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  The young wastrel coughed politely.

  “Aunt Effie, Aunt Letty, it’s been a pleasure, but I really must be awa’ noo.” Then he remembered the reason for his visit. “That is, unless I can be useful in ony way.”

  The two aunts tilted their heads and exchanged a look (a pre-arranged signal, Tom thought).

  “Weel, if it’s no’ too much trouble . . .” said Effie.

  “. . . too great a call on your precious time . . .” continued Letty.

  “. . . seeing that we cannae show oor faces in the street . . .”

  “. . . prisoners in oor ain hame . . .” sighed Letty.

  “. . . You could go a wee message for us.”

  “Anything” said Tom, a little too hastily.

  “You can fetch the lace we ordered frae Fleming the draper.”

  *

  “Faither’s got his sums wrong again.”

  Alison Fleming tutted affectionately, standing at the desk in the back shop of her father’s tailor’s and draper’s business in the Sandgate, adding up the columns of figures as she checked the accounts. Her father had seen to it that she had a good education and, recognising early on her skill with a needle and head for figures, brought her up to be his creative and business associate, his partner in all but name. Alison loved the freedom he gave her to design and make clothes, as well as her involvement in the buying of cloth and the financial side of the business. It had flourished in recent years, allowing them to move from Irvine to new modern premises in the Sandgate. She particularly enjoyed making outfits for the wealthy ladies of Ayr and trying to introduce them to new fashion trends. For all that, she had a vague feeling that life had perhaps more to offer and that she would soon be twenty-one and had never been further than Kilmarnock.

  The sound of the front door opening brought her mind back to the present, and a muffled thud and muttered curse sent her rushing through to the shop, where she found her father’s new tailor’s dummy lying on its side and a tall, angry-looking young man with floppy black hair standing over it. She noticed that his fine blue coat was the exact shade of his eyes and had obviously not been made in Scotland.

  “What dae ye leave thon thing standing in the way for, where onybody could cowp it?” he demanded.

  Alison forbore to point out that “thon thing” was essential to their business and had cost her father a pretty penny. She moved to set it upright and remove it from harm’s way. “Can I help ye, sir?” she asked smoothly.

  “I was told tae fetch lace here for my aunts,” said the young man, not very graciously.

  “Ah, that would be the Misses McFadzean. You must be Master Tom.”

  “How dae ye ken that?” demanded Tom suspiciously. This girl had no doubt heard the gossip and was making fun of him. Yet he could find no trace of mockery in her fine-boned face and clear grey eyes.

  “I hae lace on order for two ladies called McFadzean and I’ve heard them talk aboot their nephew Tom, that’s all. Oh, and your coat looks Parisian,” she added, bending to open a drawer.

  Tom looked round the shop, at the colourful displays of ribbons and lace and the shelves stacked with fabric of every kind, from flannel and linen to woven wool and broadcloth and on the far shelves, brocades, silks and . . .

  “You made them! You made the monstrosities!” he burst out accusingly.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Alison, straightening up.

  “You made yon horrible dresses my aunts are wearing. There’s the cloth, yon green and puce stuff on the shelf. How could ye?”

  Alison, dignified, looked him straight in the eye.

  “What is wrong with the gowns, pray?”

  “Ye’ve taken twa foolish, gullible spinster ladies and made them look ridiculous. They shouldnae be wearing yon colours at their age.”

  “Are ye telling me that ladies of a certain age should gi’e up wearing what pleases them and become invisible? The Misses McFadzean chose those colours and styles. I believe in giving my clients what they want. Your aunts enjoy wearing those dresses. Would ye deny them that pleasure?”

  “But they look like the vegetables ye see in the mercats in Paris.”

  “Oh aye, you’ve been to Paris and therefore are an arbiter of taste. Let me tell ye, they would hae looked a lot worse if I’d given in tae a’ their demands. I managed tae tone them doon quite a bit. Now, I believe these are the laces the Misses McFadzean ordered. Please gi’e them my best regards. I’ll bid ye guid day, sir,” she finished, still dignified, although her eyes sparkled dangerously and there were two spots of colour in her cheeks.

  Tom glared at her for a moment, biting back a furious reply, then snatched up the lace and with a muttered “Guid day”, strode out of the shop.

  *

  As he rode home, he was still seething. To his mind, the girl was exploiting the gullibility of his maiden aunts, no doubt fleecing them without scruple and worse, deliberately mocking them.

  The ride home did little to soothe him, so when he barged into the kitchen he was in a dangerous mood. The sight which greeted him did nothing for his temper. Everyone was bustling about and there was tension in the air. Jeanie was stirring the stock pot and tutting, the maids were chopping mounds of vegetables and Bob, called in once more from the stable, was doing something elaborate with spun sugar.

  “What’s happening?” demanded Tom.

  “Company,” said Bob shortly.

  “What? When? Who?”

  “The nicht, and we didnae ken onything aboot it till twa hours since. It’s Mr Cunningham the wine merchant and his fancy French wife and his brither the kirk elder.”

  “And yer aunts are coming as weel,” grumbled Jeannie. “An’ forbye, the butler’s no’ weel again and Bob has tae help serve.”

  Too late, Tom remembered that he’d been too angry to go back and deliver the lace to his aunts. All his resentment against the grey-eyed dressmaker welled up again, mingled with self-pity at his whole situation. He grabbed a carrot from the table, dodged Jeannie’s wooden spoon and went to stew in his room until supper-time.

  *

  Three hours later he was seated between his aunt Euphemia, dressed in her puce satin with an elaborate feathered turban on her head, and Mrs Cunningham, whose elegant grey silk gown glowing with discreet pearls set off her creamy skin, black hair and alluring dark eyes.

  The evening sun shining through the tall windows picked out the snowy damask tablecloth, the delicate china and sparkling crystal glasses as well as the jovial face of Sir Malcolm and the feathers nodding on the Misses McFadzeans’ headgear as their eager heads turned this way and that in search of gossip. The long, gloomy features of Mr. James Cunningham, elder of the kirk, contrasted with the pleasant, open face of his brother Richard, wine merchant.

  Jeanie and the two kitchen maids deftly removed the soup plates as Bob, trailing a faint scent of stable, replenished the guests’ glasses.

  Tom sighed, told himself to cheer up and set himself to be pleasant to Mrs Cunningham.

  “So how do you find Ayr, Madame?” he enquired.

  “I have been here for two years now and it is pleasant enough,” she replied, “but I do miss my home town.”

  “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

  “Bordeaux. It is where I met Monsieur Coningamme, when he was there buying wine. We married soon after, and here I am.” A shadow of regret passed over her lovely face. “Summer is usually not too bad here,” she added, “but I hate the winters. So cold, so wet. I miss the sunshine and of course, Bordeaux is cosmopolitan, Ayr is not.”

  She gave a pretty shrug and moved closer to Tom.

  “And you, Monsieur, I believe you also know France? You were in Paris, n’est-ce pas?” There was a mocking glint in her dark eyes which showed she had heard all about Tom’s adventures there.

  “Yes, I have just returned,” replied Tom stiffly, hoping she would change the subject.

  “And did you like France?”

  “Yes, it’s an inte
resting country.”

  “And the French?”

  “Very hospitable,” muttered Tom, feeling he was starting to blush. Finding it difficult to sustain her gaze he dropped his eyes, realising too late that he was now staring at her very attractive décolleté.

  He was aware that conversation had flagged around the table. Mr James Cunningham, never very loquacious, had a face like a wet Sunday in Tarbolton, the plumes on his aunts’ turbans were dancing wildly and at the other end of the table his mother and Mr Richard Cunningham were directing curious stares in their direction.

  “And our French women?” continued Mrs Cunningham, blithely unconcerned. “Were they to your liking?”

  “She’s only teasing,” thought Tom. “Don’t pay any mind.”

  Mrs Cunningham obviously expected a reply. She leaned closer, and he caught the elusive scent of her perfume as her left breast almost brushed his sleeve.

  “They’re very . . .” he searched wildly for a suitable adjective “. . . accommodating.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, an audible “Tsk, tsk” from the Misses McFadzean and looking up, Tom saw Bob standing by the sideboard, staring fixedly at the opposite wall, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

  “I’m sure they were, Monsieur Tom, and they would find you delightful company, just as I do,” said Mrs Cunningham graciously, turning her attention to the next course which was being served. “Ah, pie.”

  *

  Later, when the candles had been lit and the company was tucking into orange cream with sugar caramel biscuits, Mrs Cunningham turned to Miss Euphemia, saying “I do admire your gown, Miss McFadzean. The colour is somewhat . . . unusual, but the cut and finish are excellent. Do you have it from Edinburgh or maybe London?”

  Both Misses McFadzean visibly preened.

  “Not at all,” said Miss Effie, “we have a very skilful seamstress here in Ayr, Miss Alison Fleming. She and her father have a business in the Sandgate.”

  On hearing the name Mr. James Cunningham, who hitherto had taken little part in the conversation, although he had managed to pack a considerable amount of food into his skeletal frame, burst out, “Yon shameless hussy!”

  All eyes turned to him. His mouth, a mere slit in his saturnine face, opened and he went on in his hoarse hectoring voice:

  “Gilbert Fleming had nae business makin’ her his associate. Her place is in the hoose, makin’ a hame for her faither, no’ encouragin’ the matrons o’ Ayr tae deck themsel’s in gaudy colours an’ fancy geegaws.”

  “She is extremely good at what she does,” observed Lady Margaret. “Don’t the Scriptures tell us to make the maist o’ oor talents?”

  “Indeed, Madam,” said the kirk elder repressively, “but a woman’s place is in the hame.”

  “So you are saying, Monsieur,” said Mrs Cunningham, “that women should not be educated?”

  “They should learn tae cook and mend and keep hoose. Mair than that is dangerous in a woman.”

  “How so?” enquired Mrs Cunningham.

  “Women should ken their place and be in all things subservient to their maisters, that is, their faithers and husbands.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Mrs Cunningham, “that is why you have never married. You have never found such a paragon of womanly virtue.”

  There was an ominous silence. James Cunningham’s jaw moved alarmingly as he tried to suppress an explosion of anger.

  “That’s as may be, Madam,” he said at last, “but we hae seen what happens to women when they hae a wee bit knowledge. They stray from the righteous path and consort wi’ the forces o’ darkness.”

  Sir Malcolm interposed calmly, before the women could react. “I think we may say we hae progressed since women were burned as witches, if that is what ye were inferring. I am glad we live in mair enlightened times.”

  “Ye think so, dae ye?” retorted the elder. “Weel, I’ve heard it said that young Mistress Fleming’s grand-dame was an Osborne. She’s likely descended directly frae thon Maggie, that was a famous witch in these parts.”

  “And what of it?” said Lady Margaret. “Nothing was ever proved against puir Maggie, and my husband is right. We hae gone beyond those times o’ superstition and horror.”

  James Cunningham looked as if he would happily light the faggots under Lady Margaret himself for daring to express an opinion, but remembering that he was a guest at her table, said no more.

  Sir Malcolm signalled to Bob to replenish the glasses and the talk turned to other things. Tom, for his part, was intrigued to hear of Alison Fleming’s supposed ancestry and resolved to find out more. He reached for his glass and turned again to Mrs Cunningham.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wednesday August 8th

  The next morning Tom had a headache and a marked reluctance to get up and face the world. At breakfast, there was no sign of either parent, much to his relief. David had gone off early to the fields but Kate was there, eager for details of the previous evening.

  “Jeanie says ye were very taken wi’ Mrs Cunningham,” she observed, as she spread honey on a bannock.

  “It was an interesting evening,” said her brother. “Should ye be eating that much honey? It’s no’ guid for ye.”

  “She says Bob says ye couldnae keep yer eyes off her dugs.”

  Tom groaned and made a hasty retreat. Keeping out of Bob’s way, he quickly saddled Sadie and galloped off towards the coast, hoping that the sea air would clear his head and lighten his mood. He rode up to the Heads of Ayr and reined in, catching his breath at the beauty of the scene. It was a lovely morning. A few fluffy white clouds rode high in the bright blue sky as Tom’s gaze followed the hazy blue line of the Carrick coast stretching away towards the south while the gulls wheeled and called overhead. Ailsa Craig looked friendly today and he thought for the first time that his home country was maybe not so bad after all.

  He rode on south past Dunure and on to Culzean, where the Kennedy family had had their ancient keep transformed into a stately modern dwelling. Tom dismounted near the farm buildings and sat down on a low stone dyke to admire the scene. The original castle, a towering keep on the lonely clifftop, had been incorporated into a modern mansion house with a sweeping driveway and well-kept gardens. The gleaming walls and tall, wide windows spoke of the wealth and prosperity of peaceful times while retaining a ghostly echo of a violent past. The genius of the architect, Robert Adam, was obvious, as was the tireless labour of the countless workmen who had transformed the place.

  A line from Voltaire came into Tom’s mind “Il faut cultiver son jardin.” Architects like Robert Adam certainly made the most of their talents, and Tom reflected ruefully that the same could not be said of himself. His inner garden had grown many weeds over the past months. He needed an aim in life and this building inspired him. A thought struck him. His father knew Robert Adam – maybe he, Tom, could become an architect.

  The day was suddenly full of promise and the sun, peeping from behind a cloud, turned the waters of the Firth to shining silver as Tom mounted and galloped off homewards, his head full of castles in Spain.

  He was whistling as he took the stairs at Barnessie two at a time and the ancestors’ portraits seemed to be, if not exactly smiling, looking at him encouragingly. Arriving outside his father’s study he took a deep breath, then knocked. As he entered he noticed that his father, seated behind his large desk, was hastily drawing forward a large legal tome to hide what he had just been reading.

  “Come awa’ in, Thomas,” said Sir Malcolm. “What hae ye been up tae?”

  “I’ve just been oot tae Culzean tae see the new castle. It’s a magnificent piece o’ work an’ I thocht..” he hesitated.

  “Aye?”

  “I was wondering, could I maybe gang in for architecture? Would Mr Adam or his brither take me on?”

  “Dae ye think so?” His father fixed him with a keen stare. “I thocht if ye asked him maybe . . .” Tom’s voice trailed off as he no
ticed his father’s expression.

  “Are ye serious? Ye’ve nae training, nae aptitude for it, an’ it’s the first time ye’ve expressed an interest. Ye’re guid wi’ figures, aye, an’ ye’ve a ready tongue, but what aboot imagination? Forbye, ye cannae draw . . .”

  Tom opened his mouth to object, but his father hadn’t finished.

  “An’ if ye think I’ll pay for mair education, ye’ve another think coming. Dinnae look sae dooncast, laddie, ye’ve had an offer.”

  “But I’ve got tae dae something,” groaned Tom, then realising what his father had just said, “. . . an offer?”

  “Aye. I dinnae ken why, for ye were staring at his wife’s bosom like a famished gaberlunzie, but ye impressed Mr. Cunningham yestreen.”

  “Did I?” Tom couldn’t believe it. He was trying to forget the embarrassment of the previous evening.

  “Aye. He tellt me efterwards ye were very courteous and dignified. He kens his wife’s an awfu’ flirt. Anyway, he’s got a vacancy for a clerk in his warehouse and says it’s yours if ye want it. He was worried ye’d think it’s beneath ye but I tellt him ye’d be pleased tae work for him.”

  “Wha says so?” Tom was furious. A clerk! It was beneath him, especially after his training in Paris. He imagined himself in a dusty warehouse down on the quays, totting up rows of figures day in, day out, till he was stooped and old and grey.

  “I say so,” said his father sternly. “Face it, laddie. Ye’ve nae money, ye’ll get nae mair frae me, an’ ye’ve gye few prospects. The world disnae owe ye a living, an’ nor dae I. Ye have tae mak’ yer ain way noo. I’ve accepted Mr Cunningham’s offer on your behalf. Ye start the morn’s morn.”

  Sir Malcolm watched impassively as his son flung out of the room, just managing not to slam the door, then sighed and drawing the latest Scots Magazine out from under the law books, went on reading about Lord Monboddo and the orang-utan.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday August 9th

  The next morning at eight, Tom was tethering Sadie in the stable yard behind Richard Cunningham’s warehouse on the North Quay. The morning had dawned bright and fair, which did nothing to lighten his feeling of gloom. Too late, he realised that the last few days had been a holiday; now he was going to have to buckle down. He sighed, straightened his shoulders and began climbing the rickety wooden stairs to the offices. At the top, he pushed open the door and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom inside.