Many days—most—were uncompromisingly gray, but sometimes in the afternoons a cold, clear yellow light slanted down, bringing every stone and slate and chimney pot into almost unbearably sharp focus. Marian had heard someone—one of Barclay’s acquaintances—describe Edinburgh as being like a shabby tuxedo. She didn’t think the comparison held. Yes, Edinburgh was both elegant and well used, but it was too solid and too ancient to be likened to a garment, too hewn and heavy. Missoula seemed like an Indian camp in comparison, something you could roll up and carry away on your back.
Barclay often left her alone during the day while he went off on business. To her shame, she found she was not quite the intrepid traveler she had imagined. She worried about making etiquette missteps, understanding Scottish accents, being conspicuous. Mostly she drifted through the streets without speaking to anyone, or she read in the hotel’s library. Without Barclay, she felt timid, but with him she felt squashed and crowded. He chose what they did and when. He ordered for her in restaurants without asking what she wanted. They went into the Highlands to visit friends of his, to a frigid lodge set on the edge of a black lake. At the long, candlelit dinner table in a cavernous room where the walls bristled with antlers, Barclay became an unfamiliar iteration of himself, at ease in formal wear and able to chatter blandly about hunting and land rights. This malleability unsettled Marian. Who was he, this man? Since the wedding, she’d felt frozen, like a rabbit in a hawk’s shadow, uncertain how to respond, torn between hating him for Wallace’s sake and wanting to love him for her own.
One morning, alone, after nearly half an hour spent examining the timetables in Waverley Station and gathering her nerve, she took a train to Glasgow. If Edinburgh was a shabby tuxedo, Glasgow was a tuxedo worn by a chimney sweep. She walked along the River Clyde, trying to catch a glimpse of the shipyards where the Josephina had been built, but the day was chill and foggy, and she didn’t know where to go. The poor neighborhoods near the water spooked her, the way people’s eyes lingered on her fine coat, her glossy handbag. If she’d been in her old clothes she wouldn’t have worried, but her coat and bag and little clip-clopping shoes advertised her as rich and helpless.
On the return train, she’d blinked back tears of frustration. Here she was, away from Missoula, finally on an actual journey, and yet she was more confined than ever. The bulk of Britain to the south and the greater mass of Europe below it were so near, just over the horizon. But she could go nowhere at all.
Edinburgh
November 13, 1931
Dear Jamie,
I meant to write you from the ship, not that I could have posted a letter except maybe in a bottle. I have no excuse for why I haven’t written since then, seeing as we arrived in Edinburgh nearly a month ago. Do you know I’ve never written you a letter? There was never any need.
What I want to say is that it pains me to be on the outs with you. I haven’t forgotten you warned me early on to be cautious of Barclay and I didn’t listen. Or not well enough. I thought I could manage. By the time you came back from Seattle, there was nothing to do but yield—please trust me—though that doesn’t mean there weren’t other solutions, earlier, that I didn’t see or ignored. I was blinded by my desire to fly, and maybe it explains some small part of things to admit I did feel drawn to Barclay, always, from the beginning. That pull seems to justify so much. Maybe you know what I mean. You never really told me about the girl in Seattle. I wish we’d had a better chance to talk. I know I have a tendency to hog the spotlight, and I’m afraid I did it again.
In any event, here I am. A wife. I’m told girls dream of being wives, but wifedom seems an awful lot like defeat dressed up as victory. We’re celebrated for marrying, but after that we must cede all territory and answer to a new authority like a vanquished nation. The central danger now is of Barclay getting his way yet again—he wants a baby, and a baby is what I dread most. It seems an awful snare. I’ve told him I can scarcely imagine ever having one and absolutely not anytime soon, and I thought he understood, but—no, he does understand. It’s that he doesn’t care. He wants me snared.
It’s strange to think of you all alone in Wallace’s house. Do you drive the Ford? I hope so. Do you see Caleb? Have you been drawing? What do you hear from Wallace? If you see Mr. Stanley, will you give him my regards?
At least this hotel has a library. I feel like I’m a child again, with all these hours I’ve had to myself to read. Over my life I’ve had so much time to myself. But, Jamie, I never felt lonely before now because I was never on the outs with you. I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t realized how much I’ve relied on you. I feel I’ve lost a wing and am now just a useless ball of junk, falling. I hope you will write back and say you are still there, unseen but intact.