Beatrice couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to remember the look on his face. She’d learned it was the little details like that that popped up in her memory time and again, and they had the ability to wind her like she’d been socked in the stomach.
Atholl swung himself into the driver’s seat and they’d driven the many miles to A&E through Tuesday lunchtime traffic, all tractors on the B roads and lorries along the motorway.
After the hurry of the journey and the obligatory form-filling-in, Beatrice found it hard to adjust to the slow pace everything seemed to take from then on and she wanted to scream in the strange silence in the triage waiting room. Instead she sat rigidly, staring at her hands on her lap.
Atholl had paced the corridors, asking any passing doctor, nurse or porter how much longer it would be, and he’d been told to sit down umpteen times until he had to give up and wait with Beatrice. He’d ground his jaw and agitatedly rubbed her hand with his thumb until at last the nurse came with a wheelchair and took her away.
‘Nothing?’ Atholl blinked when Beatrice told him.
‘Yep, nothing’s happening. They think I might have overdone it a bit and I’m to go home, get into bed and stay there. Total bed rest. The nurse is going to visit once a week.’
‘But, the blood?’
‘It happens, apparently. They said I was right to come straight in but the baby’s fine. They did a scan. I saw her.’
Atholl staggered a little and gripped Beatrice’s shoulders. His voice cracked as he repeated the word. ‘Her?’
The patients arriving and the doctors knocking off work had to squeeze past the pair of them as Atholl held Beatrice tight by the hospital doors and they’d cried, not caring who heard them.
Beatrice knew now the stakes were higher. Atholl’s faith that this baby would arrive into the world safely and without complication had been shaken. Now there would be two of them trying hard to hold on for the spring time – only now Beatrice Halliday had the indelible image of a delicate girl, almost five months old and curled up like a fern frond, etched upon her heart, and she had never loved anyone as much or wanted anything quite so fiercely in her entire life.
Chapter Thirty
The Best-laid Plans
‘May I have this dance?’
Mark presented his hand to Ruth with a slight bow, the way he’d seen the laird do with one of his guests a few moments ago.
‘You may,’ Ruth said, her voice crackling with delight, and she let her husband lead her into a waltz she’d seen the locals doing on Hogmanay at the inn.
Even with its easy steps, it was still nothing like the slow dance they’d done at their wedding reception at the pub with their family and a few friends almost twenty-five years ago. This was surprisingly energetic and rather a lot of fun, what with the ceilidh band making the most amazing, raucous sounds.
As Mark spun his wife under his arm then pulled her, not all that confidently, into a speedy waltz step, he told her she looked beautiful, and they’d danced on throughout the evening, not wanting to be out of each other’s arms now they’d found their way back there, and Ruth remembered what it felt like to have her husband’s palm on the small of her back, his mouth at her ear, and her hand on his shoulder.
They promenaded and pah-d’ bah-ed, changed partners, found themselves being spun overenthusiastically by one of the many deranged, kilted Scots who seemed to have no respect for social niceties and people’s personal safety now there was a wild reel being played, and then the couple had found each other again, dizzy and smiling, telling themselves they’d dance one more song then have a sit down but never actually leaving the floor. Ruth curtseyed to her husband – something she never in her life imagined herself doing – and he would make a low bow and kiss the back of her hand like Prince Charming in a fairy tale.
‘Take your partners for Strip the Willow,’ the caller announced from his spot by the stage, and people who had learned Scottish country dances at primary school and had a lifetime of practising at weddings under their belts got a bit cocky and remarked how this was areallytricky one, merrily patting Mark on the shoulder and wishing him luck.
Mark only smiled and told his wife it was all right; he knew what he was doing, he’d stripped willows with Atholl Fergusson and it was a piece of cake.
By the time Ruth and Mark were thoroughly confused and roaring with laughter at the mess they were making of this one, Mutt had reached the end of his endurance shouting over the music with Nina who couldn’t dance because her ankle was smarting a little and he asked if she’d join him in the coffee lounge for a night cap where it would be quieter.
‘Good idea!’ she’d shouted back.
Once out of the hot ballroom, Nina wondered if her cheeks were as red as they felt.
‘That was some pretty energetic dancing going on in there,’ she laughed, shuddering as the chill in the corridor hit her.
‘You’ll feel the cold now. Here.’ Mutt slipped his leather jacket over her tuxedoed shoulders.
‘Do you want to…?’ he started, holding his arm out for her to slide in close to him.
If she hesitated, it was only for a beat, then she let him wrap his arm around her shoulder and walk her to the bar, her head tipping automatically towards his.
‘Oh, there’s Mr Cor!’ Nina cried.
They’d turned into the cosy snug bar to find the distillery owner sitting by the fire with a young woman. He was lifting two glasses of his own whisky from a waiter’s tray and waxing lyrical about the malting process as he had done with Nina not so long ago before the incident with the cow and the dash to hospital, and long before the warm, tender hour spent conspiring with Mutt in the clan chief’s glass bedchamber.
