A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) (2 page)

‘O’Brian?’ Ross frowned, and rubbed his temple thoughtfully. ‘The name seems familiar … Surely that was the name of the blacksmith who helped me out when my horse cast a shoe? It was the first time I took your place at the fiddling.’

‘That’s right … the MacEwan wedding, over at Bonnybrae. You met O’Brian’s lassie, I believe?’

Ross supped several spoonfuls of porridge as his mind moved back to the evening two years ago. His father had already suffered a seizure and he was to take his place entertaining at a wedding feast. He had been seventeen and nervous. His tension had increased unbearably when his horse cast a shoe, threatening to make him late.

‘What was she like?’ Cameron prompted.

‘Who? Oh, the O’Brian child. She was about thirteen I suppose. Not very tall, but she was a spirited young imp.’ He frowned, remembering how she had told him he would need to go to the next village to get his horse shod. It was a three mile detour and he suspected she was misleading him. Tension had made him angry but she would have let him make the journey if her father had not appeared and asked what business he had with his daughter. They had been very close – very protective of each other – father and daughter.

Ross remembered feeling a pang of envy at the bond they shared. She had not wanted her father to blow up the bellows to shoe any more horses that night. Later she explained that O’Brian had suffered pains in his chest and the doctor had warned him to take care.

‘Was she like her father?’ Cameron persisted.

‘Not really. She moved so lightly it was almost as though she danced along on her bare feet. Her father was dark and thick set.’

‘Aye, that’s Connor all right. Tell me more about his lassie?’

‘There’s nothing to tell, except she made me angry. She was sitting on a wee humpback bridge at the entrance to the village so I stopped to ask directions. She seemed to want me out of the village almost before I had even entered it.’ He remembered the way she had swung her legs to dry them after paddling in the burn. Her hair was in a long thick pleat down her back but it curled in damp tendrils around her face. He had not been sure whether she was laughing at him or angry with him. Her greenish blue eyes had sparkled as brightly as the ripples of water glinting in the sunlight.

‘O’Brian attended to my horse, in spite of his daughter’s protests. He instructed her to bring me a glass of buttermilk and a scone. He would have detained me longer when he knew who I was. I remember telling you he seemed eager for news of you. Why has he written after all this time?’

He sensed the tension in the air and glanced to the other end of the table. His mother’s eyes were fixed on her porridge, the thin line of her mouth making her lips invisible. His heart sank. What had he done now? He always seemed to be the cause of their mother’s displeasure. As a child he had often been hurt and bewildered by her caustic tongue but she had never shown him tenderness. Sometimes he had considered running away.

Meg, nearly ten years older than himself, had been more of a mother to him, offering comfort, cuddling him when he was frightened, calming his temper when he grew into a rebellious teenager. As he grew older he had learned to hide his feelings. Some people thought him arrogant but Meg understood it was only a shell for his own protection.

He longed to make a life of his own. He dreamed of renting a farm, of proving that he was just as good as any other son, but he had no money and no hope of earning any. Their mother handled everything now and she believed food and clothes were more than sufficient payment no matter how hard he worked. Someday he would go off to the hiring fairs to find work with some other farmer if things did not improve. Only the thought of leaving his father held him back.

‘Why did Mr O’Brian write you a letter, Father?’ Meg repeated Ross’s question.

‘He’s dying.’ Cameron’s reply was stark. ‘He’s worried about his daughter, Rachel. He wants us to give her a home.’

Gertie gave a snort of contempt.

‘Ah, now I see …’ Ross nodded.

‘Her mother died when the lassie would be about eight or nine,’ Cameron Maxwell mused. ‘Connor had no relations this side o’ the water.’

‘What about her mother’s family?’ Ross asked.

‘A bunch of weaklings.’ Gertie spoke derisively.

‘Her two brothers were fine men,’ Cameron Maxwell protested. ‘The younger one was killed in France at the end of the war. The older one died with consumption. Neither of them married so O’Brian’s bairn will be scarce o’ relations.’

‘Then of course she must come here …’ Meg jumped as her mother thumped her fist upon the scrubbed table.

‘No one asked your opinion my girl!’ Meg clenched her fingers. She had a tender heart, but she hated arguments.

‘But surely if the child has nowhere to live …’

‘She’s not a child. She’s nearly sixteen, and if she takes after her father she’ll be a born philanderer already.’

‘That’s not fair, Gertie,’ Cameron protested. ‘Connor was true to Mhairi. Even after she died he never married again. Anyway, the lassie will be coming here. She will help with the dairy and the hens. Connor writes that she’s a good hand at the baking and she can churn butter to match the best.’

‘Typical of him to boast.’ Gertie snapped. Cameron ignored her.

‘When you’ve finished in the dairy, Meg, come and write a reply for me.’ Meg glanced at her mother. There were few letters written at Windlebrae and it was usually her mother who wrote them since her father had suffered the seizure.

Both Ross and Meg were glad to escape to the warmth and peace of the byre where their brother, Willie, was already feeding the cows with chopped turnips.

Willie lived in a neat house just a quarter of a mile from Windlebrae Farm road end. He, too, had been glad to escape from their mother’s bitter tongue. He had a wife called Ruth and a three- year-old daughter, Annie. Ruth had recently given birth to a son. They planned to christen him Donald Joseph, but already Gertie called him her ‘wee Josh’.

Fortunately Ruth had a placid temperament, though Willie declared she had an iron will underneath. He insisted she was the only woman he knew who was a match for his mother.

‘I wouldn’t like to be in the lassie’s shoes if she’s coming here against mother’s will,’ Willie remarked now.

‘Father says she has nowhere else to go.’ Meg’s eyes were troubled.

‘Do you think she will help with the work if she comes?’

‘I expect so.’ Ross’s face broke into a grin. ‘We shall have to unite. It will make a change to have someone else to share the sharp end of Mother’s tongue.’

‘You’re a hard-hearted wretch!’ Willie laughed, punching him playfully. ‘You can stick up for yourself, but it’s different for a young lassie alone in the world.’

‘I think we should all be extra kind to her. It will be lovely to have someone young in the house, but I hope mother will soon get used to her.’ Meg said.

Willie and Ross raised sceptical eyebrows but even they could not have guessed the repercussions Gertrude’s actions would have on their lives, and the generation to come.

Two weeks later the black-edged envelope arrived with news of Connor O’Brian’s death.

‘I wish I had been able to attend his funeral,’ Cameron sighed, ‘for old times’ sake. Don’t you remember, Gertie, the grand fun we had when we were all at the village school? It was a pity we lost touch when Connor moved away. He always had a great way with animals, especially horses.’

‘Well you’re not fit to go anywhere. That’s the end of it so stop your foolish reminiscing.’

‘I made a promise to a dying man. Ross has met Rachel O’Brian. He can take my place at the funeral. He must bring the lassie back with him.’

‘No! I told you, I will not have her here …’

‘A promise is a promise.’

Gertie stared at him tight lipped. He really meant it. She had always been a little in awe of that resolute gleam in Cameron’s eyes. He had rarely raised his voice, or his hand, to any of his family, but they respected him and they all knew better than to defy that look.

‘I don’t want Mhairi MacLean’s brat under my roof.’

‘Windlebrae is still mine, Gertie. While I live, I am master in my own house. If the lassie needs a home Ross must bring her back.’ Gertie glared at him, then turned on her heel and left the kitchen.

She did not return until it was time for the midday meal. Long before then Cameron felt a desperate need to relieve himself. He realised this was Gertie’s way of punishing him. She had not even left his two sticks near his chair. They were propped in a corner by the door.

It was a supreme effort of will to struggle outside and down to the privy. In spite of the smells which pervaded the earth closet when the wooden lid was lifted, Cameron sat for a long time, leaning forward on his sticks, his eyes closed. His lean buttocks felt as though they had been welded to the hole in the long wooden bench. He hauled himself up with a sigh of resignation. Far better if the good Lord had taken me and left Connor O’Brian to care for his own lassie, he thought.

Eventually he regained his wooden armchair beside the kitchen fire. He was exhausted and Meg and Ross found him sleeping uncomfortably when they came in for their meal.

The sleep had refreshed Cameron, even though he had wakened with a crick in his neck. His resolve hardened and he gave them the news about the funeral.

‘I want you to go in my place, Ross. Drop the milk off at the station then you can take the pony and trap. If the lassie wants to bide a while with us at Windlebrae you must bring her back with you.’

‘But surely Willie should take your place, Father?’ Ross did not relish the task of hauling a weeping child all the way back to Windlebrae.

‘You have met her, and her father. It will be better if you go. Treat her kindly.’

Meg and Ross glanced to the other end of the table. Gertrude’s face seemed carved in stone and Meg’s heart went out to Rachel O’Brian.

Chapter Two

I
T WAS A COLD
day at the end of February, but even allowing for the chill wind, and the ravages of sorrow, Ross was shocked by the frail appearance of Rachel O’Brian. Only two years ago she had sparkled with youth and joy, her smile that of a mischievous child, her eyes glowing with challenge. The ashen-faced young woman he saw now looked as though a puff of wind might blow her away. She was clad from head to toe in black, her bright hair hidden beneath her hat.

The whole of the village, indeed most of the parish, seemed to have turned out to pay their last respects to the blithe and obliging blacksmith who had tended their horses, mended ploughs and fashioned fire irons. Apparently the son of a neighbouring blacksmith had taken over his trade. Ross listened silently to the whispered comments of the men who overflowed from the house into the garden, waiting to hear the minister’s last blessing. He learned that O’Brian’s successor was hard and unyielding. If a man did not have the money in his hand his horse was turned away unshod.

‘Connor couldna bear to see a horse neglected for want o’ a copper or two.’

‘That’s true enough, but he was too trusting for his own good. There’s some who could have afforded his fee twice over but still pleaded poverty. I’ll wager they’ll walk away from his lassie today like the hypocrites they are.’

‘Aye, ye’re right there, John! And there’s one o’ them!’ The man gave a nod and a knowing glance. Ross followed his eyes to the undertaker and the gleaming hearse pulled by a black horse.

On the way back from the graveside a man fell into step beside Ross.

‘Would I be right in thinking ye’re a Maxwell from Windlebrae?’

‘Why, yes. Yes, I am.’ Ross smiled down at the middle aged man beside him. The man nodded.

‘I’d know that smile anywhere,’ he said softly, almost to himself. ‘My name is Jim MacDonald. I’m a distant relative of Gertrude’s. I live down in Dumfriesshire now, not far frae the Border. I came up for my aunt’s funeral. She was ninety-one. It’s a good age, eh? I’m doing a bit o’ visiting while I’m here. Looking up old friends, and a few remaining relations. Maybe I’ll call in at Windlebrae …’ He chatted on about the trains he had to catch until someone else came and interrupted. Ross did not see the man again.

Towards the end of the day a crippled old woman laid a gnarled hand on Ross’s arm. He had noticed she had scarcely left Rachel O’Brian’s side all day. She bid him accompany her to her cottage a few yards down the village street. Rachel herself had not yet spoken to him but he had been struck by her quiet dignity as she talked briefly with each one who had turned out to see her father on his last journey. Now, seeing the old woman take his arm, she came towards them. When she raised her face to his he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked weary enough to drop where she stood.

‘This is Mrs Ferguson, Mr Maxwell. Nearly everyone calls her Granny Ferguson. If you will go with her I will follow in a few minutes.’ She looked around the nearly deserted living room and her thin face crumpled. She swallowed convulsively, striving for control. ‘I just have to make sure everything is tidy, then pay Mr Steele for the use of the hearse before I leave. I shall not keep you waiting long.’

Ross nodded. ‘Take your time,’ he said gruffly, a little overawed by her youthful dignity and competence.

‘My box is packed. It’s at Granny’s cottage.’

‘You come with us now, lassie,’ Minnie Ferguson hissed softly through the gaps in her teeth. She tugged at Rachel’s sleeve. ‘You can leave Jake Steele to me. Rumour has it he owed your father more than you’re ever likely to owe him.’

‘Granny Ferguson’s right, lass.’ Another woman, who was flicking away imaginary specks, paused beside them. ‘I’ll see that everything’s tidy here for Mistress Black – not that the besom deserves it!’ she muttered angrily. She looked at Ross curiously, then explained. ‘Her man took over the smiddy last year, but the Laird promised Connor that he and Miss Rachel could keep the house for as long as they needed it. Master Black and his wife could scarcely wait for the poor man to draw his last breath before they were on the doorstep asking how soon this wee lass would be out. I ken, because I live next door, and there’s not much I miss.’ Again Ross found himself nodding but a gentle tug on his arm prompted him.

‘I must go. I’m sure Miss O’Brian is grateful for your help.’

‘Aye, I ken fine she is. Just you see your folks take good care o’ her. She’s needing a kindly body to care after all she’s been through.’ The woman gave Rachel an unexpected hug. ‘Ye were always a good-natured wee lassie,’ she added huskily. Ross watched helplessly as tears filled Rachel’s eyes. Minnie Ferguson saw too and ushered her firmly towards the door.

‘Come on now, lassie. My old legs will not hold me up much longer this day.’ She glanced back at the empty living room and shook her white head wonderingly. ‘I don’t know where all the food went.’

It was true, Ross reflected. The table had been laden with bannocks and oatcakes, scones, butter and jam, a cheese, as well as gingerbread and apple pies.

‘Everyone has been kind,’ Rachel murmured wearily. ‘Almost every woman in the village brought something.’

‘It was no more than you deserved, lassie – you and your father. There’ll be many a one wishes they could do more to help now.’ The old woman sighed. ‘If only I could have …’

‘I know, Granny, I know.’ Rachel squeezed the old woman’s arm as she helped her hobble with painful slowness across the village street to her own tiny one-roomed cottage.

The early darkness of the February day was almost upon them as Ross and Rachel set out on the journey back to Windlebrae. Unknown to her mother, Meg had stowed a blanket beneath the seat of the trap. Ross remembered her instructions and tucked it round Rachel as if she was the child he remembered. He buttoned up his cape collar and pulled his father’s hat more closely onto his head against the rising wind. Soon he would stop to light the two lanterns which would guide them homeward, but for the time being he was intent on making the best speed the pony could manage in the remaining light.

It was dark and bitterly cold by the time Ross drove the trap up the final stretch. They had talked little on the journey. He had sensed the deepening sadness settling over his young companion now that the day’s events were past, but eventually exhaustion claimed her. After several jerky attempts to stay awake fatigue overcame her. When her head fell against his shoulder Ross leaned closer so that she might rest more comfortably.

A single lamp burned in the kitchen at Windlebrae, and even it was turned low. Ross frowned. Surely they had not all gone to bed? His parents slept in the box bed at one side of the fire. Surely mother could have waited for us, he thought wearily. He was tired, cold and hungry. He needed to attend to the pony, but how could he leave an exhausted young stranger alone in a dark and silent house?

Meg must have been listening for them. Seconds later she appeared in her flannel night gown with a large knitted shawl pulled around her shoulders.

‘I told you to get to your bed, girl!’ Her mother’s stern voice came from the dark depths of the alcove. So! His mother had not been asleep, he thought indignantly, but she had not uttered a word of welcome.

‘They must be cold and hungry, Mother,’ Meg protested and for once she turned her back defiantly. ‘You must be Rachel.’ She gave an encouraging smile and drew the forlorn figure towards the rag rug in front of the hearth. ‘I made some gruel earlier,’ she added looking at Ross. ‘Or there is broth left in the pot. I’ll poke up the fire and hook it on the sway to heat. It will be ready by the time you have bedded the pony.’

‘I’m ready for it, and I’m sure Miss O’Brian must need something to warm her. Thank you, Meg.’ Ross’s eyes met hers, expressing his gratitude. She gave him a wry smile. They both knew their mother was going to need a great deal of humouring. Even so they were taken aback when Gertie hauled herself up on her elbow and spoke with the icy tones Ross knew so well.

‘You girl! Your room is through there.’ She pointed to a darkened corner of the kitchen, next to the larder. Meg gasped, but her mother went on remorselessly. ‘Be out at the byre by five o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t be late for the milking.’

‘Mother! She canna sleep in there! My bed is plenty big enough for two …’ Meg protested.

‘That’s where she’ll sleep if she stays here.’

‘Th-thank you ma’am,’ Rachel stammered, but she could not suppress a shudder. Where was the kindly welcome her father had assured her she would receive?

‘I shall be all right,’ she whispered in a choked voice as her eyes met Meg’s. She looked and sounded so young and dejected that Meg almost wept. The room her mother had prepared had once been a larder for storing salt meat because it was the coldest corner in the house. It had a single pane of glass, no more than nine inches square. It was bare and damp.

‘Let… lassie sleep with … Meg.’ Cameron’s voice, slurred with drug induced sleep, rumbled from somewhere behind his wife.

‘I’ve told her where she’s to sleep.’

‘Tomorrow … soon enough …’ Cameron muttered with a great effort. Ross, on his way to the door to see to the pony, turned, remembering.

‘I met a man named Jim MacDonald at the funeral. He reckons he’s a distant relation.’ He was astonished when such a trivial bit of news effectively diverted their mother’s attention.

‘Jim MacDonald?’ Gertie stared. ‘What was he doing at Connor O’Brian’s funeral?’

Ross moved back to the alcove, jerking his head towards the stairs. Meg needed no further prompting. She took Rachel’s hand and led her up to her own attic bedroom above the kitchen.

‘I will bring you something hot on a tray,’ she whispered. ‘You climb into bed and get yourself warm.’

Downstairs Gertie had not even noticed as Ross went on,

‘He plans to call on us.’

‘What was Jim MacDonald doing up here?’ she repeated. ‘His parents moved to a farm near Lockerbie in Dumfriesshire.’

‘He came up to Ayrshire to attend another funeral – his aunt, or great-aunt, I believe.’ Ross frowned, trying to recall the brief meeting, little realising the importance it would play in his own life.

‘My father and Jim MacDonald’s father were cousins,’ Gertrude mused aloud, her mind concentrating on the family connections.

‘The old lady was ninety-two.’ Ross supplied obligingly. ‘He’s staying with friends on the other side of the glen, so that he can catch the milk train to Kilmarnock on Friday morning. There’s a train south from there.’ Ross stifled a yawn. ‘I must see to the pony now.’

Rachel trembled as she climbed into Meg’s large bed. The prospect of living with Mistress Maxwell was daunting. She was not afraid to work, but she sensed Mistress Maxwell did not want her at Windlebrae. Yet what alternative did she have? She remembered the dismay she had felt when she discovered her father had no money to pay the doctor’s fee. She had already killed the pig. When the hens stopped laying she had made them into soup, praying that nourishing food would restore him back to health, or at least keep him alive. At the thought of her beloved father, the scalding tears spilled once more. She wished she could join him. Surely the grave could be no less welcoming than this house?

Granny Ferguson would have given her a home, but she had no space and little money. Her cottage belonged to the Laird and would return to him when she died. She could not inflict herself on an old woman of ninety, even if she could have found work. Doctor Gall said there were a million unemployed men in the country and work was hard to find even for men in desperate need of it.

Well, she was young and strong and she would work hard and prove that she was worthy of her keep. A hazy memory of her mother floated into her mind. She remembered the soft voice telling her always to say her prayers each night, and to think of pleasant things before she settled down to sleep. Wearily she scrambled out of bed and knelt down to pray. This was the way Meg found her when she returned with hot milk and bread and butter.

It would take a great many prayers to win her mother round, Meg thought, in spite of her assertions that she was a God-fearing Christian. Even Meg did not suspect the depth of her mother’s bitterness, much less its cause and a growing obsession for revenge.