Page 2 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 1

Dearest Aunt Mabel,

We arrived safely in Wick this morning and I have taken a moment from unpacking our belongings to dash off this note. I can promise you, Auntie, that the town does not resemble a pit of vice and no indignities to my person were perpetrated between the carriage and our front door. I do wish Papa had not frightened you so, but really, you must know by now what he's like when he gets excited. Indeed, on a bright spring morning, Wick was a bustling place full of life and vigour. Our new home is a four-storey town house, a delightful place, bright and airy and with marvellous views over the town and even a glimpse of the sea from my bedroom. I feel we shall be very happy here.

I will write again soon, but do not fret about us, my dear. All is well.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Clara Halliday to her Aunt Mabel Halliday.

1st May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

“Are you quite sure, sir?” Angus Stewart gave Hamilton a questioning look.

It was a look Hamilton had grown used to in the five years his secretary had worked for him and gently suggested that he’d lost his damned mind. Still, he’d got that look when he’d bought the run-down distillery too and see how well that had turned out. His gut told him this place had the potential to be a gold mine, and it had not steered him wrong yet.

“Aye, quite sure,” Hamilton agreed, though he had to admit the place was a diabolical mess. The stench of stale ale and piss was enough to strip the paint from the walls, not that it needed the help. “Get quotes in at once. We’ll have the place stripped and made sound before it falls down. Then I’ll turn it into the best place in Wick. Somewhere the quality can go, for there’s all sorts coming here these days, ye ken.”

“Aye, sir,” Angus said with a sigh. He was a mild-mannered fellow in his early thirties, soft-spoken, with only a trace of a Scottish accent after having been educated in England. He’d returned to Scotland with his brother when their father died and it had been Hamilton’s lucky day when he’d knocked on the door, looking for work. “Did you see the new vicar arrived this morning?”

“Vicar?” Hamilton turned and frowned at Angus. “Why on earth would I take note of that?”

“Well, he is a close neighbour, sir,” Angus pointed out, before adding with a quick grin. “And he’s brought his daughter with him.”

Hamilton snorted. “Ach, now it makes sense. Ye are nae gonna try to marry me off again, Angus?”

Angus laughed and shook his head. “I would not do such a thing to the young lady, but Malcolm was quite taken with her. Not that I blame him, she’s a lovely wee thing.”

“Malcolm?” Hamilton said with a touch of annoyance, for Angus’ younger brother was a pain in both their arses. “He’s nae business looking at vicars’ daughters. He’s going to the devil, Angus. Ye ken he’ll lose his position if he keeps on as he is. I supposed he’s spent all the money ye lent him on whoring and carousing by now?”

Angus coloured a little and looked rather mortified, which was all the answer Hamilton needed.

“Ye are a deal too kind,” he said sternly. “And it’s nae a kindness ye do him by it. Ye have a promising family of yer own to think of now that ye have given Mary a babe.”

“I know,” Angus said wretchedly. “Only, I can’t seem to get through to him. He is still so furious with me for dragging us back to Scotland, but we could not afford to remain in London. He misses the life we led there, though. He thought himself quite the man of fashion, you see. I believe he had ambitions to marry up. That’s why I hoped if perhaps he formed a tendre for a young lady of worth, a sensible young woman, for she looked to be—”

“A vicar’s daughter? Sensible?” Hamilton repeated sceptically. “She’ll have seen nae more of the world than a church mouse and will be in nae state to deal with the likes of Malcolm. Ye keep him away. I’ll nae have that kind of trouble on my doorstep, ye hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Angus said at once. “I’ll see to it.”

“Aye, ye will, or I will, and I promise ye, Malcolm will nae thank ye for that,” he added, flashing a grin that was known throughout Wick to be one that promised devilry to follow.

“Are you quite sure, Papa?” Clara asked doubtfully. “It’s just after everything you’ve said, it seems a little odd that you think it is safe for me to walk through the town unescorted.”

“You are doing the Lord’s work, Clara. He will protect you,” the reverend said, not looking up from the sermon he was working on.

“Yes,” Clara said, striving for patience. “I have no doubt of that, but a little practical, not to mention earthly protection—at least to my reputation—might not be such a bad thing, might it?”

“You worry for your reputation when there are souls to be saved?” the reverend said irritably, setting his pen down with an impatient sigh. “Clara, I thought you were above such foolishness. As my daughter doing God’s work, all will recognise you to be above reproach. Reverend Thomson has made my name known in this town, and no one will dare to trouble you. Besides, you are not some society miss aspiring to make an advantageous match. Are you now?” he added sternly.

Clara avoided his eye, adopting a penitent stance with her gaze downcast. “No, Papa.”

“Well, then. If you have ceased talking nonsense, pray do as I have asked you and take the pamphlets down to the boys’ academy at once.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Clara left the study and returned to the kitchens where Mrs Macready was waiting for her. The vicarage’s housekeeper was an older lady, small and pleasantly rounded, with pink cheeks and faded blue eyes. Clara had taken to her at once and been pleased to discover Mrs Macready equally charmed. She had not yet dared to push her luck far enough to explain about Jimmy, but she hoped the lady might be an ally there too. For the moment, Jimmy was ensconced in one of the disused outbuildings. He had arrived with the money Clara had given him—and handed it proudly back to her—and had suffered no ills on his long journey to Wick. Indeed, he seemed to have viewed it as a grand adventure and was in high spirits. As a boy used to sleeping rough, the little makeshift room she had created for him was a fine place indeed, but when spring and summer turned to autumn and winter, the poor fellow would freeze to death.

“Well?” Mrs Macready said expectantly as Clara walked into the kitchen, a cosy place that smelled of shortbread and seemed to always have a kettle boiling.