Page 37 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 11

Dear Miss Fleming,

I’m so sorry to hear you are still poorly and I apologise for not visiting for so long. I hope you will forgive me, for I’m afraid I am too unwell myself to do so now. Get well soon and please let Abigail take care of you. She’s really very competent and has your best interests at heart.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Clara Halliday to Miss Jessie Fleming.

14th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Hamilton stopped by the vicarage every morning to hear from Mrs Macready how Clara was doing, but it was not until the fourth day when she was still in bed that he caved in.

“Well, aren’t they just the prettiest sight,” Mrs Macready said with satisfaction as Hamilton thrust the small posy of daisies at her.

He’d tied himself into a knot, trying to decide whether to bring flowers at all, and if he did, what sort. Treading the line between solicitude and not making overtures that could be misread gave him a headache and now, handing the sweet and simple bunch of flowers over, he felt like a proper twit. If he was going to bring flowers, perhaps it ought to have been something a bit more expensive than a daft bunch of daisies.

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… well, ye said it would cheer the lassie, aye? So… So I did as ye asked,” he added, knowing full well that Mrs Macready had done no such thing.

“It will,” she said. “The reverend is in his study. Ye could have a word with him while ye are here. Try to make peace, perhaps?”

“Ach, devil take ye! Freya Macready, I have told ye once, dinnae try to manipulate me into taking a wife. It willnae work,” he warned her, giving her a fierce look that had made men five times her size think twice about trying his patience.

Mrs Macready simply shrugged, the glimmer of a smile at her lips. “I hear ye.”

“Hmph,” Hamilton replied, and was about to leave before he realised he couldn’t yet. Glowering, he turned back to her. “The lassie is getting better?”

“Aye,” Mrs Macready replied, her tone reassuring. “She’s tired still, but I willnae be able to make her keep to her room another day. She’s sitting in a chair by the window this morning and I reckon she’ll be up and about tomorrow.”

Hamilton let out a breath as a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear such tidings. Well, I’ll bid ye a good morning, then.”

“I’ll tell her ye asked after her,” Mrs Macready called after him.

Hamilton sighed but could not deny the realisation that he wanted her to do it, wanted Clara to know he was thinking of her, even though he ought not.

Why?

The question rose its head again, and Hamilton pushed it away. He wasn’t ready to look at it closely. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but certainly not right now.

“For me?” Clara gasped, staring at the posy of flowers.

She told herself it was only because of the cold that she was breathless, only because she was tired that her heart was clattering about behind her ribs. Sadly, she wasn’t that stupid. It might be nice to think she wasn’t as daft as every other girl in Wick and hadn’t a soft spot in her imprudent heart for a flirtatious rogue who stole kisses from girls in dark alleyways. She wondered how many other kisses he had stolen, how many other girls had felt the press of his lips against theirs and spent the next days dreaming foolish dreams even though they knew it was pointless.

Too manywas the certain answer that returned to her.

She, however, would not add to the numbers. Not publicly, at least. In the most secret corner of her heart, she might allow herself to think of those kisses and wonder at the way he had made her feel, both safe and in the most peril of her life at the same time. Those moments had been exciting and passionate and yet tender and sweet and, like Mr Anderson himself, there were too many contradictions to make her feel anything but dizzy with confusion.

“Of course they are for ye,” Mrs Macready said impatiently, setting the little posy in its vase on the windowsill for Clara to look at. “And I tell ye this much, I never knew Hamilton Anderson to bring any lass flowers afore now. Reckon he’s sweet on ye.”

“Mrs Macready!” Clara said in shock, too aware that the least encouragement would tempt her down a path she could not afford to take. “You cannot believe that… that unrepentant rogue has anything serious in mind. I beg you will not say such things.”

Besides which, Clara knew why he had really sent her flowers. It did not take vast intelligence to work out his motives. He felt guilty for kissing her. He knew right from wrong, after all, and despite her jealous musings, she suspected he did not make a habit of taking advantage of innocent girls. No doubt the day he had carried her home, he’d been looking for her so he could apologise. The flowers were merely that, the apology he’d not been able to give her in person.

“As ye like,” Mrs Macready said with a shrug. “But I stand by what I said.”

Mrs Macready went out, leaving Clara staring at the daisies. In the language of flowers, daisies represented innocence and purity, she reminded herself. Yet stubbornly, her mind refused to latch on to that meaning, preferring instead to consider the other connotation attached to them—the sender’s promise to keep a secret.

23rd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

“It looks very well,” Angus said, looking around the Fishermen’s Retreat with interest. Work was coming on apace and the building looked less like it was about to fall down and more like it might one day be habitable.