Page 4 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“We’ll marry in Scotland. Mr Anderson has a castle there,” Ruth added, rather enjoying herself now. She looked around, startled as Aunt Ethel reached out and grasped hold of her wrist.

“Well done, Ruth!” she said, a look of such approval in her eyes that Ruth was quite taken aback. She’d never pleased her aunt before. Indeed, she wasn’t sure anyone ever had. “Well done, my girl.”

“Oh.” Ruth blinked in astonishment. “Well, thank you,” she said, uncertain if thanks were due in the circumstances. It was her money he was marrying after all, not her. She’d made no secret of the fact. What was the point?

“Oh, such a man,” Ethel sighed, waving the fan faster still. “My own dear Alfred was a big fellow, you know,” she added, her eyes growing misty. “A pig-headed, stubborn ox of man, he was.” She blinked, a wistful sigh at her lips. “Oh, he took a deal of managing, I can tell you. My word, the rows we had.”

A beatific glow lit up her aunt’s face, changing it dramatically. It occurred to Ruth that she’d never thought of Ethel having been anything other than a widow. Her husband had died young, long before Ruth was born, and they were not a close family. Now Ruth wondered how much of her aunt’s bad temper resulted from grief, for it was clear in this moment that she’d adored her husband.

Aunt Ethel looked up, aware perhaps of Ruth’s scrutiny.

“That one will lead you a merry dance,” she said, looking positively gleeful. “You’ll want to murder him a time or two, mark my words. Oh, but it will be worth it.”

“Do you think so?” Ruth asked, daring to voice her doubts to this woman whom she’d never have dreamed of confiding in before now. “Because he’s awfully…. Well, he’s very….”

“Yes,” Ethel said with a wry smile. “I reckon he is. He’ll not be used to having a wife, or to heeding anyone’s advice but his own, and I doubt he’ll be intending to give you an inch, so you must take it Ruth. Don’t put up with any nonsense. You’re a Stone through and through, and we’re aptly named, I tell you. Your pa may have made the money, but he’d never have gotten so far without me and your grandmother pushing him on, though he’ll never admit as much,” she added with a snort. “You take his measure, my girl, but if you ask me, you’re more than a match for him.”

Ruth smiled and let out a breath, feeling a sudden rush of affection for her usually belligerent aunt. She leaned in and kissed Ethel’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Ethel laughed and shook her head. “Oh, don’t thank me. I’m looking forward to watching the sparks fly, albeit from a distance. You’ll write and tell me how you’re getting on?”

Ruth smiled and nodded. “You may count on it, but only to receive tactical advice in return.”

“Done,” said her aunt, and gave her a very uncharacteristic grin.

***

They returned to London that night and, to placate Mr Anderson for the day he’d lost in accommodating the visit to her aunt, they left at daybreak. The stops were brief and infrequent and clearly more for the horses’ benefit than for Ruth’s.

Mr Anderson was not a conversationalist.

Most enquiries met with grunts that seemed to either be positive or negative, but if he had spoken more than ten words during the entire day Ruth would have been astonished. That he appeared to have no interest or curiosity about her at all was galling, but Ruth had no illusions. She was no sultry beauty, nor a fragile blonde that needed mollycoddling. Mr Anderson did not desire her and, beyond keeping to the terms of their agreement, didn’t give a hoot about her. Well, fine. That was fine.

She would have a house—a castle in fact—and she would have staff to manage and plenty to keep her busy. No doubt soon enough she’d have children too, and… and that thought led her imagination down quite a different avenue. She forced herself to stare out of the window and not at Mr Anderson’s bare knees.

He had sprawled out across the carriage once more, his arms folded and his eyes closed and, despite her best intentions, her gaze drifted away from the landscape and back to him. He was a landscape all of his own, as strange and impenetrable as any foreign terrain, fraught with unknown dangers. What she suspected was a deceptive calm had settled over his powerful frame. Even the language of this new world was foreign to her. He was foreign to her, yet as with any undiscovered place, exotic and beguiling despite the dangers. Everything feminine in her felt the pull towards him, the longing to explore, to make the foreign familiar. Hers.

His hair was a rich, dark brown and too long for fashion. It fell almost to his shoulders, with a distinct wave running through it. His lashes were darker still and so long and thick any woman would have wept with envy. The contrast against such a starkly masculine and forbidding visage was profound. Though he’d been cleanly shaven when they’d left, now the dark stubble at his jaw made it appear he had not done so at all, as though his body defied any attempt to civilise it. The longing to reach across the carriage intensified. She wanted the right to touch him, to stroke her hand across his cheek and feel the rasp of his whiskers. The desire was so sudden and intense that Ruth curled her hands into fists, as if she could restrain the wanting by holding it closed in her palm. Her eyes drifted down, over the muscular arms folded across his chest, down the plaid of his kilt, to the exposed skin of his knees. One leg stretched out, the other bent and fallen against the door of the carriage. Once again, his kilt had rucked up an inch or so, giving her a fine view of his lower thighs.

She wondered if he’d done it on purpose to unsettle her and felt a sudden prickle of unease, as though she was being watched. Ruth darted a glance back at his face to assure herself his eyes were still closed, but couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been well aware of her scrutiny. The air in the carriage was cold and Ruth drew it in, filling her lungs and forcing her gaze back to what lay beyond the window. She would not stare at him, not torment herself with thoughts of what kind of man he was, what manner of wife she would be to him. What would be, would be, and she would make the best of whatever befell her.

***

The inn at Dunstable was neat and clean, not that Ruth noticed. She was too exhausted by the events of the past few days to do anything beyond swallow a little soup in the privacy of her own room and fall into bed. A wide-eyed maid servant had helped her undress and prepare for bed. Ruth disliked her on sight and failed to hide it, making the girl nervous and clumsy. Her animosity was not rooted in frustration at her incompetence. Much to Ruth’s dismay and shame it had been instantaneous when they’d entered the inn. She was pretty and slender and made Ruth feel like a fool for even hoping the gorgeous man she was with would ever look twice at her. When the girl had stared at Mr Anderson with an expression Ruth very much feared mirrored her own whenever she looked upon him, it had made all her insecurities rush to the surface. By the time the girl’s wide eyes had fallen to Mr Anderson’s knees, she’d had enough. Ruth had coughed, loudly, and demanded she prepare her room at once.

Her own maid, Rachel, had deserted Ruth immediately upon hearing the news of her engagement. She’d taken one glance at Ruth’s husband to be and turned as white as a milk pudding. This shock followed by the mention of Wildsyde Castle in Scotland was too much. Their destination might have well as been The Tower of London, such was her obvious revulsion. Either way, it was more than the woman could bear. She made her views on living in such a remote part of the country, and amongst such crude people, abundantly clear. So, with no time to make alternative arrangements, Ruth told Mr Anderson she could well look after herself and made no fuss. If she’d been hoping for a word of appreciation at not forcing him to delay their journey whilst she sought another maid, for propriety’s sake at least, she was to be disappointed.

Now, alone in her bed and staring up into the dark, Ruth felt far from home, though they’d only been on the road one day. Chin up, she counselled herself sternly. This was your idea, your chance for independence, for the life you wanted for yourself. No one said it would be easy.

You could change your mind, urged another, louder voice in her head, which she silenced. Impossible. She’d travelled for a day in an enclosed carriage with no maid for propriety. They must marry now, or she’d be ruined. Just as well, she thought with a sigh, pounding her lumpy pillow and hoping to get comfortable. There was no going back, so she’d just have to make the best of it. She turned onto her side, forced her eyes closed, and willed herself to sleep.

***

The journey continued in much the same fashion over the following days. Mr Anderson was a huge if silent presence that consumed the majority of the available space in both Ruth’s carriage and her mind. When they crossed the border into Scotland she had come to a breaking point, out of patience with his monosyllabic responses to her efforts to talk with him and decided it was time they had a conversation, whether he liked it or not. A furious determination swept over her and she reached into her reticule, retrieving a small notebook and pencil.

“Tell me about your staff,” she said, watching the dark sweep of those luxuriant lashes lift and the whisky coloured eyes turn upon her. “Are there many working at the castle at present?”

There was a heavy sigh.