Chapter 7

Hamilton,

You did the right thing in asking me, for I have the best and most sensible advice you are likely to hear.

Marry her.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon'ble Lyall Anderson, Viscount Buchanan to The Hon'ble Mr Hamilton Anderson.

27 th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Clara walked to the kitchen door and watched Mr Anderson's broad-shouldered figure as he left. The kitchen seemed strangely empty now he'd removed himself from it. There was an energy about him, a presence that seemed to fill the room, and lingered in her mind long after he was gone. She told herself he was a dreadful man who could not stop himself from sticking his nose in where it did not belong. Yet he had been kind to Jimmy and brought him home safely, and most surprising of all, he had understood her not wanting to borrow Miss Fleming's dresses… though what on earth had possessed her to tell him such a thing, she could not fathom. Mr Anderson had understood at once what a position it would put her in, however, just as he had guessed the kind of life she lived with her father. There was a quickness about him, an understanding of human nature that made him at once very approachable, and very dangerous. For surely a man with such understanding would find it easy to manipulate a young woman who had seen little of the world. She certainly ought not to encourage him. It had been very wrong of her to invite him to take tea with her and yet she had wanted him to. There was a wicked delight to be found in talking to him and reproving him when he overstepped the mark… which was most of the time. If she'd had a bit of sense, she would have asked him to leave when he began flirting with her, but sadly it had not even occurred to her to do so. Clara bit her lip, wondering if she was really the well brought up girl she'd always believed herself to be. Either way, she must have a care around Mr Anderson. He was far too easy to like, despite his provoking ways. The last thing she needed was to put her trust in such a man, not when her father worked himself up at the mere sight of the fellow.

She wondered what on earth had made him warn her off Mr Stewart. Had Mr Anderson not been looking after the children for him when he'd been ill? Surely they must be friends. She could think of only one reason, and she did not know how she felt about it. He couldn't be jealous. Yet he had seemed genuinely concerned, and worry niggled at her.

Miss Fleming's reaction to Mr Stewart she could understand, for she was an ambitious young woman with an eye to her own future and she would assume Clara was of the same mind. Clara did not judge her for that. A woman's existence was a precarious one and, if Miss Fleming wanted to ensure her own comfort, Clara could hardly blame her for it. Indeed, she was no fool either, and did not wish to marry a man who could not afford to support her, for that would lead them both down a hard road, yet she hoped she would be prepared to do so if she loved and esteemed a man enough to tread such a path. She certainly could not entertain the notion of marrying a man simply for position or wealth. In those circumstances, she would stay with her father, though the idea did nothing to lighten her heart. He had left her provided for in his will, however, and whilst she would not be living the high life once he had passed on, she would be safe, and that would be something. Better that than a bad marriage that one could not escape from.

"Well, then, he's scrubbed and bandaged," Mrs Macready said with satisfaction, preceding Jimmy into the kitchen.

The boy did not look so satisfied, but he did look clean and rather less disreputable. Mrs Macready had given him a fresh shirt and carried his coat and the laundry over her arm.

"Give me his coat and I shall mend the tear," Clara said, taking it from her. "I expect Jimmy is peckish now after his adventures."

"Corr, I am famished," Jimmy said eagerly.

"Ach, ye have hollow legs and that's a fact," Mrs Macready retorted with a sniff. "Sit yerself down then, and I shall make ye something. Did Mr Anderson stay long, then?" she added, eyeing the teacups on the table with a canny eye.

"Oh, no. But after he was so kind to Jimmy, I could hardly send him away without a cup of tea or something."

"Could ye nae?" Mrs Macready replied, one eyebrow quirking. "Aye, well, maybe. He behaved himself, I hope?"

"Certainly, he did," Clara replied, unrolling the small mending kit that they kept in the kitchen and avoiding Mrs Macready's knowing gaze.

"He didnae flirt with ye?"

"He's not sweet on her, Mrs Macready, you don't need to fret none," Jimmy said candidly before Clara could reply, making both women stare at him with interest.

"Oh, aye?" Mrs Macready looked sceptical.

"He's not!" Jimmy protested. "For I asked him, and he said no. He said it was always nice to have a pretty lady think well of you, though."

"Sounds about right," Mrs Macready said dryly, and Clara was glad the lady did not look back at her again, for she was certain mortification burned in her cheeks.

Keeping her head down, she concentrated on her needle and thread and scolded herself for her arrogance in thinking Mr Anderson had the least bit of interest in her. Jealous, indeed. It was just as she had imagined from the start. Just as Mrs Macready had warned her, in fact. Mr Anderson was a wicked flirt and took nothing seriously. She would do well to keep that fact in mind the next time their paths crossed.

29 th May 1850, Wick Village Hall, Caithness, Scotland.

"‘Intoxicating wine is like the poison of serpents, the cruel venom of asps,'" the Reverend Halliday told his assembled audience as a murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

There were perhaps thirty women, some with children fidgeting on their laps, a few with babes in arms. Clara looked about at them, many of whom were of an age with her. She could have been one of them, might have carried that careworn expression and clothes that had been patched and mended times past counting. She looked then at her father, wishing he did not feel the need to bellow quite so much, but seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. Coming here had lit a fire within him, given him a purpose past his own comfort, and that gave her hope. If only she could find a way for him to take the anger and judgement from his dealings with the people here. The women came every Friday to hear him lecture about the evils of drink. ‘Proverbs 23:21 – Drunkenness causes poverty,' had been thoroughly discussed last week. The men, however, were less amused by his interference. An angry fisherman had turned up on the vicarage doorstep just yesterday, telling Mrs Macready to inform the reverend to keep his nose out of things that did not concern him.

The reverend paused for a brief interval and Clara passed silently between the women, offering cups of elderflower cordial and shortbread biscuits. Once everyone had been served, she returned to pour a drink for her father.

"I saved you some shortbread," she said, offering him a small plate with three biscuits on.

"Thank you, my dear, most kind," he said, smiling at her. "A good turnout, eh? Three more than last week."

"Indeed, they seem most eager to hear you speak, Father." Clara hesitated, wondering if she ought to broach the subject. "Do you think perhaps you ought to invite their husbands directly to come with them? Perhaps if you visited the harbour and introduced yourself to them, if you got to know some of the men, not by preaching, just talking to them and getting to know their troubles. They might come and listen then."

Her father chewed on a biscuit, his expression thoughtful. "If there were no public houses in Wick, there would be no opportunity for the men to indulge in such vile behaviour."

"Well, that is true," Clara said hesitantly.

"That's the ticket," he said, waving a shortbread biscuit at her with approval. "We must go to the source of the evil and strike there. An excellent suggestion. Thank you, my dear."

"Oh… you're welcome." Clara watched him stride off with an extra spring in his step and wondered what she had unwittingly done.

"Ah, Mrs Cameron," he said, catching the attention of one of the women as she returned her empty glass to the serving tray and picked it up, intending to collect the rest. "Just the lady, and no surprise to see you tidying up after us all. What a comfort you are to us. Now, what do you think of my daughter's suggestion—"

Clara regarded him with some bemusement, surprised by the warmth in his voice as he spoke to the woman, even more that he was asking for her opinion. Still, it was good that he was on friendly terms with them, better than merely sermonising and never listening to a word they said.

"Miss Halliday? Coo-ee!"

Clara turned and smiled as she saw Miss Fleming in the doorway, waving at her. Glancing back at her father and seeing he was well into the second part of his talk, Clara quietly gathered her cloak and bonnet and walked swiftly to the door.

Miss Fleming chuckled as Clara slipped away, tying her bonnet strings as she went.

"Will you be in terrible trouble for running off?" she asked, slipping her arm through Clara's.

"No, not if I return before he finishes. I doubt he'll even notice," she replied ruefully. "But what a lovely surprise. I did not expect to see you."

"I know, but I was bored and so I thought I would stretch my legs. Papa is visiting my aunt. She lives down there," she added, pointing to the end of the street they were passing. "But she's a dull creature and I cannot abide the stuffy little house for above half an hour. So I excused myself."

"Oh, won't your father mind? If you're supposed to be visiting. I could come with you if—"

"Good heavens, no!" Miss Fleming replied. "Aunt Ailsa will only drone on about her ailments, some of which are quite mortifying."

Despite herself, Clara could not help a choke of laughter at the disgusted face Miss Fleming had pulled.

"Getting old seems a dreadful business," she said frankly.

"Yes, but perhaps better than the alternative," Clara suggested.

Miss Fleming gave a snort of laughter. "All the more reason to live while we are young, then. Oh, don't look. No, don't look! Pretend you've not seen him," she said, suddenly clutching at Clara's arm.

Clara, who had never been adept at subterfuge, immediately looked in the direction she was told not to and saw Mr Malcolm Stewart walking towards them and smiling widely.

"Well met, ladies. I had no expectation of meeting such charming companions on my way home. Where are you off to? Might I escort you?"

"We are going nowhere in particular, Mr Stewart, just taking the air," Clara said politely. "Are you feeling better now?"

A look she could not read flickered in his eyes, but she thought he seemed uneasy.

"Better?"

"Why, yes? I believe Mr Anderson looked after the boys for you whilst you were indisposed."

"Oh," there was a flat note to his voice as he replied but he rallied swiftly. "Indeed, most kind of him, but it was nothing but a megrim. I suffer from them from time to time. Too much squinting at textbooks late at night," he added sheepishly, pushing his spectacles up his nose. It was rather an endearing gesture, and he had a sweetly boyish smile. Clara thought perhaps Miss Fleming noticed it too, for she stopped ignoring him and cast him a bright smile of her own.

"I hear you are something of a writer too, Mr Stewart, is that true?"

He huffed with amusement at the remark, looking self-deprecating, or at least trying to. "Well, I'm sure my poor work does not merit giving me such a title, but I do write, yes. Though… poetry, mostly."

"Have you anything published?" Clara asked curiously.

"Not as yet, but I am working on a something rather special," he said hurriedly. "So, I hope in a year or so to give you a different answer."

"How fascinating," Miss Fleming replied, looking at him from under her lashes. "And do you have a muse that inspires you when you write?"

A pleased glint sparkled in Mr Stewart's eye. "Mother nature is my muse at present, but I challenge any man not to find inspiration in the vision before me now."

Miss Fleming gave her tinkling laugh, a light merry sound that Clara wished she could emulate, for it was quite lovely.

"Do you mean to write an ode to us, then?" Miss Flemming challenged him.

Clara groaned inwardly. Of all the bottle-headed things to do, inviting an aspiring poet to write an ode to oneself had to be way up the list.

"I might, at that," Mr Stewart replied, a speculative expression on his lean face as he looked from Miss Fleming to Clara.

"Well, you'd best run along and put pen to paper. You would not wish to disappoint us, would you, sir?" Miss Fleming replied, one blonde eyebrow quirking.

Clara thought she detected a flash of irritation in his eyes at being so dismissed, but Mr Stewart bowed politely. "Indeed, I must. Miss Fleming, a pleasure as always. Miss Halliday, I thought I might call on your father tomorrow morning and introduce myself. I have some books that he might find of interest and thought perhaps he would welcome a visit from an educated fellow, as they are rather lacking in this town. Do you think he would be at home to me?"

Clara fought a blush, wondering if he was visiting her father as a means of seeing her, but she merely thanked him for his kindness and agreed that the reverend would be most pleased to welcome him.

"Dreadful man," Miss Fleming said with a sigh once Mr Stewart was out of earshot. "And really, Miss Halliday, I hope you will not take it amiss, but you really ought not to encourage him."

Clara blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly. "I did not encourage him," she said indignantly, for she had not been the one batting her eyelashes and inviting the fellow to write poetry about them.

"You ought to have told him your father was not at home tomorrow. Then he could not use it as an excuse to call on you."

"He's calling on my father, not me," Clara said, a trifle defensively for had she not just wondered if that had just been an excuse. "And it would have been wrong of me to lie. Besides, you were the one asking for a poem in our honour."

"A mere piece of nonsense," Miss Fleming said, waving this away. "This is the difference between us, for you have not had a season, my dear. You must learn the art of flirting and managing men to get what you want. Else you will be quite lost. The Mr Stewarts of this world are quite charming for a short while, but they are not the kind of man one wishes to marry. Not if you are to have any hopes of security and comfort. I tell you this for your own good, my dear. I know he's a pretty fellow, and he does have that romantic starving poet look about him, but really, he won't do."

Clara's lips twitched at this rather dreadful but ultimately sensible bit of scolding. "Yes, Miss Fleming," she said obediently, and decided she had best leave it at that.