Chapter 31
Lesson 30: Never underestimate the power of the kilt.
Reading List: Whisky Galore by Compton Mackenzie (not read)
Bridget Jones Tally:
whiskies—4
haggises (or is it haggi?)—1
dances—dozens
Then came The Day.
I’d seen ceilidhs in movies and TV, but had never danced in one before. I was determined to throw myself in with wild abandon
and have the night of my life. I had been resting my ankle for days in preparation, and it felt strong. It felt like it could
hold me up against an onslaught of Highland warriors who had no other purpose but to twirl me silly.
It was early evening when our little Rosie puttered up to Glenapp Castle, an immense baronial pile complete with turrets and
towers. It earned a great round of whooping and applause when it came into view from the windows of our little bus, nestled
regally within a leafy wooded estate—a Victorian vision of a Gothic fantasy.
Tonight was a fundraiser for the Scottish Book Trust. Dramatic flaming torches had been lit to welcome guests; it made me giddy with anticipation. A flag flew on the wind from the highest tower, and scores of great, eyelike windows peered down upon us, already starting to glow in the fading light. Thick gnarls of lush, twisted vines toiled up one side of the sandstone, trying jealously to claim it for the forest. It was romance incarnate. It was Northanger Abbey meets Castle Leoch. I squealed.
We were shown to our rooms to freshen up before dinner. My room was immense, with a huge bed, carefully chosen antiques, and
beautiful windows. I put my bag down, walked to the window, and leaned against the sill. The view swept over the estate, and
in the distance, a gray turbulent sea lashed against a rocky island. I breathed out, a long sigh that blossomed a puff of
fog in the window, and relaxed into my bliss.
After a long, drawn-out, deliciously steamy shower, I wrapped my ankle, then set about making myself look like the lady of
the manor as best I could. I ached to be corseted up in a huge period costume, festooned with tartan, layers of lace, and
skirts upon skirts. I was grateful to at least be able to outfit myself in the elegant black dress that Helena had given me,
and I decided to leave my red hair down and windswept, as a nod to my distant Scottish heritage. I slid on ballet flats for
dancing, plus my plaid scarf for warmth and added Scottishness. I checked myself in the mirror. Then I checked my inner self.
I was alright. Like my ankle, my inner self was a bit bruised, perhaps, and something I should probably be careful with, but
it felt strong and sturdy enough. I had prepared for tonight, and I could weather it. What’s more, I was determined to have
a great time.
As I made my way down the staircase, I saw that many of the ladies were already in the foyer, looking beautiful and sipping champagne. Then I saw Robbie. He was in a kilt—one less formal than some of the others, with their black dress jackets and horsehair sporrans. Robbie wore a beautiful soft blue tartan with a snug gray sweater, sleeves casually pushed up despite the chill of the old stone, a simple leather sporran, and brown leather boots below his socks. His calves, his back, his shoulders, the sporran chain tight across his hips—all were difficult to look away from.
He turned and smiled up at me. I had to stop for a moment, swallow hard, and remind myself to breathe. What is he wearing under there? Had I been a daintier lady of a more delicate disposition, I would have fainted on the spot, roused only by a walloping whiff
of smelling salts. But I wasn’t, so instead I imagined all manner of inappropriate kilt-centric scenarios as I glided down
the final steps.
We ladies congratulated ourselves on how nice we’d scrubbed up, and Robbie said that all the men would be jealous of him.
As we went in for supper, he and I fell into place, as we often did these days, at the back of the line.
“Hold it there a wee breath, lass.” He thickened his brogue to a pea soup consistency, a rumbly growl that made my toes curl.
I stood stock-still, unsure of what was happening. He had a devilish grin on his face, eyebrow cocked as he came toward me
slowly—a lion closing in on its prey.
“Ach, dinna fash, lassie,” he rolled low in his throat. “This willna hurt a bit.”
He came closer, and my eyes darted between us wildly, wondering what was about to happen. He slowly reached up and slid his
hand under my plaid scarf and dragged it off my shoulders. Oh my God. Then he bent down and removed a pin from the bottom of his kilt, eyes flicking back to me. Coming near again, he paused for
a moment, eyes intense but playful, in a gesture laced with so much sexual innuendo I wondered if I would need a pregnancy
test afterward.
He spread the scarf over one shoulder and across my body like a sash and pinned it together at my hip.
“There.”
“Does this mean I’m properly kitted out for the haggis?”
“Aye, you are. Aye, you are.” He offered me his elbow. But as we started to walk after the others, he added, “Best to acquaint
yourself with my arms now, ye ken, because they’ll be swingin’ you off the floor later tonight.”
Whoa.
What the hell does that mean?
Is he talking about dancing? Because I’ve never heard anything so dirty in all my life.
“Promises, promises,” I teased coquettishly. He tightened his mouth and kept his eyes straight ahead.
Turns out, I’m a haggis girl! Who would have guessed that I’d be elbow-deep in sheep’s stomach stuffed with lightly peppered
innards and loving every minute of it? What the hell was a neep? Who cares!
Afterward there was cheese and oatcakes and some salted caramel fancy layered mousse kinda thing that looked like it came
with its own Michelin star and tasted like an angel spun it out of kitten dreams.
We followed the rest of the group—and about sixty or so others, mostly middle-aged and older (though I did happen to notice
a few rugged Scotsmen who appeared to be closer to my age)—to sit down on leather and velvet tufted sofas in a room where
the fire crackled in its hearth, surrounded on all sides with wood paneling, lush garnet curtains, and various tartans on
the rug and cushions. If one were to imagine a room to drink whisky in, it would be this room, and so that’s just what we
did.
Cheeks warm with cheer and easy smiles, we were as ready as we’d ever be for the dancing. A refined-looking gentleman came
in and invited us all to the ballroom, where we could already hear the band striking the iron.
The band consisted of five handsome men dressed in kilts, and when they played, my blood rushed and thudded so that I felt dizzy. Even if we hadn’t been here to dance, I couldn’t have helped it. My legs itched for it, and my feet added a percussive rattle to the jigs and reels. Fiddle, guitar, whistle, accordion, drum, and even occasionally bagpipes carried us forward to the dance floor—and could have marched us happily off a cliff if they’d wanted to. We would have died twirling each other to the rocks below.
Isla had not yet arrived, and I had decided not to worry about it.
The first dance that I tried was the military two-step. Robbie pulled me over when they told us to couple up.
“Do you think you can dance on that rickety hoof you’ve got there?”
“Of course. You’ll see. I’ll be the last one standing at the end of the night.”
“Is that because you will have stomped and elbowed all the other dancers to a pulp?”
I scoffed. “Hmm. Maybe I should find a more agreeable partner.” I scanned the room.
He laughed and pulled me close with a tight arm around my waist. “Nae chance.”
The band called out the steps for the dancers to learn before we all made a mockery of age-old tradition. Robbie took it easy
on me, helping me by pushing and pulling me to the right places to be swung by the next partner and to loop back around without
colliding with any merrymakers.
“Manhandling is by invitation only,” I shouted between gulps of air while we took our places for the next dance.
“Och, you’re only a wee helpless Yank. You need all the help you can get. Besides, it’s my civic duty to stop you from crippling
all the nice older gentlemen.”
I was relieved to find that the atmosphere was light and easy. No one minded if you made mistakes, and many of the others there, even those with Scottish accents, were learning and missing steps along with the rest of us. We were all in it together, and it was such roaring fun!
I danced to every tune I could. Each dance was different, and I didn’t want to miss one. I thought my ankle would demand breaks,
but it felt surprisingly strong, and I felt as light as a feather. Sometimes I danced with strangers, sometimes with the other
ladies, but most often with Robbie, the band whipping us into a sweating, breathless fury.
We teased each other as we swung around on each other’s arms, grinning like punch-drunk fools, laughing at every falter and
misstep. We laughed when it worked like clockwork too, because of the sheer joy of it. The music coursed through our veins
like a drug we were already addicted to.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to have a wee break, so please go and freshen your drinks,” the bandleader announced. “To
keep us all going, I’d like to invite a special guest to the stage. An old bandmate and dear friend, Robbie Brodie.”
I looked around, confused. His were common Scottish names; surely there was another Robbie Brodie in the audience. But no,
after a few refusals and some peer pressure, Robbie got up and joined the others. My mouth hung open on its hinges.
He stepped up to the mic and greeted the room easily.
“Now, while you’re all catching your breath and bending your arm, I might sing a little song, if that’s alright.” Everyone
clapped. “Thank you. This one’s called ‘The Lowlands of Holland.’”
He sang alone, a slow, haunting song about a young bride whose lover was lost to the sea. Robbie’s voice was deep and earthy and filled with emotion, tripping and dragging single syllables into a cascade of notes in the way only the Celts could do. The honeyed rasp rang off the high wooden ceiling and raised the hair on every inch of my skin. I sipped my whisky and breathed deeply, utterly hypnotized, the spell only broken when the audience erupted into wild applause.
Then they handed him the fiddle. They struck up a set of tunes so fast that it was breaking the horsehairs on his bow. I was
dumbstruck. My every nerve was buzzing. He was gorgeous up there. Powerful, confident, and oh-so-heartbreakingly talented.
I caught myself holding my breath, while my heart took wing at the trill of the strings.
My head reminded my feet to root. This man was clearly still a stranger to me. I had told him everything. I had answered every
question, and offered up every tiny piece to him. I had flayed myself open for his benefit, while all this—and much more—he
had kept secret. I wasn’t angry, really, or even upset. I was happy, mostly, at being here to see him perform. I just felt
as if the rug had been swept out from under me.
Nothing is so dangerous for falling in love than watching a talented person do what they’re good at. My mind raced ahead.
I knew that tonight would hurt, and that I would fly home heartsore. But at least I knew I still had a heart that knew how
to love. There were worse fates.
The band finished a tune, and I heard Robbie over the mic again.
“What an audience! Thank you!” Then he started laughing. And then: “Oh! Hello, gorgeous! ” He laughed, smiling out into the crowd. And my world splintered apart.