Chapter Thirteen
‘This isn’t MacLeod’s boat?’ she gasped, staggering over to where he stood, trying to hold her hair back so she could see – but the wind was obdurate, tugging hard.
Baird-Hamilton looked bemused. ‘Sadly not! His is far smarter than this old girl. I just use her for pottering about. Usually in summer, of course. But also when the roads are shot.’
They had to raise their voices to speak over the wind.
‘But...’ Effie looked around her in panic. How could this be happening? ‘But I’m supposed to be on MacLeod’s boat!’
‘Yes, I guessed that.’ A smile played on his lips, his eyes seeming to dance. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I was expecting you to be someone else too.’
It didn’t. Effie stared at him. This was a disaster.
‘But not to worry,’ he said after a moment, seeing she was distinctly less amused by their predicament. ‘I’ve been caught on stickier wickets than this, I assure you.’
‘Where...where are we?’ There was a strong wind at their backs, the mainsail billowing at full reach so that they were flying past sea cliffs and coves, white seabirds diving and gliding on the thermals. It was a familiar landscape, and she felt a reflexive pulse of joy.
‘In the Sound of Raasay. Beautiful, isn’t it? There are always sea eagles over th—’
‘We’re heading south?’ They were going in completely the wrong direction. Dunvegan Castle – Sholto had shown it to her on a revolving globe in Gladly’s library – sat on a promontory on the north-west side of the isle, fronting onto its own sea loch.
‘Indeed, but you see, the great – the very greatest – thing about this vessel, Miss Gillies, is that she turns around.’
He was teasing her, she knew, but she couldn’t smile. What would Sholto be thinking? She had just disappeared into the night! Did he think her drowned? Lost? Would it occur to him that she had somehow ended up on the wrong boat?
‘We have to go back,’ she said urgently.
‘I quite agree,’ he said. ‘But not till this wind has dropped, I’m afraid. These are force five north-westerlies. We’re in the leeside here but if we were to round the Trotternish peninsula now, we’d be exposed to the full force of it. Far too risky.’
‘But MacLeod’s sailing it!’
‘Yes. His yacht is ocean-going. I’m afraid the Lady Tara isn’t up to those passes. Speaking of which...’ He reached under the helm to a small stowage compartment. ‘Put this on.’ He handed her a bulky life vest, the same as he was wearing over his green velvet dinner jacket. ‘Pass me the blanket while you put it on.’
She did as instructed, having to turn into the wind again to force her hair to blow backwards while she slipped it on. The dress plastered to her body as she fastened the jacket’s ties. ‘What’s inside this?’ she frowned, feeling hard ridges pressing against her ribs.
‘Cork. Not comfortable, but if you fall in, you’re guaranteed to bob.’
‘Oh.’ She looked back at him, taking back the blanket and clutching it around her again – this time as much for modesty as warmth. A gown by candlelight felt very much like a slip in daylight, and he was watching her with that intense look of his.
‘Mr Baird-Hamilton—’
‘Archie, please,’ he corrected, looking pained by her formality. ‘We have danced the Gay Gordons and Hamilton House together. That makes us dear friends.’
Was he ever serious? Effie wondered.
‘Archie,’ she sighed, trying to control her panic. With every comment, they were sailing ever further south. ‘It’s vital I get back to Portree. Sholto will think I’ve...’ What would he be thinking, coming out and finding her gone? No word. No trace. ‘He’ll be worrying about me.’
‘I’m quite sure he will, but he won’t be in Portree now, I assure you. Once he’s ascertained you’re not in the water – and it’s very protected there; bodies don’t get far – he’ll know there’s some sort of mix-up and set off for Dunvegan before the weather gets worse. He’ll have to; the winds are strengthening to gale force this afternoon, and with the roads closed, they can’t afford to hang about.’
Effie stared at him. Was it true, that Sholto would have left her behind?
‘Please don’t worry,’ he said calmly, seeing her continuing dismay. ‘There’s a telephone at my house. We can call Dunvegan from there and explain the situation. Once Sholto knows you’re perfectly safe, we can wait out the weather.’ He shrugged as if it was all very easy.
Effie clutched the blanket at her throat. ‘Where is your house?’
‘On Raasay. Not far. Here, take a pew beside me and get out of the wind. You look as if you’re going to blow away.’
Reluctantly, she sat down beside him. What else could she do? The wind was at their backs, propelling them ever southwards, away from her one true north.
The Lady Tara slipped into the enfolding arms of a small bay, Archie expertly furling the mainsail, spooling out mooring ropes and dropping the anchor as Effie watched from her perch, decorative and useless. Boats remained an enigma to her: so many moving parts and mercurial conditions to account for. She far preferred the ancient immobility of cliffs to the sea.
‘May I?’ Archie asked, reaching out for the blanket. She hadn’t let it go for a single moment on the journey over. He folded it and dropped it back into the cabin as she unfastened the life vest and stowed it in the space beyond the helm.
‘Here, take my hand,’ he said as he jumped onto the small jetty – but as in Portree, Effie alighted as nimbly as a fawn, drawing from him a smirk at her little rebellion. ‘Then at least take my coat. I insist. This is no weather for bare arms.’ He shrugged off the velvet jacket in a fluid movement and draped it over her shoulders.
It smelled of woodsmoke and moss, and she felt a pang of guilt at being enveloped in another man’s scent.
She wondered briefly what her old friends would say if they could see her walking on a private jetty, a ball gown trailing behind her, with a man whose reputation preceded him. Flora, no doubt, would delight in the glamour; Mhairi would fret over the risk of gossip.
‘That’s your home?’ she asked, looking up at the beautiful house towards which they were walking. It fronted onto sweeping snowy lawns and was built of pale honeyed stone, with tall floor-to-ceiling sash windows, a grey slate roof, gables, chimneys and a pillared portico. It was far less grand than Dumfries House, but still an elegant and imposing country house.
‘Well, I’m the current owner, but it’s more of a bolthole than a home. My uncle bought it just before the Great War. He was killed in the Battle of Amiens and I was his only heir, so...’ Archie shrugged, as if it was merely a perplexing mystery that he should have come to find himself in possession of such a handsome home. ‘Historically, however, Raasay House – and the island as a whole – belonged to a branch of the MacLeods. It was in their domain for centuries, and it rather feels they still have a hand on it.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Certainly Jim MacLeod delights in telling me that I’m bunking in his boathouse.’
Boathouse?
‘Oh.’ She followed him along the path, through the grounds and into the house. The door opened onto flagged floors and dozens of wall-mounted antlers. Barley-twist chairs stood against walls and tables were laden with framed family photographs.
It was cold indoors, but she had seen smoke puffing from some of the chimneys, and a grey-haired woman emerged from one of the rooms at the sound of their footsteps. ‘Welcome back, sir,’ she said. ‘Tea is served in the library, if you’d like to take the weight off?’
‘I should think we would like that, Mrs Robertson. We’ve had a hard day’s night,’ Archie said appreciatively, flashing her a warm smile. He pulled at his bow tie and undid the top button of his shirt, stretching out his neck with the relief Effie reserved for taking off shoes. ‘This is my friend Miss Gillies – Effie, my housekeeper, Mrs Robertson.’
‘How do you do?’ Effie smiled politely, receiving a restrained nod in reply. The woman’s eyes darted up and down her in fleeting judgement. Too late, Effie remembered that Archie’s jacket was still over her shoulders, and she quickly shrugged it off. ‘Oh. Your coat.’
He handed it to Mrs Robertson, who looked quizzically at him. ‘No Miss Bruce, sir?’
‘No – a slight change of plan...’ he muttered. ‘I say, what women’s clothes do we have here?’
There was a pause. ‘None, sir. You requested a full clear-out after Miss Coutts-Fitzroy’s departure—’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said quickly. ‘So I did. Hmm.’ He looked at Effie, resplendent in green silk at ten o’clock in the morning. ‘We can hardly have you drifting about in that – you’ll catch your death. It’s usually colder inside this house than out. I’m afraid you may have to wear some of my clobber. Does that appal you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good sport. At least I’ll be the only one to see, and I certainly shan’t tell on you.’
‘I’ll lay out some things on your bed, then, sir...’ the housekeeper said, turning to go.
‘Actually, Robertson, Miss Gillies will be staying in a guest room.’
The housekeeper couldn’t hide her surprise, although she looked like a woman not often startled. ‘...Of course. The – the blue room, sir?’
‘Yes, why not? Everyone says it has the prettiest view.’ He glanced at Effie. ‘And draw a bath too, and get the fire going in there, won’t you? Miss Gillies has caught a chill, I fear.’
‘I’m sure,’ Mrs Robertson said disapprovingly.
‘It’s a long story,’ was all Archie said over his shoulder as he led the way into the library.
It was dark and moody in there, with ochre-coloured walls and oak bookshelves, several balding leather armchairs set before the fire. A writing desk stood behind a sagging linen sofa and a tiger-skin rug was spread on the floor.
Effie stared at it, riveted and horrified all at once. It still had teeth! Unpleasant memories of Lady Sibyl’s pet cheetah surfaced in her mind; that had had sharp teeth too. What was it about the upper classes and their need for predators at hand?
‘One of Uncle Bertie’s trophies from India,’ Archie explained. ‘His father was Viceroy. Quite the hunter, I’m given to believe. Rather like you, I imagine?’
She looked at him as she settled herself in the armchair opposite him. A pot of tea and some scones spread with jam had been left on a tray on the small ottoman between them.
‘Weren’t you St Kildans renowned hunters?’ he persisted as he began to pour. ‘Wasn’t the last Great Auk killed by one of your lot?’
‘...How do you know I’m from St Kilda?’
He laughed out loud at her joke – the last time they’d referenced her heritage hadn’t ended well for Edward Rushton. Effie couldn’t help but grin at his infectious sense of humour.
‘You know, you’ve had the ton , as they say, in more of a buzz than when Lord Tansey’s wife was impregnated by their chauffeur. I shall be feted for this coup de grace , hosting you here like this. Now I can get all the news.’ His eyes danced with merriment as he passed her a cup and saucer. She wondered how he would react if she told him she had only just come into the full facts of her own situation herself. ‘Of course, they’ll all think I did this deliberately. Don’t be surprised if they start a rumour saying I kidnapped you.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid I have a terribly low reputation. People always want to believe the worst.’
‘So you’re saying it’s not deserved?’ she asked, remembering Bitsy’s warning.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But it’s always more interesting playing along.’
Effie was growing used to his teasing. She wrapped her hand around the teacup, grateful for the immediate warmth. Tea and a fire suddenly felt like the greatest luxuries; she was delirious with exhaustion. A night spent dancing without sleep and a December sea crossing in little more than a nightie were taking their toll. ‘Well, once I make that telephone call, all kidnapping stories can be laid to rest.’
‘What a pity,’ he tutted.
‘May I?’ she asked, her eyes falling to the telephone on the desk.
Archie looked back at her, smiling, but there was something else in his eyes too; a shadow of disappointment? ‘Of course. Skye 2598.’
She got up and lifted the handset from its cradle. ‘...Hello?’ she asked after a moment. She frowned, turning back towards him. ‘There’s no connection.’
He looked bemused, getting up and putting the handset to his ear as he pressed on the cradle.
There was a pause. ‘...Robertson?’ he called.
The housekeeper was there within moments. ‘Sir?’
‘What’s wrong with the phone?’
‘Oh, yes, that. One of the telegraph poles came down yesterday morning. Cal Murdock skidded on ice in the tractor and hit it square on. Almost electrocuted half his flock.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Aye, he was in a fair muddle. He’s got an egg-sized lump on his head and was seeing double—’
‘Yes, yes. When can they make the repairs?’
‘Not until next week now. There’s no more ferries before Monday on account of the winds.’
Today was Thursday. Effie felt her stomach dive as Archie looked back at her apologetically. Sholto had no idea where she was – and now it would be another four days before she could enlighten him?
‘I’m afraid we’re not exactly a priority for the telephone board,’ he explained, replacing the receiver.
‘But I can’t stay here till then,’ Effie said urgently. ‘I need to go back to Portree.’
‘That would be pointless when all roads north are closed. We need to get you round to Dunvegan.’
‘Then I’ll find a way,’ she argued. ‘I’m used to bad weather.’
Archie looked bemused. ‘I’m sure you are, and if my boat were any more robust, I’d take you up there myself...’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is all terribly bad luck.’
‘What if we were to go now, before the winds really pick up?’ she said desperately, turning to look out at the view. It was stunning, looking straight across the sound to Skye, with the Red Cuillin mountains – more sedate than their Black cousins – bumping the horizon. Effie refused to acknowledge the white horses already rearing in the open water, the bend and sway of the trees as the wind began to gust and moan. ‘We could still do it.’
He shook his head, unmoved by her pleas. ‘I’m reckless but not suicidal, more’s the pity. I’ll get you back there at the first break in the clouds. Until then...I’m afraid you’re stuck here with me.’
A bath, a long sleep and a brief walk to inspect the fallen telegraph pole – confirming that they were indeed stranded – did much to improve Effie’s spirits. She still couldn’t help but fret about Sholto, but she took comfort in what Archie kept telling her: her fiancé would know she wasn’t drowned, and he would guess that a mix-up had occurred. And at least she knew where to find him, even if he didn’t know where to find her. All they had to do was wait for the winds to drop.
She stared at herself in the bedroom mirror, feeling conflicted by what she saw. It fit her perfectly, and yet...
Earlier, Mrs Robertson had left out a pair of Archie’s trousers, a shirt and jumper for her to put on after her bath. The trousers were comically long and had had to be rolled up several times; he had cracked a one-sided smile of deep amusement at the sight of her as she had walked into the library. ‘Like a glove,’ he had quipped.
Luckily for Effie, she had worn the housekeeper’s gumboots for their walk.
For dinner, however, he had had a brainwave, remembering his dinner suit from his schooldays. ‘It must still be hanging somewhere in one of the wardrobes,’ he had said to Mrs Robertson, who had simply nodded with the expression of someone who knew exactly where everything was hanging.
Effie tugged at the shirt cuffs and left the room, finding her host in his preferred fireside chair with a copy of the local paper on his knees and a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He glanced up and seemed to freeze as she saw a look of genuine shock cross his face – which was saying something. He didn’t strike her as easily shockable. The dinner suit looked as if it had been made for her, but there was something... confusing about seeing herself, a young woman, her blonde hair spread over her shoulders, in such a masculine item of clothing. Wearing trousers was one thing, but an actual dinner suit? She still wasn’t sure why they had to dress for dinner when it was just the two of them in any case.
‘I couldn’t do up the tie,’ she murmured as his uncharacteristic silence stretched out.
‘No, indeed,’ he said, getting up and coming to stand before her. ‘There’s a...there’s a real knack to doing it...Tricky rascals.’ He bent down and began tying the bow at her neck. It seemed an intricate process and she was very aware of his proximity as she stood there. Of course, they had danced together; she had already felt his hands on her waist, his hands gripping hers, but there was something...intimate in the stillness of this endeavour.
‘No shoes, I see.’
‘I’m a St Kildan, remember?’ she murmured, looking diagonally away from him, not risking eye contact at these close quarters. ‘And the choice was either my dancing shoes or Mrs Beeton’s gumboots, so...’
‘That really is sitting on the horns of a dilemma.’
There was another silence as she felt his fingers working against her throat.
‘How old were you when you wore this?’ she murmured as another silence bloomed.
‘...Thirteen? Before I’d started shooting up,’ he replied, his gaze dragging over her as he stepped back finally and admired the finished result. Barefooted but bow-tied, she saw the heavy rise and fall of his chest as a thick tension seemed to coagulate between them.
‘Do we look like a pair of penguins?’ she asked, needing to defuse it.
He laughed again. ‘I fear we do! But take heart – if we can’t make a lady of you, we’ll make a gentleman for sure. You’re a looker in a gown, don’t get me wrong, but you do rather suit men’s clothes.’
‘I take that as a compliment,’ she preened. ‘I always wore my brother’s clothes back home.’
‘Did you indeed? Didn’t your mother have something to say about that?’ He wandered over to the drinks cabinet and poured her a whisky, slowly unscrewing the bottle top with a distracted air.
‘My mother died when I was ten. And my brother too, when I was fourteen.’
Archie looked taken aback. For once, there was no sign of a smirk on his lips. ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t wear his clothes before that, obviously...’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’d have scalped me.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Climbing accident. The rope snapped.’
‘Dear God, that’s terrible.’
Effie was quiet for a moment. ‘It was quick, at least.’
He came back over and handed her the drink.
‘To absent friends,’ he murmured. They clinked glasses, eyes locking as they both sipped their drinks.
‘You must miss your home very much.’
‘I do – especially as I haven’t found somewhere to replace it.’
‘Yes, you are currently somewhat nomadic, aren’t you?’
She watched him, knowing that behind his discretion, he knew. They all did.
‘Actually, I only found out last night that Sholto’s parents don’t want us to marry,’ she said simply. ‘He had told me differently.’
‘Ah...Tricky.’ He looked down at his glass, then back at her. Was his loyalty conflicted? He had known Sholto for many years. They had run in the same set since boyhood and even if they weren’t as close as others, he wouldn’t want to drop Sholto in it with a misjudged word. ‘...How did he take it when you told him he’d been rumbled?’
‘He doesn’t know. I ran straight down to the boat to confront him – only to end up on yours instead.’
He nodded. ‘Fate can work in mysterious ways, Miss Gillies,’ he deadpanned.
She grinned back. He played to type a lot, she’d noticed. ‘It isn’t fate that I’m here. It’s a simple mix-up. I asked a woman which boat was MacLeod’s and she pointed to the wrong one.’
‘Well, then, give me her name. I must thank her.’
She laughed, amazed that she could laugh about it. Last night, in the Gathering Hall, she had felt exposed and humiliated. Now, at least, she felt a little more perspective.
She peeled away and went to stand by the fire. It was distinctly strange to feel a tiger’s pelt beneath her bare feet. Archie watched her bask in the warmth for several moments before coming back around too.
‘I’m sure Sholto will have a plan.’
She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. ‘There are a lot of castles in Scotland. I think he means for us to spend the rest of our days visiting every single one.’
‘Perhaps he’s buying time. He must believe he can talk his parents round.’
She shrugged. ‘I did tell him they wouldn’t accept it, but he wouldn’t listen to me. When he insisted on going back to talk with them alone, I agreed only because I knew he would have to explain things. They were never going to welcome me with open arms...But I never imagined that he’d come back and lie to me.’
‘You should be flattered. He refused to let you go.’
She shook her head, knowing he was right, and yet...‘He’ll regret it, I know he will – if not today, then someday soon. It’s too much to ask of him.’
A comfortable silence opened up which neither of them felt in a rush to fill. Archie was holding his whisky tumbler in the palm of his upturned hand, the firelight making it sparkle. ‘...You know, we chaps are fishing in a small pond when it comes to wives, and Sholto – lucky devil – has found a wild creature from the sea. You’re exciting and dynamic, Effie. Challenging too, I’m sure, but most certainly not a bore. None of the girls on our circuit are like you.’
‘Oh, I know. And they hate me for it.’
‘I refuse to believe it!’ he said in mock horror.
She smiled. ‘It’s true. I get everything wrong. I’m too rough, too loud, too strong. Bitsy Cameron is adamant she’s going to have a limp for ever because of me.’
‘Whatever did you do to her?’
‘Rode a rocking horse over her foot.’
‘That could only improve her dancing,’ he quipped, taking a sip of his drink. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, the only woman I’m aware of who truly loathes, hates and despises you is Sibyl Wainwright – and of course she has good reason. We can’t deny her the pleasure of pickling in her own resentment.’
Effie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I would hate me too if I was her.’
‘Oh, she’ll get over it eventually. There are plenty of other bachelors lining up; she’s coming into a fair fortune when her old man croaks. Although she is so very stuck on Sholto. I suppose he’s just so pretty, isn’t he?’ He wrinkled his nose.
‘Pretty? He’s not a girl!’
‘Coming from the girl wearing a dinner suit.’
She smiled. ‘I think he’s the most handsome man I ever met.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘I wasn’t trying to be rude.’
‘No, you’re like me – it just comes naturally.’
She laughed, befuddled by his quick wit and refusal to play by the rules. From the moment she had set foot on the mainland, adapting had meant understanding what was and wasn’t acceptable: wear this, don’t say that; dance this reel, play this game; read this book, laugh at the right moment...But Archie Baird-Hamilton deliberately set himself apart from all that, not caring about the done thing. He was a gentleman rebel, a counterpart to what she herself had been labelled by Peony the other day: a noble sauvage .
She tried turning the conversation onto his love life instead.
‘Who is Miss Bruce?’
He seemed surprised that she had remembered the name the housekeeper had mentioned earlier. ‘She was my intended guest.’
‘Was she the redhead we passed?’
‘The Redhead,’ he echoed, as if it were a proper noun. ‘...Actually, no.’
‘What will have happened to her?’
‘Well, I hope she’s worked out by now that, clearly, I left without her,’ he guffawed. ‘Naturally, I assumed you were her.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No, no. It was my own fault. Ought to have come down and checked, of course. I wanted to get ahead of the winds.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Poor girl. I doubt she’ll ever speak to me again.’
‘I’m sure she will, once y’ explain,’ Effie said hurriedly.
He shook his head. ‘She’s quite spirited...It’s probably for the best anyway. Would never have worked.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Her husband’s a crack shot.’
Effie’s jaw dropped open as he smiled back at her with his eyes. ‘...Oh.’