A Maxwell Mourned (8 page)

‘And a beautiful companion makes it perfect,’ he twinkled, and chuckled aloud when he saw the faint blush which still mounted her cheeks when he paid her compliments. Usually it was too dark to see her face when he held her in his arms at night in the big feather bed. Today was theirs.

They found a grassy hollow to eat their picnic and Conan whooped with glee to find so many new places to explore while Rachel set out the food. It did not worry him when his short legs tripped on an unexpected stone or tussock of grass. He simply picked himself up and toddled on again.

Ross stretched his long legs and walked to the side of the loch, peering down into the clear rippling water.

‘It seems quite shallow as far as I can see,’ he told Rachel, ‘but old Mr Pearson told me it’s just like a narrow shelf around the edges and then it falls steeply like an underwater ravine. He says it can be a dangerous place, even for strong swimmers, unless they are aware of the structure. Apparently the shallow edges and the pebbles get warm from the sun but the rest of the water is hundreds of feet deep and it’s icy cold all year round. Can you swim, Rachel?’

‘No, can you?’

‘No. I never lived near any water deep enough to swim in at Windlebrae – and as you know,’ he grimaced ruefully, ‘we didn’t get much spare time for walks to the river.’

‘I know.’ Rachel gave Ross a sympathetic smile before turning her attention to their son. ‘Conan! Conan, come and eat your sandwiches.’

He came running as fast as his small legs would bring him, clasping a fat worm in one chubby fist and two small smooth pebbles in the other. He laid his treasure proudly in Rachel’s lap. He looked quite hurt when she tossed the worm away.

‘Mr Worm wants to go back home,’ she explained patiently. ‘He lives underneath the earth in a cosy little tunnel.’

‘Worm get dirty?’ he enquired, ‘like Conan?’

‘No, never as dirty as Conan,’ she laughed, wiping his grubby hands and handing him his favourite, an egg sandwich. He drank thirstily at the home-made lemonade made from a recipe belonging to Alice Beattie’s grandmother. It was deliciously refreshing. Afterwards Conan stretched out on his tummy on his own small blanket and began to play with the pebbles, tipping them from one hand into the other and trying to sit one on top of the other. Lulled by the soft intermittent talk of his parents and warmed by the spring sunshine he fell asleep.

Ross pulled Rachel to her feet and lifted their own rug a little distance away out of the hollow and out of Conan’s line of vision. He sank down onto it, holding his arms wide, inviting Rachel to join him. The desire in his blue eyes belied his innocent smile. Rachel’s heart skipped. It seemed so long since they had been alone together – really alone. She clasped his outstretched hands. He gave a gentle tug, pulling her off balance so that she fell on top of him. He laughed softly as his lips found hers.

They lingered over their loving, savouring each precious moment, each tender caress. They kissed and touched and loved again, rising to the enchanted heights together. At length Rachel dozed dreamily, her head cushioned on Ross’s broad chest, his hand cupping the roundness of her breast.

How long they languished in their private heaven neither of them knew. It was the stir of a cooler breeze through the grasses which made Rachel sit up, remembering Conan, thinking it was time to waken him and start on the homeward journey if they were to be back to begin the milking. She stretched luxuriously and dropped a light kiss on Ross’s parted lips. He seized her and would have held her close once more.

‘Conan,’ she murmured. ‘He will wake soon.’ She stood up and brushed her skirts, rearranging her clothes before she peered over into the grassy hollow. The blanket was there, the dimple where Conan’s small head had rested – but of the little boy there was no sign.

‘Oh my goodness. Conan has gone! He’s gone!’ Her voice rose in panic.

‘He can’t have gone!’ Ross jumped to his feet, fastening his braces as he did so, hurrying to her side, his feet hastily stuffed into his boots, laces flying.

‘He’s not here. He’s nowhere around!’ Rachel wailed. She stuffed her fist into her mouth. She had to stop the screams before they started. ‘Conan! Conan, where are you? Oh please come back to Mama. Please! Conan …’

‘Conan!’ Ross bellowed loudly. ‘Answer me!’

‘Oh please don’t be cross with him, Ross.’ Weeping now Rachel clutched his arm. ‘He’ll never come back if thinks we are angry with him.’

‘Conan!’ Ross shouted again, less fiercely. And again. There was no reply. He looked down into Rachel’s white face, her huge green eyes swamped with tears. ‘We’ll find him.’ He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly but Rachel shrank away.

‘If only …’

‘You search along the path that way,’ Ross instructed. ‘I will – I will walk along the edge of the – the water …’

‘The water! Oh dear God, the water. Please don’t let him be in the water.’ She began to sob.

‘Don’t Rachel! Control yourself now. Search for him. Keep shouting. Shout his name.’ He shook her, none too gently. He was struggling to contain his own panic. ‘His name, Rachel. Then listen. Do you understand me?’ She nodded dumbly and began to walk along the path, weaving in and out of bushes and small trees and ferns. The day which had seemed so beautiful was now filled with the darkest possible clouds – clouds of misery and guilt. She had forgotten Conan in the sweet ecstasy of Ross’s loving.

‘Conan!’ she called between hiccupping sobs. There was no reply. She began to run. She did not know why. She turned and looked back. Surely a small boy could never have strayed so far? He might have gone in the opposite direction. She turned to retrace her steps, willing herself to go more slowly, to search under every clump and tussock, however unlikely. There was nothing.

She reached Ross, pacing along the edge of the loch, his eyes glued to its rippling surface.

‘There’s no sign of him,’ he whispered hoarsely.

Only now did he appreciate the son he had sired. He had been jealous. Yes, jealous of the child who had caused Rachel to suffer. Jealous of the tiny person who had had her love and care during the long months he had yearned for her. What kind of man was he?

‘W-would there be – if he’s d-drowned, I mean? Signs?’ Rachel was looking up at him, her eyes huge and dark with terror.

‘We’ll find him. He can’t be far away.’ We must, he added under his breath. We must. He rubbed his temple, frowning. ‘I’ll go a bit further away from the loch. He may have wandered further into the trees and lost his way.’

‘He’s so small …’ Rachel’s voice wobbled.

‘You go in that direction this time. I’ll go the same way but twenty yards or so further in. We must search thoroughly.’ Ross said in desperation. Alice Beattie would wonder where they were when they did not return for the milking. Alice loved Conan too, and Beth adored him. ‘Dear God,’ he muttered aloud, ‘help us.’

They had walked several hundred yards and Rachel was certain Conan would not have come so far without being distracted. He was always stopping to poke or push, to ask questions … She bit back a sob. Supposing those big enquiring eyes never gazed up at her again, so full of trust. How could she have let him down so cruelly. She put a hand to her brow and scanned the area. Further back, nearer to their picnic spot, and further into the wood there seemed to be a big dark hump and a sort of path into the trees. She made her way back to it without much hope. She dare not look at the water. She could not bear to think of her beloved child lying in a cold watery grave. She began to shiver, although it was still warm in the sunlight.

As she drew nearer to the hump she realised it was an uprooted tree. It must have been ancient and massive judging by the crater its roots had left. The path she had hoped to follow was no more than the dark shape of the trunk lying across the broken bracken and undergrowth. She made her way disconsolately around the ugly upended root and glanced down into the hole.

‘Conan!’ she gasped. ‘Oh Conan!’ His tiny head was wedged against the knot of a smaller root still bound by stones and debris. Most of his small body was covered in loose earth. ‘Ross …. Ross …He is here!’ she screamed as she scrambled into the earthy pit, slipping and slithering in the loose soil.

‘Conan …’ she breathed tenderly. He did not stir. She knew instinctively he was not sleeping. He was so still. So white …Rachel dropped to her knees beside his inert body. She brushed back the earth which had half covered him. Her leaden heart seemed to stop.

Chapter Nine

R
OSS RAN FORWARD
. T
HERE WAS
no sign of Rachel. Had he imagined her call?

‘Where are you? Rachel?’ He stared around the deserted woodland.

‘Ross … Down here. In the hole. Behind the tree roots. He’s dead! Oh, Ross, my baby’s dead.’ He peered round the side of the huge upended tree. Rachel stared up at him. Her eyes were twin pools, dark with despair.

‘He can’t be dead,’ he breathed incredulously. ‘Hold on Rachel. I’m coming round the other side.’

Rachel was cradling Conan’s still little body in her arms now, rocking him back and forth, whimpering softly against the bump on his forehead.

Ross knelt beside her and gently took the small body in his arms, brushing back the soft hair. He put his lips to the small tiny rosebud mouth. Rachel watched as Ross bowed his head against Conan’s narrow chest.

‘I-I think he’s still breathing! Rachel …?’

‘But he’s so still …’

‘Let’s get him out of here. Can you scramble back out of this hellish hole? Look I’ll wedge my boot into the edge to give you a foot hold. Hurry now.’

‘Oh, don’t drop him, Ross.’ Breathlessly Rachel scrambled on all fours out of the cavity. Carefully Ross held the child up to her outstretched arms. Then he heaved himself after them, swiftly taking Conan once more, pressing his ear to the little chest.

‘Is he breathing, Ross? Is he?’ Rachel was in an agony of impatience at his indecision. Conan seemed so lifeless.

‘I’m not sure … Let me carry him to the side of the loch. Could you wipe his face? Clean the wound on his temple …’ Rachel ran ahead. She had already dipped her handkerchief into the clear water as Ross laid Conan on the ground. She wiped away the mud and Ross dipped his own handkerchief into the water and helped her.

‘Ross!’ Rachel’s voice was a strangled squeak. ‘His eyelid fluttered. I-I’m sure it did …’ Her voice faltered into silence. Had she imagined it? Ross bent down and carefully wiped Conan’s cheeks and hair. He scarcely knew what else to do, yet he could not believe that the child was dead. He had been so full of life and the joy of living … As he stared down at the white face the small lips parted slightly and closed again.

‘He did move, Rachel! Perhaps we should give him a drink?’

‘Yes. No. I mean I don’t know … He might choke. Let me hold him, Ross. Please.’ She cradled Conan tenderly in her arms and pressed her lips against his petal soft cheek.

‘Ma-ma,’ It was no more than a whisper but Rachel knew she had not imagined it.

‘He is alive, Ross! He is, he is …’ She began to weep, her tears raining down onto her child’s face. ‘Bring the blanket. We must keep him warm.’ Ross obeyed.

‘Ma-ma …’ the little voice was clearer, more plaintive. Ross gave a huge sigh of relief. ‘Head hurted.’

‘Yes, oh yes, my darling babe, I know. Mama – and Dada – will make it better.’

‘We should get him to the doctor?’ Ross suggested. ‘Could we make a sort of sling for him?’ He sounded diffident. ‘Use the blanket and the bag we brought for the picnic. We ought not to shake him about …Will you cycle ahead and warn the doctor? We will go back the way we came. It’s shorter. You know the doctor’s house is the red sandstone one at the fork of the roads?’

It was only when Rachel reached the village and saw people staring at her that she realised what a dirty mess she must look. She did not care. She did not stop, not even to greet Mr Pearson who was enjoying a Sunday afternoon rest outside his cottage door. Fortunately Doctor MacEwan was at home.

Two days later, apart from a dark bruise and a tender cut at his temple, Conan seemed to be none the worse for his adventure. He would forget, but Rachel knew she never would. The shock and horror she had experienced that Sunday afternoon would remain with her. She had to prevent herself from being over-protective in the weeks which followed.

Rachel noticed a change in Ross’s attitude too. He did not criticise when she gave Conan her attention and he seemed more patient and attentive. Conan responded with enthusiasm. Ross’s attitude to his child had troubled Alice and she was relieved to see him making more effort.

‘I never had any doubt that Conan was Ross’s son,’ she told Rachel one day when they were working together. ‘In his heart I don’t think he has any doubts either, but he did seem very resentful of Conan, almost jealous.’

‘I think the shock of thinking Conan had drowned made both of us appreciate him more,’ Rachel agreed. Deep down she knew Ross would always be a little jealous of her love for Conan. Although he was a grown man, and well-respected by those around him, she knew there was a chink in his armour and she blamed Gertrude Maxwell’s lack of loving for making him vulnerable.

‘How did Conan fall into the hole?’ Alice asked.

‘He had been playing with a worm. I told him Mr Worm lived in a tunnel underground. He thought he had found Mr Worm’s house and he fell in.’

Rachel did not accompany Ross to the Rent Dinner with the other tenants and their wives. She had made herself a dress, with Alice’s help, determined that Ross should be proud of her but when the day came she was suffering from a stomach upset and blamed the fish which Ross had brought home after a visit to the market in Annan. Two weeks later, in mid June, she knew it was not the fish which made her feel so squeamish every morning. This time she knew the cause of the sickness.

She hugged her secret to herself, wanting to be certain before she told Ross. She was delighted they were to have another baby, but she worried whether he would share her happiness.

Although Alice had no children of her own she guessed the reason for Rachel’s frequent bouts of sickness. When the haymaking started in July and Rachel had not confided in her she broached the subject herself.

‘I don’t think you should work so hard at the hay-making this year, Rachel,’ she voiced her concern. ‘You must consider your health.’

Rachel looked at her sharply, then she smiled.

‘You have guessed?’

‘Yes. You are usually so brisk and fresh in the mornings. There had to be a reason for the change in you, and for that secret glint of happiness in your eyes in spite of the sickly spasms. What else could do that except a baby?’

‘I can’t keep my secret very well,’ Rachel smiled ruefully. ‘I do hope Ross will be pleased. You don’t mind another baby to disturb your household?’ Rachel asked anxiously as the thought occurred to her.

‘No. We all enjoy Conan, but it would be a pity to spoil him. I do think you should tell Ross though. Haymaking is hard work, especially forking hay up into the lofts.’

Rachel took Alice’s advice and confided in Ross before they went to sleep that night. He was delighted and concerned and full of questions. Sadly she remembered how much of Conan’s birth he had missed. This baby would be like his first born to Ross. Later she had reason to be thankful she had told him before they had an unexpected visitor.

The last two short rows of hay from the low meadow had made up barely half a load.

‘The boss says we should start the milking as soon as we get this into the loft,’ Sandy Kidd announced. ‘He’s taking the horse and rake into the next field. We are to start carting in again as soon as milking is finished.’

‘I’ll fork this to the loft then,’ Beth volunteered. ‘It’s so hot up there now that it’s nearly full.’

‘All right, lassie, Alfie and me will deal with the loft, if you’re sure you can manage.’

‘I’ll take Bonny from the shafts and water her at the trough before I bring in the cows,’ Rachel said. ‘They will be ready for milking as soon as you have all finished unloading the cart.’

There were two hay lofts at Lochandee, both with stone stairs leading from the main yard to a full-size door. Each loft had a trapdoor in the floor for pushing the hay to the byre or to the stable below. The backs of these buildings faced into a small stack yard with fields beyond. In the high unbroken walls were two small half-size doors into which the hay was forked when the carts were brought in from the field.

It was always quiet on this side of the farm. Visitors rarely found their way round about, so Beth was startled out of her wits when a man’s voice boomed beside the almost empty cart.

‘Surely Maxwell has men to fork up the hay?’

Beth stared down at the portly figure. She had never seen him before.

‘It was only half a load. Anyway I offered. Needed a bit of fresh air. If it’s Mr Maxwell you are wanting, he’s still in the hayfield.’

‘I know. I saw him from the road as I was riding by.’

‘Mistress Beattie is at the house.’ Beth was beginning to feel uncomfortable under the man’s close scrutiny. She flung up the last forkful of hay. Alfie caught it and dragged it into the loft. ‘That’s the last of this load, Alfie,’ she called. His only reply was a sort of cackle followed by the shutting of the little door to let her know he had understood. Beth drew a sigh of relief and wished the man would go away. Forking up so high was harder work than she had imagined, in spite of the fresh air.

‘Let me help you down.’

‘That’s all right I can manage.’ Beth was reluctant to take the man’s hand. It looked white and flabby. His eyes seemed to be boring through her cotton frock.

‘Come on. Give me your hand.’

Beth could scarcely avoid him, standing so close to the side of the cart. Frowning, she gave him her hand. He gave her a little jerk forward almost pulling her off balance, but instead of putting his other hand up to support her, he pushed it unerringly up the inside of her skirt. Beth gasped and tried to jump back but the hand gripping hers was stronger than it looked.

‘Let me go! Take your hand away from me!’ Beth flared, more angry than frightened.

‘Come now, that’s no way to speak to the Factor. I could make life easy for a pretty lass like you …’ His eyes narrowed at her glare of contempt. ‘Or I could make it difficult for a mere maid.’

‘You! The Factor?’ Beth was incredulous. She felt his fingers groping for the top of her drawers and kicked out at him furiously. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ she panted. ‘Let me go! Stop it! Stop it!’

Elder laughed, an ugly, leering sneer. It made Beth squirm. His red face and big yellow teeth were awful. She tried again to kick at his face but he caught her ankle. He jerked ruthlessly and she fell with a hard thump onto the bottom of the cart. In seconds he was in beside her, his speed belying his hefty body. All the breath had been knocked out of her and Beth could only pant. Elder seized his chance, flinging himself over her. She was too small to push such a heavy weight away. She could feel his fingers groping under her skirt. She screamed. He yanked one hand free and clamped it over her mouth.

‘That’s better.’ He spoke through his teeth, his thick lip curling. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay quiet. You’ll have had this often enough to know what we’re about.’

‘No …’Beth mumbled against his flabby hand. She tried to shake her head. Tears of frustration, anger and pain welled into her eyes.

‘You haven’t? A virgin? By all the Gods! Didn’t think I’d get another so soon. More fun than I would have got with Maxwell’s wife after all.’ He lifted his hand. Beth screamed instantly. He clamped her mouth cruelly but his free hand was groping more urgently now and there was a terrible lusting gleam in his eyes. Terrified Beth bit his thumb as hard as she could. He yelped at the unexpected pain. She screamed again and again. There was no one to hear on this side of the farmyard and she struggled desperately.

In the byre Rachel was tying the cows into their stalls. There were ventilation holes in the walls which faced the outer side of the yard. She thought she heard a scream as she was fastening the chains. Then she decided she must have imagined it. When it came again, then again, she dropped the chain and ran down the byre and out of the narrow door at the end.

She could only just see the hump of a man’s back, scuffling in the empty cart but she guessed Beth must be there too. She ran towards them. Neither of them heard her. She knew could not drag the man off Beth. She saw the shafts of the cart and lifted them. They were heavy with the weight of two bodies in the cart, but desperation lent her strength.

‘What the devil! The cart moved …’

Rachel gave one more heave and cart went up on its end, shafts in the air. She knew it would break the extra tailboard which Ross had fixed for carting hay, but Beth’s safety was more important.

Fear, and her natural agility, gave Beth an advantage. She rolled to her feet and was sprinting away before the big man could gather himself to his knees. Briefly she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Rachel was following.

‘Run, Beth,’ Rachel gasped. A painful stitch made her bend double for a moment. Then she also turned to run. Elder threw himself full length along the ground catching her skirts from behind. Seconds later she was lying face down with the stranger panting over her.

He seized her arms and twisted them cruelly up her back. She gasped with pain. That seemed to please him. Holding her wrists up her back with one hand he flung her over, onto her back, pinning her down by her shoulders so that she could not release her arms. The pain was excruciating. Rachel thought she would faint. She could feel the perspiration gathering on her brow. The man seemed to have recovered his breath and was leering down at her. His prominent yellow teeth and thick lips made her feel sick.

‘Don’t curl your lip at me, you bitch. Jealous of your maid were you? Well you can have it instead.’

‘No! Who are you?’

‘Bert Elder is the name – your Factor.’

‘The Factor! F-for the estate? You c-can’t be. Let me go! You’re breaking my arms …’ Cruelly he pressed her shoulders harder. Rachel closed her eyes so that he would not see her pain and fear.

‘Now you listen to me, Madam. I could do a lot for your husband if you co-operate …’

‘Never!’ Rachel’s eyes flew open.

‘Have it your own way.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d heard you had spirit, as well as looks. Suits me. I like my women with a bit of fight.’ He reached down, yanking the hem of her skirt up, groping at her underclothes.