Page 22 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Her father chewed on a biscuit, his expression thoughtful. “If there were no public houses in Wick, there would be no opportunity for the men to indulge in such vile behaviour.”

“Well, that is true,” Clara said hesitantly.

“That’s the ticket,” he said, waving a shortbread biscuit at her with approval. “We must go to the source of the evil and strike there. An excellent suggestion. Thank you, my dear.”

“Oh… you’re welcome.” Clara watched him stride off with an extra spring in his step and wondered what she had unwittingly done.

“Ah, Mrs Cameron,” he said, catching the attention of one of the women as she returned her empty glass to the serving tray and picked it up, intending to collect the rest. “Just the lady, and no surprise to see you tidying up after us all. What a comfort you are to us. Now, what do you think of my daughter’s suggestion—”

Clara regarded him with some bemusement, surprised by the warmth in his voice as he spoke to the woman, even more that he was asking for her opinion. Still, it was good that he was on friendly terms with them, better than merely sermonising and never listening to a word they said.

“Miss Halliday? Coo-ee!”

Clara turned and smiled as she saw Miss Fleming in the doorway, waving at her. Glancing back at her father and seeing he was well into the second part of his talk, Clara quietly gathered her cloak and bonnet and walked swiftly to the door.

Miss Fleming chuckled as Clara slipped away, tying her bonnet strings as she went.

“Will you be in terrible trouble for running off?” she asked, slipping her arm through Clara’s.

“No, not if I return before he finishes. I doubt he’ll even notice,” she replied ruefully. “But what a lovely surprise. I did not expect to see you.”

“I know, but I was bored and so I thought I would stretch my legs. Papa is visiting my aunt. She lives down there,” she added, pointing to the end of the street they were passing. “But she’s a dull creature and I cannot abide the stuffy little house for above half an hour. So I excused myself.”

“Oh, won’t your father mind? If you’re supposed to be visiting. I could come with you if—”

“Good heavens, no!” Miss Fleming replied. “Aunt Ailsa will only drone on about her ailments, some of which are quite mortifying.”

Despite herself, Clara could not help a choke of laughter at the disgusted face Miss Fleming had pulled.

“Getting old seems a dreadful business,” she said frankly.

“Yes, but perhaps better than the alternative,” Clara suggested.

Miss Fleming gave a snort of laughter. “All the more reason to live while we are young, then. Oh, don’t look. No, don’t look! Pretend you’ve not seen him,” she said, suddenly clutching at Clara’s arm.

Clara, who had never been adept at subterfuge, immediately looked in the direction she was told not to and saw Mr Malcolm Stewart walking towards them and smiling widely.

“Well met, ladies. I had no expectation of meeting such charming companions on my way home. Where are you off to? Might I escort you?”

“We are going nowhere in particular, Mr Stewart, just taking the air,” Clara said politely. “Are you feeling better now?”

A look she could not read flickered in his eyes, but she thought he seemed uneasy.

“Better?”

“Why, yes? I believe Mr Anderson looked after the boys for you whilst you were indisposed.”

“Oh,” there was a flat note to his voice as he replied but he rallied swiftly. “Indeed, most kind of him, but it was nothing but a megrim. I suffer from them from time to time. Too much squinting at textbooks late at night,” he added sheepishly, pushing his spectacles up his nose. It was rather an endearing gesture, and he had a sweetly boyish smile. Clara thought perhaps Miss Fleming noticed it too, for she stopped ignoring him and cast him a bright smile of her own.

“I hear you are something of a writer too, Mr Stewart, is that true?”

He huffed with amusement at the remark, looking self-deprecating, or at least trying to. “Well, I’m sure my poor work does not merit giving me such a title, but I do write, yes. Though… poetry, mostly.”

“Have you anything published?” Clara asked curiously.

“Not as yet, but I am working on a something rather special,” he said hurriedly. “So, I hope in a year or so to give you a different answer.”

“How fascinating,” Miss Fleming replied, looking at him from under her lashes. “And do you have a muse that inspires you when you write?”