Page 21 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 7

Hamilton,

You did the right thing in asking me, for I have the best and most sensible advice you are likely to hear.

Marry her.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Lyall Anderson, Viscount Buchanan to The Hon’ble Mr Hamilton Anderson.

27th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Clara walked to the kitchen door and watched Mr Anderson’s broad-shouldered figure as he left. The kitchen seemed strangely empty now he’d removed himself from it. There was an energy about him, a presence that seemed to fill the room, and lingered in her mind long after he was gone. She told herself he was a dreadful man who could not stop himself from sticking his nose in where it did not belong. Yet he had been kind to Jimmy and brought him home safely, and most surprising of all, he had understood her not wanting to borrow Miss Fleming’s dresses… though what on earth had possessed her to tell him such a thing, she could not fathom. Mr Anderson had understood at once what a position it would put her in, however, just as he had guessed the kind of life she lived with her father. There was a quickness about him, an understanding of human nature that made him at once very approachable, and very dangerous. For surely a man with such understanding would find it easy to manipulate a young woman who had seen little of the world. She certainly ought not to encourage him. It had been very wrong of her to invite him to take tea with her and yet she had wanted him to. There was a wicked delight to be found in talking to him and reproving him when he overstepped the mark… which was most of the time. If she’d had a bit of sense, she would have asked him to leave when he began flirting with her, but sadly it had not even occurred to her to do so. Clara bit her lip, wondering if she was really the well brought up girl she’d always believed herself to be. Either way, she must have a care around Mr Anderson. He was far too easy to like, despite his provoking ways. The last thing she needed was to put her trust in such a man, not when her father worked himself up at the mere sight of the fellow.

She wondered what on earth had made him warn her off Mr Stewart. Had Mr Anderson not been looking after the children for him when he’d been ill? Surely they must be friends. She could think of only one reason, and she did not know how she felt about it. He couldn’t be jealous. Yet he had seemed genuinely concerned, and worry niggled at her.

Miss Fleming’s reaction to Mr Stewart she could understand, for she was an ambitious young woman with an eye to her own future and she would assume Clara was of the same mind. Clara did not judge her for that. A woman’s existence was a precarious one and, if Miss Fleming wanted to ensure her own comfort, Clara could hardly blame her for it. Indeed, she was no fool either, and did not wish to marry a man who could not afford to support her, for that would lead them both down a hard road, yet she hoped she would be prepared to do so if she loved and esteemed a man enough to tread such a path. She certainly could not entertain the notion of marrying a man simply for position or wealth. In those circumstances, she would stay with her father, though the idea did nothing to lighten her heart. He had left her provided for in his will, however, and whilst she would not be living the high life once he had passed on, she would be safe, and that would be something. Better that than a bad marriage that one could not escape from.

“Well, then, he’s scrubbed and bandaged,” Mrs Macready said with satisfaction, preceding Jimmy into the kitchen.

The boy did not look so satisfied, but he did look clean and rather less disreputable. Mrs Macready had given him a fresh shirt and carried his coat and the laundry over her arm.

“Give me his coat and I shall mend the tear,” Clara said, taking it from her. “I expect Jimmy is peckish now after his adventures.”

“Corr, I am famished,” Jimmy said eagerly.

“Ach, ye have hollow legs and that’s a fact,” Mrs Macready retorted with a sniff. “Sit yerself down then, and I shall make ye something. Did Mr Anderson stay long, then?” she added, eyeing the teacups on the table with a canny eye.

“Oh, no. But after he was so kind to Jimmy, I could hardly send him away without a cup of tea or something.”

“Could ye nae?” Mrs Macready replied, one eyebrow quirking. “Aye, well, maybe. He behaved himself, I hope?”

“Certainly, he did,” Clara replied, unrolling the small mending kit that they kept in the kitchen and avoiding Mrs Macready’s knowing gaze.

“He didnae flirt with ye?”

“He’s not sweet on her, Mrs Macready, you don’t need to fret none,” Jimmy said candidly before Clara could reply, making both women stare at him with interest.

“Oh, aye?” Mrs Macready looked sceptical.

“He’s not!” Jimmy protested. “For I asked him, and he said no. He said it was always nice to have a pretty lady think well of you, though.”

“Sounds about right,” Mrs Macready said dryly, and Clara was glad the lady did not look back at her again, for she was certain mortification burned in her cheeks.

Keeping her head down, she concentrated on her needle and thread and scolded herself for her arrogance in thinking Mr Anderson had the least bit of interest in her. Jealous, indeed. It was just as she had imagined from the start. Just as Mrs Macready had warned her, in fact. Mr Anderson was a wicked flirt and took nothing seriously. She would do well to keep that fact in mind the next time their paths crossed.

29th May 1850, Wick Village Hall, Caithness, Scotland.

“‘Intoxicating wine is like the poison of serpents, the cruel venom of asps,’” the Reverend Halliday told his assembled audience as a murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

There were perhaps thirty women, some with children fidgeting on their laps, a few with babes in arms. Clara looked about at them, many of whom were of an age with her. She could have been one of them, might have carried that careworn expression and clothes that had been patched and mended times past counting. She looked then at her father, wishing he did not feel the need to bellow quite so much, but seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. Coming here had lit a fire within him, given him a purpose past his own comfort, and that gave her hope. If only she could find a way for him to take the anger and judgement from his dealings with the people here. The women came every Friday to hear him lecture about the evils of drink. ‘Proverbs 23:21 – Drunkenness causes poverty,’ had been thoroughly discussed last week. The men, however, were less amused by his interference. An angry fisherman had turned up on the vicarage doorstep just yesterday, telling Mrs Macready to inform the reverend to keep his nose out of things that did not concern him.

The reverend paused for a brief interval and Clara passed silently between the women, offering cups of elderflower cordial and shortbread biscuits. Once everyone had been served, she returned to pour a drink for her father.

“I saved you some shortbread,” she said, offering him a small plate with three biscuits on.

“Thank you, my dear, most kind,” he said, smiling at her. “A good turnout, eh? Three more than last week.”

“Indeed, they seem most eager to hear you speak, Father.” Clara hesitated, wondering if she ought to broach the subject. “Do you think perhaps you ought to invite their husbands directly to come with them? Perhaps if you visited the harbour and introduced yourself to them, if you got to know some of the men, not by preaching, just talking to them and getting to know their troubles. They might come and listen then.”