Page 6 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 3

Miss Halliday,

I beg you will forgive me for being so forward as to write to you in person. I only wished to ask, as I have not the courage to present myself to your father without an introduction, would you care to take a walk to the Old Man of Wick with me? That is to say, to the old castle ruins. It is a beautiful spot with spectacular views out to sea. I should be so pleased to show it to you, and perhaps give you a tour of our little town, such as it is. I beg your forgiveness for approaching you in such a way, but the truth is, I’ve thought of nothing but your lovely face since the moment you arrived on my doorstep.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Malcolm Stewart to Miss Clara Halliday.

5th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Clara stared at the carefully penned note that Mrs Macready had handed her that morning with a disapproving sniff. Apparently, a boy from the school had delivered it the day before and Mrs Macready had spent the interval fretting about whether or not to give it to her.

“I ken the young have different ways than in my day, but I cannae think it right and proper that he send ye notes in such a way,” the lady said sternly.

“No, Mrs Macready, I must say I agree with you,” Clara admitted, though there was still a wicked part of her thrilled to have received such a note from a handsome young man. She had, after all, come here with her own agenda, and that was to find a husband. Malcolm Stewart was everything she had asked for, and he was a schoolteacher, too! That he had been thinking of her lovely face ever since their meeting was not an idea that dismayed her, either. Though it might be shallow, she was not beyond enjoying a little flattery. “What do you know of him? Is he well thought of?”

“Well, I cannae say,” Mrs Macready said with a frown. “He’s a quiet fellow and doesnae mix much, but he seems pleasant. Polite,” she added, though her tone was not exactly enthusiastic. “His brother is a nice fellow.”

“I see,” Clara replied, a little disappointed but not discouraged by this less than vibrant accolade. “Well, I shall go to the school and tell him to his face that he must not write such letters to me. If he wishes to further a friendship with me, he must present himself to my father,” she said firmly, aware she was being just a little untruthful, for she was also taking it as an excuse to see the fellow again. If she were sensible, she would simply ignore the letter and pretend she never received it, but she doubted that course of action would end up with her getting married anytime soon. Needs must when the devil drives, she told herself, with a little thrill at the idea of doing something her father would certainly disapprove of.

He was not the only one, apparently.

“Oh, aye?” Mrs Macready said, folding her arms and giving Clara a look that suggested she had not been born yesterday.

“Well, I can hardly write back to him to tell me it is improper to write to me, now, can I?” Clara said reasonably.

Mrs Macready snorted and turned her attention back to the pastry she was rolling. “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye,” she said cryptically.

“I beg your pardon?” Clara said in confusion.

The lady clicked her tongue and lifted the rolling pin, wagging it at her. “If the fellow is fer ye, it’ll work out. There’s nae need for a pretty lassie like yerself to go a chasing him.”

“But I’m doing nothing of the sort!” Clara retorted, stung by the implication but unable to hide a blush.

“Hmph,” Mrs Macready said, and would not say another word on the subject.

It was with some trepidation that Clara approached the school, aware that Mrs Macready was not entirely mistaken in what she’d said. Certainly, if her father discovered either the letter or her visit, she would be in the suds. She had timed her arrival to just after the morning’s lessons had ended and was almost knocked flat by a sudden rush of schoolboys as they ran down the road, forcing her to flatten herself against the wall to get out of the way.

“Mind where you are going, boys!” she called after them, to which not a one turned a hair. Shaking her head, she carried on up to the school to find the door ajar.

“Mr Stewart?” she called, knocking softly on the door.

No one answered and so she poked her head around the door, pushing it open a little wider. It opened onto a long corridor, with a classroom door on either side. One was closed, the other wide open, and showed a room filled with small desks and chairs. At the head of the classroom, in front of a large slate fixed to the wall, was an adult sized desk, at which was sprawled the figure of a man.

It was not Malcolm Stewart.

Clara took an involuntary step backwards, aware of a sudden prickling sensation up her spine. She had the most peculiar sensation of having disturbed a sleeping tiger. Steeling herself, she told herself not to be so fanciful. It was only a man, after all, though in fairness, he was like no man she had ever encountered before. Long, muscular legs crooked around the legs of the chair, the bare knees dusted with golden brown hair, quite visible from beneath the line of his kilt. Never having seen such a powerful young man’s bare legs before, this sight was enough to render Clara speechless. Then her eyes drifted to his arms, which were crossed on the desk in front of him, serving as a pillow. He was in his shirtsleeves, which was shocking enough, but he’d rolled them past his elbows, displaying muscular forearms every bit as hairy as his legs. Clara gaped, a wash of heat flaring in her cheeks. But then he groaned, a deep, rumbling sound of distress that made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Despite herself, Clara gave a little squeal of alarm and was about to turn tail when the fellow’s eyes flicked open and stared right at her.

He blinked. Then he closed his eyes and opened them again, and with what looked to be considerable effort, peeled his face from his arms.

“I beg yer pardon,” he said thickly, pushing to his feet. He shoved at his hair, which was an untidy thicket of deep brown and gold, and only succeeding in making matters worse. “Can I help ye? Miss…?”

“Miss Halliday,” Clara said, relieved to find she had not stammered when her heart was performing the most peculiar dance in her chest. A little voice was shrilling in her mind. It said, run, run.Run! For reasons best left unknown, she did not.

“Halliday?” he repeated, his rather bleary expression sharpening a little as he looked her over, interest flickering in his eyes, which were an unusual tawny shade, close to amber. He pushed to his feet and Clara took another step back, watching him warily. “I dinnae bite, lassie,” he said, flashing a grin that showed strong white teeth.

“I never thought otherwise,” she replied, annoyed with herself for having allowed her nerves to show.

“Ye are the vicar’s daughter, then?” he said, leaning back against the edge of the desk and regarding her with open appreciation.