She reluctantly released her grip, determined not to show him her apprehension. How infuriating, she thought as the ferry carried train and passengers across the firth, that for thirty years such masterful feats of engineering allowed people to move freely and quickly across vast distances and uninhabitable terrains, and yet a woman must not go shopping or to a gallery by herself. It was too dangerous, they said, for her reputation, her virtue. But who did the endangering? Men. How convenient for men as a group that the misdeeds of a few elevated each one of them to the status of protector and rendered women dependent on them, so that in turn they could legitimately drag them along to Scotland whenever they saw fit. Proof that progressiveness wasn’t a matter of possibilities—who and what was to be included in the progress was a matter of will. Man would probably circle the globe in a flight apparatus before women had power over themselves.
In Burntisland, they changed into a battered-looking old train to continue the journey away from the coast, up north. The scenery soon changed into sweeping green valleys dotted with sheep and crofters’ cottages, and there was a vastness to the land that made the observer breathe deeply. Still, when they finally alighted at the one-track station stop in Auchtermuchty, she was exhausted. Her pocket watch said it was close to five o’clock, and she stood by despondently as two young Scotsmen loaded their trunks onto an old-fashioned black coach outside the station. She endured another hour of being bounced around on a badly sprung seat before the vehicle gradually creaked to a halt on an abandoned plain—in front of the only building far and wide. The Drover’s Inn. She eyed the place through the window with growing alarm. The gray stone building was two stories high under a dark slate roof, an irregular patchwork of old, weathered features and newer extensions, which gave the impression the house had somehow organically grown by itself over time. There was an aliveness about it; in fact, the entire structure was leaning to the right with some urgency, as if it had at some point been frozen during an attempt to flee.
She shuddered. “Something is wrong with this house.”
Lucian leaned forward to look more closely. “Appears to me like most of the inns I’ve known in Scotland.”
His face was so near hers she could smell the shaving soap on him. She pulled back, and he shot her a dark look and opened the coach door with a vigorous push. She followed him to the entrance of the disturbing building on stiff legs. Next, she screamed and jumped with great agility as she found herself under attack by clawed, swiping paws. A black bear, rearing on its hind legs in the corridor, its maw forever open with a silent roar.
“It’s quite dead,” Lucian remarked, and she realized she was pressed up against his side.
She quickly stepped away. “A very helpful observation.” She still had a hand over her hammering heart when a short, stout woman hurried toward them from the shadowy depths of the corridor. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, and the corners of her eyes were furrowed with lines from frequent laughter and squinting. “I’m Mrs. Burns,” she told them, a little breathless, “I’m one of the proprietors—the other is my husband, Mr. Burns, who awaits you inside. I hope your journey was uneventful; we’ve been having lots more rain than usual at this time of the year and the roads are all muck. My sons will bring your luggage straight to your room, sir.” She looked at Hattie, then she nodded at the bear. “Don’t let Alistair frighten you, ma’am; he’s a good lad. Follow me, if you please.”
The low black ceilings and wooden walls of the inn were coated with dust. Antiquated gas sconces lined the narrow corridor and spilled orange light over antlers, wings, and paws—stuffed woodland animals were stacked atop one another in glass cases and on shelves mounted on the walls with little space between them. By the time they’d reached the reception desk, Hattie felt weak and haunted by undead creatures. The tall, bald man behind the desk greeted them with great enthusiasm. Probably not many guests ever found their way to this forsaken place or stayed for long. Perhaps they never left?
“The telegraph I sent yesterday mentioned my wife needs the service of a lady’s maid for the duration of our stay,” Lucian told him as he signed the ledger. “I pay London rates.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Burns. “I’ll fetch my daughters. One wee moment.”
He disappeared through the heavy curtains to a back room.
The silence was as absolute as at the bottom of a lake. A stuffed raven sat on the desk next to the bell, its head bent at an inquisitive angle.