“How dull.” She peeked behind the curtain of the side entrance. The room was barely more than a cupboard: a few square feet in size, containing only a footstool and a washbasin with pitcher. The window was up high and narrow like an arrow slit. She supposed the water closet was downstairs—a severe inconvenience.
A jolt of an entirely different apprehension went through her then. She turned back to Lucian, who was leafing through the folder.
“There is only one bed.”
“Yes.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I require my own room.”
“I’m sure you do, love, but there are none.”
“An inn with only one room?” she said, agitated. And the way he called her love—like a northern shopkeeper addressing patrons.
“There are three other guest rooms, and they’re all taken,” Lucian said coolly.
“All taken—but who in their right mind would want to linger in this godforsaken place?”
“A mining engineer, a civil engineer, and the future mine manager. They’re here on my behest.”
They must have left the folder for him, then.
She turned to the small fireplace, eyed the mantelpiece, and sniffed. While the badly stuffed animals seemed to be confined to the ground floor, ugly wooden gnomes had gathered on the shelf, their hair and beards made of tufts of graying sheep wool. A Black Forest cuckoo clock modeled after a railway house was affixed to the wall right next to the mantelshelf, richly ornamented with carved leafy vines—charming in its own right, grotesque in its surroundings.
She swiped a finger over the mantelpiece and held up her hand as she turned back to Lucian. “The room is dusty, and there’s a draft.”
Lucian rubbed his neck but appeared otherwise deeply immersed in his reading.
She repeatedly stabbed her fingertip at the long arm of the cuckoo clock until it reached the full hour, which forced the small green window shutters of the railway house to open and the mechanical bird to shoot out to give seven hectic, tinny squawks.
“You can’t expect me to abide this every hour,” she said when the window had fallen shut again. “I’m returning to London tomorrow.”
Lucian glanced up from his documents with hooded eyes. “Harriet. How would you like a spanking to settle you down?”
She blinked. She grabbed one of the wooden figurines off the mantelpiece. “How would you like a gnome to your head?”
His lips thinned. Then the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “It’s not a gnome,” he said. “It’s a trow—wee beasties from the isles that don’t appreciate being thrown.”
She put it back down fast, fair loathing his lopsided smirk.
They went to the dining area downstairs for tea, or suppah, because Harriet preferred eating in public over a more intimate meal in their room, no surprise there. A handful of patrons who had the seasoned looks of regulars were scattered along the poorly lit bar, eyeing them curiously through curls of cigarette smoke, but the waitress led them to a booth at the window front.
“What may I bring you, sir?” The waitress was smiling and addressing him in English.
“What’s your recommendation?”
“We make the best haggis in the Kingdom of Fife,” she said, “served with mashed potatoes and well-cooked turnips.”
“Well-cooked, you say.”
“Then there’s the beef-and-potato stew—best black Galloway beef from the West Country.”
He glanced at Harriet, who seemed apathetic, then back at the lass. “You have a menu?”
“Not on my account,” came his wife’s soft voice. “I’ll take the recommended dish.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “It won’t be to your taste, I reckon.”
“Well-cooked turnips,” she said blandly. “Why, I crave them.”
The kitchen is lacking, was what she really said. She knew without seeing the menu; the place was lacking, Scotland was lacking, he was lacking. He ordered haggis, stew, some wine, and ale, thinking a wooden trow to his head would have been well worth it.
Time passed slowly here in the middle of nowhere. The rack on the wall held the newspapers from three days ago. It felt like eternity until the steaming dishes were placed before them, compounded by the glum silence coming from the woman he had wed.
“You like the haggis?” he said as she ate her meal with a passive expression.
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It reminds me of black pudding, but the taste is more severe. What is it?”
“Sheep’s stomach,” he said, “stuffed with chopped sheep innards and gruel.”
She put down her fork. “Very nourishing, I’m sure,” she said faintly.
She didn’t pick up her cutlery again but kept drinking her wine in tiny sips.
“I can order you a new dish,” he said after a while.
Suspicion flickered in her eyes and his fingers tightened around his spoon. He should be wholly unaffected by her moods and lack of trust, but she had introduced a hitherto unknown complexity to his life: he found he was holding multiple contradictory thoughts—or worse, feelings—at the same time. Her mistrust, her sniping, the sullen, petulant curve of her mouth, bedeviled him very effectively, and yet he still wanted to lean across the narrow table and kiss that mouth. Her expensive burnt-vanilla scent was mixing with the smell of smoldering coal creeping in from the pits, a bizarre, sensual clash of his old life and the new that unmoored him in some fashion.
She finally continued to eat, and once and again her gaze strayed out the window to the dark outline of the far hills gradually fading into the night.
“Were you really hoping to see mountains?” he said, because apparently, he was perverted and craved rejection.
“Of course.” She sighed, her wistfulness sincere. “Looking at them elevates the soul. ‘What are men to rocks and mountains?’”
“That’s from a poem?”
She regarded him with a carefully curated look of pity in her brown eyes. “It is a line by Jane Austen.”
“Ah.” He’d heard of Jane Austen but knew nothing of her work.
“Of course,” she said. “You wouldn’t know—you don’t read novels. In any case, you could not be farther from a Mr. Bingley if you tried.”
He had no idea how to reply to such a thing, so he took a long draft of his ale.
“You are beyond even a Mr. Rochester,” Harriet said, and he didn’t know that fellow, either, but he deduced he was odious so he pinned her with a look over the rim of his glass.
“In fact,” she said, her eyes widening with shocked realization, “in fact, you—you are a Heathcliff.”
Perhaps—and this occurred to him for the first time—perhaps she wasn’t just trying to provoke him; perhaps she was genuinely unhinged. She didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, and when they had finished, she asked to be excused and he had barely nodded when she had already fled from the booth.
The waitress took Harriet’s departure as the signal to approach to clear the table and inquire whether he wished for more ale.
“Who, or what, is Heathcliff?” he demanded.
“Heathcliff—why, he’s a bit of a villain in Wuthering Heights, sir,” she supplied as she leaned in close to collect his plate. “It’s a novel.”
“The villain, eh?”
“Well, he’s a brooding, ill-bred man who moons after a fine lady.”
“Is he, now?” he muttered.
“Then he makes a fortune but is still obsessed with revenge and ruins everything.”
Lucian was quiet.
“Some of the lasses quite fancy him,” the waitress said, and glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Heat washed over his neck in response. The glance could have been anything; innocuous, pitiful, or a flirtation. He looked away. This was the state of things now, was it, him becoming randy the moment a woman glanced his way? It had been too long; he hadn’t sought out female company since he had struck the deal with Greenfield, and it had been a while even before that. Now he had a wife around who smelled like something edible when he couldn’t taste her, whose skin was glossy and smooth when he couldn’t touch her. He wanted to follow her to their room, peel off her prim dress, and push her down on the creaky bed. He would run his ill-bred, villainous Heathcliff hands all over her soft curves while she was looking up at him with a sweet smile and desire in her eyes; She would eagerly open her legs for him … and she would be impossibly snug and hot and he would fuck her so slowly, she would soon whine for him to do it harder ….
“Whisky,” he said hoarsely. “More whisky.”
It was well past midnight when he returned to their room. She seemed asleep. He quietly undressed and washed, then fumbled his way toward the bed. He paused next to where the cuckoo clock had hung and found the spot on the wall already empty. Harriet must have tossed it out the window, and she’d probably done it with a pout and shrug, just how she would do such a thing. He was drunk. He was never drunk. Except for those few days a year …. She made a breathy little noise when he came to bed. He carefully pulled the covers up to his shoulders and lay quietly on his side. Her warm body was curled up just inches from his back, and despite the drinking, his muscles were hard with a yearning tension so thick a knife wouldn’t cut it.
She rustled softly in the sheets. “It is so dark,” she mumbled. “I have never seen such darkness.”
Indeed, there was little difference between his eyes being open or closed. No man-made light polluted the depths of Scottish nights.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. The dark and he had a history; he knew all the different sorts, and this one now lying over their bed like black velvet meant no harm. Her breathing settled, and it occurred to him that he had had this soothing effect on her, and that despite all her misgivings, she was here, in this bed. That was a start, he supposed, one he would use to his advantage.