A Winter Wedding

Claiming this hearth and home as her own had turned out to be relatively easy. Yet looking around the room, which in the past ten days, like the rest of the Home Farm, had been made both warm and comfortable, Ainsley felt little satisfaction. Mhairi McIntosh had proved cooperative but reserved. She had not looked down her nose at Ainsley, nor had she mocked or derided a single one of her suggestions, which had made the task Innes had given her relatively easy, but it was not the challenge she had been looking forward to. She had, in essence, been relegated to the domestic sphere when he had promised her a different role.

Irked with herself, Ainsley tucked Madame Hera’s correspondence into her leather folder and pushed it to one side of the desk, covering it with the latest copy of the Scottish Ladies Companion, which Felicity had sent to her. There could be no doubt that Innes needed help, but he had made no attempt to ask her for it. Though she rationalised that he most likely thought he’d fare better with his tenants alone, as the days passed, she felt more excluded and more uncomfortable with trying to address this fact. She was not unhappy, she was not regretting her decision to come here, but she felt overlooked and rather useless.

Standing on her tiptoes at the window, she could see the sky was an inviting bright blue above the monstrous hedge. Ainsley made her way outside, making for her favourite view out over the Kyles of Bute. Tiny puffs of clouds scudded overhead, like the steam from a train or a paddle steamer. It was a shame that the dilapidated jetty down in the bay was not big enough to allow a steamer to dock, for it would make it a great deal easier to get supplies.

She had to speak to Innes. She had a perfect right to demand that he allow her to do the task he had brought her here for. The fact that he was obviously floundering made it even more important. Yes, it also made him distant and unapproachable, but that was even more reason for her to tackle him. Besides, she couldn’t in all conscience remain here without actually doing what she’d already been paid to do. She owed it to herself to speak to him. She had no option but to speak to him.

Mentally rehearsing various ways of introducing the subject, Ainsley wandered through the castle’s neglected grounds, finding a path she had not taken before, which wended its way above the coastline before heading inwards to a small copse of trees. The chapel was built of the same grey granite as the castle, but it was warmed by the red sandstone that formed the arched windows, four on each side, and the heavy, worn door. It was a delightful church, simple and functional, with a small belfry on each gable end, a stark contrast to the castle it served.

The door was not locked. Inside, it was equally simple and charming, with wooden pews, the ones nearest the altar covered, the altar itself pink marble, a matching font beside it. It was clean swept. The tall candles were only half-burned. Sunlight, filtered through the leaves of the sheltering trees and the thick panes of glass in the arched windows, had warmed the air. Various Drummonds and their families were commemorated in plaques of brass and polished stone set into the walls. Presumably their bones were interred in the crypt under the altar, but Ainsley could find none more recent than nearly a hundred years ago.

Outside, she discovered the graveyard on the far side of the church. Servants, tenants, fishermen, infants. Some of the stones were so worn she could not read the inscription. The most recent of the lairds were segregated from the rest of the graveyard’s inhabitants by a low iron railing.

Ainsley read the short list on the large Celtic cross.

Marjorie Mary Caldwell

1787-1813, spouse of

Malcolm Fraser Drummond

This must be Innes’s mother. Below her, the last name, the lettering much brighter, his father:

Malcolm Fraser Drummond

Laird of Strone Bridge

1782-1840

The laird had married early. His wife must have been very young when she had Innes. Ainsley frowned, trying to work out the dates. Seventeen or eighteen? Even younger when she had her first son. Her frown deepened as she read the lettering on the cross again. Above Marjorie was the previous laird. Nothing between her and Innes’s father. Innes’s brother was not here, and she was certain he was not mentioned in the church. Perhaps he was buried elsewhere? What had Innes said? His brother’s death had been the trigger for the split between Innes and his father, she remembered that.

She could ask him. Taking a seat on the stone bench by the main door, Ainsley knew she would not risk antagonising him. She began to pick at the thick rolls of moss, which were growing on the curved arm of the seat. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. Her role as Innes’s wife was a public one—to appear on his arm at church on Sunday—and not a private one. She had no right to probe into his past, and she would not like it if he questioned her on hers.

Which did not alter the fact that he was preventing her from helping, and he quite patently needed help. She was bored, and she felt not only useless but rather like an outcast. What would Madame Hera say?

Wandering back along the path, with the sky, not surprisingly, now an ominous grey, Ainsley was thankful that Madame Hera had never been consulted on such a complex problem. There were a score of letters Madame Hera still had to answer, including the one to Desperate Wife. Was there an argument to defend the mother-in-law’s precious household manual? Perhaps there were traditions, comforting customs, that Desperate Wife’s husband valued or enjoyed, which he feared would be lost if the manual were ignored? Perhaps these very traditions were helping the husband adjust to his new life. Madame Hera rarely concerned herself with the men at the root of her correspondents’ problems, but it must be supposed that some of them had feelings, too. Perhaps Desperate Wife might have better success with what she called her wifely wiles if she put them to a more positive use, to discover what parts of the dratted manual actually mattered to him? Though of course, there was always a chance it was simply the case that he simply did like to have kippers on a Thursday.

‘I am glad one of us has something to smile about.’ Innes was approaching the front door from the direction of the stables. His leather riding breeches and his long boots were spattered with mud, as were the skirts of his black coat. He had not worn a hat since he’d arrived at Strone Bridge, and his hair was windswept. ‘What is so amusing, assuming it’s not my appearance?’ he asked, waiting for her on the path.

‘Kippers,’ Ainsley replied, smiling. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes. She had missed him at breakfast these past few days. ‘You do look a bit as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. A very muddy hedge,’ Ainsley said. ‘I’ll speak to Mhairi when we get in, I’ll have her heat the water so you can have a bath. The chimney has been swept, so it shouldn’t take long.’

Innes followed her down the hallway to the sitting room that doubled as their study. ‘Thank you, that sounds good. Where have you been?’

‘I came across the chapel. I saw your father’s grave.’

He was sifting through the pile of mail that Mhairi had left on the desk and did not look up. ‘Right.’

She wondered, surprised that it had not occurred to her until now, whether Innes himself had seen it. If so, he had made no mention of it. Another thing he would not talk about. ‘I’ll go and speak to Mhairi,’ Ainsley said, irritated, knowing she had no right to be, and even more irritated by that fact.

* * *

When she returned, bearing a tea tray, Innes was sitting at the desk reading a letter, but he put it down as she entered and took the tray from her. ‘I think half the population of Strone Bridge must now be in Canada or America,’ he said. ‘We’ve more empty farms than tenanted ones.’

She handed him a cup of tea. ‘Why is it, do you think?’

‘High rents. Poor maintenance—or more accurately, no maintenance. Better prospects elsewhere.’ Innes sighed heavily.

‘I know nothing about such matters, but even I can see from the weeds growing that some of the fields have not been tilled for years,’ Ainsley said carefully. ‘Is the land too poor?’

‘It’s sure as hell in bad heart now,’ Innes said wretchedly, ‘though whether that’s through neglect or lack of innovation, new methods, whatever they might be. There are cotter families who have lived in the tied cottages for decades who have moved on. I’m sick of hearing the words, “I mentioned it to the laird but nothing happened”. My father’s factor apparently left Strone Bridge not long after I did, and he did not employ another, though no one will tell me why. In fact, no one will tell me anything. They treat me like a stranger.’

‘What about Eoin?’ Ainsley asked tentatively.

‘What about him?’

‘You said he was your friend. Couldn’t you talk to him?’

‘Eoin is as bad as the rest. It doesn’t matter, it’s not your problem.’

Innes picked up another letter. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. It’s not your problem. Ainsley sat perfectly still. The words were a horrible echo from the past. How many times had she been rebuffed by John with exactly that phrase, until she stopped asking any questions at all?

‘Don’t say that.’

Her tone made Innes look up in surprise. ‘Don’t say what?’

Ainsley stared down at her tea. ‘It is my problem. At least it’s supposed to be. It’s what you brought me here for, to help you.’

‘This place is beyond help. I can see that for myself.’

‘So that’s it? You’ve already decided—what? To sell? To walk away and let it continue to crumble? What?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So you haven’t decided, but you’re not going to ask me because my opinion counts for nothing.’

‘No! Ainsley, what the devil is the matter with you?’

‘What is the matter?’ She jumped to her feet, unable to keep still. ‘You brought me here to help! You have paid me a considerable sum of money, a sum I would not have dreamed of accepting if I thought all I was to do was sit about here and—and fluff cushions.’

‘You’ve done a great deal more than that. I’m sorry if I have seemed unappreciative, but—’

‘I have done nothing more than Mhairi McIntosh could have done. Oh, granted, I married you, and in doing so allowed you to claim this place, which seems to me to have been a completely pointless exercise, if all you’re going to do is say that it’s past help, and walk away.’

‘I didn’t say I was going to do that. Stop haranguing me like a fishwife.’

‘Stop treating me like a child! I have a brain. I have opinions. I know I’m a Sassenach and a commoner to boot, but I’m not a parasite. I may know nothing about farming, but neither do you! Only you’re so blooming well ashamed of the fact, though you’ve no reason to be, because why should you know anything about it when you told me yourself your father did not allow you to know anything, and—and...’

‘Ainsley!’ Innes wrested the teaspoon she was still clutching from her clenched hand and set it down on the tea tray. ‘What on earth has come over you? You’re shaking.’

‘I’m not,’ she said, doing just that. ‘Now you’ve made me lose track of what I was saying.’

‘You were saying that I’m an ignoramus not fit to own the lands.’

‘No, that’s what you think.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘If I could have got by without asking Mhairi for advice on this house, I would have, but I couldn’t, Innes.’

‘Why should you, you know nothing of the place.’

‘Exactly.’ She sniffed again, and drew him a meaningful look. Innes handed her a neatly folded handkerchief. ‘I’m not crying,’ Ainsley said.

‘No.’

She blew her nose. ‘I’ve never known a wetter July. I’ve likely got a cold.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘I hate women who resort to tears to get their way.’

‘I’m not sure it ever works. From what I’ve seen, what usually happens is that she cries, he runs away, and whatever it was gets swept under the carpet until the next time,’ Innes said wryly.

‘You know, for a man who has never been married before, you have an uncanny insight into the workings of matrimony.’

‘I take it I’ve struck a chord?’

It was gently said, but she couldn’t help prickling. ‘Sometimes tears are not a weapon, but merely an expression of emotion,’ Ainsley said, handing him his kerchief. ‘Such as anger.’

‘Stop glowering at me, and stop assuming that all men are tarred with the same brush as the man you married.’

The gentleness had gone from his voice. Ainsley sat, or rather slumped, feeling suddenly deflated. ‘I don’t.’

‘You do, and I’m not like him.’

‘I know. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were. But you are shutting me out, Innes, and it’s making me feel as if I’m here under false pretences. If you won’t talk to me, why not talk to Eoin? There’s nothing shameful in asking for help.’

Her tea was cold, but she drank it anyway. The silence was uncomfortable, but she could think of no way of breaking it. She finished her tea.

‘I’m not used to consulting anyone,’ Innes said. ‘You knew that.’

‘But it was your idea to have me come along here. An objective eye.’

‘I didn’t realise things would be so bad. As I said, it’s obvious that it’s too late.’

‘So you’re giving up?’

‘No! I’m saving you the effort of getting involved in something that is next to useless.’

‘Giving up, in other words,’ Ainsley said.

His face was quite white. The handle of his teacup snapped. He stared at it, then put it carefully down. ‘I don’t give up,’ he said.

She bit her tongue.

‘I’m not accustomed to— It’s been difficult. Seeing it. Not having answers. That’s been hard.’

Ainsley nodded.

‘They are all judging me.’

She sighed in exasperation. ‘Innes, you’ve been gone a long time. They don’t know you.’

‘I don’t see how you can help.’

‘I won’t know if I can, if you don’t talk to me.’ Ainsley tried a tentative smile. ‘At the very least, I would be on your side.’

‘Aye, that would be something more than I have right now.’ Innes smiled back. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Please do. I have plenty of time on my hands.’

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at her ruefully. ‘You might want to use some of it to partition this place off into his and her domains. I’m like a bear with a sore head these days, though contrary to what you might think, I quite like having you around. And that’s your cue, in case you missed it, to tell me you feel the same.’

Ainsley laughed. ‘Would I have suggested helping you if I had wanted to avoid you?’

‘True.’

‘Perhaps you should consider having some sort of welcoming party.’

‘Even though I’m not welcome.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, don’t bite my head off.’

Ainsley frowned, thinking back to the letter she had been reading that morning from Desperate Wife. ‘Sometimes traditions can be a comfort. Sometimes they can even help heal wounds,’ she said, making a mental note to include that phrase in Madame Hera’s reply.

‘Sometimes you sound like one of those self-help manuals, do you know that?’

‘Do I?’

‘“Engaging in marital relations,”’ he quoted, smiling. ‘“Undergoing a husband’s ministrations.” No, don’t get on your high horse, it’s endearing.’

‘It is?’

‘It is. What were you suggesting?’

‘Didn’t you say that there ought to have been a ceremony when we arrived?’ There was a smut of mud on his cheek. She reached up to brush it away.

‘A ceremony. I’m not very keen on ceremonies.’ Innes caught her hand between his and pressed a kiss on to her knuckles.

Was it just a kiss, or a kiss? It felt like more than just a kiss, for it made her heart do a silly little flip. But his mouth did not linger, and surely knuckles could not be—what was the word, stimulating? She wanted to ask him, but that would give too much away, and he might not have been at all stimulated. ‘A celebration, then,’ Ainsley said. ‘Lots of food and drink. Something to mark the changes. You know, out with the old and in with the new.’

‘Mmm.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘I like that,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘Do you?’ She had no idea whether he meant her idea or the kiss.

‘Mmm,’ he said, pulling her towards him and wrapping his arms around her. ‘I like that very much,’ he said. And then he kissed her on the mouth.

It was definitely not just a kiss. He tasted of spring. Of outdoors. A little of sweat. And of something she could not name. Something sinful. Something that made her heat and tense and clench, and made her dig her fingers into the shoulders of his coat and tilt her body against his. And that made him groan, a guttural noise that seemed to vibrate inside her.

One hand roamed up her back, his fingers delving into her hair, the other roamed down to cup her bottom and pull her closer. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers, through her skirts. She touched her tongue to his and felt his shudder, and shuddered with him, pressing her thighs against his, wanting more, wanting to rid herself of the layers of cloth between them, wanting his flesh, and then thinking about her flesh, exposed, thinking about him looking at her. Or looking at her and then turning his head away. Then not wanting to look at her. Like John. And then...

‘Ainsley?’

‘Your bath,’ she said, clutching at the first thing she could think of. ‘Your bath will be ready.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ she said, managing a smile, forcing herself to meet his concerned gaze, hating herself for being the cause of that concern, frustrated at having started something she had not the nerve to finish, frustrated at how much she wished she could. ‘No, I just don’t want the water to get cold.’

‘The state I’m in, I think cold is what I need. What happened? Did I do something wrong?’

She flushed. Men were not supposed to ask such questions. Men hated discussing anything intimate. She knew that it was not just John who had been like that, because Madame Hera’s correspondence was full of women saying that their husbands were exactly the same. Why did Innes have to be different!

‘Nothing. I changed my mind,’ Ainsley said, mortified, not only for the lie, but for knowing she was relying on Innes being the kind of man who would always allow a woman to do so. And she was right.

‘A lady’s prerogative,’ he said, making an ironic little bow. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

Chapter Five

‘Come and sit by the fire.’ Innes handed Ainsley a glass of sherry.

‘I thought it was warm enough to wear this without shivering,’ she answered him with a constrained smile, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

Her dress was cream patterned with dark blue, with a belt the same colour around her waist. Though it was long-sleeved, the little frill around the décolleté revealed her shoulders, the hollows at her collarbone, the most tantalising hint of the smooth slope of her breasts. She sat opposite him and began to twirl her glass about in her hand, a habit she had, Innes had noticed, when she was trying to work up to saying something uncomfortable.

Her face had that pinched look that leached the life from it. Earlier, he’d suspected that she had pulled away from him because of her memories connected to McBrayne. Lying in the cooling bath water in front of the feeble fire in his bedchamber, Innes had begun to wonder what, exactly, the man had done to her. It was more than the debts, or even the fact that they were incurred without her knowing. He couldn’t understand how she could be kissing him with abandon one minute and then turning to ice the next, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t anything he’d done—or not done. When she forgot herself, she was a different person from the one opposite him now, twisting away nervously at her glass and slanting him timid looks.

Innes threw another log on the fire. ‘I think I’ve solved one problem, at least,’ he said, picking up the magazine that he’d been flicking through while he waited on her. ‘This thing, the Scottish Ladies Companion. There’s a woman who doles out spurious advice to females in here, and she uses that very same phrase of yours.’ He opened the periodical and ruffled through the pages. ‘Aye, here it is. “Make a point of extinguishing the light before engaging in marital relations”—you see, your very phrase—“and your husband will likely not notice your having so unwittingly misled him. Better still, retain your modesty and your nightgown, and your little deceit will never have to be explained.” This Madame Hera is either a virgin or a fool,’ he said scathingly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The lass has been stuffing her corsets with— What was it?’

‘Stockings.’

‘I see you have read it, then.’ Innes shook his head.

‘It was her mother’s idea.’

‘And a damned stupid one. Pitch dark or broad daylight, you can be certain the husband will know the difference. And as for the idea of keeping her nightgown on...’

‘For modesty’s sake. I am sure many women do.’

‘Really? I’ve never come across a single one.’

‘I doubt very much that the women you have—experienced—are—are— I mean— You know what I mean.’

‘The women I’ve experienced, as you put it, have certainly not been married to another man at the time, but nor have they been harlots, if that is what you’re implying.’ She was blushing. She was unduly flustered, considering she was neither a virgin herself, nor as strait-laced as she now sounded. ‘I’m finding you a puzzle,’ Innes said, ‘for the day I met you, I recall you were threatening to join the harlots on the Cowgate.’

‘You know very well I was joking.’ Ainsley set her glass of sherry down. ‘Do you really think Madame Hera’s advice misguided?’

‘Does it matter?’

She bit her lip, then nodded.

Innes picked up the magazine and read the letter again. ‘This woman, she’s not exactly lied to the man she’s betrothed to, but she’s misled him, and it seems to me that Madame Hera is encouraging her to continue to mislead him. It’s that I don’t like. The lass is likely nervous enough about the wedding night without having to worry about subterfuge. Hardly a frame of mind conducive to her enjoying what you would call her husband’s ministrations.’

‘What would you call it?’

Innes grinned. ‘Something that doesn’t sound as if the pleasure is entirely one-sided. There’s a dictionary worth of terms depending on what takes your fancy, but lovemaking will do.’

‘You might think that innocuous enough, but I assure you, the Scottish Ladies Companion will not publish it,’ Ainsley said.

‘You are a subscriber to this magazine, then?’

She shrugged. ‘But—this woman, Innes. Don’t you think her husband will be angry if he discovers her deception? And anger is no more conducive to—to lovemaking than fraud.’

‘In the grand scheme of things, I doubt it. Chances are he’s not any more experienced than she, and like to be just as nervous. I’d say he’s going to be more concerned about his own performance than anything else, something your Madame Hera doesn’t seem to take any account of.’

‘It is a column of advice for women.’

‘And most of the letters in this issue seem to be about men. Anyway, Madame Hera is completely missing the main point.’

‘Which is?’

‘The lass thinks she’s not well enough endowed, and Madame Hera is by implication agreeing by telling her to cover up. If she goes to her wedding night ashamed, thinking she’s not got enough to offer, you can be sure that soon enough her husband will think the same.’

‘So it’s her fault?’ Ainsley said.

‘Don’t be daft. If anyone’s at fault it’s that blasted Madame Hera—and the mother.’ Innes threw the magazine down on the table. ‘I don’t know why we’re wasting our time with this nonsense.’