Jennie About to Be (22 page)

“I'm very grateful!” She put out her hand, and when he took it, he smiled for the first time.

“It will be a pleasure as well as my duty. . . . Nigel, you have a rare gem here, a wife not only of charm but of intelligence.”

“Seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it? Hard to keep on eye on her, though. Disappears while you're looking at her. Don't dare let her go near the Fairy Hill for fear she'll vanish completely.”

“Where's the Fairy Hill?” she demanded.

“You have a choice, Mrs. Gilchrist,” said the minister. “There's many a fairy hill and glen, I'm sorry to say. If you ask the right folk, or perhaps I should say the wrong folk, they can always point out some enchanted or haunted spot.”

“I know about the water horse, the each-uisge”—she pronounced it proudly—“and the osprey is the iolair-uisge. And uisge is water but also whisky.”

“The water of life, my dear,” said Nigel.

“You see, I already know some Gaelic. Dr. Macleod is going to help me, Nigel.”

They had come around the line of yews. Only a few people remained from the first service, while the Gaelic speakers were straggling toward the open door. The barouche waited on the road; Christabel and parasol were already in place, and Archie stood talking with two men. The smoke shaded the day into a near twilight, one half expected cinders and bits of burning thatch to fall from the sky. Archie was attacked by another shattering cough.

“Where was the fire?” Jennie asked the minister. “Is it out yet? Was anyone hurt?”

“No one was hurt that I know of, Mrs. Gilchrist. It was one of those unfortunate things, all too common.”

“I feel so for anyone who loses a home and possessions. Are they in your parish?”

“No, it's not part of the Linnmore estate,” he said quickly.

“Too many cottages went,” Iain Innes said from the box.

“Goodness, I hope we never have anything like that here!” said Jennie.

F
OR MOST OF THE RIDE
home Christabel was in a fine old sulk, what they'd called a flink at Pippin Grange. Archie endeavored to make up for it. Jennie, euphoric about her school, helped him by showing an ardent interest in everything he had to say, and the attention intoxicated him. Christabel sat turned away from them; she must have been uncomfortable, but she maintained this aloof position all the way. By the time they were rolling up the beech avenue, and Linnmore House's granite was a roseate reflection in Linn Mor, Jennie wished for the courage to refuse to dine. If only she could invent a queasy stomach and turn pale at will, then Christobel would worry all afternoon for fear she was pregnant.

She retired with Christabel to the boudoir, to lay aside their wraps and tidy up. At once Christabel asked her what she and Dr. Macleod had been talking about for so long.

“The Pictish stones,” Jennie said. “The carving is so eloquent.”

“You were out of sight for so long, I wondered that Nigel didn't object. Of course he was engaged in conversation with Miss Lamont of Rowanlea.” Christabel was so blandly nonchalant that it was comic. “A handsome girl and quite well-to-do. It's a pity you were too busy to meet her. They are staying at the manse, by the way. Her mother is Macleod's cousin. He is likely to find this very confining. Some of these Scottish clergymen are just too pious to be true. I'm not
au courant
of the village gossip, but I'm sure the servants at the manse have a good deal more to talk about than prayers before breakfast.”

“Wouldn't that be the case in any household, even one that didn't have prayers before breakfast?” Jenny wished she could have laid off her stays along with the other things. “If we have servants, we are bound to be greedily observed and commented upon, down to the smallest idiosyncrasy.”

“Not by
my
staff,” Christobel said complacently to herself in the mirror. The maid moved soundlessly around the room. “Of course, all of your and Nigel's doings will be common talk in the cottages. The sooner you replace those people with trained servants, the better off you'll be. You have a position to maintain, my dear girl. You're no longer a child, you have serious responsibilities.”

Jennie met the eyes in the mirror and thought;
What nasty little glass beads. How could Archie have ever
—“I like the girls and Mrs. MacIver,” she said.

Christabel sighed and sprayed herself with scent. The atmosphere of the overdecorated and closed room became even more stifling. “Don't tell me,” continued Christobel, “that you and that man were discussing antiquities for
all
that time.”

“We also talked about the poet Mr. Wordsworth,” Jennie lied recklessly, “and I ventured a quotation.” She lifted her eyes reverently to the ceiling and recited:

“Dr. Macleod was
so
delighted because I knew Mr. Wordsworth's lines.”

“I have never,” said Christabel, “heard of Mr. Wordsworth.”

Which disposes of Mr. Wordsworth
, Jennie thought.
I wonder if he knows that Christabel has just extinguished him
. “I'm sure you
will
hear of him,” she said. “He's very revolutionary. He expresses the beauty of the commonplace.”

“Stop that!” Christabel snapped at the maid who was endeavoring to catch up a ringlet displaced by the removal of the hat.

“We were just moving on to the verse of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd,” Jennie continued, “when Nigel came.”

“Eugenia, aren't you afraid you'll be lonely here without another bluestocking for companionship?”

“Oh, no! I have my books with me to keep me company when Nigel can't, and I shall send for others. And I love to be out. I adore nature! I should like to live under the open sky like a gypsy. I'm a great moor walker and hill climber,” she prattled on; it was blatant, a little sickening, but she was borne by an irresistible current, and Christabel's frustration was worth it.

“The winters here are long and dark,” Christabel said feebly.

“So are they in Northumberland. I'll be like those hardy souls Archie mentioned; only a blizzard will keep me in!”

“We might as well go down,” said Christobel in resignation, as one who says, “I might as well proceed to the block and the headsman's ax; there's nothing left for me here.”

Jennie felt a wicked and reviving little jolt of joy. Christabel did not like her at all, so she wasn't likely to be summoned often to be a companion.

“Such a distinguished old house!” she said cheerily on the double staircase, and had Archie rubbing his hands and flashing his teeth in an ecstasy of pride.

“It's a very great comfort to me to know you'll be mistress here one day!” he exclaimed.

Christabel said aridly, “The sauce will be quite ruined.”

It was not. The meal was perfect, except for being too ample. Archie talked on and on about Linnmore House as if extolling it to prospective purchasers. Nigel was suave and bright, Christabel was ominously silent. After the dessert she made to take Jennie off, but Archie rose at once, carrying his wineglass in one hand and the decanter in the other, and said, “Now we shall have some music.”

When was she going to get him outside, alone? Still, from the way he shone continuously on her like a tropical sun, she doubted that she'd have any difficulty when the hour arrived. Perhaps it would be better to have her plans all laid out on paper first.

It was late afternoon when they left.
Not again until next Sunday
, she was blissfully thinking as she accepted Archie's kiss on her forehead. But Christabel was not to let the field mouse escape.

“I should like you to come on Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. and Miss Lamont will be calling. I intended to introduce you to them this morning, but you escaped to the churchyard.”

“Damned if I wouldn't find the churchyard a vast improvement over Mrs. Lamont,” said Archie, carried away by music, wine and Jennie's proximity. He and Nigel laughed immoderately.

Christabel said, “You might bring your needlework. If you have any.”

They left on foot. Nigel was as desperate to stretch his legs and breathe deeply as his wife was. It had become warm and still, and she carried her hat in her hand, with Nigel taking her pelerine over his arm. They strode along at a good rate, their locked hands swinging between them. They were young and in love, and they sang loudly as they walked through the woods to Tigh nam Fuaran.

“Nigel, come for a walk with me over the moors,” she said when they reached the house. “The way I feel I could tramp to the Pict's House with no effort whatever.”

“I've work to do for Archie,” he said. “Two letters to write. Archie's butler is off to Inverness tomorrow for his spring holiday, and he will take them. They're to be personally delivered, that's why they couldn't be trusted to the postbag.”

“Oh, love, come for a walk with me!” she coaxed. “Write your letters in the morning.”

“You know I'm never bobbish in the morning, except to throw a leg over a horse.
Or you
.” He grinned. “Besides, I'm not a genius at letter writing, though I have a passable fist when it comes to holding a pen.”

“Why can't Archie write his own letters?”

“Because I'm his man of business. It's my duty to write the business letters, not his.”

“I hope that when you're the Laird of Linnmore, you won't think you'll need a buffer between you and the rest of the world, including that one out on the moors. How long has it been, I wonder, since Archie's been up on the ridge, let alone visited the cottages, those and the ones farther away ? Your father knew everyone on the estate and made christening gifts to the children. Morag told me. Even though he had a factor, when he wanted men to work he rode around himself to talk to them.”

Nigel said angrily, “My father was a Laird in the old way. He was a simple man and lived in a simple fashion, but that way of life is not possible now. It has to change if these estates are to survive. And that leads me to remind
you
, my dear, that if Archie hadn't decided he needed a factor, we wouldn't be here. You'd be languishing in London instead of stravaiging over the moors like a gypsy.”

“I think I'm in for a lecture about stravaiging when Christabel has me captive in her drawing room next Tuesday.”

“Will you be a lady, at whatever cost? Christabel can't help what she is any more than you can help what you are.”

“I think I shall tell her that, forgivingly, if she begins to bully me.”

He took her by the shoulders. “You'll tell her
nothing
if you want to stay here. We can be sent away and never see this place again until Archie dies. Bear that in mind, and keep your sweet mouth shut and curved in a gentle smile.”

“Oh, Nigel!” She laughed, and he kissed her open mouth. Then he put her away from him.

“Later,” he said huskily. “Go change and take your walk. I must get these letters out.”

S
HE TOOK SUGAR
to the horses, and they watched her go away from them and then watched the place where she disappeared into the coppice. She went rapidly up to the crest of the ridge, giving the pines the affectionate respect due the beloved elders they had become for her. She sat down on the fallen tree and dropped her shawl back from her shoulders. The almost constant breeze played capriciously around her bare head; it was scented with unknown, unseen flowerets. The stench of the fire seemed to have existed on another continent, and she had thought once that she could never get it out of her nostrils.

The loch reflected azure back to the zenith. A Sabbath quiet lay over the cottages, and the animals grazed or lay peacefully in the sun. Why didn't Archie go down there himself if he was so worried about anarchy? That was a ridiculous word to be used in this place, but she'd heard it twice within a week. If anyone was undermining the Laird's and the minister's authority, why did Archie hide himself in Linnmore House while Christabel called his tenants either barbarians or stupid peasants? Perhaps the reason Archie hadn't been fishing the loch was that it was too close to one set of cottages, and he might hear something he didn't like or couldn't answer.

No wonder they were overjoyed to have as factor another son of the Old Laird, when this son had no wish or ability to deal with them.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gilchrist,” a man's voice said softly.

He must have come up the steep track behind her, but she had heard nothing. Alick Gilchrist leaned against the nearest pine, and a shaggy brown pony grazed a little way off. The man's expression was politely equivocal, and he hadn't taken off his bonnet. If he was looking for signs of distaste or snobbery, she thought, he was about to be cheated of an excuse for resentment.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gilchrist!” she said with a smile.