Jennie About to Be by Elisabeth Ogilvie Page B

yet she had to know, to put her mind at rest, to convince herself that they were like tinkers, who chose that life.
    Mr. Sinclair roused from his nap and talked about the Findhorn Sands off to the right, where Findhorn Bay opened to the firth. The sands were devouring everything; they had swallowed a house in one night, pouring themselves through doors and windows.
    Jennie gazed out at a new party of walkers, and some of them looked up into the chaise without humbleness. This was a ragged group, possessing a few goats and some thin small black cattle. They carried bundles on their backs, and iron pots dangled atop the loads. There were some babies in arms or riding shoulders or hips. Several of the old people were lame and used crutch sticks, and the seams were dug deep in their faces. They were making such an effort that they had no use or concern for her, and she felt herself blushing with shame at her own comfort.
    When the chaise had rolled on past them, the rested horses trotting happily toward their home stable in Inverness, she tried to forget what she had seen or at least to assure herself they had been people of the roads who would have fought any other way of life.
    Mrs. Sinclair said, “This is Macbeth’s country, you know. Duncan was murdered in the old castle of Inverness, and Cawdor still stands. Of course, Shakespeare was more than a wee bit astray, but then what can you expect from a Sassenach?” She laughed and patted Jennie’s knee. “We don’t hold that against you, lassie. But Macbeth was a good king, you know.”
    It wasn’t until they were passing Culloden Moor that she fell silent, as if the influences here were too strong even for her, and her husband sank into deep gloom until they were well out of the area.
    After that the first glimpse of the old gray town of Inverness roused them all up and sped the horses. Mr. Sinclair shed ten years and began telling Nigel about the Caledonian Canal that was to provide ships with a safe, smooth passage from the western seas through the Great Glen to the Moray Firth, saving them the often deadly voyage around Cape Wrath. For Jennie, Mrs. suggested dressmakers and milliners and praised the Northern Infirmary.
    â€œAye, the town’s grown a bit since Old King Brude of the Picts had his fortress here and Saint Columba himself stood outside its wooden gates. We’ve had all the kings and the cutthroats. Cromwell, and Bonnie Prince Charlie (but all he did was blow up the castle), and then Butcher Cumberland came after Culloden, the monster that he was. How the poor old town suffered then.”
    â€œEverything looks serene and charming now,” Jennie said.
    â€œIt’s a grand town to live in,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “Make your man show it all to you and take you out to Loch Ness. You might get a blink of the Monster, though it’s no horror. It’s never done a body harm; it just wants to be left in peace and quiet, poor beast.”
    Addresses were exchanged, and good wishes, and they were set down at the Caledonian Hotel in Inverness.
    Jennie washed her hair and soaked herself in a tin bath before a glowing coal fire in the grate. It was her first hot bath since the morning of the wedding: huge sponge, rich lather of Pears’ soap . . . She’d done the best she could aboard the ship, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could compare with the embrace of all the hot water you wanted and all the time in which to parboil yourself gently, then to rise like Venus from the foam to the embrace of thick towels in a warm room. She hoped Nigel in the next room was enjoying his bath as much.
    They hadn’t ordered a meal, only baths. The curtains were drawn against the sunset light, windows shut against street noises. The broad bed with lavender-scented linen: what would it be like, their nakedness together in those sheets? Sylvia had prepared her for some discomfort but said it would all be worth it and then