Page 16 of Walk on the Wildsyde

“‘Let us not become conceited, provoking and envying each other,’” Clara recited, in a fair imitation of her father’s grandiose style of speaking. “I’m supposed to be a model Christian, you understand, and here I am, wanting to scratch your eyes out for wearing that gorgeous dress when I’m all in brown.”

Miss Fleming looked her over with a critical eye. “I have the loveliest yellow gown which I will give to you. I’m afraid it's last year's fashion but you won’t mind that, and we can furbish it up and make it look more a la mode. It’s just the thing for you.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t,” Clara said, touched and rather embarrassed by the offer. She was uncertain what her father would think of her wearing yellow, too. Not that he had ever forbidden her to, she had simply never been brave enough to wear such bright shades. It had seemed inappropriate.

“Oh, Clara, don’t be such a peahen. I shan’t ever wear it again. Indeed, I’ve a wardrobe full of things I shall never wear again. Why ought you not have them if I wish to give them to you? For you’re already the prettiest creature in all of Wick. Well,” she added candidly, “we are the prettiest creatures in all of Wick.”

Clara snorted, which set Miss Fleming off, and as they turned the corner, they were laughing heartily.

The Fisherman’s Retreat was quiet on the Sabbath, thank heavens, but as they passed by, with Miss Fleming eyeing the building with interest, the door opened, and Mr Anderson stepped out and locked the door behind him. He saw them as he turned and smiled, giving a formal bow.

“Ladies, how enchanting to meet ye both, and dressed as fine as fivepence. Ye’ll have all the lads weeping into their whisky with heartache.”

“Mr Anderson,” Clara reproved him sternly, remembering the run in he’d had with her father all too clearly.

“I beg yer pardon, Miss Halliday. It was a provoking remark, was it nae? I never could keep a still tongue in my head when there was a quip to be made,” he told them with a devilish glint in his eyes. “May I walk ye home?”

“It’s little more than a dozen steps,” Clara said dryly. “I think we can manage it alone.”

“Ah, but there are some desperate sorts in Wick, ye never know when ye will be needing a strong man to keep ye safe,” he teased.

“Oh, then you had best accompany us everywhere, Mr Anderson, for I shall be afraid to set a foot out of doors without you from now on,” Miss Fleming said, blushing and giggling, which Clara privately thought did her no credit. Likely, Mr Anderson thought it made Clara look crusty and ill-tempered in comparison. In the circumstances, she could hardly refuse to take his arm, though she cast him a dark look, so he understood the situation was not one of which she approved.

When the requisite dozen steps had been accomplished, Clara thanked him with ironic civility for his chaperonage, and turned to Miss Fleming, expecting her to release his arm.

“Are you coming, Miss Fleming?” she asked with a smile.

“Oh, no. I’ve just remembered Papa especially told me I must not dally on my way home from church, for we dine early today. And I could not possibly walk all by myself, now I know how dangerous Wick is,” she added demurely, casting a flirtatious glance at Mr Anderson.

“Oh,” Clara said, a little shocked by her friend’s conduct. “Well, of course. I would not wish for you to be late for a family dinner. I will bid you both a good day then,” she replied, and walked to her front door. Though she told herself sternly she must not, Clara could not help a glance back at them before she stepped inside.

Miss Fleming was chattering gaily as they walked down the road, but Mr Anderson looked back over his shoulder, casting Clara a rueful smile before winking at her.

Clara told herself sternly that she was not the least bit gratified by such ungentlemanly behaviour, but her wicked heart disagreed.

It took Hamilton longer than he would have liked to remove himself from Miss Fleming’s company. While he had no complaints about walking a pretty girl home, especially one who exerted herself to be agreeable, he knew Miss Fleming was a dangerous companion. She had made it clear to him she was willing to be Mrs Hamilton Anderson, though he knew well enough she would far rather have married Lyall. Miss Fleming was ambitious and, if a better prospect presented itself, she would drop him like a hot coal. However, a bird in the hand and all that. Hamilton did not blame her for her attitude, which was purely practical, but he was in no mad rush to marry, and certainly not a girl like her.

While Miss Fleming was easy on the eye, there was something about her that set his teeth on edge, the nagging sense that she was playing a part to please him. He did not know what the real Miss Fleming was like, but he strongly doubted she was the amiable, bubble-headed female she presented to the world. His gut told him that Clara Halliday, by contrast, was everything she appeared to be. She was not only lovely, with looks of a kind that needed no artifice or paint to highlight, but kind and compassionate, strong-willed, but also a dutiful daughter. He felt she struggled with the position she was in, for he did not think she liked the confrontational stand her father had taken against the drinking men of Wick… or Hamilton himself.

As much as she might approve of her father’s ambitions, it seemed Miss Halliday wished to change his tactics, although Hamilton suspected such a wish might be beyond her power.

Finding himself at a loose end, Hamilton considered his options. Moyra would certainly welcome his company but, as much as he liked her, he was not in the right frame of mind for bed sports. His mood was too meditative for that. The problem the Reverend Halliday sought to eradicate was not one he was unaware of; you’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see it. That he might really be adding to the problem was an idea he had dismissed at first, but one that nagged at his conscience as he wondered if he could do better.

He turned the problem over as he meandered through the quiet streets, but he had no lightning strike idea or solution and only gave himself a headache. He did not like Sundays in Wick. Most people gathered with their family on the sabbath to share a meal and whilst his family were not a million miles away, it was too far to go for the day. He missed them, though. He missed the messy, noisy family gatherings, and more than anything he missed the landscape around Wildsyde, the magic of the remote spot that seemed to be a world apart from the one he now inhabited. Foolishness, of course. Hamilton had everything any young man could want: financial success, popularity, and a beautiful and willing bed partner. It was daft to feel homesick. Besides, he had not long been with them, staying with his elder brother Lyall for their middle sibling’s wedding.

Muir had done well for himself, a twist of fate no one could have predicted landing him a bride who was the daughter of a duke and came with a fat dowry, and who was also a sweet-natured and lovely young woman Hamilton had liked at once. Upon learning of the difficult situation she had been in, he had been rash enough to offer to marry her himself if Muir was not to her liking. In hindsight, he was glad she had rejected the offer., not least because Muir was clearly head over ears in love and would never have forgiven him. Hamilton’s instincts had told him that Delia was a good woman with a kind heart, and would make an admirable wife, and he knew he’d been right in that estimation. However, he had not been in love with her, and he suspected that rare ingredient, unfashionable as it was, needed to be a part of any union he was prepared to make.

Quite out of sorts by now, after such unsettling thoughts of marriage and homesickness, Hamilton was relieved when he turned the corner and found himself presented with a mill.

“Gerroff! Take your ‘ands off me or I’ll draw your cork, jus’ you see if I don’t!” protested a small, skinny boy of about ten years of age. The claim seemed hopeful rather than likely, for the lad was outnumbered by six to one.

“Brody, Jack! What the devil are ye playing at?” Hamilton bellowed, shocking the boys into falling back and dropping their hostage.

The lad sagged, falling heavily on his backside as his captors let go of him like he’d burned them.

“He started it!” a lad Hamilton recognised as Jockie Dunbar’s son piped up. “He’s a Sassenach,” he added indignantly, as if this were reason enough for a good hiding.

“Aye, what of it?” Hamilton demanded, glaring at the lads as he strode over and helped the boy to his feet. His coat was torn, and he’d have a grand black eye in the morning, but he seemed to be all in one piece. “My mother is a Sassenach, which ye would think on if ye had half the brains ye were born with. Would ye like to have a go at me, too?”