Page 30 of Return to Wildsyde

Too morose to face eating her lunch with Hamilton and the countess, Luella decided she would do well to take herself off for a walk until she regained her temper and could trust herself not to snap anyone’s head off. She got up, looking at the neat jars of cherries and with a last glance around to check no one was watching, she snatched one up and smuggled it outside with her.

Luella waited until she had left the castle grounds before she carefully turned the lid. It was a large jar, and heavy so she held it in both hands. The liquid was almost to the top, and she risked spilling it as she walked so Luella lifted it to her mouth and took a sip. The sweet liquid was delicious and potent and warmed her belly, sending a pleasant glow suffusing through her blood. Licking her lips, Luella took another sip, just to be sure, and then took a cherry, popping it in her mouth. She walked on, occasionally dipping into the jar and taking another cherry. After a while, her mood lifted. Who could feel angry and morose when the world around them was so lovely? She stopped in her tracks, staring, as an expanse of glittering blue appeared before her.

She had known they lived close to the sea, of course, but she had thought little of it. Luella had seen the mighty Thames often enough and had assumed… but good lord, how wrong she had been. The mucky Thames, redolent with the stench of everything vile that spewed from the city, could not compare with this pristine stretch of vivid sapphire.

Luella’s breath caught, tears pricking at her eyes at the sheer beauty of it. Faced with something so glorious and so vast, she felt small and inconsequential, and strangely, that was comforting. For there must be something far greater at work than her own insignificant life could comprehend, so perhaps she ought not to worry so much. Somewhat dazed by both her philosophical musings and the sparkling sea before her, Luella sipped absently from the jar before walking on again. She was careful not to get too close to the sheer cliff’s edge, though she could hear the sea surging beneath her and longed to take a closer look.

Seagulls shrieked excitedly overhead, their raucous cries ear-splitting as they played with the gusts of wind, sometimes riding the current and sometimes arrowing down, diving beneath the water like spears slicing into blue silk. Luella watched them as she walked and then noticed a well-worn path ahead that seemed to go down to the shore. Hurrying on, she gave a little cry of delight to discover a way down to a sheltered, sandy cove.

The path was steep and slippery in places, and she ended up on her backside twice as she descended, but happily saved the jar from spilling.

“Oh, how marvellous,” she said aloud, her words immediately swept away by the sound of the waves. She sat down heavily on the dry sand, suddenly a trifle unsteady, and carefully set the jar down where it could not spill.

Luella hitched up her skirts, then undid her garters and stripped off stockings and shoes. Darting a cautious look around her to ensure she was alone, she also tugged off her pantaloons, not wanting to damage the delicate lacy trim with a dousing in salt water.

Setting the items carefully on her shoes, she tucked her skirts and petticoats under the edge of her corset as best she could, picked up the jar, and walked closer to the sea. She gave a little shriek as the icy water bathed her toes and danced out of the way, laughing. Popping another couple of cherries in her mouth, she watched the water with interest before daring another go. It was just as cold and she squealed, running away again. Delighted by her new game, she took another swig of the sugary whisky mixture—it really was delicious—and ran back to the sea.

“Murdoch, come here, ye daft beggar,” Lyall shouted as Murdoch got too far ahead. He sighed, taking a moment to shrug off his coat and roll his sleeves up. It was mild for May and the sunshine was warm on his back.

The dog loped back, a sheepish expression on his face as he returned and pushed his wet nose against Lyall’s hand. Lyall shook his head. Murdoch was young yet and inclined to misbehave still. He had a worrying tendency to go off exploring on his own, which Lyall had not yet cured. There had already been several occasions when kindly neighbours had taken a considerable journey to bring the miscreant home again upon recognising his lordship’s dog.

There had always been wolfhounds at Wildsyde. His father had kept them, and Murdoch was a direct descendent of Murdo, his father’s favourite dog. Murdoch’s wives, Maggie and Moire, were more sensible than their daft husband and kept close to Lyall, watching their beloved with kindly exasperation, if Lyall was any judge. He thought perhaps he had seen that expression on his mother’s face a time or two when she looked at his father. He snorted at the idea and then remembered the look in Luella’s eyes that morning.

Something like guilt stirred in his chest. In the week since their trip to Wick and the bargain they had made, he had not seen Luella once. She had kept to the letter of their agreement, somehow making herself invisible. Now and then he would walk into a room and be certain she had been there moments before. His mother must have bought her perfume along with the dress, or perhaps it was just soap, but sometimes he caught the hint of a delicate floral scent lingering in the air.

Sometimes there would be a book set aside, still open at the page she was reading, and he imagined she had abandoned it in a hurry as she heard his footsteps. Was that what he had made her do? He had not intended for her to live like a ghost, forever keeping out of his line of sight. Hadn’t he, though? Wasn’t that what he’d asked of her in return for educating her brother? She hadn’t even commented upon the fact he had set money aside for her, he wasn’t certain she had even registered the information, too concerned with her brother’s future to care for herself. Was it just a clever act, to lull him into thinking she was a decent woman and not a calculating bitch like Lilith had been?

Lyall sighed and strode out, soothed as always by the expanse of rippling blue sea before him. It never failed to bring him perspective, to ease his temper or lift his spirits. Even Lilith could not take that from him. Lord, but how she had hated it here. She had hated his dogs too, not that Luella seemed keen on them. She had clearly thought them untrained and liable to bite her or Jack on first viewing them. He snorted at the idea. Murdoch would be as likely to lick her to death, the idiotic creature.

“Murdoch!” Lyall shouted in exasperation, just getting a glimpse of a grey tail as it disappeared down the path that led to a private beach.

It had been a favourite place of Lyall’s and his brothers when they were lads, as it was sheltered from the wind and entirely hidden from view. They had come here to skinny dip and built sand forts and generally make arses of themselves. He smiled at the memories of his father teaching them to swim, or of being lifted on his massive shoulders as he strode into the icy water, muttering fiercely that it was cold enough to ensure they’d have no more siblings… a fact Lyall was glad of, as his two brothers and especially his little sister were trouble enough.

Sighing, he strode down the path after his idiot dog and was halfway down before he heard singing. Hardly able to believe his ears, he hurried to the beach and came to a halt at the bottom of the path. At his feet was a neat pile that seemed to comprise shoes, stockings and bloomers, as well as her new dress. Luella was standing in the sea in her underthings, with her petticoats hitched up and tucked under the edges of her corset, showing an expanse of long, slender legs. Her hair had come free of its pins and cascaded down her back, the wind blowing the dark locks and making her look as wild and lovely as some mythical creature, a mermaid or a siren. Well, perhaps not a siren, as she was clearly tone deaf. She appeared to be serenading the seagulls. Her arms were thrown wide, and one held a large jar which seemed to be empty. Blinking with astonishment, he listened to the song she was belting out with more enthusiasm than tune.

“Then, come, put the jorum about, and let us be merry and clever. Our hearts and our liquors are stout. Here's to the Three Jolly Pigeons forever!”

She put a good deal of emphasis on the forever, gesticulating madly to the birds wheeling overhead. Despite himself, Lyall’s lips turned up at the corners as he walked down the beach towards her. The dogs ran into the water, barking and jumping at each other as they played in the waves. Luella didn’t seem to even notice them.

“Let some cry up woodcock or hare. Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons, But of all the gay birds in the air. Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons! Toroddle toroddle, toroll!”

She turned around, apparently to make an extravagant bow, and lost her balance. Her arms windmilling wildly, she swayed backwards. Lyall hurried towards her, splashing through the icy water to grab hold of her just before she fell backwards and disappeared under the waves. In her current condition, he did not fancy her chances of getting up again.

She gave a little shriek as she stared owlishly up at him and pushed at his chest.

“Gerroff! Don’t you go manhandling me for you, sir, are… are… not very nyshe, nice,” she corrected.

“That’s as maybe,” he said with a wry smile. “But ye are smashed, lass.”

“Wassat?” she asked, her expression dubious.

“Ye are drunk out of ye heid,” Lyall explained patiently as she hung limply in his arms. If he let go, she’d simply collapse into the sea.

She wrinkled her nose at him, which he took to be an expression of indignation, though it was hard to tell. “Am not!”

“Well, much as I hate to argue with ye, ye are a liar, but I suspected as much. Give me that jar.” Lyall grabbed it and took a sniff. “Holy God, ye have been drinking whisky!”

“I have not… not much,” she amended, pushing at his chest again. It was like being patted by a kitten. She was so drunk she could hardly lift her hand, let alone do any damage with it. “It wash only Mrshs Bally’s whiskery cherries,” she mumbled, resting her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “A babe could nae get drunk on them,” she added, which he suspected was what Sheenagh had told her.