Chapter 5

Dear Miss Halliday,

How glad I am to discover another young woman of quality in this dreadful town. I left my card with Mrs Macready yesterday morning, and if it pleases you, I should be delighted to call upon you again today at three pm.

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

18 th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"I'm afraid you must be terribly disappointed by our little town," Miss Fleming said with a sigh. "I cried when I came back from London." Clara smiled at the young lady's sincerity but shook her head. "I've been here such a short time I've not had the opportunity to see much of the town, but I confess I was impressed by how many dress shops and milliners there were. I'm afraid I'm something of a country mouse so I was delighted by the variety and quality of everything on offer."

Miss Fleming pulled a face. "It's hardly the kind of thing you see in the magazines, though, is it?" she said, smoothing her hand over the lovely royal blue gown she wore. It was obviously the height of fashion, and the lady wore it with a black and white cashmere shawl that gave Clara a most unwelcome stab of envy. "This came from Paris," she added, preening a little.

"Really?" Clara replied, impressed as she was supposed to be. "It must have been dreadfully expensive," she said wistfully, which was rather indelicate, but she was too curious not to ask.

"Oh, it was," Miss Fleming said with satisfaction. "But Papa says if I am to catch a husband of suitable standing, I must be properly outfitted. It's truly the only thing he and Mama ever agree about," she said with a tinkling laugh.

"Well, it is very beautiful. The shawl too," Clara said truthfully, a little dejected to consider what a dowd she must look in this lovely creature's presence. Miss Fleming was a delicate blonde with wide blue eyes and looked as fragile and sweet as a china doll. In contrast, Clara had heavy, unmanageable thick brown hair, grey eyes, and a figure that leaned towards the voluptuous. "Thank you. And your…" Miss Fleming hesitated, obviously thrown into confusion as she realised there was nothing she could compliment Clara upon.

Her dress was good quality but plain and a dull shade of green, for her father disapproved of bright colours. Taking pity on the poor girl's fiery cheeks and mortification, Clara hurriedly offered her another cup of tea.

"You were born in Wick, then?" she asked, hoping to move the conversation on.

"Oh, no. I was born in Hampshire. My mother's family are still there," she said, which explained the rather cut-glass English accent. "My father is Scottish, though, and his family's business is here. When my grandfather died, he forced us to return so he could be close at hand. I think my mother never forgave him that," she added with a brittle laugh. "I was twelve at the time. We've been here ever since, and I longed and longed for my first season. I was rather a success," she murmured, lowering her eyes modestly.

"I'm sure you must have been," Clara said frankly. "You are quite lovely. The gentlemen must have been buzzing around you like bees around a honey pot."

Miss Fleming blushed a little and grinned, her cheeks dimpling. "They were," she admitted. "It was quite marvellous. I'd never had such attention before, for there are so few eligible men here."

"There are some, though?" Clara asked, trying not to sound too curious to discover them.

"Oh, yes. But few."

It was on the tip of Clara's tongue to ask for names, but she controlled herself. The urge to ask if Mr Anderson was among them was even harder to resist, but she remained silent, hoping Miss Fleming might be a little more forthcoming. She had neither seen nor heard anything from the provoking man since she had discovered his true identity, and she was heartily glad of that fact. Another encounter could only be mortifying on her part, and she would not know whether to ignore him or berate him for teasing her so dreadfully.

Clara was to be disappointed if she wished for news of the wretched man, though, for Miss Fleming only launched into a description of her favourite beaus in London, of which there seemed to be a staggering number, when Clara heard her father's study door slam. Both ladies jolted, and Clara's heart dropped as the sound of the front door slamming quickly followed.

"Oh dear," she murmured, pushing to her feet and hurrying to the window to see her father accosting two burly builders who were carrying an immense piece of polished wood. Clara realised at a glance, this must be the bar top, and the sight of it had sent her father into a fury. "I beg you will forgive me, Miss Fleming, but I must leave you for just a moment."

Ignoring the young lady's look of incredulity, Clara ran from the room, finding Mrs Macready in the hallway, twisting her apron in her hands.

"Oh, I didnae ken whether or nae to fetch ye, Miss," she said wretchedly.

"I'll deal with it," Clara said firmly. "Only, please see to Miss Fleming, for I've abandoned her in a dreadfully ramshackle manner."

"At once, miss," Mrs Macready said, hurrying away.

Clara ran to the front door, snatching it open and then taking a moment to compose herself. She would be no good at diffusing the row if she was not calm.

Taking in the situation swiftly, she realised that the two men carrying the enormous worktop were straining under the weight of it. There was a backlog of carts carrying materials that had parked in front of the public house, and they'd been forced to carry the bar top quite a distance already. The thing was solid oak, three yards long and as thick as her arm. It clearly weighed a ton, and the two men were being impeded by her father berating them for going about their work. She could see their difficulty, for they did not dare put it down and risk scratching the gleaming, polished edge.

"I dinnae mean to be rude, Reverend, but ye must let us by ye afore we drop this," one man said breathlessly.

"It is God's will that the thing be cut up and used for divine purposes instead of an altar to the demon drink!" her father said, raising his fist and gazing at the sky above. "Father, forgive these wicked men, for they know not what they do."

"Oh, mercy me," Clara said helplessly, picking up her skirts and hurrying closer.

"It's just a work top," the other man protested, looking perplexed. "It's nae an altar of any kind. We dinnae sacrifice virgins in Wick, ye ken?"

"Papa!" Clara whispered urgently, taking her father's arm. "This kind of scene is unbecoming in a man of God. Surely, another tactic is called for."

"When they wave such instruments of the devil under my very nose?" her father raged. "Indeed, I have stayed silent long enough."

"Ye have nae been silent since the moment ye arrived," the first fellow said indignantly. "This is nae the first time ye have interfered with us, and we are just honest working men. I dinnae drink myself, ye ken, saving for a wee dram on special occasions, or if I'm feeling a bit chilled. I'm just earning my wages. Now, let us by, Reverend."

"I would be failing in my duty as the voice of God in this town if I did not make a stand and tell you that you have fallen. Ye are empty of the Christ, whosoever of you that justify yourselves by the law; ye are fallen from grace – Galatians five, verse four!"

"Papa!" Clara said, tugging at his arm. "Truly, this is not the way. Please let the men go about their work."

"Let go of me, child!" her father said urgently. "You do not understand that this is a war against evil, against the demon drink that has taken a hold of this town and—"

"And can I help ye, Reverend?" the cheerful voice cut through her father's rant and the relief on the men's faces was almost comical as Mr Anderson arrived on the scene.

"Who are you?" her father demanded suspiciously.

"I'm Hamilton Anderson, Reverend, and I'm pleased to make ye acquaintance at last. I hear we have riled ye up a wee bit. Jock, Hamish, what are ye doing standing about in the street carrying that? Get it inside now. Excuse me, Reverend, I wouldnae want ye to get crushed. 'Tis a heavy piece, that," Mr Anderson said, sounding most solicitous as he deftly manoeuvred her father from the road.

Her father was not a small man, but his bulk was mostly fat, and it was immediately clear that Mr Anderson could lift him from the men's path without breaking a sweat if he chose to do so. The reverend could do little other than bluster his indignation as Mr Anderson gently but firmly forced him from the road and the two men hefted the heavy piece of oak towards the building site.

"There, now. We can have a proper chat with them gone, aye?" Mr Anderson said cordially, though Clara saw the challenging glint in his eyes well enough.

"Sir! You are impudent. How dare you lay hands on a man of God?" the reverend demanded, glaring at Mr Anderson.

"I didnae lay hands on ye, only stopped ye getting yerself crushed by a heavy piece of wood. Jock and Hamish are fine strong lads, but they couldnae hold that piece forever, ye ken. At best, it would have flattened yer toes if they let it slip."

"Are you threatening me with violence, sir?"

Mr Anderson gave a choked laugh. "I am nae. I just told ye I got ye out the way afore ye were harmed. It's nae in my nature to go about beating up men of God, ye ken. Lord, big as I am, my ma would skelp me good if she heard I so much as raised my voice to ye. I promise ye are quite safe," he added with that charming grin that laid waste to so many ladies' sensibilities.

Clara told herself sternly that she was made of sterner stuff and was not among them.

With any other man, she did not doubt he could have cajoled them into a good-natured discussion and come to terms, but sadly her father was driven by forces Mr Anderson did not understand. Clara didn't either if she were honest, but there was no denying her father seemed to have discovered the thing that motivated him to work. Never before had she seen him so passionate about writing his sermons, staying up late into the night and rising early. Never before had she seen the light of religious fervour shining in his eyes as she did now, and it rather frightened her.

"No man, woman or child is safe from your influence," her father shouted furiously, squaring his shoulders. "Do you deny your distillery is the largest in the town? Do you deny that the men of Wick are nightly inebriated, out of their senses with strong liquor whilst their wives and children go hungry?"

"Just ye hold on a moment," Mr Anderson said, and while her father's voice got louder with rage, Mr Anderson's seemed to do the reverse, but there was no denying he was heard well enough. To Clara's eternal humiliation, many of the neighbours had come out to stand on the doorstep to watch the entertaining scene. "Aye, my distillery is the largest, but it's also the most expensive. Little of it is drunk in these parts, but sent to Edinburgh and England, and exported too. I dinnae hold the men down and pour the stuff down their throats, ye ken. Every man is free to choose his fate, and aye, there's a good many that would rather drink than pay their bills and buy shoes for their bairns, but ye would do well to speak to them and understand why that is. Life is hard, aye, and men have demons of their own to wrestle with. Surely a man of God ought to listen to their troubles and discover what he can do to help them rather than putting the blame on one man's shoulders. I'll nae be your scapegoat, Reverend Halliday, and ye had best understand that at once."

Despite herself, Clara could not help but regard Mr Anderson with something approaching admiration, for he had voiced sentiments that she had not dared speak aloud to her father. Not that it would do him a whit of good, she realised with a sinking heart.

"‘For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So, it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds,'" Reverend Halliday said coldly. "You may deny your sins to your last breath, sir, but God knows all, sees all, and you will be judged."

With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving Clara standing in the street with half the neighbourhood all agog. She did not dare look at Mr Anderson, but kept her head down, and hurried after her father.

"Miss Halliday."

She winced at the sound of her name, knowing she could not cut him in front of everyone. Steeling her nerve, Clara straightened her spine and raised her head.

"Yes, Mr Anderson?"

"I'm sorry, lassie," he said, his expression one of contrition. "If I caused ye any embarrassment, I apologise unreservedly. It was nae my intention, ye ken. I was about to tell ye my name, I swear it, only I was enjoying our conversation and I didnae want ye to stop speaking to me."

"That's quite all right," Clara said stiffly, not daring to believe him. Mrs Macready had warned her once more to guard herself against Mr Anderson's coaxing ways, lest people should gossip about her being yet another lovelorn female who'd given her heart to the fellow.

"I'm sorry too that yer da holds me in such dislike. I spoke true, though. I ken well enough there are men who think of nothing but the drink, but it's nae my doing. I pity them and if I could help them, I would. They were drinking themselves stupid long before I bought the distillery, though, and they'd keep doing it even if I were to close the business this instant. Ye understand me?"

Clara nodded but was too worried about her father to continue the conversation, nevermind giving the neighbours more to gossip about. "If you would excuse me, Mr Anderson, I ought to see to the reverend—Oh, Miss Fleming!" she exclaimed, having entirely forgotten her guest in all the excitement. "I do beg your pardon. How can you forgive me for abandoning you so rudely?"

"Do not consider it for a moment, my dear Miss Halliday," the lady said gently. "Miss Macready fed me the most delicious shortbread and in truth I was rather entertained by the spectacle, for I confess we watched from the window," she admitted, casting a shy look at Mr Anderson.

"Miss Fleming, good day to ye," Mr Anderson said politely.

"Mr Anderson. I hope you are well?"

"Aye, I thank ye," Mr Anderson said, opening his mouth and turning to Clara once more.

"And your mother is well?" Miss Fleming interrupted.

"Aye, she's grand," he replied with a smile, taking a breath.

"And the earl?"

Clara gaped at Miss Fleming and then turned to stare at Mr Anderson. Good heavens. Did her father realise who he was setting himself up in opposition to? If the man's father was an earl, then he was no schoolteacher, no humble tradesman, though looking at him now, Clara could hardly conceive how she had believed either of those things for above a moment. He carried himself with pride and confidence, such an aura of power and self-assurance that, in hindsight, it seemed obvious.

"Aye, Himself is well, as are my brothers and their wives and the bairns. I thank ye kindly for your concern, Miss Fleming."

"Oh, I am so pleased to hear it. I saw your brother, Lord Buchanan, in town during the season, of course, and Lady Buchanan, such a charming creature, and quite dazzlingly lovely, of course. Oh, she wore the most gorgeous green gown to the Countess St Clair's new year ball that—"

"I do beg your pardon, Miss Fleming," Clara said desperately, torn between agitation and the strong desire to laugh at Mr Anderson's obvious fight for patience in the light of such chatter. "I'm afraid my father is rather out of sorts, and I must go to him and see if I cannot calm him down. If you will excuse me."

With that, and ignoring Mr Anderson's obvious vexation with her for leaving before he'd finished whatever it was he wished to say, Clara fled.