Page 144

" A uch, that's a bonny hit, if I say so mesself, Derry.

" The grey-haired man shaded his face with a callused hand and watched the small sphere sail in a graceful arc over the patch of gorse.

It landed a scant yard away from a small flag fluttering in the gusting sea breeze.

"You're getting to be a dab hand at knocking the ball up and over a tricky hazard like 'The Principal's Nose,'" he said with a nod of gruff approval.

"And you've judged the wind exactly right. "

The slight figure by his side tucked the hickory-shafted golf club in the crook of one arm. "Well, I've had a decent enough teacher." An impish grin. "Once I knock it in the hole, that will give me a—" There was a slight pause for a bit of mental arithmetic. "—a six."

The announcement was made with a note of triumph, followed by an even wider smile. "And as you can't do better than a seven, even if you put your ball in the hole on the fly, I've won yet another hole on this second nine. Before long, Hugh, I shall be beating you at your own game!"

"Auch, is that so?" replied Hugh Philp with a mock jeer. "You may be ready to win a ha’penny from Jamie or old Da, but rest assured, you’ll be sprouting a long beard ere you'll be taking a coin from me , my wee friend."

The remark elicited a peal of laughter from his companion.

"Well, that day still appears far off, so I guess I had better not start counting my farthings.

" Their boots clattered over the stones of the small bridge crossing Swilkan Burn.

"Still, I am at least making you work just a little to beat me, am I not? "

"Indeed you are, Derry." On regarding the eager expression on his companion’s the upturned face, he felt his throat constrict and turned away to watch a solitary gull flap its way out over the foaming waves.

"I daresay you've become the best of all the lads who hang around the shop, for you are willing to listen, and to work hard at it.

You may not be as strong as Jamie or Tom, or as talented as Angus or Gordie, but you make up for it with pluck and imagination.

And to my mind, that's the true mark of a good golfer.

" He stopped for a moment to withdraw a pipe and flint from his pocket.

"Aye, I daresay you're on your way to becoming a real player. "

"Thank you, Hugh," came the low reply as Derry removed the flagstick from the diminutive hole in the ground and set up to tap the feathery ball into its circular depth. "But I've still much to learn." A sigh. "If only..."

The faint words gave way to the soft thwock of wood on leather.

Philp squinted up at the slate grey clouds scudding in from the Bay.

"We had better hurry if we want to finish the last hole without a soaking, for there promises to be a spot of rain afore long.

" He cleared his throat and reached down to retrieve the stitched ball from its shadowed resting place.

"Seeing as you are feeling on top of your game, do you care to make the finish interesting with a small wager on the outcome on eighteen? "

A keen twinkle came to Derry's eyes. "Just what do you have in mind, Hugh?"

"Oh, as to that, if you win, you may choose a new club from the shop." There was a momentary hesitation as he fingered the sheepskin grip of his long spoon. "And if I win, you will... do me a small favor."

All of the mischievous humor disappeared from his companion's features, replaced by a look of great seriousness. "You know very well that you don't have to win any favors from me, sir. You have only to ask and I would be more than delighted to do anything for you."

"Not this, you won't," murmured Philp under his breath. In a louder voice, he replied, "Nay, I would prefer to do it this way, fair and square."

"Very well. Then of course I accept." An edge had crept into Derry's voice, betraying a trace of bruised feelings at being denied the chance to help outright.

A wisp of a smile flitted over Philp’s leathery face, and he threw his arm around Derry’s shoulders. "Don't be falling into a fit of girlish vapors—it doesn't suit you in the least, my friend. Besides, I wouldn't have thought that you intend to lose."

That drew a reluctant twitch of the lips from his companion. "I don't. However, as you have seen fit to name your own prize, I should like the right to do the same."

Philp opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped short on seeing the stubborn jut of his young friend's jaw. It was a look he recognized all too well… just as he recognized the futility of arguing.

"I suppose I can guess what it is," he grumbled in grudging resignation. At the confirming nod, his breath came out in a sigh. "Well then, it looks as if the match is dormied before it starts."

Derry raised a brow in mute question at the strange word.

"It's one of our more obscure golf expressions," explained Philp. "It means, in a broad stroke, that I cannot lose. But don't say I didn't warn you. Believe me, you would have vastly preferred the new heavy iron that just arrived from Bobby Kirkaldy's forge as your prize."

"Then I shall just have to win it some other time."

A drop of rain splashed on the tip of Philp's beaked nose.

After another glance at the ominous skies, he shrugged in exasperation and decided there was little point in avoiding the other, inevitable black cloud that was about to descend over his head.

"If you don't mind, I'm in a bad enough humor without these old bones getting chilled to the marrow.

Why don't we forego the eighteenth and hurry back to the shop? "

"Aye, and you can tell me what it is you wish me to do as we go."

It was fortunate that the large workroom was deserted, for the oath that echoed off the walls as the two of them entered the side door was best left unheard by any bystander.

"I should cuff both your ears for such language," muttered Philp, his fierce scowl directed as much at himself as at the figure who was glowering back at him. He had known it was going to be difficult to explain things without causing a storm, but he hadn't anticipated quite such a clap of thunder.

"Lud,” he added, “your aunt is leery enough of what you are doing here, without her thinking that I'm turning you into a veritable savage."

The thick tweed cap on his companion’s head came off with a yank of impatience and Miss Derrien Edwards shook out a mass of damp curls.

"I'm not such a gudgeon as to forget myself in front of her or any member of proper Society.

But if Willie and Fergus can say such things when they are angry, why can't I? "

"You know exactly why, lassie."

She made an unladylike sound but fell then silent, her fingers fiddling angrily with a length of tarred twine.

After a few moments, she looked up again, her hazel eyes flashing with fresh indignation.

"Why must you feel obliged to teach some visiting lord to play golf because of some stupid wager? And an English lord at that?"

"Because Bowmont asked me to."

She let out a rude snort. "Since when have you become so... so spineless as to be ruled by the whim of a fancy toff, no matter that he is a marquess and his father a duke?—"

Philp's response was no less emphatic for its quietly measured tone.

"I do it not because he is titled, but because he is my friend," he interrupted, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to his full height.

"On the golf course, I've always held that a man earns respect not for his birth or position in Society but for his character and skill.

Bowmont has both. I am honored that he should seek my help. "

A rush of color flooded Derrien's face and she ducked her head in shame. "I had no right to say such a horrible thing. Forgive me, Hugh. I fear that I let myself become overset for a moment."

"I know, lassie." His tone softened considerably. "I wouldn't have even considered asking you to be involved, I haven’t been able to think of an alternative."

Philp turned, throwing his face into shadow.

He knew enough of her family history to understand her aversion to an Englishman—especially an aristocrat.

Her mother had been Derrien's age, and just as full of dreams that soared far above the stone and mortared walls of her own little shire, when a dashing young English officer had seduced her with lofty promises of a life rich with all manner of new experiences.

Unfortunately, his words were as bankrupt as his morals and purse, once the current quarterly allowance from his family had been squandered in gaming and the pursuit of the fairer sex.

When the gentleman's father discovered the extent of his son's profligate habits in the North and demanded an immediate return to Town, the young officer was quick to slink back to London, leaving her with only a brief note and swelling womb.

There had been little sympathy from her strict Presbyterian father, who declared with solemn finality that his youngest daughter had, quite simply, ceased to exist. If it hadn't been for the generosity of her oldest sister, married and living some distance away in the university town of St. Andrews, Derrien's mother might have been cast out to a life on the streets.

Instead, she was offered a refuge where she might have a chance to put her calamitous mistake behind her and begin life anew.

The new mother and child were welcomed into a home of rather more progressive ideas than existed in most Scottish households.

Anyone who asked about her history was simply told that Derrien’s mother had lost her husband.

Her brother-in-law, a professor of semantics at Union College, had regarded that as true enough.