Chapter 11

Dear Miss Fleming,

I'm so sorry to hear you are still poorly and I apologise for not visiting for so long. I hope you will forgive me, for I'm afraid I am too unwell myself to do so now. Get well soon and please let Abigail take care of you. She's really very competent and has your best interests at heart.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Clara Halliday to Miss Jessie Fleming.

14 th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Hamilton stopped by the vicarage every morning to hear from Mrs Macready how Clara was doing, but it was not until the fourth day when she was still in bed that he caved in.

"Well, aren't they just the prettiest sight," Mrs Macready said with satisfaction as Hamilton thrust the small posy of daisies at her.

He'd tied himself into a knot, trying to decide whether to bring flowers at all, and if he did, what sort. Treading the line between solicitude and not making overtures that could be misread gave him a headache and now, handing the sweet and simple bunch of flowers over, he felt like a proper twit. If he was going to bring flowers, perhaps it ought to have been something a bit more expensive than a daft bunch of daisies.

"It's nothing," he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… well, ye said it would cheer the lassie, aye? So… So I did as ye asked," he added, knowing full well that Mrs Macready had done no such thing.

"It will," she said. "The reverend is in his study. Ye could have a word with him while ye are here. Try to make peace, perhaps?"

"Ach, devil take ye! Freya Macready, I have told ye once, dinnae try to manipulate me into taking a wife. It willnae work," he warned her, giving her a fierce look that had made men five times her size think twice about trying his patience.

Mrs Macready simply shrugged, the glimmer of a smile at her lips. "I hear ye."

"Hmph," Hamilton replied, and was about to leave before he realised he couldn't yet. Glowering, he turned back to her. "The lassie is getting better?"

"Aye," Mrs Macready replied, her tone reassuring. "She's tired still, but I willnae be able to make her keep to her room another day. She's sitting in a chair by the window this morning and I reckon she'll be up and about tomorrow."

Hamilton let out a breath as a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. "That's good. I'm glad to hear such tidings. Well, I'll bid ye a good morning, then."

"I'll tell her ye asked after her," Mrs Macready called after him.

Hamilton sighed but could not deny the realisation that he wanted her to do it, wanted Clara to know he was thinking of her, even though he ought not.

Why?

The question rose its head again, and Hamilton pushed it away. He wasn't ready to look at it closely. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but certainly not right now.

"For me?" Clara gasped, staring at the posy of flowers.

She told herself it was only because of the cold that she was breathless, only because she was tired that her heart was clattering about behind her ribs. Sadly, she wasn't that stupid. It might be nice to think she wasn't as daft as every other girl in Wick and hadn't a soft spot in her imprudent heart for a flirtatious rogue who stole kisses from girls in dark alleyways. She wondered how many other kisses he had stolen, how many other girls had felt the press of his lips against theirs and spent the next days dreaming foolish dreams even though they knew it was pointless.

Too many was the certain answer that returned to her.

She, however, would not add to the numbers. Not publicly, at least. In the most secret corner of her heart, she might allow herself to think of those kisses and wonder at the way he had made her feel, both safe and in the most peril of her life at the same time. Those moments had been exciting and passionate and yet tender and sweet and, like Mr Anderson himself, there were too many contradictions to make her feel anything but dizzy with confusion.

"Of course they are for ye," Mrs Macready said impatiently, setting the little posy in its vase on the windowsill for Clara to look at. "And I tell ye this much, I never knew Hamilton Anderson to bring any lass flowers afore now. Reckon he's sweet on ye."

"Mrs Macready!" Clara said in shock, too aware that the least encouragement would tempt her down a path she could not afford to take. "You cannot believe that … that unrepentant rogue has anything serious in mind. I beg you will not say such things."

Besides which, Clara knew why he had really sent her flowers. It did not take vast intelligence to work out his motives. He felt guilty for kissing her. He knew right from wrong, after all, and despite her jealous musings, she suspected he did not make a habit of taking advantage of innocent girls. No doubt the day he had carried her home, he'd been looking for her so he could apologise. The flowers were merely that, the apology he'd not been able to give her in person.

"As ye like," Mrs Macready said with a shrug. "But I stand by what I said."

Mrs Macready went out, leaving Clara staring at the daisies. In the language of flowers, daisies represented innocence and purity, she reminded herself. Yet stubbornly, her mind refused to latch on to that meaning, preferring instead to consider the other connotation attached to them—the sender's promise to keep a secret.

23 rd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"It looks very well," Angus said, looking around the Fishermen's Retreat with interest. Work was coming on apace and the building looked less like it was about to fall down and more like it might one day be habitable.

"Aye," Hamilton said as they stood in what would one day be the best room. It was the largest and looked out over the town with the faint glimmer of the sea visible behind the rooflines before them. It also looked towards the vicarage. Clara Halliday was standing on the front doorstep speaking to Miss Fiona Grant and Arran Ross. Fiona was only eighteen and Arran not yet twenty, but they had grown up together and the entire world of Wick knew they would marry the moment her da gave his consent. It looked like the happy day had come at last, for the two of them were holding hands and beaming at each other with daft expressions on their faces.

"Ah, Mr Grant finally gave in, I see," Angus said with a chuckle, coming to stand beside Hamilton.

"Aye," Hamilton replied, aware that his gaze had not lingered on the happy couple for above a moment, unwillingly drawn instead to watch Clara Halliday. He drank in the sight of her, noting the pink tinge to her porcelain skin that showed she had recovered her health. Her hair shone even in the overcast daylight, pulled back from her beautiful face in a simple knot, the colour of deep mahogany with flecks of bronze. He knew her eyes were as grey as the sky overhead and could flash like lightning when she was vexed by him. Despite knowing better, he focused on the outline of her lovely figure as Fiona and Arran walked away and she waved them off. Her tiny waist seemed narrower than before, he thought, and instead of admiring how slender she was, could only feel a stab of anxiety that she might have lost weight.

"I hear Miss Halliday has made an excellent recovery," Angus said, a little too nonchalantly.

Hamilton glanced at him, suspicion stirring, but Angus was inspecting the newly fitted ironmongery on the bedroom door, all handmade by a local blacksmith. He'd ensured all the trades and supplies were local, giving the work to those who lived in Wick or its environs being important to him.

"Have ye decided if ye are coming to dinner with us tonight?" Angus went on, before Hamilton could think of a suitable reply.

Hamilton frowned, reaching for his pocket watch and irritated as he remembered that Moyra still had it. He'd not seen her in an age and guilt stirred as he remembered why. He really ought to visit her, to explain that things were over between them, but work had been so busy, and his mind so preoccupied, that somehow it never happened.

The dinner party would by no means be a grand affair. Angus and Mary entertained friends once or twice a month, just a handful of people and it was always good craic and good food. Usually, Hamilton would not think twice about accepting. This time he'd hesitated, uncertain if he could bring himself to be entertaining, for people expected him to be the life and soul, which he usually was. Just at the moment, however, he was feeling a little out of sorts for reasons he could not put his finger on. Perhaps it was simply guilt over not visiting Moyra and telling her the truth of why he'd been avoiding her, a situation she had remarked when he had seen her out and about in Wick the day before. She had even suggested, in her blunt and rather forthright manner, that he'd lost interest in her because he had other fish to fry.

Hamilton had rejected the accusation before he'd really considered it, and it had only been later that he'd fretted about it, wondering if Moyra had seen something in him he had not wanted to face.

"My brother will be there, I'm afraid," Angus went on, which was reason enough to give it a miss. "Though he's under no illusion that it will be the last time if he misbehaves. Mr Fraser and Miss Fleming are also invited, as well as Harold Barker and Mrs Scott."

Christ. Moyra was going too? Then he definitely wouldn't go. At least it meant no one outside of Mrs Macready had guessed about his affair with her, or else Mary would have heard it from her mother, who was the biggest nashgab in the town and couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it.

"I dinnae think—" he began, just as Angus added,

"And Miss Halliday."

Hamilton froze. "Clara Halliday?" he said stupidly, as if there were another such in Wick. Clara Halliday in the same room as Malcolm Stewart and Moyra Scott. His blood chilled in his veins.

"Aye, her and Mary have become great friends, and Mary promised to introduce her to people. What with Mrs Scott knowing everyone and being at the centre of much of the social scene in Wick, she thought she'd introduce them. Mind, it took a vast amount of persuading with her father, what with me working for ye and the reverend not liking that one bit. But I'll give Mary her due, she's a hard woman to say no to. I hear she got Mrs Cameron on to the fellow as well, telling him a young woman needed to get out and about in society. It seems Mrs Cameron has a fair bit of influence with our reverend these days," he added with a grin. "Ye ought to encourage that, I reckon."

Hamilton paid little heed to this, too consumed with worries about Clara and Angus' vile brother. "I thought ye had more sense than to have Malcolm and Miss Halliday in the same room," Hamilton growled, trying to keep a lid on something that felt very much like panic. "And I cannae believe her da would let her attend if he knew I was there."

"It wasn't my doing," Angus said with a shrug. "Mary invited Miss Halliday without telling me, and so when Malcolm asked if he could come, I said yes. Lord, Mary was furious with me, for it means we've odd numbers now as she cannot find another single lady, but I could hardly uninvite him, and even my brother won't be an idiot in company. It's not like there will be an opportunity for him to be alone with her. I'll make sure she gets home safe too, so don't worry. At least if you don't come, the numbers will be even again and I need not fear the reverend finding out," Angus mused thoughtfully, blithely unaware he'd pitched Hamilton into a nightmare.

Don't worry? Holy God. As if her getting home safe was the only thing to fret about. Hamilton's heart gave an uneven thud, and he told himself to calm down. Moyra would say nothing about their affair at a dinner party. The idea was ludicrous, and no one had the slightest idea of his interest in Clara. He had no interest in Clara past the fact he was a healthy male with the usual appreciation such a creature had for a beautiful woman. Yet there was a fizzing sensation under his skin, tension thrumming through him as something like foreboding clouded his brain.

He couldn't go, he decided. If he went, he'd be on alert and one or the other of them would think it odd. His mother and his sister seemed to have some God-given instinct that told them when he or one of his brothers was hiding something, and he saw no reason this feminine attribute ought to have missed Clara Halliday. Moyra certainly had it, for she knew his attention was waning and suspected him of hiding his interest in another.

Well, he needed to put her straight in any case. Whether or not she believed there was nothing between him and Clara she deserved to hear from him that their affair was over. Perhaps he could do it later tonight, after the dinner. He let out a breath of relief at having made the decision, and then considered the question from the other direction. What if Clara found out about his affair with Moyra?

"Aye, I'll come," he blurted, before he could think better of it.

"Excellent," Angus replied, slapping him on the back. "We'll see you at seven-thirty, then. Don't be late." Hamilton swallowed, suddenly viewing the coming evening with all the pleasure of a man climbing the scaffold where a noose awaited him.

"Thank you so much for inviting me," Clara said as Angus Stewart took her cloak. "And thank you, Mr Fraser, for escorting me here. It was so kind of you and you were so patient with Papa, too. I'm sorry he lectured you so sternly when it was barely a few minutes' walk."

"My pleasure, my dear. Think nothing of it," Mr Fraser said cheerfully, his kind face growing round as he grinned at them. "Oh, something smells good! Mary, what are we having?" he asked, sniffing with appreciation as he walked further into the house.

"Wait and see," Mary said cheerfully, hurrying past him to greet Clara. She was a petite woman with comfortable curves, jet-black hair, and an apparently boundless energy for friends and family. "Clara! Oh, love… you look perfectly stunning."

Clara laughed at the extravagant praise, quite certain it was merely her friend's good nature that saw beauty in all things. "Mary, if you pour the butter boat over me, I'll have no room for your marvellous dinner."

"Mary's right," Angus said frankly as he handed her cloak to their maid. "I'll not say ye are the loveliest sight I ever saw, for my Mary has that privilege, but ye look as fine as fivepence. Far too lovely for such an informal affair. You should be attending some grand dinner in town somewhere."

"Hush, both of you," Clara protested. "You will put me to the blush, and this is my very best dress, so it's only that you are unused to seeing me in such finery," she added, certain that the deep blue silk gown, which was rather fine and beautifully, if simply, tailored, ought to take the credit.

"Well, we shall see what our guests make of you, and then you may eat your words," Mary said firmly, taking her by the arm and guiding her into the parlour where the guests were chatting, drinks in hand. "Now then, of course, Mr Fraser, you have already greeted this evening, and you know Angus's brother."

Clara smiled at Mr Fraser and gave Malcolm Stewart a coolly polite nod, ignoring the way his gaze travelled over her and determined to stay as far out of his way as was possible in a small room.

"This gentleman is Harold Barker, our bank manager in Wick."

Harold was a broad-shouldered man of medium height and ruddy good looks. He did not look like a man who spent all his days in an office and gave Clara the impression of an outdoorsy, virile fellow who disliked sitting still. At Mary's introduction, he pulled a face.

"Ach, Mary, love. Don't be giving a poor fellow such a dull introduction, the poor lassie will run a mile."

Mary laughed and patted his arm. "Not if she has any sense, she won't. Clara, don't let this naughty man tease you and don't go thinking he's dull and stuffy, for you'll be sadly mistaken."

Mr Barker grinned at this sally, making Clara smile too as Mary carried on around the room.

"Of course, Miss Fleming needs no introduction," Mary added, as Miss Fleming gave a coquettish curtsey, which made Clara smile.

"How lovely you look, Miss Fleming," she said truthfully, thinking that the young woman's rather dashing and fashionable gown of bright green trimmed with black lace quite outshone her own sedate outfit. "You make me feel perfectly dowdy in comparison."

"Oh, I think not."

Clara turned to see a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty years of age, with rich guinea-gold hair arranged in a stylish coiffure and wearing a magnificent gown of deep burgundy red. She regarded Clara with obvious interest. Her voice was warm and melodious and her manner friendly as Mary introduced them.

"Moyra, my dear, this is Miss Clara Halliday, whom I've told you so much about. Now tell me, isn't she every bit as beautiful as I said she was?"

"You hardly did her justice, Mary," the woman replied, with apparent sincerity.

"Clara, please meet my dear friend, Mrs Moyra Scott," Mary said with obvious pride as she made the introductions. "Moyra knows everybody and everything and is just the person to guide you, for she is far too sophisticated for our little town, so we all look to her."

"Stuff," Moyra said frankly, making Clara smile. "You are a deal too generous with your praise, love, though I appreciate the sentiment. Miss Halliday, I should be delighted if you wish to call on me so I might make some appropriate introductions. Society in Wick is rather limited, I'm afraid, but there are one or two families who will be excellent connections for you."

"You're very kind, Mrs Scott. I should be pleased—"

"Sorry I'm late." The deep voice cut through the murmur of voices and made all the tiny hairs on the back of Clara's neck stand on end. She turned, watching in mute dismay as Hamilton Anderson strode into the room. Lud . If her father found out he was here, there would be the most terrible scene. What had Mary been thinking of inviting him when she was here, too? Oh, if she had only known he was coming, she would never have accepted the invitation, she thought crossly, becoming increasingly vexed as she realised that was a blatant lie. Of course she would have come.

His arrival seemed in some subtle way to galvanise everyone. Angus and Mr Fraser beamed, clearly delighted to see him. Mr Barker regarded him with something that looked like amused resignation, and Malcolm Stewart did little to hide his obvious animosity. The effect on the women was no less marked. Miss Fleming exclaimed with delight, going at once to greet him with a proprietary air which made Clara want to blush for the girl. Mary's greeting was warm and full of genuine affection, and Mrs Scott… Clara studied her with interest, noting the way she did not look at Mr Anderson at all. That seemed a little odd. Clara envied her the ability to ignore him, however, for she could not do so. Her eyes drank in the sight of him, her heart lifting, because her heart was an idiot who didn't know what was good for it.

Mr Anderson looked around the room and their eyes met. Clara felt the connection like a jolt of electricity, a shock that made her skin prickle with awareness. It lasted barely a moment, for he looked away again, and Clara gathered herself, smiling warmly at Mr Barker as he came to stand beside her. He was older than her, perhaps forty years of age, but with such an air of vitality about him that he seemed younger.

"You have not been here long, I think, Miss Halliday. How are you finding our little town?"

"Not very long, no. Since the beginning of May, so not quite two months, I suppose, and I like it very well indeed."

"You surprise me. Most English ladies find the weather a trial and the lack of amusements tedious, I fear."

"Then they were poor-spirited creatures to be sure, for it is most invigorating to live so close to the sea. When the sun shines upon Wick, it seems brighter than I have ever seen it before, especially the way it glitters on the sea, like diamonds."

"Why, Miss Halliday, that is most poetic, though I confess it pleases me to discover such an elegant young woman so enchanted by the landscape, which one must allow is dramatic rather than pretty."

"Certainly it is," Clara said, happy to agree with this description. "Quite breathtaking, in fact."

"And you are not repining for the amusements of a grand town like London?" he pressed with a smile.

Clara shook her head, accepting a glass of lemonade from the maid who brought it to her. "I have never been to London, sir, so it would be foolish to languish over something I have never known."

"Never been to London?" Mrs Scott cut in, having overheard their conversation, a glass of champagne held delicately in her gloved hand. "My dear girl, but you must go. A beauty of your quality would be a tremendous success. Do you not think so, Mr Anderson?"

Clara felt a betraying rush of heat to her cheeks as Mr Anderson joined their circle and she studied the patterned Turkey carpet beneath her feet with apparent fascination.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs Scott, what was the question?" he asked politely.

"I said that Miss Halliday ought to go to London. It is a crime, surely, for such a beautiful creature not to be given a season."

Mr Barker cut in before Mr Anderson could give his opinion. "How cruel you are, Mrs Scott, when I hear rumours that both you and Miss Fleming intend to leave us again in a few weeks. Would you deprive us of all our feminine companionship? Poor Mary will be besieged."

Mrs Scott laughed at this sally, but turned to Mr Anderson once more, apparently determined to have an answer.

"I'm sure Miss Halliday will do as her father bids her," he said, neatly avoiding the question. "Does the reverend have such plans for you?" he asked her.

"No, sir. My father has made no plans," Clara replied, wishing she could say otherwise. It must be nice for Miss Fleming to know she had options. Likely these men gathered here were the most eligible in Wick, for she knew Mary had made it her mission to find Clara a husband. The thought was rather unsettling. Mr Fraser, Harold Barker, Malcolm Stewart, and Hamilton Anderson. One of them might one day call her wife. The thought made colour rush to her face once more.

"Lord, but she's such an innocent child. Look at that blush," Mrs Scott murmured in an undertone to Mary as she gazed at Clara.

There was something in her eyes that made Clara feel horribly gauche.

"Mrs Macready told me you have been unwell," Mr Anderson said quickly, diverting attention and directing the conversation elsewhere.

Clara looked at him gratefully, knowing he was well aware of her illness.

"Only a cold, sir, but I thank you for your concern. I am quite recovered, I assure you."

"I had it too," Miss Fleming cut in, sliding her arm through Clara's. "It was quite dreadful. I thought I would die of it, and indeed the doctor was most concerned, for I have a delicate constitution, you see. He fretted that my lungs would be damaged, and the cough was so fatiguing I feared I should fall asleep and never wake again," she added with a sigh. "As it was, I've missed weeks of the season, which is so unfair I could weep."

Clara noted both Mr Anderson and Mr Fraser looking at Miss Fleming with undisguised amusement, and quickly cut in.

"Indeed, you were most poorly, far more than I," Clara said soothingly. "My constitution is more akin to that of an ox, so I was never in any danger."

"Ye would have been in less if ye had nae been waiting on Miss Fleming when ye knew she was ailing," Mr Andersons said sharply, making Clara start, for there was a distinct note of censure behind the words. She saw the moment when he realised too late what he'd said, but quickly recovered himself. "So Mrs Macready tells me."

"You call on Mrs Macready with surprising regularity," Malcolm Stewart remarked casually. "Is she a relation of yours?"

"Nae directly, but she is cousin to Mrs Baillie, who was like a second mother to me when I was a bairn at Wildsyde," Mr Anderson replied, holding Mr Stewart's gaze.

"Ah, I see," Mr Stewart said, a thin smile at his lips. "That must be why you were so often at the vicarage. I wondered if perhaps you had found God."

"God kens where I am well enough without me looking for him," Mr Anderson replied sharply. "And I look in on Mrs Macready as a favour to a woman who is dear to me."

"Indeed, and it shows what a kind heart you have, Mr Anderson," Miss Fleming said with approval. "And I do not know what business it is of yours, Mr Stewart," she added, glaring at the man.

"Oh, none at all," Mr Stewart replied easily, his eyes glinting with malice. "Only one makes connections and sometimes wonders at them."

Clara stared at him in mute horror, desperately aware that he was trying to make trouble for Mr Anderson, and apparently not caring in the least that he might ruin Clara if anyone picked up on his implications. Happily, Miss Fleming seemed oblivious, and Mr Fraser and Mr Barker were regarding Mr Stewart with expressions that were carefully blank, though their contempt was obvious.

Only Mrs Scott was silent, studying Mr Hamilton with a thoughtful gaze. Mr Hamilton regarded her steadily as he asked, "Is it true you are leaving for London, Mrs Scott?"

"Miss Fleming's father was kind enough to invite me to accompany her when she goes," Mrs Scott replied, taking a sip of her champagne. "I had not quite decided if I ought, but now I think I shall accept his kind offer."

"You will?" Miss Fleming said with a crow of pleasure. "How lovely! What a merry party we shall be! Oh, if only you could come too, Clara. Poor you being left behind when we go to have such an exciting time."

"I shall be quite content, I'm afraid I am not at all used to grand parties and society and would only embarrass myself," Clara said with a reassuring smile, hoping to avoid some scheme where Miss Fleming tried to invite her too. Her father would never allow it and would likely offend Mr Fleming with the force of his refusal.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Miss Fleming replied, and with such candour, Clara struggled to hide her amusement, especially when she saw the glint in Mr Anderson's eyes. His lips quirked as their gazes met and Clara forced herself to look away.

"Don't pretend you do not know how to comport yourself as a lady, Miss Halliday, when we can all see such a delightful creature before our eyes," Mr Barker said with a smile. "I for one am relieved you are not to leave us poor gentlemen to sink into despondency with all our beauties lured away by the delights of town. You must keep our spirits up, you know, but there is no doubt that you would set that great city on its ear."

"And that, my dears, is why I shall leave," Mrs Scott said with a short laugh. "A widow grows terribly tired of her own company, but with such competition here, I see I would be quite overlooked, and I would do better to seek companionship in a larger pool."

"But I'm coming with you," Miss Fleming said with alarming naivety.

"So you are, my dear, forgive me," Mrs Scott said kindly. "Ah, and there is the dinner gong. Mr Anderson, would you be a dear and escort an elderly widow lady to her seat, please?"

Mr Anderson agreed, and Mr Barker was quick to offer his arm to Clara, and so the party filed into the dining room, with Mr Fraser escorting Miss Fleming, and Malcolm Stewart following alone.