A Highland Bride (Bonnie Bride Series Book 1) Read online

  At the same time, she felt a strong instinct not to mention what she had seen even to John as they rattled back down the road. When she returned to the house, she looked around discreetly for Phemie, half-expecting to find that she had been mistaken and that the girl in the shawl had been someone else entirely. But Phemie was certainly not anywhere that Flora could see, and when afternoon tea came, it was brought by a distinctly disgruntled-looking Mrs MacDonald instead of the younger girl.

  "Is everything all right, Mrs MacDonald?" Flora asked innocently. She was certainly not going to mention Phemie directly, curious though she was. She was anxious not to get the girl into any more trouble.

  "Beg pardon, ma'am. I sent the girl to get a brace of chicken from Dunwood Farm for tomorrow's dinner, and she should have been back an hour ago. Everything's behind in the kitchen now."

  "Oh... dear."

  "If you don't mind me bringing it up now, ma'am, I have to say I don't think that girl is any good. She gads about and she talks too much."

  Before Flora could think of what to say in reply, they both heard the garden door closing in the distance.

  "That will be her now, at long last," said Mrs MacDonald, and dropped a perfunctory curtsy. "Excuse me, ma'am."

  As soon as she judged that Mrs MacDonald had had time to get to the kitchen, Flora jumped up and went into the hallway with the intention of eavesdropping on Phemie's explanation, if she could. Dunwood Farm, although in the same direction and along the same road as Lochlannan Castle, was not very near it. Phemie must have made a considerable diversion, and it was no wonder that she had returned late.

  Flora had forgotten, however, that the housekeeper and the maid conversed in the Gaelic between themselves. She could make out nothing but angry scolding from Mrs MacDonald, and defiant-sounding replies from Phemie, followed by the lash of the belt and a cry that was as much surprise as pain. Flora listened unhappily for a few moments. It sounded as though Mrs MacDonald was beating Phemie harder than usual, for each crack of the belt was drawing stifled yelps from the girl that were quite audible in the hallway.

  At dinner, which thankfully was not served late after all, Phemie's eyes were still red and swollen, and Flora thought she moved rather carefully as she brought in the dishes and removed the plates. There was something curiously animated about her expression, though, that Flora could not miss. The maidservant looked sore and sorry, but she did not look subdued. Her eyes were puffy, but they were also bright, and there was a flush on her cheek.

  She noticed that Phemie avoided looking at her, and she wondered whether she ought to speak to the girl directly about why she had been at Lochlannan that afternoon. That had certainly been her intention earlier. But then, she reflected, Phemie had already been soundly punished for her lateness. She looked at Mr Farquhar across the table as he carved the beef and offered it to her with a smile, and decided not to risk stirring up further trouble.

  * * * * *

  Sadly, Flora's attempts to behave with perfect rectitude and earn no further trips over her husband's knee did not meet with perfect success in her first weeks as mistress of the Manse.

  She soon grew accustomed to her role as manager of the household, meeting with Mrs MacDonald in the small parlour of the Manse every morning to plan meals and discuss the purchase of provisions. Mrs MacDonald managed to make her feel exactly like an uninformed nineteen year old girl in the presence of someone with many years' experience of running an establishment, but Flora did her best not to be intimidated. When it came down to it, she was the one sitting at her desk while Mrs MacDonald stood and called her ‘ma'am'.

  But it did not help that she knew very well that Mrs MacDonald must listen to the hidings Mr Farquhar dealt her, because he always waited until the household had retired for the night and they were alone in their own bedchamber before chastising her for misconduct earlier in the day.

  After the error of listening to scandal-mongering, her next misdeed was reckless expenditure. While comfortably enough furnished, everything in the Manse was plain and functional. There was little that was decorative, and it was obvious to Flora that the previous Minister, Mr Leuchars, had been a bachelor. The house definitely lacked a feminine touch. Flora knew of a draper's shop in George Street which had, after the peace, started to import French silk cushions beautifully embroidered with flowers and birds. She had looked at them longingly and imagined how pretty they would look arranged on the chaise longue in her bedchamber in Charlotte Square, but their price had been far beyond her modest pin-money allowance. Now that she was in command of an entire household budget, she could purchase what she pleased. After all, a portion of Mr Farquhar's income was now made up of interest from the ten thousand pounds that she had brought to the marriage, so in a sense it was her own money. And the cushions would brighten the sitting room immensely.

  Even as she wrote the letter to the draper's shop, ordering four cushions to be sent by express messenger, she had a faint qualm at the back of her mind. When, ten days later, her purchases arrived and she arranged them proudly around the sitting room, Mr Farquhar was furious before he even looked at the invoice.

  "The minister's wife must set an example of prudence and plain living," he said. "These French fripperies belong in a fine lady's boudoir, not a manse. And the price! This would buy plain linen for a dozen beds."

  "I'm sorry! I thought, since it was my own money - "

  "A wife has no money of her own, Flora. Everything you had is mine, by law, and it is your duty to spend my money wisely and well. Thrift is a lesson you need to learn."

  The cushions were returned, but there was still the carrier's bill to be paid, and Flora was given no pin-money until that was settled.

  Her next hiding was, she knew, well earned. She had gone all the way down the glen to the market town, Inverlannan, which was an hour and a half's journey away by trap, in order to visit the draper's shop and a dressmaker there.

  Mr Farquhar had readily assented to their attending the ball at Lochlannan, saying that a private ball given to all the county was a respectable occasion, and that it was their Christian duty to walk amidst sinners as the Lord had. His only proviso was that she should not dress extravagantly, and the gowns that she had for evening wear in Edinburgh were unsuitable. Flora was a little dismayed by this, as she fancied that Miss Buccleuch and all the other smart ladies from miles around would be decked in finery. Still, she was delighted to know that she would be going to a ball at last, and happy enough to be ordering a new gown, even if it would be less fine than she would wish. In the event, so absorbed did she become in choosing fabric at the draper's, and so interesting was the conversation of the dressmaker Mrs Beattie, that she found it was a full two hours past the time when she ought to have set out back home in time to return for tea. As John drove her up the narrow road, night was closing rapidly in.

  Her offence was made worse by the fact that when she got home, she found that there had been some visitors at tea - Mr and Mrs Murray - who had come especially to be introduced to the Minister's bride. Flora only then remembered that Mr Farquhar had mentioned the visit at breakfast, but it had entirely slipped her mind while she had been happily occupied in Inverlannan. She knew she thoroughly deserved her chastisement for forgetting her duty, inadvertently disrespecting her visitors, and putting herself in danger by travelling the narrow road in the dark. But knowing how much she had been to blame did not make the punishment any easier to bear.

  The third misdeed was by way of being an accident, but it was in another way the gravest of her transgressions. The Minister of the church in Inverlannan was an elderly and very learned gentleman, the Reverend Dr Urquhart, who had at one period in his life taught divinity at the University of Edinburgh. He had even published a volume of sermons, which Flora had dutifully tried to read in advance of his first visit to Scourie Manse. It was evident that Mr Farquhar held Dr Urquhart in the highest esteem, and when he came to dinner it was considered a great honour.

&
nbsp; Flora was sure that Dr Urquhart was a great man, but she could not help feeling that he looked rather ridiculous. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat and a powdered wig, something she thought had gone out with the Ark. In fact, there was not much powder on the wig, and it looked, like the rest of his dress, frayed and old. She was studying it in fascination when the disaster happened. Phemie had just served the soup, and Dr Urquhart, whose manners at table were distinctly odd, bent his head right over the bowl as if to inhale its aroma. The wig slipped forward right off his head, and landed in the soup tureen with an almighty splash. Underneath, Dr Urquhart's head was shining and quite hairless, and his ears stuck out either side like jug handles.

  Flora couldn't help herself. She let out a loud snort of laughter, and she was attacked by giggles again as Phemie fished frantically in the tureen and lifted out the ancient wig with an exclamation of dismay, covered in bits of carrot and turnip and shreds of mutton. It took a glowering look from Mr Farquhar to quieten her, and as the soup and the wig were borne away by a flustered and not at all amused Phemie, it began to dawn on her how disrespectful she had been towards their distinguished guest.

  She was almost silent throughout the rest of the meal, not daring so much as to raise her eyes to the dreadfully comical appearance of the bald reverend gentleman in case mirth took hold of her once more, and certainly not daring to glance at her husband. The rest of the evening seemed interminable, and yet was over too soon; for when they retired for the night, the hiding she got for laughing at Dr Urquhart was the longest and hardest yet. Worst of all, Dr Urquhart himself was abed in the very next room, and must have heard every smack and every cry.

  He always dealt with her in the same way. She would have her few hours of nervous anticipation, and ample opportunity to think upon her misconduct, and regret and repent it. However sorry she was, however, once Mr Farquhar had indicated, in his calm grave way, that they would ‘discuss it' or ‘deal with it' at bedtime, she knew that there was absolutely no reprieve. Her only option was to resolve never to do it again, after the punishment was over; and that was scant comfort, while waiting for the dreaded bedtime hour to arrive.

  He would always on these occasions require her to retire ahead of him, and change into her nightgown and unbind her hair, and wait for him. Sometimes, she suspected him of deliberately loitering downstairs so as to draw out her wait. She would pace by the fireplace, too restless to sit and wait calmly, longing for it to be over but never wanting it to begin. At long last, she would hear the hated creak of the stair.

  He would lecture her on her misconduct and make her acknowledge what she was being punished for, then he would sit on the chair by the fire and order her to bend over his knee. Lowering herself willingly over his lap was almost the worst part of the punishment before the first strike, but very worst part was when he lifted her nightshift and she felt the cooler air on her bottom.

  She always promised herself she would not cry, but once he had her tight between his thighs and he was raining merciless slaps on her bare backside, she always completely forgot about the listening servants. She always lost control and cried and kicked and even pleaded. It always went on beyond the point where she felt she truly could bear it no longer, and then she had to anyway. She always never, ever wanted to earn another, and was wholly repentful.

  On the night when she laughed at Dr Urquhart, she truly thought he would never stop. He did not even lecture her beforehand, nor leave her alone for long before mounting the stairs with a furious tread and hauling her wordlessly over his lap by force. There was real anger in the strength of his hand, and by the end of it Flora was howling as hard as she had when he had used the hairbrush. At the end, he pushed her off his knee and she tumbled to the floor.

  "Get up," he said shortly.

  She jumped to her feet and jigged, hopelessly trying to lessen the sting. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean it!"

  "Aye well, there's no use saying that now. And say it again, you'll go back across my knee for more of the same. I have to say, Flora, I thought about giving you a taste of the tawse for your abominable rudeness to a gentleman of Dr Urquhart's standing."

  She let out a wail of shock.

  "Oh, wheesht. I hope you've learned your lesson and I will never see such behaviour from you again towards a guest."

  Even as she rubbed her blazing bottom, even as she cried out again as he pressed it into the blankets and entered her roughly, she resolved that she would never, ever do anything to deserve the tawse.

  Chapter Seven

  It had been over a week since Flora had earned a hiding, and she was beginning to hope that she was learning enough to avoid them altogether in future. She looked back on her behaviour on her wedding night with astonishment. Had she really been so outspoken and impudent and wilfully defiant? She knew now to speak with respect and decorum to everyone, to treat servants and other inferiors with gentleness and firmness, and above all, to obey her husband immediately and in all things.

  She had started teaching at the school, giving short lessons every couple of days to the youngest of the crofting children, teaching them their basic letters and numbers. Although most of them arrived in the class speaking little English, she found they were quick to learn. Mr Farquhar instructed the older children in Scripture.

  Much of the rest of the time, she was busy with running the household and visiting the poor and sick. She got accustomed to travelling the length of the glen in these charitable works and going into some very low places indeed. The crofters, many of whom were never seen in the kirk, lived in houses that were barely more than grass-roofed, smoky huts, with dirt floors and fire pits right in the centre of the living space. Often she emerged with her clothes smelling of peat smoke, which clung about her for the rest of the day.

  She took nourishing foods for invalids and little illustrated Bible tracts in Gaelic, which she had discovered in a bookshop in Inverlannan. She found that often there was at least someone in the family who could read, and she took comfort in the thought that though these people rarely made it to the kirk and would hardly understand the lessons and the sermon when they did, they could at least hear these portions of Scripture read aloud in their own tongue. She felt that she was taking little beacons of light into dark places.

  The ball at Lochlannan was fast approaching, assuming that Sir Duncan did not change his plans, and Flora was unreasonably excited.

  She had advanced not at all in her acquaintance with Miss Buccleuch, although their mutual visits had been repeated twice. Throughout, Miss Buccleuch was formal and reserved, and Flora began to suspect that she was merely dull. There was something in the expression of the other girl's eyes that seemed to suggest liveliness, but everything that came out of her mouth was utterly commonplace and uninteresting. In the presence of her mother, she scarcely spoke at all. Unless she revealed herself to be very brilliant at the ball, Flora was rapidly giving up hope of finding in Miss Buccleuch a bosom friend and confidant.

  She knew she was falling into the vulgar error of regarding her maidservant as such instead. She had read an essay once which warned young ladies against the danger and folly of intimacy with their maids, that servants could not be trusted and that such relations were demeaning to the one and potentially injurious to the character and livelihood of the other. But with no young lady of her own age within her daily reach, it was difficult not to turn to Phemie for company of a sort.

  It was Phemie who brought her the news, one morning after Mr Farquhar had already left for his visiting rounds, that Sir Duncan had returned to Lochlannan Castle. "He came late last night, ma'am," she said eagerly, in the low conspiratorial voice in which they both conducted most of their conversations. "With three carriages, all with four horses, and a big party of ladies and gentlemen."

  "Ooh!" said Flora. "So there is no doubt that the ball will go ahead."

  "None, ma'am!" Phemie looked as excited as Flora felt, though she would have no part in it. "They've alre
ady taken delivery of a thousand candles, all beeswax, and the keepers have shot three bucks specially."

  "How do you know all these things, Phemie?" Flora asked, amused.

  But Phemie looked embarrassed by the question, and said, "Just servants' talk, ma'am," and she hurried away.

  They had never acknowledged that Flora had seen Phemie in the grounds of Lochlannan Castle when she was supposed to have been at Dunwood Farm, but Flora had not forgotten it.

  Usually when Flora went to visit a family in the glen, John took her in the trap. John's English was limited, and John was not, as she found to her surprise after some weeks, really his name. Mr Leuchars had called him that because the previous minister, who was from Glasgow, could not pronounce his real name.

  One morning, the weather was so fine that when John stopped the trap at the bottom of a track that led up to a croft visible a little way up the hill, Flora told John that she would walk home. It was only a mile or so, and she felt like some exercise would be pleasant. In the city, she would not have dreamed of walking alone under normal circumstances. She remembered with distress how conspicuous and unsafe she had felt on her desperate escapade into the streets of Edinburgh the very night that everything had changed, the night that Mr Farquhar had offered his hand in marriage. How different out here in the Highlands, and how different she herself was now! She was a married woman, she was the Minister's wife, and she had learned to be useful, submissive and obedient.

  Spring came early in the Highlands. After spending some time feeding the crofter's sick child Mrs MacDonald's good mutton soup, and listening to the crofter's wife tell her woes via a pot-pourri of the occasional English word, much Gaelic and hand signals, and reading Bible stories to the children from a picture-book, Flora climbed happily back down the footpath to the road with the sun warm on her face and a fresh breeze whisking her hair.