Chapter 4

Hamilton,

Will I see you tonight? You are always so busy of late, I fear you have forgotten me. Is there someone else? Come to me, darling. I am tired and bored and need you to cheer me up.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Moyra Scott to The Hon'ble Hamilton Anderson.

8 th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"Look, Mrs Macready, that's my name," Jimmy said, holding up the piece of paper he'd been practising on.

"So it is! Ye are a clever laddie," the lady said with approval. "What else can ye write?"

Clara watched with pride as Jimmy ducked his head, carefully forming the letters of the simple words she had taught him over the past week. Mrs Macready had found him some clean clothes that her daughter-in-law had been about to donate to the church, and he looked very well in them. Though it had taken some persuading, Jimmy had also given in to the need to wash himself daily, though he still thought a bath once a week was an excessive punishment. Regular meals had already taken some of the gaunt, hollowed out look from his face and he looked pink-cheeked and healthy in the kitchen's warmth.

They both applauded and exclaimed over the surprisingly neat handwriting that Jimmy showed them, and Clara decided she'd not mention the back-to-front d on dog just now for he looked so pleased with himself. Clara set him to the task of illustrating the words he'd written and got to her feet, leaving the table to help Mrs Macready.

"I heard the reverend shouting this morning," Mrs Macready said in an undertone as Clara fetched the tray to lay out the meal being prepared for her father's lunch.

He was working on Sunday's sermon, and it did not seem to be going well, for he had asked for his lunch to be brought to the study.

"I know," Clara said with a sigh. "Please don't mind it. I'm afraid all the builders coming and going and the noise from the work over the road is making him rather tetchy."

That was an understatement. Though her father was prone to fits of ill temper, she had known nothing to get under his skin the way the renovation of the public house opposite was doing. He truly seemed to believe it was being done to spite him, that the devil was waving a red flag at him, goading him for the fun of it. He'd had several run-ins with the builders already, and Clara feared what might happen if the owner of the dreadful place ever dared show his face here.

"Aye, when I took him his tea this morning, I tried to suggest that it maybe wasnae a bad thing that place was being improved, that perhaps the clientele might be a wee bit more respectable than before. It wasnae well received," Mrs Macready said ruefully.

"Oh dear. I'm so sorry. I do hope he wasn't dreadfully rude to you," Clara said, horrified that her father might have insulted the poor lady.

"Ach, I am nae so feeble as to wither in the face of a few harsh words," Mrs Macready said stoutly. "But I cannae help but think it is nae good for him to get himself up tae high doh like that."

"I'm sure you are right," Clara said with a sigh. "I'll speak to him and see if I can't make him see sense. Here, give me the tray and I'll take it up."

Mrs Macready looked so relieved by this that Clara's worst fears were confirmed. The last thing she needed was to lose such a wonderful housekeeper, not to mention her only friend and ally. She must speak to her father about his rudeness before things got out of hand.

Hefting the tray, Clara carried it carefully up the stairs, setting it down to open her father's study door, before taking it inside to him.

"Here you are, Papa. Mrs Macready had made a splendid lunch for you, not that you deserve it after being so rude to her."

Her father set down his pen with such a clatter it splattered ink over the page he'd been working on. Scowling at it and then at Clara, she realised he was in no state to listen to anything she had to say. She would have to keep her mouth shut and wait until he was in a more receptive mood. If she kept on, she would only provoke him into sermonising at her and she did not think she could stomach that. He was not the kind of man who could endure an argument, or an exchange of ideas. If she had the audacity to disagree with him, he would just shout her down, not giving her the chance to speak or explain. Unbidden, the handsome face of the aggravating devil she had met at the school some days earlier came back to her and she smiled. He, at least, had not thought it wrong of her to speak her mind. Not that she was about to take such an ill-mannered fellow as that as a model for good behaviour, she told herself hastily and put him out of her mind again.

She had put him out of her mind several times since that day, but somehow, he always crept back in again. Vexing, odious man.

"I do not need you, Clara, to comment upon my behaviour when you have no notion of what you speak. Mrs Macready was ill-informed and is clearly prone to being led into wickedness by a lackadaisical and too tolerant view of the dreadful behaviour that is far too common in this godforsaken town."

"Surely it cannot be godforsaken, Papa. You are here," Clara said, counselling herself not to let her father goad her into losing her temper. "And I cannot agree that Mrs Macready is in any way lackadaisical."

"Really? I only hope her housekeeping is better than her moral judgement, for where one is lacking, surely the other must—"

"Your steak and kidney pie is getting cold," Clara said, strongly tempted to tell him to get his own lunch if Mrs Macready's efforts were not to his liking.

"Oh."

Clara watched dispassionately as her father quickly cleared a space on his desk so she could set the tray down in front of him. The aroma was quite delicious, and Clara had been looking forward to her own serving. Now she was so annoyed and out of sorts, she felt certain it would stick in her throat. "Bon appétit," she said, forcing herself to smile at him before she left the room.

She closed the door and let out a breath. That he believed kindly Mrs Macready was the one who needed moral guidance was one that made her question how, or more importantly why , her father had ever taken holy orders. Of course she knew the reason. As the third son, his choice had been the law or the church. When she was at her most uncharitable—now, for instance—she suspected her father had chosen the church because law had seemed rather too much like hard work. It was certainly not because he'd been called by God. Indeed, she sometimes wondered if her father actually believed in God, or if he really paid attention to the words he repeated by rote from the Bible. Love thy neighbour , for example, was one he seemed to be having a good deal of trouble with.

Frustrated by the situation, Clara went to the front door and stepped outside. She was not wearing a coat or hat and had no intention of leaving the premises, but she needed a breath of fresh air. Leaning against the front door, she looked across the street to where the sound of hammering and cheery whistling was coming from the open windows. The Fisherman's Retreat was a large building and a handsome one, though clearly in a state of some disrepair. The rotten windows had already been removed and several new ones put back in. To Clara, it looked a little as if the building was being woken up after many years asleep. The windows glinted like bright eyes, viewing this new stage in its life with interest and approval.

Clara tried to see the property from her father's point of view. Vast quantities of liquor were consumed in this town every day, and here was another public house, ready to supply the men with yet more whisky to throw down their necks. As she understood it, the fishermen were the worst culprits. The herring trade was booming and, when the men got paid, it was done in the taverns, as there was nowhere comfortable for such dealings by the harbour. So there they were, with their earnings in hand and temptation right before them. How much of that money ever got back to their wives and children, she wondered. She knew the men's lives were hard and dangerous at sea, and it was not surprising they needed to let off steam when back on dry land, but not at the expense of those who depended on them, surely? Yet if her father had made friends with the owner, if he tried to get to know and understand those men who lost themselves in drink, if he tried to extend a hand to them instead of lecturing them with such a lack of empathy… surely that would reap more rewards?

She could almost hear Mrs Macready murmuring ‘more flies with honey than vinegar,' and wondered if a similar sentiment was one she had spoken aloud. If so, Clara could well imagine her father's reaction to it. He certainly preferred the fire-and-brimstone approach to leading his flock. Clara had seen often enough the expressions on some of those churchgoers faces after he'd been in a particularly vile mood, for his disposition certainly influenced his sermons.

Sometimes it had been all she could do not to go to some white-faced new mother or a sensitive boy and tell them not to listen to his harsh words and fear they were destined to burn in hell, not to take his judgemental views to heart, for her father was just a man like any other, flawed and full of opinions he did not need to share with the world but felt obliged to do so. Sometimes she was so constricted by the desperate desire to act, to speak up, she felt as though she were caught in a vice.

Yet, if she spoke, his attention would fall upon her, and she could not escape his ill temper once the sermon was over. On the occasions when she defied or challenged him, once he had grown tired of his own voice in proving to her why it was she was wrong—without ever listening to anything she had to say —she was treated to days of sulking, clipped answers to any questions she posed, and the house became so thick with tension that she feared it might smother her. Clara was honest enough to admit she was too cowardly to face that more often than she did already, too afraid to fight everyone else's battles for them as well as her own.

The afternoon was bright, though there was a swift chill wind blowing in off the sea, but Clara relished it, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as if they might cleanse her of the frustrated anger that simmered beneath her skin. She was so tired of this feeling of impotence, of never being able to act, to speak her mind. Once more, the wicked fellow at the school appeared in her mind's eye, provoking her and urging her to row with him. Never in her life had she met such a man. Though she had little experience with the opposite sex, they had all seemed as one in valuing a woman who was demure and softly spoken, who dropped her gaze if asked a direct question, who had no opinions past agreeing with the gentleman beside her.

Clara sighed and walked to the large camellia bush that filled most of the tiny entrance before the house. Gaudy red flowers were blooming there, exotic and bold in the environs of a town like Wick. Clara reached for one, stroking the silken petals gently.

"I always loved camellias, but ye cast the poor wee flowers in the shade, Miss Halliday."

Jolting, Clara dropped her hand as the deep voice startled her back to her senses. As if she'd conjured him with her thoughts just a moment before, the dreadful man from the school stood staring at her. This time at least he was neatly turned out—and fully dressed—his thick hair brushed into some kind of order, though the wind tugged at it playfully.

To her dismay, Clara could not think of a single retort to this, and it took her a moment to decide if the remark flattered or annoyed her. Both, she admitted ruefully, staring at the handsome stranger before darting a nervous glance at her father's study window. She thought they were just out of sight here, if he was still at his desk.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, intending the question to be tart and regretting the breathless way it sounded.

"Just passing by," he said, leaning against the railing that divided their tiny front garden from the street. "And what are ye doing here, staring at the flowers with such a dejected expression? Has someone upset ye, lassie? Do ye need me to thump someone for ye?"

Clara was so shocked and startled by this offer that she gave a choked laugh. "Indeed, I do not!" she replied, gazing at him in wonder. Would he really do such a thing for her if she asked it of him?

His lips quirked in a smile at her obvious outrage, but the smile dimmed, and he looked at her again. "But ye are out of sorts, I think? Is there aught amiss? I imagine it's hard to settle into a new place where ye have nae kin about ye?"

Clara frowned a little. She could hardly tell a complete stranger her troubles, though there was a warm, inviting glint in his eyes that made her believe he would listen if she were foolish enough to do such a dreadful thing. It was far harder than she could have guessed to hold her tongue.

His gaze remained on her, studying her with an intensity that made her stomach feel rather odd, all fluttery and uncertain.

"I reckon being the daughter of a vicar is nae an easy job either. Do ye ever get to laugh, Miss Halliday? Do ye dance and sing and get out to parties now and then?"

Clara bit her lip, knowing she should tell him not to be so impudent, for it was none of his business. But there was genuine interest in his eyes that teased away her usual reserve, inviting her to confide in him when she knew very well she ought not. "I sing in church," she said with a soft huff of laughter. "And… And sometimes in the kitchen, if there's no one around."

"And what about laughter and dancing?" he asked, his voice soft now, cajoling as he leaned on the railing. Without realising she was doing so, Clara leaned closer to him, her head inclined towards him in a manner that made their conversation seem intimate. Though she knew it was wrong, she was quite unable to make herself step back.

"I laugh," she said, a little defiantly. "I laugh with Mrs Macready."

"Ach, well, there's a lady born for laughter. She's a great gun, is Mrs Macready, a fine cook too, aye? Ye eat well, I reckon."

"We do," Clara replied, out of reason charmed by his approval of her only friend.

"And do ye dance?"

Clara shook her head.

"Not even in the kitchen when no one is by?" he teased softly. "Holding a broom in ye arms and dreaming of Prince Charming, aye?"

"Certainly not," she replied, blushing at the very idea.

"Does the reverend nae approve of dancing?" The question was grave, as if such a thing would be a terrible sin in his book. He looked so earnestly disapproving it chased away the wicked irreverence of his previous behaviour and made him seem a sensible man, one that would be a kind friend if she let him.

Clara considered this. "It's not that he disapproves of dancing exactly, he… he just doesn't like me dancing."

"Why?" he asked baldly, clearly perplexed by this reply. Clara heartily wished she had not told him what she had. She could not for the life of her understand why she had spoken so frankly. There was something about the man that invited you to tell him secrets, to put your trust in him, which was undoubtedly the stupidest thing a woman could do. There was something a little piratical about him, something wild and untameable, something she would do well to keep far away from.

"Ye are wool gathering, Miss Halliday," he chided her, a rueful curve to his lips. "Which is nae very flattering when I am giving ye my undivided attention."

Clara avoided his gaze. "I beg your pardon. I ought never… I should not be speaking to you," she said helplessly, glancing back at the study window again.

He noticed the glance and frowned a little, serious once more. "He wouldnae like it, I reckon?"

"Indeed, he would not," she said, laughing at that understatement.

"I hear he doesnae like a good deal about our town. The builders have been made to feel like they are working for Satan himself, so I'm told."

"He is most upset about the renovations to the Fisherman's Retreat," Clara agreed. "He is determined to stop the excessive drinking in the town, and so the renovation of a public house on his very doorstep has been seen as something of a challenge, I fear."

"Wants to stop it, does he?"

Clara nodded, wondering if this man was involved with the project himself.

"I'd like to see him try," he said with a snort.

"Oh, I'm afraid you will. There's no question of that," Clara said ruefully. "And you are quite correct, he believes the owner, Mr Hamilton Anderson, is Satan made flesh. He intends to make him repent his sins or run him from the town."

The man's eyes widened at that, and he made a choked sound which he turned into a cough, but she suspected the idea amused him as much as it had Mrs Macready.

"Does he, then?" he replied, rubbing his hand over his mouth. "Well, I'm afraid he's in for a wee bit of a disappointment. There's nothing that will stop the work, and Mr Anderson will open his business the moment it is ready. He's going nowhere."

"Oh," Clara said in dismay. "Do you know Mr Anderson well?"

"Aye, lassie," he said, chuckling. "Very well."

Clara gazed at him, a slight shiver running over her skin at the way he rolled the ‘r' in ‘very.' His eyes glinted in the sunlight, shimmering bronze and copper catching her attention. Realising she was staring, Clara forced herself to look away.

"What kind of man is he?" she asked curiously. "I asked Mrs Macready, and she seemed to like him, though she told me I ought to stay away from him. He's… He's got a way with the ladies, I believe?"

"Has he now?" the man replied, his eyes twinkling. "Well, he is a handsome fellow, ye ken."

"That's what Mrs Macready said," Clara replied, frowning. "Though she gave me the impression it was his voice that charmed people." She almost added that mellow honey had been the description and that it made a woman feel as if she were the only one in the world, but that would have been a breach of confidence, so she held her tongue.

He leaned closer, the faint scent of something warm and spicy reaching Clara's senses, making her want to lean closer herself so she might breathe it in. "Perhaps ye are the only woman in the world. If the fellow has the least bit of sense, he might well notice that about ye," he said easily.

A little too easily, Clara thought, though his words still made her heart thud rather too quickly. Forcing herself to straighten and get the conversation back on track, she tried to sound businesslike, though she felt rather odd, somewhat flustered and not quite sure of herself.

"Well, if you know the gentleman well, perhaps you could ask him if… if he would try to find a way to make peace with my father before things get confrontational."

"Do ye reckon that's possible?" he asked with interest. "In my experience, a fellow who has taken another in such deep dislike before he's even met him is nae in a reasonable state of mind."

Clara sighed, seeing the sense in this at once. She shook her head. "No. I don't suppose it is possible. Only it seems that Mr Anderson is a very popular man, and a powerful one. I should dearly love for them to come to terms. I like it here, you see, and I've not yet had the chance to make any friends and… and good heavens, why on earth am I telling you all this?" she demanded, blushing as she realised how terribly indiscreet she was being.

"Because ye like it here, and ye have nae had the chance to make a friend, except for Mrs Macready. And for me," he added gently.

"You, sir, are not my friend," she said, forcing herself to put some distance between them, to dispel the feeling of intimacy, of having found a confidant that had been growing out of all proportion. She might not have any experience with men, but surely, she knew better than to allow herself to be so easily beguiled.

"Aye, lassie, I am," he said, straightening. "Whether or nae ye are mine. If ye have need of me, ye need only ask, ye ken. I'll come running if ye call me."

"How can I? I don't even know your name," Clara retorted, folding her arms, though the thought that she could call on him if she were in need was strangely comforting.

Before he could reply, the front door opened, and Mrs Macready stuck her head out. "Well, bless me. Here ye are! I've been looking for ye all over the house. There'll be nae pie left for ye to eat if ye dinnae come soon, for Jimmy is outdoing himself. Oh! Mr Anderson, I beg yer pardon, sir. I did nae notice ye for a moment."

Clara gasped at the sound of his name, turning to stare accusingly at the devil who had failed to introduce himself to her properly. For good reason, it seemed. "Mr Anderson?" she repeated, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice, though in truth she was mortified rather than angry.

Oh, that would teach her to speak so unreservedly. What a fool she was for not realising at once.

He only smiled at her, a teasing note to his voice as he said just loud enough for her to hear. "Aye, lassie, the devil himself."

Too embarrassed and ashamed of herself to say another word, Clara turned away to hide her blushes and hurried back into the house.

"Oh, dear," Mrs Macready said, stepping aside as Clara hurried past her. She turned back and narrowed her eyes at Hamilton. Pulling the front door gently closed, she crossed to the railings and wagged a finger at him. "What are ye up to, laddie? Why was Miss Halliday blushing scarlet, eh? I'll nae have ye using ye wiles and making the poor lassie fall head over ears for ye. Are there nae enough girls breaking their hearts for ye in this town?"

"Mrs Macready, ye make me sound like some kind of villain. A regular Casanova, and ye ken very well, that's nae true," Hamilton protested. "I'm never anything but friendly. 'Tis nae my fault they like the look of me, I swear it."

Though he felt a twinge of guilt as he reflected upon his conversation with Miss Halliday. He had teased her wickedly, and he had been flirting with her, which was not in the least bit sensible. Especially not as it seemed her father was ready to burn him at the stake for witchcraft or some such nonsense.

"Maybe aye, maybe no," Mrs Macready said, crossing her arms over her ample bosom and giving him a look that told him he'd have her to deal with if he trifled with Miss Halliday.

As he had not yet met the reverend, this was a far more concerning prospect.

"Ach, I wouldnae trifle with an innocent lassie. Ye ken me better than that." He held her gaze, watching as her pale blue eyes softened as he'd hoped they would.

"Aye. Reckon I do, but she's a lovely child with a kind heart. And she has a deal to put up with," she added darkly.

"He's nae a kindly da, I reckon," Hamilton said, jerking his chin in the direction of the study window.

Mrs Macready pursed her lips. "I'm nae a nashgab, ye ken."

Hamilton, who was well aware Mrs Macready could gossip with the best of them when the mood took her, nodded gravely. "Aye, I ken that very well, but I'm nae about to blether their business about the town. Just between ye and myself, aye?"

Mrs Macready considered him for a long moment, and then, as he had hoped, unburdened herself. "He's a regular bodach," she said in disgust. "I've nae had the keeping of them for much more than a week, but I ken the type well enough. He keeps that poor girl on a string, and I reckon he intends to keep her there, too. She's nae said as much, but I think he doesnae mean to let her marry."

"Not let her marry? A bonnie lassie like that?" Hamilton said in astonishment.

"I reckon," Mrs Macready said grimly. "She needs to get out of this house, and if ye ask me, she kens that very well. Which is why ye must nae play games with her. She's like to take it seriously, and what with the reverend considering ye are the devil made flesh—"

"Aye, aye, I hear ye," Hamilton said crossly. Damn the miserable ill-willie. He had enjoyed both his conversations with Miss Halliday very much, but he knew better than to dally with innocent girls.

Mrs Macready was right, he'd do well to keep everything businesslike between them. It would be hard, though, for there was something about the girl that made him want to tease her, to break through that serious exterior and make her smile. Perhaps it would be best if he stayed away entirely. He certainly had no wish to cross swords with some crabbit old vicar who he'd be forced to be polite to. There was no fun in facing an opponent you could not fight with fists or insults.

"Unless ye are serious about her, that is?" Mrs Macready added, a thoughtful glint in her eyes that made the hairs on the back of Hamilton's neck stand on end.

"Dinnae start ye matchmaking on me, Freya Macready," he told her, pulling himself up to his full height. She was a tiny woman that he could likely lift with one hand, but somehow she had the ability to make him feel like a snotty boy when she chose. "I've nae intention of wedding a vicar's chit, so ye can just take that look off ye face right this minute."

Mrs Macready shrugged, a smug tilt to her mouth that made Hamilton feel a little queasy. "I'll nae lift a finger, so long as ye behave yerself. But ye cannae be running around with the likes of Mrs Scott forever, can ye now?"

To his frustration, Hamilton felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Haud yer wheesht," he said, glancing around to be certain no one was by. "What do ye ken about her?" The smug look increased. "Only that she's yer mistress and has been this past three months or more. Ye dinnae think ye could keep something like that entirely quiet for long in a town like Wick, did ye?"

"Well, there's nae need to repeat it," he told her sternly. "Moyra is a good sort, a good friend, and if there's more to it than that, it's no one's business but our own, aye? We're both adults and she gets lonely now her husband's gone to his maker."

"Aye, and nae a moment too soon," Mrs Macready said sourly. "I dinnae begrudge the lady a bit of fun after living with that old miser, but there's plenty who would. Have a care, aye? Talk of that kind will do ye no favours, especially if the reverend is trying to stir up trouble for ye."

"Aye, ye are a wise woman, I ken very well. I'll think on it, aye?" he said, suddenly out of sorts and irritable and wanting to get as far from the vicarage as he could.

"I'll be seeing ye then," Mrs Macready said, straightening her immaculate apron and going back into the house. Hamilton glowered at the shiny black front door for a long moment before muttering a curse under his breath and stalking away.