Epilogue

Rory

Glasgow— July 1878, four months later

T he day began as it always did. I woke slowly, and the first thing I was aware of was Marianne. Usually she was nestled against me, her hair tickling my nose. Sometimes her head was still resting on my shoulder, just as it had been when we'd fallen asleep, one of her legs between mine, her hand resting on my chest. On the morning of our fourth month as husband and wife, she was curled into my back, her mouth on the nape of my neck, and her hand—she was stroking me. Not asleep, then, my wife.

I gave myself over to the pleasure of her gentle, sure touch until she whispered my name, and I turned, and she pulled me on top of her and I slid inside her. I can't get used to that. I never want to get used to it. The sheer delight of being inside her, of her legs wrapping themselves around me, of her urging me on with her mouth and her hands. The way she tightens around me. The soft moan she lets out. The way she says my name. It tips me over every time. Every sweet, wonderful time.

We had breakfast together, as we do every morning, even when I've an early start. Coffee and bread and butter, eggs sometimes, sitting in our fancy wee dining room in our dressing robes, staring at each other across the table as if we can't believe our luck. Which I can't.

We don't keep a servant, but we have a couple of women who come in later to clean and to cook dinner. Women Marianne knows from Partick. Women who worship the ground Marianne walks on. As do I. At breakfast, we plan our respective days, but that morning it was all arranged, so we put on our best clothes—nothing too good mind, Marianne doesn't have a taste for the fancy and I've always been a plain dresser.

It was a lovely morning, considering it was July in Glasgow and Fair Friday to boot, which I don't recall ever being dry when I was growing up here. Marianne tucked her hand into my arm as we made our way out, smiling up at me in a way that made me want to take her right back inside and make love to her again.

‘Happy fourth month of marriage,' she said to me.

‘I couldn't be happier, you know that?'

She laughed. ‘You say that every day, and then the next day you say it again.'

I did kiss her then, just a quick kiss, but I couldn't resist her. ‘I'm planning on saying it every day for the rest of our lives. I love you.'

‘And I love you.' She tugged me forward into the West End Park. ‘But if we're going to walk all the way to Partick, we'd better get a shifty on.'

I burst out laughing.

‘Don't I have that right? Get a shifty on?'

‘You've got it right, but it sounds so funny in your accent. We'll make a Weegie of you one day, but not yet.'

‘Thank you for taking the time away from your case, I really wanted you to be with me today.'

‘I wouldn't miss it for the world, and Gordon Munro is more than happy with what needs to be done in the office today.' I had been delighted to employ my father's old colleague into my business. As the man himself had suggested, there was plenty of work in the city, so much that we were actually considering taking his son on too. And unlike the police in the capital, my name here was neither poison nor mud.

It wasn't even eleven, but there were already plenty of people in the park taking the air, and plenty of them on nodding and greeting terms with Marianne. She smiled sunnily at mill workers on their break, and stopped several times to exchange banter with weans. ‘It's as well we don't have to be there until noon,' I said to her.

‘I'm thinking Rory, that it might be a good idea to speak to some of the mill owners along the Kelvin. The school they have for the little ones isn't nearly big enough, and if there was a nursery, then it would mean that some of the women could go back to work if they wished, earlier. Do you think I'd be standing on too many toes doing that?'

‘Has it ever bothered you, standing on toes?'

‘Well, no, but it is much easier to make progress if one doesn't.'

‘I think it's a wonderful idea, but I was hoping you'd take a couple of weeks off before launching yourself into another project. It's the Fair. I thought we'd take a bit of a holiday ourselves. What do you think?'

‘Shall we go—what is it?—doon the watter?'

‘I was thinking somewhere a bit further north. With golden beaches and...'

‘Harris!' She gave a leap of excitement. ‘Rory, are we going to Harris?'

‘I'd like to introduce you to my family, at long last. We leave tomorrow.'

Her eyes were sparkling as we walked the rest of the way, out of the park over the Snow Bridge and along to Partick. The new block of tenements was on Anderson Street, a couple of blocks from my own childhood home. Blond sandstone, it had its own bathhouse out in the back courts, and above the entrance to the freshly tiled close, a plaque.

Marianne was immediately lost to me in the crowd of women waiting to receive her. I watched from a distance, my heart bursting with pride. There was Katy, formerly Flora, in her smart new outfit, the housekeeper in charge of this experiment. There were Mr and Mrs Soutar and Oscar, pointing up at the plaque, surrounding by what must be their friends and family from the South Side. And Mrs Oliphant, standing nervously to one side with an outsize pair of scissors to cut the ribbon. A stamping of feet, a few whistles, and my wife stepped out in front of the crowd.

‘Ladies—and of course gentlemen,' she said, with a bow at the few men there and a smile for me, ‘I won't bore you with speeches. I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone for all the help and support you've given me in making this project happen. I will now ask Mrs Oliphant, to whom I owe a great debt for drawing my attention to the work of Octavia Hill, to perform the opening ceremony.'

Mrs Oliphant, looking so nervous I thought she might faint, stepped up to the ribbon and with some difficulty sawed it in two. ‘I now declare the Ada Soutar Residential Rooms for Women open.'

There was tea and cake for everyone, and lemonade for the weans. I don't know how many times I assured someone or other that I was very proud of Marianne—indeed, I'd never tire of telling the world that.

‘Are you happy?' I asked her, when I finally got a moment alone with her.

‘I couldn't be happier,' she said, handing my own words back to me, and meaning them too.

I kissed her then, a chaste wee peck on the lips, but it still got us a cheer. ‘There's only one thing missing, to make the day perfect,' I said.

She took one look at me. She smiled, a slow smile that did sinful things to me, and that I'd come to know very well these last four months. ‘I think that can be arranged,' she said. ‘Give me ten minutes and we'll head home.'

‘Make it five,' I said, grinning.