Page 9 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Clara tried to see the property from her father’s point of view. Vast quantities of liquor were consumed in this town every day, and here was another public house, ready to supply the men with yet more whisky to throw down their necks. As she understood it, the fishermen were the worst culprits. The herring trade was booming and, when the men got paid, it was done in the taverns, as there was nowhere comfortable for such dealings by the harbour. So there they were, with their earnings in hand and temptation right before them. How much of that money ever got back to their wives and children, she wondered. She knew the men’s lives were hard and dangerous at sea, and it was not surprising they needed to let off steam when back on dry land, but not at the expense of those who depended on them, surely? Yet if her father had made friends with the owner, if he tried to get to know and understand those men who lost themselves in drink, if he tried to extend a hand to them instead of lecturing them with such a lack of empathy… surely that would reap more rewards?

She could almost hear Mrs Macready murmuring ‘more flies with honey than vinegar,’ and wondered if a similar sentiment was one she had spoken aloud. If so, Clara could well imagine her father’s reaction to it. He certainly preferred the fire-and-brimstone approach to leading his flock. Clara had seen often enough the expressions on some of those churchgoers faces after he’d been in a particularly vile mood, for his disposition certainly influenced his sermons.

Sometimes it had been all she could do not to go to some white-faced new mother or a sensitive boy and tell them not to listen to his harsh words and fear they were destined to burn in hell, not to take his judgemental views to heart, for her father was just a man like any other, flawed and full of opinions he did not need to share with the world but felt obliged to do so. Sometimes she was so constricted by the desperate desire to act, to speak up, she felt as though she were caught in a vice.

Yet, if she spoke, his attention would fall upon her, and she could not escape his ill temper once the sermon was over. On the occasions when she defied or challenged him, once he had grown tired of his own voice in proving to her why it was she was wrong—without ever listening to anything she had to say—she was treated to days of sulking, clipped answers to any questions she posed, and the house became so thick with tension that she feared it might smother her. Clara was honest enough to admit she was too cowardly to face that more often than she did already, too afraid to fight everyone else’s battles for them as well as her own.

The afternoon was bright, though there was a swift chill wind blowing in off the sea, but Clara relished it, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as if they might cleanse her of the frustrated anger that simmered beneath her skin. She was so tired of this feeling of impotence, of never being able to act, to speak her mind. Once more, the wicked fellow at the school appeared in her mind’s eye, provoking her and urging her to row with him. Never in her life had she met such a man. Though she had little experience with the opposite sex, they had all seemed as one in valuing a woman who was demure and softly spoken, who dropped her gaze if asked a direct question, who had no opinions past agreeing with the gentleman beside her.

Clara sighed and walked to the large camellia bush that filled most of the tiny entrance before the house. Gaudy red flowers were blooming there, exotic and bold in the environs of a town like Wick. Clara reached for one, stroking the silken petals gently.

“I always loved camellias, but ye cast the poor wee flowers in the shade, Miss Halliday.”

Jolting, Clara dropped her hand as the deep voice startled her back to her senses. As if she’d conjured him with her thoughts just a moment before, the dreadful man from the school stood staring at her. This time at least he was neatly turned out—and fully dressed—his thick hair brushed into some kind of order, though the wind tugged at it playfully.

To her dismay, Clara could not think of a single retort to this, and it took her a moment to decide if the remark flattered or annoyed her. Both, she admitted ruefully, staring at the handsome stranger before darting a nervous glance at her father’s study window. She thought they were just out of sight here, if he was still at his desk.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, intending the question to be tart and regretting the breathless way it sounded.

“Just passing by,” he said, leaning against the railing that divided their tiny front garden from the street. “And what are ye doing here, staring at the flowers with such a dejected expression? Has someone upset ye, lassie? Do ye need me to thump someone for ye?”

Clara was so shocked and startled by this offer that she gave a choked laugh. “Indeed, I do not!” she replied, gazing at him in wonder. Would he really do such a thing for her if she asked it of him?

His lips quirked in a smile at her obvious outrage, but the smile dimmed, and he looked at her again. “But ye are out of sorts, I think? Is there aught amiss? I imagine it’s hard to settle into a new place where ye have nae kin about ye?”

Clara frowned a little. She could hardly tell a complete stranger her troubles, though there was a warm, inviting glint in his eyes that made her believe he would listen if she were foolish enough to do such a dreadful thing. It was far harder than she could have guessed to hold her tongue.

His gaze remained on her, studying her with an intensity that made her stomach feel rather odd, all fluttery and uncertain.

“I reckon being the daughter of a vicar is nae an easy job either. Do ye ever get to laugh, Miss Halliday? Do ye dance and sing and get out to parties now and then?”

Clara bit her lip, knowing she should tell him not to be so impudent, for it was none of his business. But there was genuine interest in his eyes that teased away her usual reserve, inviting her to confide in him when she knew very well she ought not. “I sing in church,” she said with a soft huff of laughter. “And… And sometimes in the kitchen, if there’s no one around.”

“And what about laughter and dancing?” he asked, his voice soft now, cajoling as he leaned on the railing. Without realising she was doing so, Clara leaned closer to him, her head inclined towards him in a manner that made their conversation seem intimate. Though she knew it was wrong, she was quite unable to make herself step back.

“I laugh,” she said, a little defiantly. “I laugh with Mrs Macready.”

“Ach, well, there’s a lady born for laughter. She’s a great gun, is Mrs Macready, a fine cook too, aye? Ye eat well, I reckon.”

“We do,” Clara replied, out of reason charmed by his approval of her only friend.

“And do ye dance?”

Clara shook her head.

“Not even in the kitchen when no one is by?” he teased softly. “Holding a broom in ye arms and dreaming of Prince Charming, aye?”

“Certainly not,” she replied, blushing at the very idea.

“Does the reverend nae approve of dancing?” The question was grave, as if such a thing would be a terrible sin in his book. He looked so earnestly disapproving it chased away the wicked irreverence of his previous behaviour and made him seem a sensible man, one that would be a kind friend if she let him.

Clara considered this. “It’s not that he disapproves of dancing exactly, he… he just doesn’t like me dancing.”

“Why?” he asked baldly, clearly perplexed by this reply. Clara heartily wished she had not told him what she had. She could not for the life of her understand why she had spoken so frankly. There was something about the man that invited you to tell him secrets, to put your trust in him, which was undoubtedly the stupidest thing a woman could do. There was something a little piratical about him, something wild and untameable, something she would do well to keep far away from.

“Ye are wool gathering, Miss Halliday,” he chided her, a rueful curve to his lips. “Which is nae very flattering when I am giving ye my undivided attention.”

Clara avoided his gaze. “I beg your pardon. I ought never… I should not be speaking to you,” she said helplessly, glancing back at the study window again.