A Winter Wedding

Ainsley picked the magazine up, her face set. ‘Because I wrote it,’ she said. ‘I’m Madame Hera.’

* * *

Innes laughed. Then, when she continued to look at him without joining in, his laughter stopped abruptly. ‘I’ll be damned. You mean it? You really do write this stuff?’

‘It is not stuff. It is a very well-respected column. I’ll have you know that in the past month, Madame Hera has received no less than fifty letters. In fact, such is the demand for Madame’s advice that the magazine will from next month offer a personal reply service. Felicity has agreed a fee with the board, and I shall receive fifty per cent of it.’

‘Felicity?’

‘Blair. The editor, and my friend.’

‘So all that correspondence you receive, they are letters to this Madame Hera.’ Innes looked quite stunned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it was none of your business.’ Ainsley flushed. ‘And because I knew you would most likely react exactly as you have. Though I am not ashamed, if that’s what you’re thinking. Madame Hera provides a much-needed service.’

‘So why tell me now?’

Ainsley reached for her sherry and took a large gulp. She had not meant to tell him. She had been so caught up in worrying about how to explain away her earlier behaviour that Madame Hera had been far from her mind, though her advice would have been straightforward. ‘Il faut me chercher’ was one of Madame’s axioms. Men must hunt and women must avoid capture. Kissing, not even just kissing, without the benefit of a wedding band, was quite wrong. And though Ainsley did have the benefit of a wedding band, she was not really married, so it was still wrong. Kissing gave a man all sorts of immoral ideas. Such ideas were, in Madame Hera’s world, the province only of men. That Ainsley herself had had ideas—her mind boggled, trying to imagine what Madame would say to that.

In fact, those very ideas cropped up in several of the letters Felicity had forwarded to her, variously referred to as ‘unnatural desires,’ ‘longing,’ ‘carnal stirrings,’ ‘fever of the blood,’ ‘indecent thoughts’ and even, memorably, ‘an irrepressible need to scratch an itch.’ On the one hand, it was consoling to know that she was not unusual, but on the other, she was utterly defeated when it came to even contemplating a reply. Felicity had been right—Ainsley knew very little of such matters. She’d been right, too, in suggesting that Ainsley would do well to learn. But Felicity had no idea of the hurdles Ainsley would have to overcome in order to do so.

She had concluded that her only option was to return the letters to Felicity until Innes had read out Madame Hera’s letter, and she saw what she had suspected: that her advice wasn’t only skewed but perhaps even hypocritical. Madame Hera existed to liberate women from ignorance, not to reflect Ainsley’s own insecurities.

Her stomach had tied itself in knots in her bedroom earlier as she’d contemplated that kiss. Now she was aware of Innes studying her, waiting patiently for an explanation, and she had never felt more inarticulate in her life. Seeing with some surprise that her sherry glass was empty, Ainsley reached for the decanter and topped it up, taking another fortifying gulp. ‘Felicity said that— Felicity suggested that— She said...’ She took another sip of sherry. ‘Felicity was concerned that I had not the experience to answer some of the more intimate queries made of Madame Hera. I agreed with her, but I thought—I was certain that in all other instances, my advice was sound.’

Ainsley took another sip of sherry. It was really rather good sherry. She took another sip. ‘Then earlier today, when I was mulling over the contents of another letter, I began to wonder if perhaps I had been a little biased. Failing to take account the other side of the problem. A little. And then, when you read that letter out I realised that—that perhaps you were right. To a degree.’

Innes looked as confused by this rambling explanation as she felt. ‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand why this led you to confess your secret identity.’

Ainsley tried to sort out the tangle of threads in her head into some sort of logical order. ‘These letters are written by real women with real problems. They are not printed in the journal to titillate, nor to provide some sort of vicarious enjoyment to readers who can congratulate themselves on their own superior, problem-free lives. The letters that are printed are chosen because the problems posed are sadly commonplace.’ She swallowed the remainder of her sherry and topped her glass up once more, grimacing. ‘I didn’t mean Madame Hera to sound like a shrew.’

‘Well, I didn’t mean to sound like a pompous git when I criticised your advice,’ Innes said ruefully. ‘You’ve quite thrown me.’

His honesty disarmed her. That, and the sherry. And that smile of his, which was really just as warming as the sherry. Ainsley took another sip of her drink. ‘Do you really want to know why I told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even if it is embarrassing?’

‘Now I’m intrigued.’

‘Really?’ Ainsley eyed him warily. ‘You’re not angry?’

‘I’m not sure what I am, but I’m definitely not angry.’

‘I wonder if Felicity was right,’ Ainsley said, raising her glass, her mood lightening considerably.

‘Felicity again. I think I would like to meet her.’

‘Then you must find an excuse to invite her here. A party. The welcoming thing. If you deign to listen to my advice. Oh, dear, now I sound like a shrew again.’

‘Not a shrew, but you can be extremely prickly.’

‘Like a hedgehog, you mean?’

‘More like a porcupine. I am rather fond of porcupines.’

‘That is downright perverse.’ Ainsley helped herself to more sherry and topped up Innes’s glass, even though it was virtually untouched. ‘Do you really mean to invite Felicity? She is most keen to meet you.’

‘No doubt she wishes to make sure I am being a good husband.’

‘Well, you couldn’t be worse than the last one, that is for sure,’ Ainsley said. ‘Sorry. Actually, I’m not really.’ She sipped her sherry contemplatively. ‘Anyway, she’s not so much interested in your husbandly qualities, since she knows this is a business arrangement.’ She wriggled back in her chair, because despite the thin calico of her gown, the heat from the fire was making her face flush. ‘Now I suppose you want to know what she is interested in.’

Innes, who had been inspecting the sherry decanter, which seemed to have almost emptied itself, put it rather selfishly down on the table out of her reach. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘but first I’d like to know why you confessed to being Madame Hera. You still haven’t yet told me, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘Aha! That’s where you’re wrong,’ Ainsley exclaimed with a triumphant wave of her hand, ‘because the two things are inexpressibly—no, inex—inextricably linked.’ She picked up her glass, remembered it was empty and placed it very carefully back down again, because the side table had developed a wobble. Then, realising she had slumped unbecomingly back in her chair, she struggled upright, leaning forward confidentially. ‘Those letters. The intimate ones to Madame Hera. They are all about marital—no, lovemaking. And—and the acquisition of womanly wiles. Felicity fears that I do not know enough about such things to be of any value, and I fear she is right. Are you perfectly well? Only your face has gone sort of fuzzy.’

Innes leaned forward. ‘Better?’

Ainsley nodded. ‘Do you know you have a charming smile?’

‘Only because I am charmed by you.’

She giggled. ‘Felicity said I should let you have your wicked way with me, and that you sounded like the kind of man who would not expect me to—to lie back and think of Scotland. And she said that we needed something to while away the long dark nights in this godforsaken place—though I don’t think it is godforsaken, actually—and she said that I needed some lessons in—in fun. And pleasure. Do you have a kilt?’

‘I do. Does Felicity’s idea of fun and pleasure involve dressing up?’

Ainsley giggled. ‘Not Felicity’s idea—that was mine. I think you have a fine pair of legs, Innes Drummond. I would like to see you in Highland dress. But we are straying from the point, you know. Is there any more sherry?’

‘No.’

Ainsley frowned over at the decanter. It seemed to her that it was not completely empty. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh, well. What was I— Oh, yes, what Felicity said. She said that you would be well placed to teach me about womanly wiles and such—though I don’t think she called it that, zactly—exactly—and I don’t know how she knew this, for she has not met you, and all I told her was that you kissed very nicely, which you know you do...’

‘Only because you kiss me so very nicely back.’

‘Really?’ Ainsley smiled beatifically. ‘What a lovely thing to say.’

‘And true, into the bargain.’ Innes took her hand. ‘So this Felicity of yours believes that you need to be inducted into the palace of pleasure.’

‘Palace of pleasure. I like that. Would you mind if Madame Hera borrowed it?’

‘I would be honoured.’

‘What would you say if I told you that Felicity also suggested I use you to assist me in finding answers to some of Madame Hera’s problems?’

‘You mean, provide you with practical experience of the solutions?’

Ainsley nodded sagely. ‘You would be insulted, wouldn’t you? That’s what I told Felicity, that you would be insulted.’

‘Would you be taking part in this experiment merely for the sake of obtaining better advice?’

‘No.’ She stared down at her hands. Despite the tingling, and the fuzziness and the warmth induced by the sherry, this was still proving surprisingly difficult, but she was determined to bring this embarrassing conversation to an end, one way or another. ‘The reason I told you,’ she said, ‘about Madame Hera, I mean. It wasn’t only that you were right about the advice I was dispensing, it was—it was—it was earlier. Me. When you kissed me. It was because I— Felicity says that he took away all my self-respect. John. My husband. Self-respect, that’s what she called it. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t want to talk about it. But when you kissed me, it made me feel— I liked it. I liked it a lot. But then I remembered, you see. Him. What happened. Didn’t happen. And it made me stop liking what you were doing and thinking about then, and him, and it wasn’t that I think you’re the same, you’re so different, and he never, but— Well, that was it. That’s what happened. Are you angry?’

She looked up. His eyes were stormy. ‘No,’ Innes said quickly. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

She nodded several times.

‘You don’t have to say any more, Ainsley.’

‘I want to finish telling you or I might not— I want to.’ She clutched at his hand. ‘I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to feel the way he made me feel. I want to feel what Felicity said, and what you made me feel before I thought about him. And that’s why I told you about Madame Hera,’ she finished in a rush. ‘Because when you kiss me, I want to—and because you know, we’re not really married and it can’t ever mean anything, so it’s sort of safe. You can help me, and then I can be better at helping other women. That’s why I told you. Because I want you, and I really want to be able to— If you do? So now you know.’

‘Now I know,’ Innes said, looking rather stunned.

‘You can say no.’

‘I’m not going to say anything right now. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

‘And you’re not angry about Madame Hera?’

Innes laughed. ‘Absolutely not. I am more than happy to discuss these intimate problems that Madame Hera has to answer. In fact, if you ever run short of problems then I’m sure I will be able to think up a few for us to discuss.’

‘No!’ Ainsley exclaimed. ‘That’s what Felicity said you would say. Now I owe her five pounds.’

Innes laughed. ‘I am looking forward to meeting Felicity.’

Ainsley yawned, frowning at the clock. ‘It’s past dinner time. I shall go and find Mhairi.’

She got to her feet, swaying, and Innes caught her. ‘I think maybe you’d be better in your bed.’

Ainsley yawned again. ‘I think maybe you’re right.’

‘Thank you for telling me what you did. I’m honoured,’ Innes said. ‘I mean it.’

‘I didn’t want you to think I was a cock tease.’ Ainsley grinned. ‘Proof that I am not always so mealy-mouthed.’

Innes kissed her cheek. ‘What you are is...’

‘A porcupine.’

‘A wee darling.’

She smiled. ‘I like that,’ she murmured. Then she closed her eyes, sank gracefully back onto the chair and passed out.

* * *

‘The laird said that you’d be hungry, seeing as you missed dinner, so I made you some eggs, and I’ve cut you a slice of ham.’ Mhairi laid the plateful down in front of Ainsley.

‘Thank you. It smells delicious,’ Ainsley said, repressing a shudder.

‘Himself had to go out, but he said to tell you he’d be back by mid-morn at the latest. Here, I’ll do that.’ Mhairi took the coffee pot from Ainsley’s shaking hand and poured her a cup. ‘Do you want me to put a hair of the dog in it?’

‘Is it so obvious?’ Lifting the cup in both hands, Ainsley took a grateful sip, shaking her head, flushing. ‘I don’t normally— I hope you don’t think I usually overindulge.’

‘Oh, I’m not one to judge,’ Mhairi said with a toss of her head. ‘Unlike the rest of them.’

Sensing that the housekeeper was offering her an opening, and feeling that she had nothing much to lose, as she sat nursing her hangover, Ainsley smiled at her. ‘Why don’t you join me? It’s about time we got to know each other a bit better. Please,’ she added when the other woman demurred.

Mhairi studied her with pursed lips for a few seconds, then took a seat and poured herself a coffee, adding two lumps of sugar, though no cream. ‘You’re not at all what we expected when we heard Himself had wedded an Edinburgh widow woman,’ she said.

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Someone fancier. You know, more up on her high horse, with more frills to her.’

‘You mean not so plain?’

Mhairi shook her head. ‘I mean not so nice,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘And you’re not plain. Leastwise, you’re not when you’ve some life in that face of yours. If you don’t mind my saying.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Ainsley said, buttering an oatcake, and deciding to brave a forkful of eggs. ‘Am I a disappointment, then?’

‘No one knows enough about you to judge.’

‘Yet you said that people do judge—or that is what you implied just a minute ago.’

Across from her, the housekeeper folded her arms. Ainsley ate another forkful of eggs and cut into the ham. Mhairi McIntosh was younger than she had thought at first, not much over forty, with a curvaceous figure hidden under her apron and heavy tweed skirt. Though she had a forbidding expression, her features were attractive, with high cheekbones and a mouth that curved sensually when it was not pulled into a grim line. Her eyes were grey and deep-set, and she had the kind of sallow skin that made the hollows beneath them look darkly shadowed. But she was what would be called a handsome woman, nevertheless. She wore no ring.

‘No, I was never married,’ Mhairi said, noticing the direction of Ainsley’s gaze. ‘I’ve worked here at the castle since I was ten years old, starting in the kitchens—the big kitchens—back in Mrs Drummond’s day.’

‘So you’ve known Innes since he was a boy?’

Mhairi nodded.

‘And his brother?’

‘Him, too.’

‘Is it because of him that people judge Innes so harshly? Do they resent the fact that he is here and not Malcolm?’

Mhairi shook her head sadly. ‘Himself should not have stayed away so long.’

‘But surely people understand he had his own life to lead. And it’s not as if— I mean, the state of the lands, the way things have been allowed to deteriorate... That was his father’s fault, it was nothing to do with Innes.’

‘He should not have stayed away,’ Mhairi said implacably.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! It’s not his fault.’ Realising that recriminations were getting her nowhere, Ainsley reined in her temper. ‘He’s here now, and so am I, and what matters is the future of Strone Bridge.’

‘It seems to many of us that Strone Bridge hasn’t much of a future,’ Mhairi said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Himself has obviously decided that this place is not worth wasting his time on.’

‘He hasn’t decided anything. He’s not even been here a month.’

‘And not a single sign has there been that he’s going to be remaining here another. He forbade the formal welcoming at the pier, and there’s been no word of the Rescinding. Not that the castle is in any fit state to be used. And that’s another thing. He’s the laird, and he’s living here at the Home Farm. It’s obvious he has no plans to stay here. He’ll be off as soon as he can decently go, back to building his bridges.’

There was no doubting the belligerence in the woman’s voice now. ‘Innes hasn’t made any decisions about the castle. He’s been spending his time looking at the land, because—’

‘Because he plans to do what all the landlords are doing, break up the crofts and put sheep on them. Does he think we’re daft? Sheep. That’s what he’ll do, that’s what they all do. Get rid of the tenants. Bring in a bailiff. Out with the old, and in with the new. That’s what Himself is doing, and then it will be back to Edinburgh or London or wherever he’s been hiding these last fourteen years, and you with him, and he’ll go back to pretending Strone Bridge doesn’t exist because it’s too hard for him to—’ Mhairi broke off suddenly. ‘Never mind.’

Ainsley stared at her in shock. ‘He has made no mention of sheep, and he has no intentions of going anywhere for at least—for some time,’ she amended, for she did not imagine that Innes would like the terms of his father’s will made public.

A shrug greeted this remark. Ainsley risked pouring the pair of them another cup of coffee. ‘What is this thing you mentioned? A restitution?’

‘Rescinding.’ Mhairi took a sip of her coffee. ‘A forgiving and forgetting. After the burial of the old laird, a feast is held for all to welcome in the new laird. It is a wiping clean of the slate, of debts and grudges and disputes, a sign that they have been buried with the old. But since Himself was not here for the burial...’

‘Can it not be held on another day?’ Ainsley asked.

‘To my knowledge it never has been.’

‘Yes, but if it is held on another day would this Rescinding be invalid?’

Mhairi shook her head slowly. ‘It’s never been done. You’d have to consult the book. The Customs and Ways of the Family Drummond of Strone Bridge,’ she said when Ainsley looked at her enquiringly. ‘It’s in the castle library.’

‘Then I will do so, but do you think it’s a good idea?’ Ainsley persisted.

‘It would mean using the Great Hall. I’d need a lot of help and good bit of supplies, and as to the food...’

‘Yes, yes, we can see to that, but what do you think?’

The housekeeper smiled reluctantly. ‘I think if you can persuade Himself, that it’s an excellent idea.’

* * *

‘A Rescinding?’ Innes frowned. Ainsley had accosted him immediately when he had returned in the early afternoon. He had expected her to be sheepish, or reserved, or even defensive. He had not expected her to launch enthusiastically into some wild plan for a party. ‘I’m not even sure that I know what’s involved,’ he said cautiously.

‘It’s a forgiving and forgetting, Mhairi says. She says that all debts and grudges are buried with the old laird to give the new one a clean start. She says that though it’s customary to have it the day after the funeral, there is no reason why we cannot hold it on another day and combine it with a welcoming feast. She says that the chair that the laird uses for the ceremony is in the Great Hall. And there is a book in the library. The Customs and Ways of the Family Drummond of Strone Bridge, it’s called.’ Ainsley was looking at him anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think Mhairi has quite a lot to say all of a sudden. I wonder how she knows so much about it, for she cannot have seen one herself.’

‘She has worked in the castle since she was ten years old. I suppose, these past few years while your father was alone here, he must have confided in her.’

‘I can’t imagine my father confiding in anyone,’ Innes said drily. ‘To be honest, I can’t imagine him forgiving or forgetting either, Rescinding or no. He was not a man who liked to be crossed, and he bore a long grudge.’

‘Were you always at outs with him, even before—before your brother died?’

‘Yes.’

Ainsley was watching him. Innes could feel her eyes on him, even though he was studiously looking down at a letter from his chief surveyor. He wondered what else Mhairi had said. She was as closed as a fist, and always had been. It surprised him that Ainsley had managed to have any sort of conversation with her. He pushed the letter to one side. ‘The old ways were the only ways, as far as my father was concerned,’ he said, ‘and for my brother, too.’

‘Sometimes the old ways can be a comfort.’

‘You mean the Rescinding?’

Ainsley nodded.

‘A—what did you call it—healing of wounds?’ He smiled. ‘There can be no denying the need for that.’

‘So you agree, it’s a good idea?’

‘It sounds like a lot of work.’

‘I will handle that. With Mhairi. I am not too proud to ask for help.’

‘Is that a dig at me?’

Ainsley hesitated only fractionally. ‘Yes.’

Innes sighed. ‘If I speak to Eoin, will it make you happy?’

‘It would be a start. A forgiving and forgetting, that’s what the Rescinding is. Perhaps you could do some of that before the ceremony.’

Innes threw his hands up in surrender. ‘Enough. You’ve made your point. I will even write to your Miss Blair and invite her to attend. Unless you’ve changed your mind. Or perhaps forgotten that conversation entirely?’

‘I was half-cut, not stotious!’ Ainsley said stiffly.

‘Ach, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. At least I did, but don’t take it personally. You make too good a case, and I don’t want to hear it.’ Innes got up from the desk and took her hand. He took her hand, pressing it between his own. ‘Forgive me.’

Her fingers twined round his. ‘It is I who should be begging your forgiveness. Last night, I propositioned you. In fact, I practically threw myself at you,’ Ainsley said, flushing. ‘You must not feel awkward at turning me down.’

‘I have no intentions of turning you down, if you are not retracting your offer. I thought I’d made it clear, from almost the first moment I met you, that I find you very desirable.’

‘You do?’

‘I do.’

‘I don’t want to. Retract, I mean.’

‘Are you sure? Yesterday, you turned to ice while I was kissing you.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘I think maybe it will. I think, in fact, we should expect it. I wonder what Madame Hera would advise?’

‘As you pointed out last night, Madame Hera would most likely provide quite unwise advice,’ Ainsley said drily.

‘I offended you. I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ she said, quite unconvincingly, and then she laughed. ‘Yes, you did. I was upset.’

‘If I had known that you and she were one and the same person...’

‘I am glad you did not. It was a difficult lesson, but I hope that I have learned from it. I want Madame Hera to be helpful.’ Ainsley opened the thick leather folder on the desk that contained her correspondence. ‘These women are desperate enough to write to a complete stranger for help. They deserve honesty.’ She replaced the folder and wandered over to her favourite chair by the fire, though she did not sit down. ‘When John died, one of the things I promised myself was always to speak my mind, and that’s what Madame Hera has done. I didn’t realise, though, that my opinions were so coloured.’

‘I think that you’re being very hard on yourself, but if it would help, I’d be happy to provide you with a counterpoint when you’re writing your replies.’