Beatrice watched her friend’s expression change as the voice reached her and the crowd parted, all eyes wide and wondering, as intrigued, amused faces looked between Kitty and the tall figure who’d just arrived, dressed from head to toe in Fergusson tartan and holding in his arms great long bunches of white heather.
‘Gene,’ Kitty said beneath her breath.
‘Kitty Wake,’ he continued in a clear, sober voice, loud enough for the whole room to hear. This was to be a public declaration, it seemed. ‘I’m sorry I left you tae face the Harvest Home by yourself. I should have stayed by your side. But I’m here now, if you’ll forgive me.’
Kitty was on her feet and moving towards him, her white hem brushing the knees of the gaping spectators.
Gene kept talking. ‘Everyone here knows tonight was my wedding night some years ago. And everyone knows how that marriage ended. This night was special to me because I made sincere vows to a woman who couldn’t quite love me enough, and I’ve mourned this night in my heart for years. But, I’ve made the decision to make a new vow, to you, if you’ll listen?’
Beatrice saw Kitty’s red hair bobbing over her shoulders as she made one slow nod of encouragement.
‘It is customary in Port Willow to carry your beloved across a line o’ white heather tae signify the beginning of a union. God knows, I’ve done this once before but no’ with a woman as fine and bonny as you, Kitty Wake.’
Atholl had made his way to his brother’s side and he placed a hand on his shoulder. The pair shared a reassuring glance before Gene stooped to arrange the heather in a long line separating him and Kitty.
Aside from the whistles and calls of the farmers too drunk to know what was happening, the room reverberated with the baited breaths and hum of nerves in every individual’s chest as Gene walked around the white flowers to stand by Kitty’s side. He whispered words in her ear, the crowd watched her smile grow, and Gene swept her into his arms and carried her in a long stride across the heathers.
Beatrice had never heard such a cheer, and the band struck up in a wild reel as Gene held Kitty to his chest and strode out through the open doors, held wide by Mrs Fergusson and Atholl, into the night.
Maybe it was the wild music, and the romance and the passion she’d just witnessed, and maybe the punch had something to do with it too, but as Beatrice watched Atholl scanning the crowd for her before making his way through the laughter and the toasts and the renewed dancing to where she stood, only one impulse made its way through the cacophony and into her mind. She wanted him. Even if it was just for tonight. Even if hewasthe most beautiful, talented, earnest, caring human she’d ever had the good fortune to be thrown together with. Even though they were going to part tomorrow and probably never see each other again. Even if it was going to hurt in the long run. She wanted him.
‘Looks like Gene fixed everything himself in the end,’ Atholl said as he reached her.
‘No help needed from us,’ Beatrice beamed, holding Atholl’s gaze. ‘Atholl?’
He reached for her hand. ‘Go on.’
‘When the ceilidh’s over, will you spend the night with me? I’m leaving tomorrow and don’t want to miss a second that I could be with you.’
She saw the blaze in his eyes at her words.
‘What about your husband? I cannae be the other fella’ even for one night.’
‘Rich isn’t my husband anymore,’ she murmured, seeing Atholl looking hard into her eyes searching for the truth there, before bringing his mouth down to cover hers.
The kiss spoke of the night they’d spend together and it made her nerves thrill and shiver. The clock above the bar chimed midnight as they sank deeper into their kiss and Atholl’s hands roamed over her back in slow circles. When he finally pulled away, the penetrating way he looked at her made every muscle in her body compress then soften and she found she was biting her lip.
‘I’m having a word with the band,’ Atholl said with sudden decision, and he walked away to speak into the caller’s ear. The caller nodded and signalled to the band they were to play their last song.
Then Atholl passed behind the bar, Beatrice watching him all the time and laughing delightedly at his sudden fervour to have her alone. He switched the bright bar lights on and started closing off the beer pumps.
The ceilidh was coming to an end. The crowds were draining their drinks, reaching for coats and getting ready to step out into the rain, wishing they’d brought umbrellas. Echo chose this moment to return from his wandering and shake his coat in the middle of the room, spraying the guests with muddy water, before strolling off to bed.
As Atholl moved through the bustling crowd collecting glasses, he glanced at Beatrice, checking her whereabouts every few seconds as though he were afraid she too would leave.
Beatrice helped reunite drunken farm labourers with misplaced bowties, mobile phones and the worryingly sharp clan knives they calledsgian-dubhas the band packed up.
At one point, the tide of the departing crowd moving lazily and heavily towards the door pulled Beatrice with them and almost out into the street, making her think of the riptide. She threw Atholl a comic smile and, seeing her struggle, he pushed through the crowd to take her hand and pull her towards him in the middle of the dancefloor, their lips meeting again in a hard kiss.
‘Not long now, once the band’s gone…’ he whispered, not needing to finish his thoughts.
Beatrice’s mind flickered to the great four-poster bed and the tower of plump mattresses upstairs and imagined how he’d follow her up the ladder and press her down hard onto the bed and she’d tell him not to be gentle and they wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing the inn guests as they were all as drunk as one another, and the sounds of the storm gathering momentum outside would drown out their cries.
Her breath caught as he delivered one last kiss before breaking away, dazed and smiling, and hastening the last of the drinkers out the door. He handed over a bundle of notes from the till to the band who divvied it up amongst themselves and stuffed it into pockets before they too headed out the door with their instruments, speakers and lighting rig. They seemed to take ages to get out, Beatrice thought.
Atholl disappeared with the rest of the night’s takings to lock them in the safe in the reception. In the sudden quiet of the inn, Atholl whistled a jolly Highland reel and it danced in the electric air.
‘Is everyone away now, Beattie?’ he called when he returned to the bar and flicked the overhead lights on, squinting at their harshness.
