Page 12 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 5

Dear Miss Halliday,

How glad I am to discover another young woman of quality in this dreadful town. I left my card with Mrs Macready yesterday morning, and if it pleases you, I should be delighted to call upon you again today at three pm.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Jessie Fleming to Miss Clara Halliday.

18th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

“I’m afraid you must be terribly disappointed by our little town,” Miss Fleming said with a sigh. “I cried when I came back from London.” Clara smiled at the young lady’s sincerity but shook her head. “I’ve been here such a short time I’ve not had the opportunity to see much of the town, but I confess I was impressed by how many dress shops and milliners there were. I’m afraid I’m something of a country mouse so I was delighted by the variety and quality of everything on offer.”

Miss Fleming pulled a face. “It’s hardly the kind of thing you see in the magazines, though, is it?” she said, smoothing her hand over the lovely royal blue gown she wore. It was obviously the height of fashion, and the lady wore it with a black and white cashmere shawl that gave Clara a most unwelcome stab of envy. “This came from Paris,” she added, preening a little.

“Really?” Clara replied, impressed as she was supposed to be. “It must have been dreadfully expensive,” she said wistfully, which was rather indelicate, but she was too curious not to ask.

“Oh, it was,” Miss Fleming said with satisfaction. “But Papa says if I am to catch a husband of suitable standing, I must be properly outfitted. It's truly the only thing he and Mama ever agree about,” she said with a tinkling laugh.

“Well, it is very beautiful. The shawl too,” Clara said truthfully, a little dejected to consider what a dowd she must look in this lovely creature’s presence. Miss Fleming was a delicate blonde with wide blue eyes and looked as fragile and sweet as a china doll. In contrast, Clara had heavy, unmanageable thick brown hair, grey eyes, and a figure that leaned towards the voluptuous. “Thank you. And your…” Miss Fleming hesitated, obviously thrown into confusion as she realised there was nothing she could compliment Clara upon.

Her dress was good quality but plain and a dull shade of green, for her father disapproved of bright colours. Taking pity on the poor girl’s fiery cheeks and mortification, Clara hurriedly offered her another cup of tea.

“You were born in Wick, then?” she asked, hoping to move the conversation on.

“Oh, no. I was born in Hampshire. My mother’s family are still there,” she said, which explained the rather cut-glass English accent. “My father is Scottish, though, and his family’s business is here. When my grandfather died, he forced us to return so he could be close at hand. I think my mother never forgave him that,” she added with a brittle laugh. “I was twelve at the time. We’ve been here ever since, and I longed and longed for my first season. I was rather a success,” she murmured, lowering her eyes modestly.

“I’m sure you must have been,” Clara said frankly. “You are quite lovely. The gentlemen must have been buzzing around you like bees around a honey pot.”

Miss Fleming blushed a little and grinned, her cheeks dimpling. “They were,” she admitted. “It was quite marvellous. I’d never had such attention before, for there are so few eligible men here.”

“There are some, though?” Clara asked, trying not to sound too curious to discover them.

“Oh, yes. But few.”

It was on the tip of Clara’s tongue to ask for names, but she controlled herself. The urge to ask if Mr Anderson was among them was even harder to resist, but she remained silent, hoping Miss Fleming might be a little more forthcoming. She had neither seen nor heard anything from the provoking man since she had discovered his true identity, and she was heartily glad of that fact. Another encounter could only be mortifying on her part, and she would not know whether to ignore him or berate him for teasing her so dreadfully.

Clara was to be disappointed if she wished for news of the wretched man, though, for Miss Fleming only launched into a description of her favourite beaus in London, of which there seemed to be a staggering number, when Clara heard her father’s study door slam. Both ladies jolted, and Clara’s heart dropped as the sound of the front door slamming quickly followed.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, pushing to her feet and hurrying to the window to see her father accosting two burly builders who were carrying an immense piece of polished wood. Clara realised at a glance, this must be the bar top, and the sight of it had sent her father into a fury. “I beg you will forgive me, Miss Fleming, but I must leave you for just a moment.”

Ignoring the young lady’s look of incredulity, Clara ran from the room, finding Mrs Macready in the hallway, twisting her apron in her hands.

“Oh, I didnae ken whether or nae to fetch ye, Miss,” she said wretchedly.

“I’ll deal with it,” Clara said firmly. “Only, please see to Miss Fleming, for I’ve abandoned her in a dreadfully ramshackle manner.”

“At once, miss,” Mrs Macready said, hurrying away.

Clara ran to the front door, snatching it open and then taking a moment to compose herself. She would be no good at diffusing the row if she was not calm.

Taking in the situation swiftly, she realised that the two men carrying the enormous worktop were straining under the weight of it. There was a backlog of carts carrying materials that had parked in front of the public house, and they’d been forced to carry the bar top quite a distance already. The thing was solid oak, three yards long and as thick as her arm. It clearly weighed a ton, and the two men were being impeded by her father berating them for going about their work. She could see their difficulty, for they did not dare put it down and risk scratching the gleaming, polished edge.

“I dinnae mean to be rude, Reverend, but ye must let us by ye afore we drop this,” one man said breathlessly.

“It is God’s will that the thing be cut up and used for divine purposes instead of an altar to the demon drink!” her father said, raising his fist and gazing at the sky above. “Father, forgive these wicked men, for they know not what they do.”

“Oh, mercy me,” Clara said helplessly, picking up her skirts and hurrying closer.

“It’s just a work top,” the other man protested, looking perplexed. “It’s nae an altar of any kind. We dinnae sacrifice virgins in Wick, ye ken?”