Margaret merely stood there, jaw flapping wordlessly like a fish out of water.
"I've not had the pleasure," Tom interjected, deflating the tension. Reaching his hand out to her, he said, "I am Thomas Sydserf, and you are clearly the lovely Magda." Looking a bit thrown off, she took his plump, damp hand and nodded.
"Though, James has been remiss and neglected to inform me of your surname."
"I've been trying to extract her origins for the better part of an hour," Margaret interrupted in a chiding voice.
"Oh. Yes, of course, I'm sorry." She gave a small bob of her head to James's sister. "It's Deacon. Magdalen Deacon."
Margaret stared, puzzled. "Is that an Irish name?"
"Her father was a man of the cloth. Some sort of missionary," James said quickly. "Now, dear sister, we'll have plenty of time for your tittle -tattle, but the sun waits for no man and it's currently hastening its way across the sky, taking my game with it. So," he announced, wiping a chunk of turf from the head of his club, "if you've some business with me, you'll need to take it up as I play. I will get in a good game before we leave for Aberdeen."
"Wait," Magda exclaimed, startling everybody. "Isn't that where that friar went? And… you're going?" she asked, forcing calm into her tone.
"You can smooth the worry from that pretty brow." James looked at her with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You're coming with us."
His sister yelped in disbelief.
"Aye, we'll discuss the details as we play."
"Pardon me?" Two bright spots of color flamed Margaret's cheeks. "Our Magda most certainly cannot play your wretched game."
"I, well," Magda interrupted hesitantly, "actually I can play." Feeling an inexplicable mixture of pleasure and pride, James seized her with a look, thinking that somehow he'd expected that very response.
"Come, Margaret, we'll be a foursome," he announced merrily.
"I think not," his sister replied, aghast at the thought. "Women do not play golf."
"Not true, not true." Tom tapped his finge rs to his lips thoughtfully. "Mary Queen of Scots, in fact, played a fine game."
"We'll play a match of foursomes so you'll not have to take a shot each go," James said, trying to convince his sister. "You can forfeit any of your turns to your partner Tom here. But…" He gave a dramatically gusty sigh. "I suppose if you're not up to it, it's good -bye for now. I'll try to grab a moment before I leave Montrose to "—
"All right," Margaret announced, exasperated. "I'll walk with you, but I'll not touch that filthy ball, nor will I muck about in the wet sand."
"Fine, fine!" James grinned.
Magda shot a solid game straightaway, and James watched in frank admiration as she strode confidently across the fairway. She seemed to find comfort in their brisk walking. It was obvious that she knew her way around a course, and James surmised that something so mundane and familiar as a game of golf could be just the thing to loosen her up. "It's a birdie," she announced, as her ball sank into the hole after a slow and uncertain roll in its final inches.
"I beg your pardon, hen?" James squinted, looking up in the sky.
Magda looked confused for a moment. "No, not a bird. I birdied."
His face was open but puzzled. There were few people more conversant than he on the topic of golf, and yet he found he wasn't surprised that this elegant, auburn- haired mystery was able to confound him on that very thing.
"You don't call it that yet?" she asked.
"I suppose not." Squatting, he shaded his hand over his eyes to study the slope of the ground . "Though it was a superb shot."
By the sixth hole, Magda and James had an easy camaraderie, fueled by what was becoming a thorough trouncing of the other pair. Magda, though quiet, seemed to be enjoying the fresh air, and more than once James had spied her with her eyes shut and face turned toward the sun. Another oddity, he thought. Most women shrank from sunshine, and it was refreshing to see one savoring its warmth on her face.
James watched as Magda swung her club back and forth over the ball in extended deliberation, and he finally yielded to temptation, sneaking up behind her to cover her eyes with his hands. He'd taken her by surprise and, guard down, Magda unthinkingly bumped him away playfully with her hip.
"Well," he laughed, taken aback himself, "if you're going to waggle so over that ball, I'll not be able to help myself." They strolled across the fairway in amicable silence, enjoying the sun on their backs and the pounding of the sea in the distance.
James sunk a particularly difficult pitch shot, and Magda startled them both by yelling, "Nice putt!"
Mouth cocked in a half smile, he looked at her, his face unreadable.