“Douglas Bowden, you are a fool,” he said out loud. A ram on the other side of the fence glared at him. “You can no more live without a view of the ocean than a dolphin.”
That was it, plain as day. He came down the hill more slowly, shaking his head over his own idiocy. When he came in sight of the inn, he hoped that the innkeeper had kept his word and not said anything. Douglas reckoned he hadn’t. Good publicans could generally be trusted with all manner of drunken secrets, or in his case, stupid ideas.
As it turned out, the man hadn’t breathed a word. Douglas asked for another glass of ale and told the keep to pour one for himself. Elbows on the counter, Douglas offered his confession that he would be more likely to grow gills than live without a view of the ocean.
His drinking companion took it philosophically, which meant another glass for each of them.
“What now, sir?” the keep asked, after a discreet belch.
“I’m not one to backtrack. It’s bad luck,” Douglas said. “Thoughts?”
The innkeep looked at the spout. “Are you still shouting?”
“Aye. Pour away.”
He topped himself another one and drank, leaving foam on his upper lip. “Keep going north and then turn a bit west.”
“That’s it?”
“Aye. Scotland.”
Douglas blinked. “That’s the best you can do?” he teased as the fumes tunneled into his brain. Getting up tomorrow was going to be a sore trial.
“If Scotland can’t cure what ails you, you’re hopeless, sir.”
“What ails me, my good man?”
“Too much peace all at once.”
Chapter 3
He crossed the Scottishborder in the rain, which, all things considered, was appropriate. He had heard rumors about Scottish weather from the first luff of the Corinthian, when they were stuck without wind in the South Seas and sitting practically bare in their smallclothes on the deck years back.
“Nobody in my village would believe this much sun,” the luff had said. “I swear it rains every day at home. Thank the Almighty that I joined the Royal Navy and discovered sun.” He had laughed and turned over, to toast the other side. “Did’ye not know that God is Scottish? Frugal with the sun.”
Douglas smiled at the memory as the coach bowled along. He had left the Royal Mail behind in Carlisle and trundled his goods into a less colorful bonecracker that took him to Gretna Green, a town famous for marriages over the blacksmith’s anvil. He looked around with interest, but no one appeared to be lined up for matrimony.
He spent the night at Dumfries. In the morning, this innkeep, in his well nigh impenetrable brogue, informedhim of an even smaller carriage headed south to Dundrennan and on to the Gatehouse of Fleet on Solway Firth. The helpful man may have suggested other routes, but Douglas was already having second thoughts about trying to live and work where he could barely understand the natives.
Still, the clouds lifted to show off the Firth of Solway. Douglas saw little fishing boats, nets stretched behind them, trolling the cold water. He felt his whole body relax and his respirations slow down because he knew he was watching salt water again.
Luncheon in Dundrennan was a hurried affair, with the coachman itching to make up time lost lollygagging behind a flock of sheep. Douglas ate what looked like a pasty, all crisp and light brown, but with the disturbing taste of liver, mutton, and oats that he knew he would be belching up for at least a week.
He checked Scottish food off his mental list. He had eaten far worse in his years with the fleet.I could stand by a window in my dining room, eat this loathsome fare, and still have a view of the ocean, he thought, which made him smile.
Before they left Dundrennan, he asked the coachman if the little town had any physicians.
“Och, aye! Twa. And aren’t they always going after each other’s patients?” the man exclaimed. “They’ve divided the town clean in half!”
Douglas crossed Dundrennan off his mental list as he began to wonder if Scotland was a good idea after all. “Tell me, please, about the other towns on this route?”
He shrugged. “There’s Wilcomb, a bonny place if you don’t mind smugglers; Castle McPherson, ditto; Whitby, where the people are daft, half of them; Edgar …” He stopped, as if trying to think of something kind to say about Edgar. “Smells like fish.” He brightened. “Miss Grant’s Tearoom.” He leaned closer. “I’ve seen grown men weep over her lemon curd, although I am partial to orange marmalade.”
“I’ve never considered settling in a place just because of a tearoom,” Douglas joked.
“I suppose many a man has said just that,” the coachman joked in turn. His face turned serious then. “Nay, not Edgar for you. It’s a poor fishing village. You’d mentioned physicians. Lad, if you’re in need of one, you’ll die before ye find one close to the likes of Edgar.” He rubbed both his thumbs and forefingers together. “Doctors need money like us all.”
“No money in Edgar?”
