A Maxwell Mourned (4 page)

‘But you will think over what we were saying, before Ross arrived, Father?’ Meg asked anxiously.

‘Yes, please do,’ Peter urged. ‘We have plenty of rooms and you are very welcome to come and live with us.’

‘Aye, I have thought about it already,’ Cameron said hastily. ‘And I thank ye kindly for your offer, Peter.’ He turned to look at Willie and Ruth. ‘But this is Willie’s place now, and Ruth says she’s willing to move in here, and look after me. This is where I would like to stay for the rest of my time.’

Meg met Ruth’s eyes anxiously.

‘I am sure, Meg.’ Ruth assured her quietly. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time with your father since you left Windlebrae. We get along fine together, and it’s better for Willie to be where the cattle are. Besides, my own father has been spending more and more time down here. I reckon he will be pleased to take over the cottage. I know he will always keep some of his interests in the city, because he is a city man. He will always want to go back there now and then, but he does enjoy the country, and seeing more of his grandchildren.’

Meg nodded, and swallowed the lump in her throat. Peter took her arm.

‘Come on home, Meg. The children and Rachel will be longing to see you. We’ll come back tomorrow,’ he promised.

When they were alone together Cameron and Ross had a long talk. Ross asked all the questions he had been longing to ask about his parents. Cameron answered patiently and truthfully.

‘Your Grandfather Ross left you all he had – two hundred pounds. I tried to keep it for you,’ Cameron told him. He was reluctant to admit Gertrude had given some of it to Josh.’

‘I have had fifty pounds already. I have scarcely spent any of it. I would like to buy a few cows of my own if Mrs Beattie will agree.’

‘Have a look in the bottom drawer of the bureau. There’s a false bottom in it. Press the raised bit. It releases the spring.’

‘I ought to send a telegram to Mrs Beattie, to let her know I am staying for the funeral. Maybe this is the time to write a letter and tell her the truth about myself.’ He shrugged dejectedly. ‘If she rejects me as well then there will be no point in returning.’

As he said that he realised how much Lochandee had come to mean to him. It would be a terrible blow if Alice Beattie rebuffed him. In his heart he did not believe she would. He felt he had earned her trust and respect. She was not a hypocrite about religion, though her standards were high and she was a staunch supporter of the Kirk.

‘What do you mean – if she rejects you? As well?’ Cameron was frowning at him. ‘Why should anyone reject you? Cathie was a good girl. It was fate prevented her getting married before you were born,’ he said defensively. ‘Fate.’ He stared wistfully into space ‘Take whatever life has to offer. Make the best out of it that you can. It’s what I tried to do,’ he added almost to himself, then he looked Ross in the eye. ‘Now open that cash box and see what there is left. There should be a bit put by for our funerals as well.’

‘Very well,’ Ross nodded. ‘But Rachel rejected me you know – and Meg. I wrote to both of them. They never replied.’

As he talked he fumbled around in the drawer of the bureau amongst the papers, but suddenly a small flap opened and in the cavity he saw a cash box and a few letters. He drew them out and carried them to the table beside Cameron Maxwell.

It was Cameron who opened the box. While he was doing so Ross thumbed idly through the papers. He gasped aloud.

‘These are the letters I sent to Rachel, and here’s the one to Meg. They have never been opened!’

Cameron glanced up. He groaned and buried his head in his hands. Eventually he raised his eyes to Ross’s.

‘I didn’t know, laddie. They must have come after Meg and Rachel had moved to Ardmill. Gertrude was very … bitter then. She must have put them away and forgotten.’

They both knew she had not forgotten, but there was little to be gained now that Gertrude Maxwell was dead. What had Rachel thought of his silence all this time? Had she forgotten him? He had an overwhelming desire to see her.

‘There’s only seventy five pounds left … Take it, Ross, and keep it safe.’

‘You fed and clothed me all those years,’ Ross said quietly. ‘I cannot …’

‘And you worked long before you left school. No, laddie this money is yours.’

‘Where is the money for your funerals then?’ Cameron frowned. Slowly he pushed two envelopes across the table, each marked in thick black ink. One, still sealed, bore the name Cameron Maxwell. The other, Gertrude Maxwell, had been opened and emptied.

‘She said things were bad. We’ve been paying a neighbour’s lassie to help since Meg left. Gertrude must have used the money to pay the debts. She would think she could replace it when things got better …’ He sighed and bowed his head wearily. Ross put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

‘I wish I had known the truth, then I’d have understood … things. But you could have put me in an orphanage and I’m grateful you didn’t do that. What money should I have had then? None. So you use some of this money to pay for the funeral, and whatever you need.’

Reluctantly Cameron accepted some of the money. He kept shaking his head.

‘Let me help you to lie down,’ Ross said. ‘You must be exhausted. A sleep would do you good. I saw a new red telephone kiosk at the crossroads. I will cycle down there and send a telegram to Mrs Beattie.’

‘Aye, you do that, Ross. I am more tired than I thought.’

When Alice Beattie received the telegram from Ross her heart sank.

‘He has arrived safely,’ she told Beth and her father who were clearly waiting for news as the telegraph boy cycled away. ‘He was too late but he is staying to the funeral. Will you be able to help with the milking for a few more days, Andy?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Indeed I can, Mrs Beattie. I am enjoying being back on the farm again.’ Alice Beattie made no comment. Her mind was on Ross. The telegram had said, “
Letter following.
” Why did he need to write her a letter if he was coming back in a couple of days? Did his mother’s death mean other changes? Would he be needed there?’ Her heart pounded. She liked Ross Maxwell and Lochandee needed him. She needed him.

Chapter Four

A
FTER ROSS HAD SENT
the telegram he looked around him as he came out of the telephone kiosk. The greyness of the February day was relieved by a glimmer of golden-edged light on the horizon. It would be a keen frost again when darkness fell. He knew he ought to return to Windlebrae without delay but he longed to see Rachel again.

He peddled along the snow rutted roads, scrunching the remaining icy pockets as he went. It was a good three miles further to Ardmill from the crossroads but he had reached the village almost before he was aware of it. He scanned the row of shops and cottages on either side of the deserted street. He saw the shoemaker sitting in the window, making the most of the remaining daylight.

Sam Dewar glanced up, aware of movement outside. He saw the tall young man peddling slowly, so slowly that he almost wobbled off balance. Suddenly he put both feet on the ground, waving an arm and calling excitedly to someone.

Rachel had been gathering in the washing. It had never dried all day. She carried the heavy basket on one hip as she made her way over the icy puddles at the end of the short track between Sam’s premises and Peter’s. She looked up at the sound of her name. She nearly dropped the washing basket at the sight of Ross.

He ran across the road, almost tripping as his leg knocked against the pedals. He always treated his bicycle with the greatest of care but now he abandoned it and ran with open arms.

He caught Rachel ecstatically, swinging her round as effortlessly as if she were a child. Sam, watching unashamedly, saw the radiance which lit Rachel’s face momentarily, before she had time to consider or compose herself. He understood now what had been missing from her gentle smile. Always serene, always pleasant, ever ready with a helping hand – yet there had been a cloud dimming the light. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that this must be the father of her child. He wondered what had kept them apart for so long. He sighed, rejoicing in the happiness of the girl he had come to regard as an exemplar for the daughter he had never had.

Ross set Rachel on her feet and took her face gently between his hands, wiping away two stray tears with the pads of his thumbs, smiling down at her.

‘I thought I would never see you again, Ross.’

‘I did write. Did Meg tell you?’ he asked urgently.

‘Yes.’ He saw the pain in her eyes and understood that the silence and separation had hurt her as badly as it had hurt him.

‘I found the letters in the bureau. She had hidden them.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you Rachel? Did Meg … did she tell you I am not – I am not the son of Cameron and Gertrude Maxwell?’ He stared down at her anxiously.

‘She told me. In a way I am glad.’ She shivered remembering again Gertrude Maxwell’s insane outburst.

‘Glad? Rachel, do you understand? I am a – a bastard?’

‘I understand very well,’ she said sadly.

‘You do not condemn me then? For my parents’ indiscretion?’

‘Who am I to condemn anyone?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Who are you? You are the girl I love. The most important person in my world. Does it matter to you that I am illegitimate? Born in sin?’

‘Did you think my feelings for you so shallow that the circumstances of your birth would change them?’ Rachel asked. The hurt and doubts and fears were evident in her trembling voice.

‘I couldn’t help but doubt when I received no reply to my letters.’ He glanced briefly up the empty street then bent his head, kissing her mouth in a lingering kiss. All the love and desire flooded through her veins like fire but there were more important matters than her own heart’s yearning.

‘Come and meet Conan.’ She slipped from Ross’s embrace and grasped his hand, pulling him towards the back door.

‘Who is Conan? I have not much time, Rachel. I left Father alone and I promised to help Willie with the milking.’ Rachel stared at him.

‘Meg did not tell you?’ she asked hoarsely, her face suddenly pale.

‘Tell me what?’ But Rachel was tugging him urgently now, through a wash-house, across a passage, into a large cheery kitchen. Three small girls sat on a bright rag rug before the fire. A baby chortled happily, waving chubby arms at them, as though eager to join in. Rachel crossed to the pram and lifted him.

‘This is Conan.’ She held the baby towards him. ‘Your son.’

‘My what?’ Ross stepped backwards as though he had been struck.

‘Your son. Our son, Ross …’

‘He can’t be …’ Ross muttered faintly, staring at Rachel. Was she teasing him? Or was he was dreaming.

‘He’s your son.’ Rachel heard the note of consternation in her voice.

‘Are you sure?’ Ross had not meant to blurt out such a stupid question. Later he knew it must have been there, in his subconscious. He could not believe he had fathered a child.

He would have given anything to recall his words. He could have bitten off his tongue. Even so he did not realise how cruelly, how deeply he had hurt Rachel. He saw the horror in her eyes. He watched her face turn pale, her mouth tighten. She squared her shoulders and hugged the baby close. Tears had sprung to her eyes but she turned away. She would never let him see.

Watching, Ross felt she and the child were one. He was shut out – again. Jealousy flared in him. Rachel was his. She belonged to him. He could not believe the child, that tiny stranger was part of her – even less a part of himself. He was too numb for it to register that his reasoning was irrational.

Mrs Jenkins returned to the kitchen with a loaf and a jug of milk she had just collected from Meg in the bake house. She paused in the doorway, sensing the tension in the air. She looked at the tall young man, all six feet of him. His legs looked extremely long with his trousers still held at the ankles by his bicycle clips. She set the provisions on the table and came forward. ‘There’s no doubting who you are,’ she smiled cheerily. ‘Conan’s hair is going to be just like yours – can’t decide whether it wants to wave, curl or just lie straight – so up it turns at the front and won’t lie down no matter how we try.’ Ross stared from the old woman to the child. It was true the baby’s hair was sticking up at the front. When he was a schoolboy Meg had tried many times to brush his own hair flat. She had called his peculiar front quiff a calf’s lick. Mrs Jenkins, head on one side, studied Ross intently. He felt his colour rising at such scrutiny.

‘His eyes have more green than yours, more like his mother’s,’ she nodded. ‘Rachel has a good bit of red in her hair as well.’ Ross wondered whether he had imagined a warning in the old woman’s last remark. Rachel had always had spirit he remembered. He looked at her set mouth. He felt a surge of fear. He must not lose her again. She had managed without him so far. She was proud. She would never plead with him. Conan was her son. He guessed the child had become the most important person in her life during the time they had been apart. Ross looked at Mrs Jenkins. He might face some opposition, but Rachel was his. This time he would fight for her.

‘The wee fellow has his mother’s mouth and nose,’ Mrs Jenkins went on in the way of old ladies. ‘He has her dimple too when he laughs, but he has your jaw. He can be stubborn, young as he is and he’ll be a strong laddie boy when he’s a bit older.’ She surveyed Ross critically.

‘Er … yes, well I shall look forward to – to getting to know him,’ Ross stammered uncertainly. ‘Where’s Meg?’

‘She’s busy in the bakehouse. She was supposed to be resting but there were things she wanted to do for her mother’s funeral.’

‘Of course,’ Ross nodded. ‘I shall see her tomorrow. I must get back now, Rachel. I left Father resting but he will wonder where I am.’ His eyes met hers, pleading with her to accompany him outside. He reached out a hand. She did not take it but she followed him into the passage, still hugging Conan close to her breast, almost as though he afforded her protection.

‘We must talk, Rachel,’ he said urgently as soon as the door had closed behind them. ‘It was such a shock, seeing him – Conan.’ The name was not yet familiar to him. ‘How did you choose his name?’

‘The twins shortened his names to Conan. He is christened Connor Cameron Peter,’ She swallowed hard, trying and failing to keep the hurt and bitterness out of her voice as she added. ‘O’Brian, of course. He’s born out of wedlock too,’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. Ross flushed. He could only guess at the shame she had felt, the stigma of bearing her child without a husband. He knew well enough how the village folk talked, gossiped, condemned. The thought of just such talk had haunted him ever since he had discovered his own roots – or lack of them. Would the shadow of this child’s birth always lay between them? He looked into her eyes. ‘I love you Rachel. If only I had known … We must be married without delay. We must make plans. I will see you at the funeral …’

‘No!’ Then less sharply. ‘No, I cannot attend Mistress Maxwell’s funeral. I shall be needed to care for the children while Meg is away.’ It was true, and she could not bring herself to tell him how she had been whipped out of Windlebrae. The last thing she wanted was to attend Gertrude Maxwell’s funeral and hear everyone saying sweet and pleasant things about her now she was dead. She shuddered. ‘You may call on me here when the funeral is over.’

Ross was taken aback by her new maturity, the gravity and decisiveness she had acquired. She had been a pretty young girl when he went away. The capricious years of teenage seemed to have passed her by almost overnight. As he looked down into her face he noticed the more finely chiselled features of her cheek bones, firmer curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

‘You have grown even more lovely,’ he said softly.

Later, as he helped with the milking, Willie asked,

‘Do you intend to marry Rachel? Better late than not at all. Conan would soon be accepted as a Maxwell. I don’t think you will be able to change his birth certificate officially though.’

‘I want Rachel more than anyone else in the world. I don’t know what my future holds now though.’ He told Willie of the arrangement with Alice Beattie, how he was working for his keep, how she had promised to share some of the profits.

‘I don’t know how she will feel about keeping me on when I have a wife to keep as well.’

‘A wife and son.’ Willie grinned. ‘No, I suppose that will make a difference. Can you trust her? This Mistress Beattie?’

‘Yes, I am sure I can. I feel I belong there. We get on well together.’

‘Well, you can always come back here, Ross, if your Mistress Beattie does not approve of you taking a wife. We would manage somehow.’

‘Thanks ,Willie,’ Ross said quietly. ‘You’re one of the best – just like Fath … just like your father.’

‘You may as well go on calling him Father,’ Willie said wryly. ‘He’s the only one you’ve ever known and he looks upon you as a son. He was always proud of the way you play the fiddle – the only musical Maxwell left, he used to say.’

‘Tonight I will write a letter to Mrs Beattie. I had intended to tell her about myself and my own family anyway – or lack of family. I just can’t believe I have a son.’‘A wife and a son. The people down there need not know when you married.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Ross frowned thoughtfully.‘It would be better for Rachel to be Mrs Maxwell before she arrives in a new village amongst strangers.’

As soon as Cameron Maxwell had settled to sleep Ross found the pen and ink and began a letter to Alice Beattie. He knew the brief sentences were stilted but he did not realise his own hurt showed through, or that the letter would explain so much that had puzzled Alice Beattie. “
I shall understand if you do not wish me to return
,” he concluded, but his heart was heavy at the thought of leaving the farm he had already grown to love.

As he sealed the letter it did not occur to Ross that Rachel might refuse to accompany him. His main concern was whether Mistress Beattie would want a man with a family. If he posted the letter in the morning she would receive it the following day – the day of the funeral. He wondered how long it would take her to consider and write back to him.

Alice Beattie’s response came far quicker than Ross could have anticipated. A telegram was delivered to Windlebrae as the last of the mourners were leaving. When he read the contents he felt more like cheering than mourning, but he had to maintain a modicum of respect. He read and re-read the flimsy yellow page. “
Lochandee needs you. Look forward to your return. A.B
.” It was only when he had read the telegram for about the fourth time that Ross discovered what a great relief it was to know he could return to The Glens of Lochandee. Already it felt like home.

Meg and Peter were staying at Windlebrae until evening to make sure everything was clean and tidy in readiness for Ruth and Willie to move in. Rachel would be alone with the children. Ross decided to cycle to Ardmill and tell her his good news. There was no time to lose. He must arrange their marriage and their return to Lochandee.

In his excitement he announced his plans to Rachel after only a brief greeting.

‘I will make arrangements for our marriage. Then we shall travel to The Glens of Lochandee together. There’s a cottage on the farm where we can live, if Mrs Beattie is agreeable and …’

‘Ross! Please wait!’

‘Wait? What do you mean? I must return as …’

‘You have not even asked me if I want to be your wife,’ Rachel reminded him coolly.

‘But you said you loved me …’ Ross frowned. ‘Have you changed your mind now that you know I am illegitimate …?’ His tone was accusing and defensive.

‘Oh Ross! Forget about yourself! And your parents – or lack of parents. I do love you – or at least I did love you. I am beginning to wonder whether you have changed while you have been away. Our own wee son carries the stigma of being illegitimate. You condemned him to the same fate as you are suffering.’

‘But we shall change that when we are married,’ Ross protested.

‘Nothing can change the facts,’ Rachel declared, remembering the weeks and months she had hoped and prayed for Ross’s return – always in vain.

‘He will have my name of course.’