The woman sat ramrod straight on a chair before the struggling fire, with a self-satisfied look on her bony face. She was rail-thin and endowed with neither warmth, wit, nor beauty, but she did possess one over-arching virtue in the eyes of Tara’s uncle. She was pious to a fault, and since becoming acquainted with her and her husband, the Reverend Shaw, Ralph Hennaut had urged her to become Tara’s chaperone while he left her alone to pursue his interests in Inverness. And Mistress Shaw had proved to be a zealous guardian, indeed.
‘Do not fuss so, child. Your uncle will return presently once he has seen the notary about his affairs.’
‘Can we not go about the town, just for a short stroll? The day is fine.’
Mistress Shaw peered out of the window. ‘It threatens rain, and you have been forbidden by your uncle. The streets are far too rough for a well-brought up lady of eighteen. Do stop going on about it, Tara. Come and sit by the fire, and we will read the psalms together.’
Psalms. Ugh. That meant Mistress Shaw droning on in her dreary voice about the seven deadly sins, of which adultery seemed to be her particular favourite. She certainly dwelt on it long enough and with much vigour. Tara chided herself. She should not be so ungrateful, for Mistress Shaw had been kind, lending her a thick plaid to wear to ease her shivering as her southern shawls were not thick enough for the Scottish chill. And she frequently visited with baskets of provisions and home-baked treats for Uncle Ralph.
Mistress Shaw’s gaze roamed over Tara, and her thin lips pressed together so as to almost become invisible. ‘You have not had the benefit of a mother’s love to guide you of late. Thank heavens for me, I say, for I will keep you on a righteous path.’
Tara winced inwardly at the mention of her later mother. It had been two years, yet still, the wound was raw. And Agnes Hennaut had been a clever, resourceful woman who had kept the worst of Uncle Ralph’s pride and extravagance in check.
‘Young ladies need a firm hand so they are not tempted from God’s good and holy path,’ said Mistress Shaw. ‘Remember, nothing is hidden from the eyes of God, not even your wickedest thoughts, Tara.’
She hoped God did not know her wickedest thoughts, especially the ones which dwelt on that rough man they had met on the road. His wildness had stirred her somewhat.
‘It is fortunate that I am here to assume the role of chaperone, and keep you obedient and dutiful, child, for I have seen too many girls go astray and end in ruin and depravity of the worse kind. And your soul is at great risk of purgatory.’
‘I do my best not to sin, Mistress Shaw,’ said Tara.
‘Oh, I am sure you do, but you are burdened, child, for you have great beauty, and it brings forth the beast that lurks in all men. ‘Tis the devil’s work, a pretty face.’
Tara was spared more preaching by the noisy arrival of her uncle and the rather plump Reverend Shaw, who rushed over to her to take her hand.
‘Good day to you, Miss Hennaut. How fare you, this fine day?' he boomed. He blew his nose on his kerchief with the other hand, a constant habit of his. With his runny nose and pink, plump cheeks, he brought to mind a pig in holy clothing. Swallowing a little revulsion, Tara left her hand in his and was about to reply when Mistress Shaw stood and said to her husband, ‘The lass is restless and will not settle at anything, Ezra.’
‘Ah, well, it must be galling indeed for poor Tara to be cooped up here with no young ladies to converse with and no diversion.’
‘She has me to converse with, Ezra,’ snapped Mistress Shaw, giving him a filthy look.
‘Aye, of course, my dear. But young people need diversion.’
‘They need hard work and discipline, not indulgence and excess.’
‘Well spoken, Mistress Shaw,’ said Uncle Ralph with a benign smile. ‘Now we have trespassed on your patience and kindness long enough this day. I thank you for your visit, but I hear that my notary has returned from his travels, and so I intend to seek him out with Tara this very day to settle my affairs.’
‘Well, in that case, we should be going,’ said Mistress Shaw with a nod in the direction of her husband.
Reverend Shaw gave Tara a warm smile. ‘Heading for Whittle Lane, is it? We are going in that direction and will accompany you some of the way.’
As soon as she hit the street, Tara’s senses were assaulted by smells and sounds from the great unwashed of Inverness. The streets were wet from rain, and a tang of rotten vegetables battled the rich odour of chestnuts being roasted a little way down the alley. A washwoman in a nearby yard shouting obscenities at one of her fellows, almost drowning out two cats fighting over a dead rat further along. Their screaming sounded like a baby’s wail.
Several people barged into Tara without so much as a by your leave, so she clutched her uncle’s arm tightly and stuck close to him. Yet, despite its privations, Inverness seemed a bustling, lively place, and her heart soared at its rawness. Having spent her life shut up in elegant drawing rooms, making polite chit-chat and watching her manners, the wild chaos of a new town and strange customs raised Tara’s spirits. Perhaps life in Scotland might afford her more freedom than in England. It would not be so stuffy and formal, but instead, be rather stirring.
‘It is very crowded, Uncle,’ she said, gripping his arm tightly.
‘Today is market day. Everyone comes from far and wide to sell their wares and conduct business.
‘Just keep close together, ladies,’ said Reverend Shaw with a reassuring smile as he cut a path through the throng. ‘Make way, you ruffians. Make way,’ he shouted at two burly men blocking their path.
When they turned and stepped aside, Tara’s heart leapt to her throat. If his tall, muscular frame had not given him away, his grey eyes certainly did, as they widened in recognition.
Tara smiled at Callum Ross, and he blinked rapidly but did not smile in return.
‘Step aside, I say,’ repeated her uncle.
‘Uncle Ralph, do you not recognise his gentleman?’ said Tara, grabbing his arm to slow him. ‘It is our saviour from the road. This is Mr Callum Ross.’