The Book of Secrets (7 page)
Read The Book of Secrets Online
Authors: Fiona Kidman
It had happened on the Saturday, when the ministers were speaking. The gaunt-faced men who guarded the donation boxes were watching the crowd with steely eyes. One of the breezes that constantly swept the crowd that day had risen with a sharp new intensity. Isabella shifted closer to Duncan. The guardian at the boxes, the same one who had looked at her so closely the day of their arrival, came over.
His voice was like flint. ‘Woman, is this man your husband?’
‘No.’
‘You act like a wife with him, talking to him and casting him looks. When will the marriage take place?’
‘Come the end of autumn,’ said Duncan swiftly. ‘The lady stays at my sisters place.’
He did not look at her when the guardian had gone.
‘Why?’ she whispered, for what seemed like the twentieth time.
‘Why not?’ he had replied.
‘We’re not pledged to each other.’
‘You came here with me.’
‘Is that what you took from it?’
‘We’ll talk of it later.’
She began to get to her feet.
‘No, not now,’ he said, trying to restrain her by force of his words.
‘I am not one of the hypocrites of whom you speak.’
‘You came here,’ he repeated. ‘D’you not understand what you have done, coming here with me?’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘You did not ask. I thought you understood.’
She sank back on the grass, shaking her head.
Ullapool, 10 June 1813
Dearest Louise,
I feel so lost and confused within myself of late. I hope you won’t show these letters to my brother, even though you’re as life to each other. I don’t understand what’s going on in my head. I haven’t felt easy since the time that I so foolishly —yes, yes, I admit it now — went into the highlands with Duncan MacQuarrie.
He haunts the town of Ullapool and his feelings around here are known, though he does not state them in public, he has too much respect. But people come to sense these things. His love is as great an affliction to him as it is to me who does not care for him in the same way, and of course father is even less inclined to employ him now than before. Although nothing is said to me, I know that there is encouragement in the town to scorn him. He is so poor, such an easy target, and with his game leg there is little he can do, though he labours on with the kelp. I keep referring to this accursed kelp; in case you don’t know of it, it’s a fine seaweed that grows around the shoreline here. When it’s been gathered it gets dried out and burned on the beaches, so that there is a molten mass which is cooled into brittle blue layers, then
that
gets shipped off to the glass and
soap-works
in England. That’s why the lairds are so eager for the people to be nice and handy to the icy sea — which is where they’re living, thousands and thousands of them now, huddled near the beaches. A pretty sight? Does it shock you? I cannot bear it.
As for Duncan, I feel to blame for his worsening plight, through bringing ridicule upon him. I see now that it was natural for him to believe that I was pledging myself when I followed him. What else
could he have thought? I did not understand enough their way of looking at things up here.
You may wonder that he asked me in the first place. Well, he is one of the terrible suffering lettered men, such as Highlanders often are, despite their poverty; placing learning above all things, and believing firmly in the equality of all men (I should like to say, of women too, but of course I refer to mankind, oh you will see what strain I am under at present).
Dear heaven forbid, I often think now, that poor people should be afflicted with knowledge and talent and intellect. Ah, that from me! No, don’t listen, it is the deepest irony of which I am capable. But you see, he thought I was some kindred spirit, it seems, making a spontaneous gesture of my commitment. Perhaps I thought so too at the time, but now I do not know what induced me to go on that rash outing. It was an adventure, and adventuresses are not thought well of in this harsh and bitter land.
As if all that is not enough, and too much, I have had a most disturbing encounter with McLeod. It happened late one spring afternoon, although you would be hard put to think of it as spring for a small blizzard had blown up and died away, leaving in its wake a late fall of snow and the air was still damp and heavy with it. I had a great deal on my mind, on this evening of which I speak. I put on my fur-lined hood, and mittens, and set off. The snow obscured my view. Where there had been black rocks the day before, there was nothing, then the snow died away a little and the rocks began to move, or so it seemed. I cried out, afraid, and then I saw that it was the blackfaces at large upon the moor.
I took a deep breath. When the snow cleared, I saw not only the foolish sheep blundering off at my approach, but also a man standing in my path. It was McLeod.
Sister, I feel that McLeod is part of my fate, that in him rests some overwhelming and mysterious power which will change my life.
My hands shake so much as I write, that I cannot go on …
He stood barring Isabella’s way and this time she realised how tall he was; at least six feet or more. His black hair was worn smoothly and plainly, yet the plainness of its style could not disguise its thickness.
His right eye had the beginning of a slight cast as if he were not looking quite directly at her, notwithstanding the intensity of his gaze. His complexion was of that darkness which distinguishes a man accustomed to be outdoors both summer and winter. But it was his mouth which she could not avoid looking at. It was set in a tight line with a downward inflection at the corners, as if trying to hide something, and as he spoke, Isabella could see that it was a fullness which might have been a tender curve had he allowed it full play.
‘Why are you out alone in the snow, Miss Ramsey?’
Isabella stepped backwards, her knuckles grazing on a rock behind her, so that it was pointless trying to back further away from him.
‘Who are you?’ She was playing for time, making him explain himself, though she knew perfectly well who he was.
‘Norman McLeod.’
‘Oh, so you are. Yes,
the
Norman McLeod.’
‘I beg your pardon, Madam?’
‘I hear of you often. The preacher, no less.’
He smiled, or almost. She felt she had stroked a vanity.
‘You haven’t answered me.’
‘How d’you know me?’ she parried.
His look narrowed, and she realised that he was a person who did not enjoy prevarication, however much he might indulge in it himself if it were to his advantage. She straightened, and looked at him more boldly.
‘I don’t choose to fall into loose conversation with strangers, Mr McLeod,’ she said. ‘If you wish to speak with me, then I must know a little more of your interest in me.’
‘I have no interest in you,’ he said. ‘Your name is known in these parts. You are talked of by men.’
He said this with so much accusation that she flinched as if he were attacking her, and in his way she could see that he was.
‘I hope they speak well of me,’ she said, but her voice faltered.
‘Oh, the man who is so smitten with you, so foolishly running this way and that and deserting his parents and family who need him sorely, so that he can catch stray glimpses of your vain silly face and immodest ankle, speaks kindly of you. But that is to be expected of a man who has lost his mind. I speak of Duncan MacQuarrie, of course.’
He waited but she said nothing, and she felt his anger hardening against her.
‘You know nothing of it,’ she said, turning away.
‘There are other men who speak less well of you.’ His voice followed her relentlessly. ‘They despair at the sight of a good man led astray by wilful and flirtatious unkindness.’
She turned back to him, placing her feet across the path like a man, as if she were the adversary.
‘You have no business to speak in such a way to me, you, a student who is running foul of the authorities in Edinburgh from what I hear, for speaking out as if he knew more than the trained men of the church. Why don’t you wait until you are one of them yourself before you start pestering young women who walk alone, minding their own business?’
‘I am no longer at Edinburgh University.’
‘Forgive me, I had not heard of your ordination.’
‘It has not taken place. It will not.’
‘You have failed the course? I had heard that Norman McLeod never failed in any of his undertakings.’
McLeod turned aside, and for a moment she glimpsed his weariness. When he spoke it was as if she was not there. ‘I find I’ve done forever with Edinburgh, Madam,’ and he turned back towards her and addressed her as if they had known each other all their lives and were very close. Afterwards she would recall that moment and wonder if she had misread him; at other times it occurred to her, as it did then, that in his own critical hour he had stumbled upon and recognised the kind of woman whom he most desired, one who would challenge him at every turn, and match his senses, too. She would also come to understand, in the future, that he would never forgive her for having exposed him to his own vulnerable state. He spoke now, in a low and rapid voice. ‘Miss Ramsey, I will never be ordained, so long as I live in this country, so long as the Church of Scotland and its clergy are so much in error in their interpretation of the Scripture and so lax in their moral behaviour. There are some people, ma’am, who consider me strangely singular, or even a touch fanatical, because I will not pronounce their shibboleth. I’m seen as a proud and insolent man, but that is as I am, and there is no other way. I will not seek favours or benefits, I will not flatter anyone in order to find an easy way. I chose not to go into the ministry after seven weary years of training for it, and I’m nothing more that a stickit minister, d’you know what that is? Aye, I’ll tell you: a man without power or authority
in the eyes of the law. But in God’s name, I have no shame about this matter, and I know what is best for the people.’
‘You’re so very sure. I wish that I could be so certain of myself and what I believe.’
McLeod had by now recovered himself and his manner was again haughty. ‘Then take advice from me. You are fallen, Miss Ramsey. You have only one recourse open to you if you wish to save your immortal soul. You must marry Duncan MacQuarrie.’
‘I have done nothing. I’ve committed no sin.’
‘Miss Ramsey, I saw you at the communion service with him, close to a year ago. You have led him to despair.’
‘That’s his peril. He’s brought himself to that through a misunderstanding.’
‘Then you should right it.’
‘I have no duty to Mr MacQuarrie.’
‘Man is head of the woman.’
‘When she has chosen to be his wife.’
‘Madam,’ he said, and now it was as if they had barely passed more than a few words between them, ‘you are past free will.’
The light on the alders was thickening into darkness. The young woman looked from side to side, seeking to escape McLeod. He stepped aside without bowing, wrapped his dark cloak more closely around him and began to walk away from her.
… Louise, it is hard to tell you this, and you may think I am abominable and strange, but I wanted to go after him. I wanted to tell him that I understood, and that when he spoke of free will I knew that he spoke for both of us. He and I are two of a kind, what’s known as our own worst enemies. And we are due to make a closer acquaintance with each other, I suspect, for I hear today from Mother that he has been appointed schoolmaster at the parish school.
Sister, McLeod raises a fire in me.
Dispose of this letter. Burn it. Eat it. Well, at least, I implore you, don’t show it to my brother.
Louise, would marriage really make me a better woman?
I hope all is well with you in London. We have heard echoes of the battle up here, and of course will all sleep sounder in our beds for knowing Bonaparte has been despatched at Waterloo. I gather that we may expect no further trouble on that front.
And I hear you are in a certain condition again, which of course gives Mother great delight. Bear up, my dear.
Yours, with love, Isabella.
P.S. Whatever strange passion McLeod invokes, I do not like him. That is quite different from what I have been describing of my feelings for him. But he is that strange kind of fellow who some would follow to the ends of the earth. I can imagine how it could happen.
In the year that followed, Isabella was consumed by a great industry, which she tried to explain to Louise:
Ullapool, 16 September 1815
… I can just imagine how busy you are with three little ones on your hands. I do intend to come south and see young Master Robert for myself, but it is surprisingly difficult to get away these days. Mary McLeod is with child again. I help her out with John Luther, quite a handful of a boy. Mary is such a slight person, and she looks worn already. Her ten-year wait for McLeod meant a late beginning to her childbearing. Do you know, she used to sit and spin wool for knitting into jerseys for him, and then when the winter was over she would collect up the jerseys and walk a hundred and forty miles to see him? No wonder she looks old already.
I do care for her very much, and since they have been here everyone has gone out of their way to make her life as comfortable as possible. All, that is, except McLeod himself, who seems quite oblivious to mortal needs. Still, she has a wooden rocking chair by the window and a small rug on the floor, and in the bedroom a big brass bed with a sparkling fresh coverlet, and she tells me that all of this is a great luxury.
I try not to think too much of my own affairs. I have not seen Duncan MacQuarrie for a long time. Sometimes I catch McLeod’s eyes resting on me, but mostly his manner is very cold and I am most correct when I have occasion to speak to him. In the meantime, he and Mary spend a good deal of time on their knees in the bedroom.
She has told me that she often prays that they will so please God that they be allowed to preserve their present way of life, though it worries her that McLeod might get to know of this and think she is
praying for material things. Must confess, I get a little tired of this, but she is very kind in her nature and it is true that she does have a good mind when she is not too weary to apply it to the detail of the moment. At her best, I find her a thoroughly good companion …
