Also, his gray hair was unruly. Though his valet would pomade and style it each morning, by mid-afternoon, the ocean humidity and constant breeze tousled his hair into a delicious mass that tumbled across his forehead in boyish waves.
And though Kendall was demanding and autocratic, he was never cruel. He barked orders and expected immediate compliance. But when a nervous midshipman mistakenly replied, “Yes, my lord,” instead of “Yes, Your Grace,” Kendall didn’t belittle the lad. Instead, he dispassionately corrected him and repeated his request.
As they worked their way north, Isolde hadn’t cared too much where they stopped. The ship re-provisioned at regular intervals, docking in Bristol and Liverpool to restock coal and the kitchen larder.
But when the bonnie hills of the Highlands rose in the distance, Isolde’s heart soared. The green slopes and craggy cliffs sang in her blood—home, home, home.
However, each of her requests to go ashore was met with the same answer.
“May we explore the Isle of Arran?” she asked as they restocked in Ayr.
“No.” Kendall looked to the island. “The winds are not favorable.”
The next day, as the sun shimmered on the water—
“Och, look! I believe that is the Isle of Islay in the distance. Come, let us explore it.”
“No, I fear the harbor is not deep enough for the ship’s draught.”
As they continued north, Isolde only glimpsed the charming village of Oban, nestled between the Isle of Mull on the west and the dramatic slopes of Ben Cruachan on the east. The town sat at the bottom of the Great Glen, a series of valleys and lochs that started with Inverness on the north and neatly divided the Highlands in two.
On the whole, it felt as if Kendall wished to complete their honeymoon as quickly as possible and banish her to one of his ducal estates. Heaven knew many an aristocratic wife had endured just such a fate.
But if this was to be Isolde’s only taste of freedom—her one chance to visit the glens and lochs of her beloved Scotland—then she intended to make the most of it.
The isles of the Hebrides—Skye, Uist, Lewis and Harris—stretched endlessly north and west, luring her with promises of lands to explore.
Kendall be damned.
As they sailed into the Rough Bounds—a pocket of western Scotland that even Highlanders themselves considered wild—Isolde decided to seize the reins of her Fate.
She had always found the Rough Bounds romantic and evocative. They stretched from the top of the Isle of Mull at the south to the shores of the Isle of Skye in the north. The area was spottily inhabited, as the Highland Clearances had seen many of residents evicted over the past thirty years. Most had immigrated to America or moved south to work in the bustling factories of Glasgow and Manchester, leaving the area depopulated and desolate.
From the deck of theSS Statesman, the coast appeared lushly green, untamed, and deliciously inviting. They passed by the quaint Isle of Canna—as an obliging map in Isolde’s bedchamber informed her. There, a well-maintained white house nestled into the dunes of a protected inlet, gleaming white sand and turquoise water stretching before it. Sunlight flitted through the racing clouds overhead, bathing the whole in dappled light.
Standing at the rail of the ship, Isolde could only describe the scene as idyllic. She simply had to know who lived there. A shepherd, perhaps? Or more likely, the keeper of the island. This was MacLean land, she knew—owned and maintained by the laird—and his lairdship would assign a clan member to see to the island.
Surely, the owners would welcome a visitor . . . such was the Highland way.
Kendall would veto the prospect of a visit.
But Isolde was done asking her husband’s permission. This washerlife, devil take it, and she was going to live it.
To that end, Isolde spoke with Captain Woodbury of her wishes. The captain glanced around the deck—presumably looking for Kendall’s gray head—before warily agreeing.
He instructed two midshipmen to lower one of the tender boats so she could row herself ashore. The ship would circumnavigate the island and pick her up when they returned.
“What are you doing?” Kendall barked, glowering as the rowboat swung over the side of the ship and descended toward the water. He strode across the deck to her, his long legs eating up the planks in quick strides.
Isolde tied her bonnet more tightly to her head and tugged on her leather gloves. She had already changed into sturdy boots and a dress of superfine wool.
“I am rowing out tae the house there.” She pointed at the island. “It looks enchanting, and I should like to visit the owner, as my family are acquainted with Clan MacLean. It is all settled with the captain. Of course, I do not expect ye to accompany me. Ye may enjoy a respite from my suffocating presence.” She smiled up at him, perhaps a wee bit too cheerily.
Kendall paused, his expression darkening. “Rowing a boat on the ocean is a far cry from navigating a skiff across a pond at Hadley House or whatever your prior experience may be.”
“I am well aware of that fact, Kendall. Despite your lowering opinion of my abilities, I am observant and astute. Mac, James, and myself spent our summers rowing to and fro across Montrose Basin. Why, we rowed from the Bridge of Dun, down the River South Esk, and across the Basin to the North Sea itself just two months past. A distance that is substantially farther than the one from this ship to the shore there.” She pointed at the white house. “My arms are strong and my determination stronger. I shall not remain a spectator aboard this ship, watching the shore pass me by.”
Watching Life pass me by, she might as well have added.
