Chapter 8

Dearest Auntie Cat,

When will you come to town? I'm feeling cross and crotchety and even Harris is at her wits' end. Papa is looking for a wife and I'm afraid I behaved rather badly yesterday. He took me to a garden party and though everyone was very nice to my face, I knew they were staring at me and gossiping.

Papa was talking to a lady, and she was very pretty but she kept giggling like a complete ninny and batting her eyelashes. If he thinks such a nincompoop could ever be a mama to me, he is much mistaken. So, I accidentally on purpose dropped my ice in her lap. You should have heard her scream!

I am in disgrace now, of course, and it's worse because today Papa has gone on an outing by himself, and I cannot even get a glimpse of the women he is making fall in love with him. I hate everyone. Except you and Harris. Please come.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Ottilie Barrington to her aunt, The Most Hon'ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat' St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane.

30 th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"Good morning, Mr Stewart. My father is expecting you," Clara said, smiling as she took the man's hat and gloves.

"Thank you, Miss Halliday, and may I say how lovely you look this morning?"

Clara, who had spent much of the morning in the kitchen and knew she was flushed and sweaty, strongly doubted this, but she smiled politely and invited Mr Stewart to follow her.

"Did you never receive the letter I sent you?" he asked in an urgent whisper, making Clara start with surprise.

"I did, sir," she replied, feeling suddenly uneasy. She had forgotten all about the letter after her run in with Mr Anderson. "But you must know, it was very wrong to write to me in such a clandestine manner."

"But I want to see you," he said, surprising her by grasping hold of her hand. "I have thought of nothing but you since the moment I laid eyes on you. Won't you come for a walk with me? I promise there is nothing but respect for you in my heart, but I would give a great deal to have your company, even for a short while."

Cara tugged her hand free, a little startled by the passionate nature of his words. She supposed it was the poetic side of him that made him so easily excited but then she wondered why she was not pleased by such conduct. Mr Anderson had flirted with her, and despite his dreadful behaviour, she could not help but like him. Mr Steward's overtures, by contrast, made her skin creep, when he was everything she had thought she had wanted. Suddenly, Mr Anderson's warning came back to her, and she wondered if she ought to give him more credit. "If you wish for me to walk with you, I think you had better ask permission of my father," she replied coolly, surprising herself by feeling quite relieved to be able to do so. She wanted to marry, yes, but perhaps Miss Fleming had a point. She did not believe for one moment that the fellow had formed a passion for her in the instant of their first meeting. Not a real one, at least.

"I shall then," he said, standing a little straighter.

"Then we shall see," Clara replied, before knocking on the study door. "Papa, Mr Stewart is here."

"Ah, good. Yes, come in, come in, Mr Stewart, a pleasure to meet you. Do sit down. Clara, would you have Mrs Macready send up a tray?"

"Of course, Papa," Clara said, before excusing herself and leaving the two men alone.

It was perhaps an hour later before Clara heard her father's voice as he saw Mr Stewart to the door. Passing the parlour door, her father knocked and stuck his head in, smiling at her as he found her sewing by the light of the window.

"Ah, Clara, my dear. Mr Stewart is leaving now, but we have arranged a little walking party for you young people to the Old Man of Wick. It's a charming setting, I understand. If the weather permits, of course. This Saturday afternoon, if you have no commitments already?"

"I should be delighted if you would come," Mr Stewart said, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

Clara smiled, surprised by her father's agreeing to such a scheme, and amused and rather touched that Mr Stewart had persevered. For she did not doubt it had taken a good deal of persuasion. Indeed, she could not imagine how he had done it.

"A walking party, Papa? Who else is coming?" she asked, looking from one to the other.

Mr Stewart smiled at her. "I shall invite Miss Fleming, which I know will please you, and she has a neighbour, Mr Fraser, who will make up the numbers, and also my brother Angus and his wife, Mary, to chaperone so it will be quite proper. Do say you will come, Miss Halliday," he said, his expression so hopeful he looked like an eager puppy.

"I shall, Mr Stewart, and I thank you for your kindness in creating such a scheme. I shall look forward to it," which was nothing but the truth. A day in the company of other young people, out in the fresh air, and to such a romantic location as a ruined castle sounded lovely and a welcome change from her usual routine.

"Excellent!" Mr Stewart replied, beaming and looking like all his Christmases had come at once. "Then I shall see you on Saturday."

"Ah, but you will see me tomorrow," her father said, wagging a finger at him. "Don't forget. Six pm on the dot and bring the supplies you promised me."

"Aye. Of course. I'll be there," he said hurriedly, before leaving them with polite expressions of thanks for their hospitality.

"What's happening tomorrow?" Clara asked as her father closed the door.

Grinning, her father tapped the side of his nose, looking pleased with himself. "A little surprise, my dear. You shall just have to wait and see."

With an anxious feeling of foreboding, Clara had to be satisfied and watched as her father returned to his study.

2 nd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Clara did not have to wait too long to solve the mystery. It seemed the supplies her father had spoken of were paints and paper, now all affixed to thin sheets of wood and wooden poles to be held aloft. The messages emblazoned on the placards varied from bible quotes to heartfelt pleas to reject the demon drink. They lined the hallway of the vicarage, garish red paint stark against the pale sheets of paper.

"What do you mean to do with them, Papa?" Clara asked anxiously.

"We are going to stand in front of one of the public houses and shame the men who go in there. You gave me the idea, actually, that I should challenge the men directly, confront them with their sin."

"B-But that's not at all what I said," Clara protested. "I only suggested you speak to them. Papa, these men have hard lives, I think perhaps we ought to approach the situation with a little more delicacy of touch."

"Nonsense, one must fight fire with fire. It's the only way."

"But who will be holding these placards?" Clara demanded, following her father into his study as he gathered his pocket watch and folded up the speech he had prepared.

"My temperance army, of course," he said, sounding far too pleased with himself.

"But will not that put the women in conflict with their husbands? Surely that's a difficult position for them to take?"

"It's right and proper, to do the Lord's work and save their husbands from the devil."

"Yes, but the lord isn't waiting for them when they get home," Clara pointed out, worrying what kind of domestic scenes might play out in the light of such an event.

"Of course he is. The Lord is everywhere, Clara, have I taught you nothing?"

A sharp rap on the door galvanised the reverend into action and he pulled on his coat, reaching for his hat. "To battle," he said, grinning as he hurried to the front door. Clara recognised many of the faces of the women who attended her father's talks on a Friday as he handed out the placards.

"Ah, Mrs Cameron, I knew you would be the first in line," he said with satisfaction, sounding as merry as Clara had ever heard him.

"I'll proudly stand beside ye, reverend, when ye are doing such good work in the town," Mrs Cameron replied earnestly, giving Clara's father a look of such blatant admiration Clara wondered at it.

She hesitated for a moment. "If you will wait for me, Papa, I'll fetch my coat and—"

The reverend shook his head and hurried after her, catching hold of her arm. "No, child. It's no place for a young, unmarried lady, outside of a public house. I may not always have been the father you have deserved, but I know this much."

Clara stared at him, so shocked by such an admission she was momentarily speechless.

"Ye should listen to the reverend, Miss Halliday," Mrs Cameron put in, though her tone was kindly. "Tis nae a place for an innocent lassie. If ye mama were, God rest her, she would tell ye so herself. Tis right and proper that yer da seeks to protect ye, though."

Clara glanced back at her, a little annoyed by her interference though her father was regarding Mrs Cameron with obvious approval. Clara turned back to him and tried again.

"But you said before the lord would protect me," she pointed out. "If it is right and proper for these women to stand up in such a battle, then there can be no wrong in me standing beside them, surely?" she said desperately.

"Yes, but he cannot stop you from hearing the language such men use. These women are used to such behaviour, but it would be wrong of me to subject a gently bred girl to such uncouth scenes. I shall see you later, Clara. Don't fret."

Clara looked around as Mrs Macready appeared at her elbow, watching the ladies walk onto the street, placards held proudly aloft.

"Oh dear," Clara said as her father closed the door behind him. "I don't know what to think of this. I can only admire the women for standing up for what they believe in, but I'm afraid it will cause trouble. Especially with Papa's dreadful lack of tact."

"Aye. That it will, but perhaps it's about time. Those women have taken all they can stomach, I reckon. Mrs Cameron lost her devil of a husband to the drink, and she's nae the only one. If my husband were still alive and drinking his wages, I'd likely be standing beside them. Happily, he wasnae the kind to indulge to excess, God rest him, but even decent men can go awry."

Clara frowned, accepting this. If the women were brave enough to fight for the cause, then she could only commend them for it, but it did not ease her worries all the same.

4 th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"What's all this?" Hamilton asked as he turned a corner and saw the crowd holding placards outside of Murray's tavern. They were on their way back from the harbour after Hamilton had overseen the loading of one of his largest ships with whisky and wool and barrels of herring.

"The Reverend Halliday," Angus said, giving Hamilton a wry smile. "And it's the third time this week. They were outside of Macrae's place on Tuesday. Reid's last night. Seems to have been peaceable enough so far."

"Aye, but they're reasonable men. Murray is a hot heid and a deal too fond of making money to take a scene like that in stride," Hamilton observed, frowning.

As he spoke, the man himself pushed outside, elbowing and shoving the women as he went.

"Ach, to the devil with him," Hamilton muttered. "Come on, Angus. I may have need of yer diplomacy skills."

"Get off my property and back to yer homes before I make yer sorry for causing such a spectacle of yerselves!" Clyde Murray bellowed, shaking his fist at the gathering before his tavern.

"You keep a civil tongue in your head in front of the ladies," Reverend Halliday said, with rather more spirit than Hamilton had credited him with.

"Ladies? Ha!" Murray said in disgust. "What do ye think ye are playing at, Janet MacDonald? Ye are nae better than a fishwife and ye need a slap."

"Try it!" the woman yelled back, as the reverend held onto her with difficulty.

"Stay calm, Mrs MacDonald! Do not let the devil temp you into violence and behaviour unbecoming to a lady."

"Will ye just pack it in?" Murray shouted, growing increasingly red in the face.

"Stop pouring that filth down Rory's neck and inviting him to bide in the gutter and I will," shouted a stocky, red-haired woman, shoving her placard in Murray's face. "Woe to him that gives his neighbour drink!"

Murray shoved back, and the woman staggered and would have fallen if not for those around her keeping her on her feet.

"Ye are a spineless little weasel!" she yelled angrily as Murray raised his fist.

"Ye'll nae be doing that," Hamilton said, catching hold of the man's wrist. "I should think even a sorry specimen as yerself would ken better than to lay hands on a woman."

"She's a damned harpy," Murray said, spitting on the ground in front of him. "And I'll nae have them bankrupt me by keeping my clients from my door."

"I dinnae think one night is gonnae ruin ye," Hamilton told the man.

"Not at the prices he charges," Angus muttered, gaining himself a glare from Hamilton, who did not think the comment terribly helpful.

"I'm an honest man, making an honest wage," Murray said, his ruddy face redder than ever in the light of his fury. "And they've nae right to stop me. The law says I can sell whisky, and I mean to do so."

"Aye, and what do you mean to do to stop them? For if ye lay a hand on any of the ladies here, I shall have to take issue with ye, Clyde," Hamilton told him frankly.

"And ye would nae mind if they were causing havoc in front of yer fancy new place, then?" Clyde demanded, glaring at him.

"Nae. They have the right to make themselves heard, but they cannae close every bar every night. Just haud yer wheesht and let them have their say, aye?"

Murray looked like he was gritting his teeth so hard he might break something, but he turned on his heel and went back into the tavern, slamming the door behind him. Hamilton let out a breath.

"Thank ye, Mr Anderson," said one of the women close to him, who he recognised as Aileen Carson.

"Nae bother," he replied, about to turn and leave.

"You, sir, are a hypocrite!"

Hamilton turned, eyeing Reverend Halliday with a sigh of dismay. "Oh, aye?"

"You pretend to support these women while you are no better than Mr Murray."

"Ye reckon?" Hamilton replied evenly, his temper rising. "For I have nae raised a hand to a woman in my life. Nor a man of God."

"You are sending the demon drink out into the world to destroy the lives of men," the reverend told him, his eyes alight with condemnation.

Hamilton reminded himself this man was Clara's father, and she would not thank him for getting into a public row. Taking a deep breath, he tried for reason. "I dinnae sell the cheap gut rot that passes for whisky in these places," he told the vicar. "I trade only in the finest, mature whisky, and there's little of that drunk here. It's nae the kind of thing a fellow swills by the bottle, aye?"

"So, you have no responsibility to the people of this town, then?" the reverend demanded. "You think opening another tavern to tempt them into spending their hard-earned wages in is a good business opportunity?"

Hamilton bristled. "I employ more men and women in this town than anyone else," he said, his voice rising as he felt Angus lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I do my bit, and I'm a fair employer. Generous, too. Aye, lassies?"

To his relief, the women agreed, remarking that there were few like him and that he did a good deal for the people of Wick.

"Not enough to satisfy God," the reverend retorted with satisfaction. He might have said more, but Flora Cameron took his arm.

"That'll do, Reverend. A row in the street when passions are high will help nae one. Why don't we sing a hymn, loud enough for God himself to hear us?" she suggested with a smile.

"A splendid idea as always, Mrs Cameron," the reverend agreed warmly, before turning his back on Hamilton and leading the women in a spirited rendition that ought to have Murray tearing his hair out.

"Well, of all the—" Hamilton began, only to be steered away by Angus.

"Leave him be. The reverend is ripe for a fight, and not the kind ye usually enjoy," Angus said, smiling at him.

"Ach, the wee bodach," Hamilton said in frustration.

"Come along. Mary will be pleased to see ye, aye?"

"Aye," Hamilton replied, frowning as he followed Angus home to take supper with him and his wife, yet the nagging sensation that the reverend might have a point left a sour sensation in his guts.