Lowland Romance Collection - Books 1-3

Chapter 2-2

I only became aware of my predicament when I saw the great sheet of water stretching before me, rippling in the starlight. If I were a man I would have sworn, but of course, I did not. Instead, I nearly gave way to a fit of temper, which did no good at all but only served to exhaust me further.

“I will follow the banks of this loch,” I told myself, “and it will take me to Princes Street, for we drove that way only this afternoon.”

Accordingly, I kept on until the mud sucked off my right shoe and I fell, for the third time that night. By now I had no idea for how long I had been moving, but my legs were aching, and mud covered me from my face downward. I was sobbing, wishing John Forres had chosen to kiss anybody but me, and wondering if I were destined to spend the entire night outside this Godforsaken city.

It was cold. I had forgotten just how bitter a winter"s night could be, and I shivered.

“Oh, just let me go home,” I prayed.

The noise from the city had long since faded everywhere but in my memory, so I felt as if I were the last woman left in the world as I struggled along in the dark, with that rippling water a barrier between me and sanctuary and the thought of the predatory mob in the rear.

The cry of a goose was terribly lonely, and I sank down, holding my head in my hands, and nearly giving way to despair. I didn"t, of course, for I knew I was only a few miles from safety, but when you are young and alone and in a strange place, the imagination can take control of your senses and you create all sort of terrible things that reality dispels.

It was then I saw a faint yellow glow reflecting from the dark waters.

“What"s that? Who"s there?” I said the words faintly, not really sure I had seen anything and not really sure if I wanted a reply, for anybody out here at this time of night must be a desperate character. Brought up on the fearful gothic novels that were prevalent at the time, I could imagine any sort of horror, ghosts or vampires or even some of the phantom dogs or water kelpies of my Highland childhood.

I nearly collapsed when there came a bold reply.

“Hello!”

I halted, unsure whether to go on or to return. There I was, barely eighteen years old and lost beside a dirty loch halfway between old and new Edinburgh and with a strange and definitely male voice calling to me. I was in that wonderful state where reality and imagination merge, when I was unsure if I was dreaming or awake, real or unreal, the twilight of existence where even the solid seems insubstantial.

The voice sounded again. “Hello?”

I sat tight, saying nothing and hoping for solitude nearly as much as I hoped for discovery.

A lantern flickered, the reflection of its light on the placid waters disturbing a goose into explosive flight.

Still, I waited, unsure what to do. There is no disease worse than uncertainty, my dears. My advice to you is to decide on a course of action and carry it through. It is always far better to regret what you have done than regret that you lacked the courage to do anything.

For a third time, that male voice sounded. “Hello? Is there anybody there?” The lamplight circled, flicking over the water and through the sedges on the bank, casting weird shadows and making the surrounding dark even blacker by contrast.

Still, I did nothing, with my opportunity for help fast passing me by. Was I scared? Yes, but not of that unknown voice, more of my own fears. I thought of pirates and smugglers and sorners, but never of the truth.

The light vanished, somebody muttered something I could not catch then I was alone again in the somehow greater darkness, and I felt lonelier than I had ever felt before.

“Help!” The word was out before I knew it. “Please help me!”

But there was no friendly beam of light. The darkness remained as dark, the solitariness as solitary and my feelings as confused as before, except now I knew I was scared and after that hint of companionship I desperately sought human company. I could smell smoke, so in my disordered mind, there must be a house nearby. I did not consider that we were no distance of Edinburgh, which had well earned its sobriquet of Auld Reekie.

“Hello! Please help me!”

I blundered forward, hoping for the source of that light. I had passed the point of caring about my appearance or my dignity, all I wanted was somewhere to shelter, a fire to sit beside, and the sound of a human voice. Ignoring the mud that splashed higher with every lumbering step, ignoring the sodden mess of my best cloak and the only ball gown I had ever possessed, I staggered on, until I fell against the harsh wall of a hut.

My mind only fixed on one thing. A hut meant shelter from the night. True it was humble, but I was no great lady to disdain simplicity, but a Highland girl lost near Edinburgh. Fumbling around the walls, I found a door handle.

Yanking it open, I nearly fell inside, aware only of a welcoming fire and the scent of something that could have been newly baked bread.

The tall man stared at me in astonishment.

“What the devil!”

And I looked into the angry eyes of Willie Kemp.

There was no mirror inside that hut, but I can imagine what sort of picture I must have presented. Hatless, for I had lost my hat in the mad dash from the sedan, and shoeless, for I had lost both while blundering along the loch side; with mud thick on my cloak and my person, and dripping with water, I must have appeared more a ragged beggar woman than the young lady of fashion who left home a few short hours before.

“Who the devil are you?” Willie Kemp asked.

As I stared back at him with my mouth working and my clothes leaving a spreading puddle on his floor, I remembered what Louise had said about this man. He was a strange creature, a solitary man who spent his time making machines that did not work, and now I had barged into his hut beside the loch.

“I am Alison Lamont,” I told him, and for reason, I added, “from Badenoch.”

“Was it you yelling a few minutes ago?” He remained a few steps from me, standing beside a very handsome fire. I could see the breadth of his shoulders and the line of light on a jaw that was more stubborn than I liked. Not that I really cared, of course, but one does tend to notice such things, even with men as coarse and uncouth and tall as Willie Kemp.

“I asked you a question.” There was no doubting the authority in his tone, which I resented as he was a mere tinker and I was the niece of Lady Elspeth Ballantyne.

I resolved to be as stiffly standoffish as I knew how. “I am lost,” I wailed. “I can"t find my way home.”

I did not see him move, but he was there to help me on to the only chair in that shed, and he was easing the cloak from my shoulders and tutting at my lack of shoes and the shocking condition of my feet on such a biting winter"s night.

I was shivering as the reaction of my adventures hit home, and I hardly objected when he placed a great mug of soup in my hand.

You"re cold,” he said, and although his voice was deep, it was also surprisingly cultured.

I nodded. I knew I should leave at once rather than be alone in the presence of an unknown man, but I was too frightened and too cold and too exhausted to think straight. I was, you will please remember, only eighteen years old and unsure of my surroundings.

Willie Kemp seemed unsure what to do. He watched me for a moment, frowning, then he shook his head. “Well, you"d better get out of these wet things,” he said, “or else you"ll catch your death of cold.”

I looked up, suddenly frightened as all the gothic stories returned. I could feel the hammer of my heart and realised I was indeed alone with a strange man in an out of the way place and nobody knew where I was. “No,” I whispered, and his frown deepened.

“You are cold,” he said, and his voice was as harsh as a metal bar running across a granite cliff. “You are tired, and you are wet. Unless you change into something dry and warm, you will catch a cold, if not pneumonia.” He disappeared for a few moments, returning with what looked like a bundle of old cloth.

“I"ll go away,” he said, “and you put these on. I"ll knock before I return.”

Ungrateful wretch that I was, I said “no” unthinkingly, but the prospect of dry clothing was too great a temptation, even for such a headstrong miss as I was. As soon as Willie Kemp was outside, I placed the chair behind the door to ensure it was secure and peeled off my clothing.

I was very lucky that the fashion in Edinburgh that year was for simple gowns, but even so, have you ever disrobed from a sodden ball gown without even a fumbling servant girl to help? I struggled with buttons and hooks, fought my frustration over eyes and stays, and eventually, and without a thought for Willie Kemp, stood stark naked in front of the fire. Strangely I lingered for a while, allowing the flames to ease away some of my chill before I turned to the clothing Willie Kemp had given me.

I could have cried. Rather than the fashionable apparel I was used to wearing, he had given me nothing but rough homespun, with not even a hint of an undergarment to protect my tender skin. If I say "chafing" you will know what I mean, girls, without me needing to elaborate.

Hesitantly, and hoping everything was clean, I hauled on a pair of trousers that were far too large for me and fumbled clumsily with the fly buttons. The very idea of doing such a thing was revolting, but necessity demanded that I wear such creations, so I had no choice. There was a long linen shirt, thank the Lord, which was softer than I perhaps deserved for my ingratitude, and a thick jacket of some harsh material. I was only glad Louise was not there to see me, then I wondered what Aunt Elspeth would say.

I realised Mr. Kemp had been knocking on the door for some minutes, but I resolved to let him wait a trifle longer while I rolled up the trouser legs to a more manageable length and folded back the cuffs of the jacket. Only then did I haul back the chair, and Mr. Kemp came in. He was dripping with wet, for it was raining again, and he stopped at the sight of me.

“Do you feel better?”

“These are very rough,” I said. “Do you have nothing more suitable for a lady?”

“These are all I have,” Mr. Kemp said quietly. Without any fuss, he lifted my discarded gown and spread it on some contraption of metal poles he had erected beside the fire. I gasped and tried to hide my underthings, but he lifted them with the same unconcern and placed them to dry as if it was the most natural thing in the world.