Page 30 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Clara nodded, rather wishing she’d not said anything. This was family business and not his affair. “Many years ago.”

“Good heavens, but the man is worth a fortune, is he not? Surely your father tried to remedy the situation?”

Feeling a sudden thread of anger, Clara fought to keep her tone calm. “No, sir. Their falling out was of such a nature that my father did not feel comfortable in taking anything from my grandfather again.”

And whilst her father had many faults, she could not deny that he had never wavered from that standpoint, when to do so would have greatly increased his own wealth and comfort. From what she knew, her grandfather had been a bully, and her father had stood up to him. For all his shortcomings, she could only admire him for that.

Mr Stewart stood looking out to sea, a pensive expression in his eyes.

“Who told you about my grandfather?” she asked, wondering how he’d gained such knowledge.

“I think Miss Fleming mentioned it. Her father wished to know if you were from a good family before she called on you, so he asked around.”

“I see.” Though the information was a little irksome, she could not blame Miss Fleming’s father for his caution, which was quite normal. Mr Stewart’s interest was more difficult to dismiss. She supposed she could not blame him for wanting a wealthy wife, anymore than she could Clara for desiring a rich husband. Still, it was hardly flattering. “I think we ought to return now,” Clara said, feeling suddenly uneasy.

“Not yet,” Mr Stewart said as she went to turn away. He grasped her hand, giving her a swift smile. “You’ve not seen the castle, and we’ve come all this way.”

“There’s little to see, sir,” she replied calmly, though his hand was holding hers too tightly. It sent an odd sensation rippling through her and she wondered if she was being foolish. If Mr Anderson held her hand so, would she feel such a surge of disquiet? Was she being unfair? “I would prefer to return, if you would be so kind as to escort me.”

“Oh, but I insist, Miss Halliday. Just think how much blood may have been spilled in such a place. Is it not a romantic setting? Can you not hear the moans of ghosts of the men that lived here?”

“I don’t believe I can, I’m afraid, but I’m not a poet,” Clara said apologetically, trying for a rueful smile and tugging her hand free. “If you will excuse me, Mr Stewart. I would prefer to return to the others but do continue your walk if you wish to do so.”

“Miss Halliday, the picnic is ready. Malcolm, are you coming?”

Clara walked away, relieved to see Mr Angus Stewart had come after them. Leaving Malcolm Stewart to follow in her wake, she hurried to meet his brother. She felt oddly breathless and strangely unwilling to be alone in the man’s company any longer.

The picnic, provided in part by Mrs Macready and in part by Miss Fleming’s father’s cook, and in part from Mary Stewart’s fair hand, was excellent and did much to restore Clara’s equilibrium. Whatever maggot had got into Mr Malcolm Stewart’s head seemed to have been put aside too, for he exerted himself to be charming and entertaining for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, even though she had enjoyed much of the day, Clara was not displeased when they reached the road to the school on their way home.

“Well, we’ll leave you here, then, Malcolm. Mary and I will see Miss Halliday home, for it’s out of your way,” Angus said cheerfully, as his brother shot him a glare of annoyance.

“But I should be pleased to come too,” Malcolm protested.

“Oh, of course you would, but there’s no need,” Angus said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “We’ll see you at church tomorrow, I expect. Goodbye, laddie.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Malcolm said sourly, though he bid good day to Clara prettily enough.

The moment he was gone, Miss Fleming hurried to Clara and took her arm, leaving Mr Fraser to fall in step with Mary and Angus.

“Thank goodness,” she whispered in a dramatic whisper. “If I had to hold that revolting man’s arm for a moment longer, I would have swooned,” she said with a shudder.

“Miss Fleming!” Clara said, glancing around in concern. “He’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care,” Miss Fleming replied, sounding mutinous. “He’s disgusting, and I don’t care if his father is wealthy. There’s no amount of money in the world that could make that match acceptable to me.”

“Who is proposing such a match?” Clara asked at once.

“My father suggested it,” she replied morosely. “I’ve told him I’d rather die, and I believe that has put paid to the notion, but all the same. It made me feel sick.”

“He’s a very nice man,” Clara said carefully, for she could not deny that the idea of embracing Mr Fraser was not a terribly appealing one. He’d found the walk rather taxing and was wilting now in his heavy tweed suit, sweat beading on his face. “And there’s much to be said for a kind husband, one who would be gentle and sweet to you.”

Miss Fleming shot her a scathing glance. “So, you’d marry him over Mr Anderson, would you?”

Clara gaped, momentarily struck dumb. “As I have been asked by neither of them, I don’t see any relevance in the question,” she replied once she’d gathered her wits. Not for the first time she worried over some of things Miss Flaming said, and wondered if perhaps they were destined to be friends after all. Eventually Clara would have to stop biting her tongue if she kept saying such dreadful things aloud. The idea was a depressing one as there were no other young ladies beating down her door and wishing to become acquainted with her.

“Oh, come now. I saw how you looked at Mr Anderson. Not that I blame you. He’s a handsome devil, and the son of an earl too, not to mention wealthy. Everything he touches turns to gold, they say. I think I could forgive him for being in trade for such a life,” she added thoughtfully.