Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
" A uch, that's a bonny hit, if I say so mesself, Derry." The grey-haired man shaded his face with a callused hand and watched the small sphere sail in a graceful arc over the patch of gorse. It landed a scant yard away from a small flag fluttering in the gusting sea breeze. "You're getting to be a dab hand at knocking the ball up and over a tricky hazard like 'The Principal's Nose,'" he said with a nod of gruff approval. "And you've judged the wind exactly right."
The slight figure by his side tucked the hickory-shafted golf club in the crook of one arm. "Well, I've had a decent enough teacher." An impish grin. "Once I knock it in the hole, that will give me a—" There was a slight pause for a bit of mental arithmetic. "—a six."
The announcement was made with a note of triumph, followed by an even wider smile. "And as you can't do better than a seven, even if you put your ball in the hole on the fly, I've won yet another hole on this second nine. Before long, Hugh, I shall be beating you at your own game!"
"Auch, is that so?" replied Hugh Philp with a mock jeer. "You may be ready to win a ha’penny from Jamie or old Da, but rest assured, you’ll be sprouting a long beard ere you'll be taking a coin from me , my wee friend."
The remark elicited a peal of laughter from his companion. "Well, that day still appears far off, so I guess I had better not start counting my farthings." Their boots clattered over the stones of the small bridge crossing Swilkan Burn. "Still, I am at least making you work just a little to beat me, am I not?"
"Indeed you are, Derry." On regarding the eager expression on his companion’s the upturned face, he felt his throat constrict and turned away to watch a solitary gull flap its way out over the foaming waves. "I daresay you've become the best of all the lads who hang around the shop, for you are willing to listen, and to work hard at it. You may not be as strong as Jamie or Tom, or as talented as Angus or Gordie, but you make up for it with pluck and imagination. And to my mind, that's the true mark of a good golfer." He stopped for a moment to withdraw a pipe and flint from his pocket. "Aye, I daresay you're on your way to becoming a real player."
"Thank you, Hugh," came the low reply as Derry removed the flagstick from the diminutive hole in the ground and set up to tap the feathery ball into its circular depth. "But I've still much to learn." A sigh. "If only..."
The faint words gave way to the soft thwock of wood on leather.
Philp squinted up at the slate grey clouds scudding in from the Bay. "We had better hurry if we want to finish the last hole without a soaking, for there promises to be a spot of rain afore long." He cleared his throat and reached down to retrieve the stitched ball from its shadowed resting place. "Seeing as you are feeling on top of your game, do you care to make the finish interesting with a small wager on the outcome on eighteen?"
A keen twinkle came to Derry's eyes. "Just what do you have in mind, Hugh?"
"Oh, as to that, if you win, you may choose a new club from the shop." There was a momentary hesitation as he fingered the sheepskin grip of his long spoon. "And if I win, you will... do me a small favor."
All of the mischievous humor disappeared from his companion's features, replaced by a look of great seriousness. "You know very well that you don't have to win any favors from me, sir. You have only to ask and I would be more than delighted to do anything for you."
"Not this, you won't," murmured Philp under his breath. In a louder voice, he replied, "Nay, I would prefer to do it this way, fair and square."
"Very well. Then of course I accept." An edge had crept into Derry's voice, betraying a trace of bruised feelings at being denied the chance to help outright.
A wisp of a smile flitted over Philp’s leathery face, and he threw his arm around Derry’s shoulders. "Don't be falling into a fit of girlish vapors—it doesn't suit you in the least, my friend. Besides, I wouldn't have thought that you intend to lose."
That drew a reluctant twitch of the lips from his companion. "I don't. However, as you have seen fit to name your own prize, I should like the right to do the same."
Philp opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped short on seeing the stubborn jut of his young friend's jaw. It was a look he recognized all too well… just as he recognized the futility of arguing.
"I suppose I can guess what it is," he grumbled in grudging resignation. At the confirming nod, his breath came out in a sigh. "Well then, it looks as if the match is dormied before it starts."
Derry raised a brow in mute question at the strange word.
"It's one of our more obscure golf expressions," explained Philp. "It means, in a broad stroke, that I cannot lose. But don't say I didn't warn you. Believe me, you would have vastly preferred the new heavy iron that just arrived from Bobby Kirkaldy's forge as your prize."
"Then I shall just have to win it some other time."
A drop of rain splashed on the tip of Philp's beaked nose. After another glance at the ominous skies, he shrugged in exasperation and decided there was little point in avoiding the other, inevitable black cloud that was about to descend over his head. "If you don't mind, I'm in a bad enough humor without these old bones getting chilled to the marrow. Why don't we forego the eighteenth and hurry back to the shop?"
"Aye, and you can tell me what it is you wish me to do as we go."
It was fortunate that the large workroom was deserted, for the oath that echoed off the walls as the two of them entered the side door was best left unheard by any bystander.
"I should cuff both your ears for such language," muttered Philp, his fierce scowl directed as much at himself as at the figure who was glowering back at him. He had known it was going to be difficult to explain things without causing a storm, but he hadn't anticipated quite such a clap of thunder.
"Lud,” he added, “your aunt is leery enough of what you are doing here, without her thinking that I'm turning you into a veritable savage."
The thick tweed cap on his companion’s head came off with a yank of impatience and Miss Derrien Edwards shook out a mass of damp curls. "I'm not such a gudgeon as to forget myself in front of her or any member of proper Society. But if Willie and Fergus can say such things when they are angry, why can't I?"
"You know exactly why, lassie."
She made an unladylike sound but fell then silent, her fingers fiddling angrily with a length of tarred twine. After a few moments, she looked up again, her hazel eyes flashing with fresh indignation. "Why must you feel obliged to teach some visiting lord to play golf because of some stupid wager? And an English lord at that?"
"Because Bowmont asked me to."
She let out a rude snort. "Since when have you become so... so spineless as to be ruled by the whim of a fancy toff, no matter that he is a marquess and his father a duke?—"
Philp's response was no less emphatic for its quietly measured tone. "I do it not because he is titled, but because he is my friend," he interrupted, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to his full height. "On the golf course, I've always held that a man earns respect not for his birth or position in Society but for his character and skill. Bowmont has both. I am honored that he should seek my help."
A rush of color flooded Derrien's face and she ducked her head in shame. "I had no right to say such a horrible thing. Forgive me, Hugh. I fear that I let myself become overset for a moment."
"I know, lassie." His tone softened considerably. "I wouldn't have even considered asking you to be involved, I haven’t been able to think of an alternative."
Philp turned, throwing his face into shadow. He knew enough of her family history to understand her aversion to an Englishman—especially an aristocrat. Her mother had been Derrien's age, and just as full of dreams that soared far above the stone and mortared walls of her own little shire, when a dashing young English officer had seduced her with lofty promises of a life rich with all manner of new experiences.
Unfortunately, his words were as bankrupt as his morals and purse, once the current quarterly allowance from his family had been squandered in gaming and the pursuit of the fairer sex. When the gentleman's father discovered the extent of his son's profligate habits in the North and demanded an immediate return to Town, the young officer was quick to slink back to London, leaving her with only a brief note and swelling womb.
There had been little sympathy from her strict Presbyterian father, who declared with solemn finality that his youngest daughter had, quite simply, ceased to exist. If it hadn't been for the generosity of her oldest sister, married and living some distance away in the university town of St. Andrews, Derrien's mother might have been cast out to a life on the streets. Instead, she was offered a refuge where she might have a chance to put her calamitous mistake behind her and begin life anew.
The new mother and child were welcomed into a home of rather more progressive ideas than existed in most Scottish households. Anyone who asked about her history was simply told that Derrien’s mother had lost her husband. Her brother-in-law, a professor of semantics at Union College, had regarded that as true enough.
The extended family was a close-knit one, with little Derrien becoming as doted upon by her childless relatives as by her natural mother. When a bout of influenza carried away her own parent two years later, there was no question as to who would care for the young child.
As Philp watched the gamut of emotions that washed over Derrien's expressive features, he couldn't help but wonder if he had done the right thing in broaching the matter. Though he owed a good measure of loyalty to his generous friend and patron, his deep feelings for the young lady far overbalanced any sense of debt to Lord Bowmont.
"Nay, it's me who should apologize. I can see that I was wrong to bring it up," he said "The trouble is, I can fit the fellow with a decent set of clubs and show him a thing or two about the basic swing. But for what he needs to learn in the space of a few weeks, he must be out on the course every day, with someone to offer both advice and instruction. I have lately received a number of important commissions and cannot spare the time without doing irreparable harm to my business, something I simply can't afford, no matter how much I value Bowmont's friendship."
He drew in a long breath. "Willie might have been able to do a credible job, but he's broken his leg helping his father gather mussels in Eden Estuary. Fergus has the right sort of knowledge, but he's prone to tossing back more than his share of our local whisky. Why, he would be as likely to show up in a tavern in Dundee as on the first hole.” A pause. “Perhaps Tommy?—"
Derrien bit her lip. "I'll do it, Hugh."
Philp answered with a heavy sigh." No, no, there must be someone else but strike me down with a long spoon if I can think of who."
He began to fiddle with his silver-rimmed spectacles. "It must be a fellow who knows the course and all its nuances as well as the basics of technique. Even more importantly, it must be someone with a good head on his shoulders, for this English lord is going to need a clever caddie if he is to have any hope of besting an opponent of greater skill and experience."
There was a short pause, then his face brightened considerably. "Ahh! What about Charlie Kidd?"
She shook her head. "That won't fadge at all. Though Charlie takes great pains to appear a fine fellow, I've seen enough of him to know his loyalty can be bought by the highest bidder. When he caddies for Mr. Heatherington, he will use his boot to improve the ball's lie if passed an extra penny." Her lips twisted in a grimace. "I wouldn't trust him farther than I can kick a feathery on the strand."
"Hmmm. Well, I suppose that rules him out..."
"I said I'll do it, Hugh."
Philp held up his hand. "Er, now that I think of it, there's one other thing I hadn't properly considered. There's too great a risk that our little secret may be discovered."
Derrien dismissed the objection with a derisive snort. "Oh, come now. None of the locals has the foggiest notion that I'm not a lad, and they see me all the time. No English lord is going to suss it out in the course of a few weeks.”
She made a face. “No doubt he's so puffed up with a sense of his own consequence that he'll waste no time looking at the likes of me. Besides, I take great care to wear a floppy hat, and have enough smudges obscuring my face that I'm known as 'Dirty Derry'"
Her friend looked torn. "People here don't notice because they have grown so used to seeing you hang around the shop since you were a wee thing, not much different than a lad?—"
"People see what they wish to see." Her voice had a raw edge to it as she slowly wound the thin cord around her thumb. "Let us cease to argue about it. I'm the best one for the job and you know it. That's why you asked me in the first place."
"You are, Derry," he admitted. "And I would dearly like for us to triumph in this match, but are you sure that I’m not asking too much of you? I can always write to Peter McEwan in Edinburgh to see if he might be able to suggest a good lad from up there?—"
" No !" Her voice came out in sharp cry. "If it must be done, I'd rather it was me working with you."
After a moment, a certain curiosity gave rise to a question. "Why is a victory so important, Hugh? I know you well enough to sense that something more than a cordial acquaintance with Lord Bowmont has stirred your competitive fires."
He gave a ghost of a smile. "Like I said, you are too sharp by half, lassie. The fact is, it matters to me because the opponent is Lord Hertford."
The color leached from Derrien’s face. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" she demanded in a near whisper. "To thwart that dastard I would be willing to caddie for Lucifer himself."
"I wished to know first if you could truly endure the idea of working with an English lord. If not, I would have found some other alternative. But I admit, I would rather have you on our team."
"Then the matter is settled." She pulled the twine tighter. "When does this gentleman arrive?"
"Any day now."
"Has he any aptitude for sport? Or is he some preening peacock, with need to resort to padding in his stockings?" She gave a grimace. "Perhaps he is someone whose most pressing concern is the cut of his coat or the color of his waistcoat. If so, then our task may prove hopeless, despite our best efforts."
"Bowmont's note states he’s not some mincing dandy, but rather a tall, handsome fellow, who rides, shoots and boxes with great skill. And apparently he also wields a fierce bat in cricket and a skillful racket on the tennis court, so things do not look entirely bleak."
Handsome as sin, a man of leisure and—given the reason for his journey to St. Andrews—a reckless gamester. Derrien hated him already.
However, she gave a curt nod. "Good. Then between us, we should be able to whip him into adequate shape."
Her eyes strayed to the battered clock that rested atop one of the long workbenches. "I had best get home before Aunt Claire thinks I've been swallowed by a sand trap." She reached for her cap and began to tuck her unruly curls back under its cover. "Don't worry, Hugh," she added with a grim smile, on catching sight of his furrowed brow. "You've done the right thing. We'll manage to pull this off."
As Philp watched her stride toward the door, the gently rounded outline of her slim hips mercifully hidden by her baggy pair of breeches, he wished he could feel quite as sanguine.
The rain was falling harder, but Derrien was almost grateful for the chill drops, in such marked contrast to the heat of the emotions still flaming inside her. There had never really been any question as to whether she would help. Hugh Philp, her uncle Alistair's good friend and mentor on the links, had become nearly as much a father to her as the professor, encouraging her natural physical talent for the game of golf as well as the agility of her inquisitive mind, no matter that most of Society though both traits unacceptable for a female.
When it became clear that her interest—and skill—in swinging a club had far exceeded the confines of the family garden, it was Philp who had come up with the idea of disguising her as a lad so she would have a chance to play the real course at St. Andrews.
She couldn't help but smile on recalling how she had quickly discovered the trick very useful in other ways, as it allowed her to hang around the University without attracting undue notice, and to sneak into the odd lecture once in a while. Even when such irregular behavior had come to light, Philp had been just as willing as her uncle to discuss the sorts of things that interested her, whether it be the latest advances in botany, the aesthetics of garden design or even so radical a topic as the ideas of Mr. Franklin, the statesman from America who possessed a Doctor of Law degree from St. Andrews.
Philp had never once scoffed at her opinions during the long conversations that accompanied their play on the course or the meticulous shaping and sanding that took place at his workbench. Instead, he had treated her as though her thoughts were as of equal merit as his own.
Derrien's smile deepened into something more complex than amusement. Perhaps it was because he sensed a kindred soul in her, no matter of the rather obvious differences between them. Philp had a passion for what he did. His work transcended mere craftsmanship. The perfection of his clubs, their exquisite balance and graceful curves, had serious golfers speaking about him in the same tones of hushed reverence that art connoisseurs reserved for the Old Masters. Bowmont preferred to liken his friend's creations to the work of another maker of performance instruments, a gentleman by the name of Stradivarius, saying both men were true artists.
Philp scoffed at such lofty sentiment, saying he was just a man who paid attention to detail, but Derrien knew the marquess's words were true. Philp saw things in ways that other men didn't.
He must have recognized the same dedication in her, not only to a game such as golf, but also to the other passion that had blossomed up in her life. She had been twelve when her uncle had brought home the picture book on gardens. From that moment on, she had been captivated, reading everything she could get her hands on regarding the theory and practice of landscape design. Walls had been scaled in the dead of night to view some rare specimen planting and agricultural tomes had been ploughed through to learn the basics of growing techniques. Her aunt and uncle had been more supportive than most guardians of a young girl's interest in something other than knitting or embroidery, with only the occasional gentle reminder that there could be no future for her in such things.
But it had been Philp who had truly understood what it was to have a passion take root, how no amount of effort could weed it out of one's breast. During the countless hours she had watched him hunched at work, putting the finishing touches on his own masterpieces, they had talked of her dreams, of the marvelous gardens she could create only in her mind. He had always encouraged her to cultivate such dreams, saying that with a little luck nothing was impossible.
For that she would always be grateful, and so she would never turn her back on him, no matter how onerous the challenge.
But why did it have to involve an Englishman, and a titled one at that?
She gave an inward curse, one even more fiery than the words uttered aloud earlier. Her boots rang a peal over the slick cobblestones as she passed the Tron in Market Square and turned down the narrow lane leading to her aunt's home.
There was nothing she could do about it, she reminded herself on catching the reflection of her scowling face in a rain-streaked shop window. It was silly to succumb to pointless anger.
Indeed, she had a feeling that she had better start practicing a measure of self-control. No doubt she was going to need every ounce of it during the coming weeks.
There was one other thing of which she had no doubt. Her aunt might smile wistfully and say she possessed the same delicate beauty and unquenchable spirit as her mother. However, she would never, ever make the same na?ve mistake. She was not going to be seduced by a titled Englishman, no matter what sort of charm or prowess he was said to possess.
Especially if he couldn't play a decent game of golf.
Adrian stared glumly at yet another field filled with sheep. A driving rain had turned the road from Edinburgh into a veritable quagmire, so that the progress of the coach had been painfully slow. The landscape had seemed one interminable pasture, with only mossy drywalls or the occasional stand of forest to break the monotony of hay, thistle and sodden wool. He vowed if he had to endure one more greasy meal of stewed mutton he would fall on his hands and knees and begin baahing like a lost lamb.
Which is exactly what he felt like at the moment—alone and helpless. And unlikely to survive the coming few weeks.
He had come to the conclusion that his situation was even bleaker than the weather. Not only did he face having to master an entirely new discipline in a woefully inadequate amount of time, but the skills he already possessed would be sorely tested as well. It had been devilishly bad luck that the commission for which he had been fervently hoping had come through just days before his forced departure from London. The deadline for its completion was tight, so somehow he would have to manage to come up with a suitable inspiration while here in Scotland. It would be no easy task under the best of conditions.
As if to echo his mood, a pelting rain rattled against the carriage window, sounding for all the world like a hail of bullets. Adrian winced. The notion of standing before a firing squad seemed uncomfortably real.
He forced his attention back to the pile of papers on his knees. At least he had found plenty of time to study the sheaf of plans he had brought along, as well as begin some preliminary sketches. Still, the enormity of the task was daunting.
"Did you know there is a yew said to be nearly three hundred years old in one of the private gardens in St. Andrews?"
Rafael's voice jerked the viscount back from his pessimistic thoughts.
"No doubt it will be the real highpoint of our visit to the city," he replied, hoping he didn’t sound too waspish.
His friend merely arched a brow in mild surprise and went back to his reading.
It was some miles before he looked up again. "Ahh, at last! Look, Adrian, we are about to cross the River Eden. That means we are not far from our final destination."
Adrian bit back a sarcastic retort. It felt more like he was about to pass over the River Styx into Hades rather than enter any sort of Paradise. However, as Rafael had kindly offered to accompany him north while his cousin and uncle journeyed to Cornwall on family estate business—even though he and Jack would soon be leaving England to take up their military duties in the Peninsula—it seemed churlish to vent his ire. His friend had endured the rigors of traveling north with his usual unflagging good spirits and deserved better than a crotchety companion.
"How very encouraging," he replied, trying hard to keep a note of asperity out of his voice. "Now if only the Good Lord will grant us a minor miracle after such an epic journey and allow the heavens to remain unclouded for more than a passing moment. Perhaps then it might be possible to begin swinging a cursed spoon or mashie, or whatever the devil you call the clubs. That is, if I can manage to straighten my spine after this interminable confinement."
Rafael grinned. "Oh, come now, stop talking as if you wear corsets and walk with the aid of a stick. And besides, any odd cricks or spasms are no doubt due to the fact that you have spent most of the hours hunched over your books or your sketchpads. A hot bath along with a good night's rest will put you right as rain."
"I should prefer you don't mention that particular word," he muttered, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. It was hard to remain blue-deviled in light of his friend's banter. "But I appreciate your patience with me, Rafe. And your company. God knows, you didn't have to sacrifice your own Town pleasures to trek to the wilds of Scotland."
"We are friends, Adrian. Friends support each other in times of trouble," said Rafael simply. "Now, if you look over there, you'll see..."
Adrian allowed himself to be coaxed out of his foul mood by his friend's pithy commentary on the sights leading into town.
"Since this is your first visit across the border," added Rafael, once he had finished pointing out the landmarks, "you should be aware that the Scots are a wee bit different than those of us used to London manners. They can be quite reserved—some may even call them dour. And they have little tolerance for frivolous behavior?—"
"Then it sounds as if I shall have no trouble fitting in," broke in Adrian.
His friend fell tactfully silent.
The coach bounced around a bend in the road. "What do you suppose they are hunting?" asked the viscount, indicating two men on hands and knees in the middle of a broad swath of cropped grass. From a distance, they appeared to be poking about in a thick patch of whin with several long, thin sticks. "Surely with the amount of racket they are making, any rabbit will have long since gone to ground."
A hoot of laughter echoed inside the carriage. "They are hunting a golf ball! That, my dear Adrian, is the hallowed links of St. Andrews."
"Hmmph." Adrian crossed his arms. "Not much to look at. Why, there's hardly a tree in sight. What's all this nonsense about hazards and strategy? Looks to me like there's precious little to prevent you from simply standing up and giving the ball a sound whack straight ahead and straight back."
"Indeed?" murmured Rafael with a wicked grin. "I shall remind you of those words in a week's time."
"Hmmph."
A short while later they rolled through the West Port arch and down South Street, passing several intersections before turning right onto a snug street lined with linden tress. On both sides sat a row of pleasant townhouses, their weathered granite facades still wet from a passing shower. Rafael consulted a piece of paper he had pulled from his coat pocket, then glanced again out the window.
"There it is up ahead, Number Eighteen." He pointed to one with a large brass knocker in the shape of a thistle that distinguished it from its neighbors. "The housekeeper comes highly recommended and has already hired a staff suitable for our needs. Bowmont has also written to several of his acquaintances in town about our arrival so we may expect to dine out several nights a week."
"Hmmph." Adrian knew he should muster more enthusiasm than that. Rafael had gone to a great deal of effort to secure decent lodgings and staff for their extended stay while he had been occupied with arranging his affairs for such a long absence. But the truth was, he was feeling even less sanguine about the prospects of this endeavor now that they had arrived. The task which had seemed daunting enough in London now appeared, in light of countless hours of rumination on the way north, to be a fool's errand.
Fool, indeed!
His lips compressed in a tight line. Nobody but a fool would imagine he could master a complicated sport in a few short weeks, much less best an opponent who had been playing the game for years. To have any hope of success, he would have to be extraordinarily lucky, and the thought of such dependence on serendipitous chance, rather than his own hard work, galled him no end.
He had spent most of his lifetime as an unwilling thrall to the Lady Luck, witnessing how fickle her attentions could be. His father might have chosen to make her his mistress, but he had always sworn he would never be seduced by such promiscuous charms.
The coach creaked to a stop, and Adrian realized he hadn't heard a word of what Rafael had been chattering about for the last few minutes. Quelling the urge to order the coachman to turn back toward London, he sighed and made to follow his friend.
"Come now Adrian, you are not usually one to shy away from a challenge. Stop looking so mutton-faced!"
The problem was, he felt just like a sheep being led to slaughter.