“I don’t know what the room contains, mistress,” Edme had replied. “The laird must have the key. Where would you like me to put your brushes?”
Fiona now turned the knob and went into her dressing-room. It was a luxurious suite unto itself, including two large armoires, a full-length cheval mirror, a satinwood dressing-table with all sorts of cunning little drawers, and an even nicer bathtub than the one she’d been enjoying in her previous bedchamber.
She went to the mirror and gazed at her reflection within it. She liked the long-sleeved pale green gown she had chosen, with its white slip and demitrain of soft gossamer satin. (And if she looked like a giant green twig in it, so be it.) Father and Mother had sent a beautiful diamond necklace, with pretty pearl and diamond ear-bobs, a gift that had, for a brief and dangerous moment, brought with it a powerful rush of homesickness.
And—on the fourth finger of her left hand was now a gleaming gold ring, exquisite in its simplicity. As he had placed it there, Alasdair Penhallow had said, in a firm, unhesitating voice:
With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
His hand on hers had been warm, but it had not lingered, and from behind them in the castle’s chapel Cousin Isobel had sobbed, whether sentimentally or sadly Fiona did not care to know. The other guests—Duff MacDermott, of course, along with the neighborhood gentry and as many of the local folk who could squeeze themselves into the chapel—had been, properly, silent.
Afterwards there was the customary breakfast. Determined to rise above the palpable awkwardness of this odd, this decidedly odd marriage, Fiona had exerted herself to be a pleasant hostess, while Alasdair, sitting at the head of the high table, impressive in his crisp white shirt and tartan kilt, his left arm in its linen sling (Dr. Colquhoun had sternly and publicly ordered him to continue using it, or he would not answer for the consequences), had done the same in his role as host, and together they had, she thought, managed to carry it off reasonably well. After the breakfast, after the guests had left, Duff MacDermott had drawn him off to the billiards room, both of them laughing, and Fiona had not seen her husband since.
Her husband.
Her face in the mirror looked back at her, and all Fiona could see was a ghostly pale complexion, with dark, bruised-looking smudges underneath the eyes.
This was not how, nine years ago, she’d thought her life would turn out. Tears suddenly rose into her eyes, and she fought them back, although for an awful, panicky moment she wanted nothing more than to wrench that gold ring from her finger and throw it out the window. She could almost hear the tiny distant ping it would make. Maybe it would roll into a sewer-hole and disappear forever. Maybe she would go to the window right now—
Instead, with slow, deliberate movements, she put away her necklace and ear-bobs. Undressed, and put on a plain white cambric nightgown. Unpinned her hair, brushed it out, braided it. Isobel had wanted to help her, had even (blushing a vivid scarlet, stammering, almost gasping in embarrassment) tried to lay before her the facts of what the night would bring.
“I’ve seen the animals all my life,” Fiona had interrupted, with a kind of icy bravado, and dismissed Isobel and Edme, too.
Now that the evening was well advanced, and she was all alone in the laird’s great bedchamber, she no longer felt quite so courageous. Still, Isobel had managed to offer what sounded like a useful piece of advice.
All you have to do, Fiona dear, is—well, it sounds terribly crude, but—a wife’s duty is to lie there, and endure what happens. That’s really all there is to it. Not that I myself—but my own dear mother did tell me before—although what happened —but that’s neither here nor there! Keep your eyes closed, if that helps.
Fiona left her dressing-room and went into the bedchamber. She blew out the candles and slid into the unfamiliar bed, on the side furthest from the door, closest to the windows. She lay on her back. Waited and waited, thinking of nothing. It seemed like hours— it may actually have been hours—when, at last, the door opened, and Alasdair Penhallow came inside.
He took ten steps, fifteen, twenty, until he stood at the foot of the bed, looking very tall in the flickering light of the fire, his hair gleaming darkly, the deep red looking nearly black to her. She could see that in one hand he held a small pouch. A gift for her? How thoughtful. Good things, they said, come in small packages.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me for a moment.”
He went away to his dressing-room, and when Fiona heard his steps returning, she lost all interest in the gift and shut her eyes. She lay perfectly still, her fingers laced across her breast, feeling her heart beating steadily, steadily, within its cage of bones and sinew.