Maggie (5 page)

It was an odd room, being quite small and papered with a heavy flock wallpaper. The windows were of green, brown and gold stained glass portraying various ladies with long
brown hair holding water lilies in their long, white pointed fingers like so many Ladies of Shalott about to step into the barge to bear them down to many tower’d Camelot.

Baccarat was the choice of game, which rather surprised the earl since he knew it was forbidden by law. Of course, everyone played it at country house parties and places like that, but he had not expected it to be so openly allowed in such a seemingly respectable provincial club.

The earl had drunk a great deal already that evening since Mr. Farquharson was an extremely generous host and appeared to have a bottomless capacity for claret. Although the earl diluted his whisky with soda, it seemed to go straight to his head, and the strange room took on an even more unreal air as the fog crept through the cracks of the windows and the gas fire hissed and popped and the gaselier above his head sent down a tremendous heat.

He found himself beginning to lose very heavily, a new experience for him since he had always been clever and lucky at cards and had been able to supplement his small income in India with his skill.

After some time, Lord Robey and Alistair Ashton retired from the game. The earl realized that he, Peter, fourth Earl of Strathairn, was becoming very drunk indeed, and, with his pleasant voice slightly slurred, he asked to be allowed to retire also.

“Havers, as they say in this part of the world,” said the marquess, his narrow green eyes glinting. “I tell you what, this playing for money is a bore. We’ve all got so much of it. Now, I have a suggestion to make. You and I, Strathairn, will play for something more exciting. Are you game?”

“Provided it’s just one more hand,” said the earl wearily.

“Fine. Right. Well, it’s like this,” said the Marquess of Handley with his irritating, mocking smile, “we play for the hand in marriage of Maggie Macleod. Loser has to marry her.”

There was a stunned silence. The four men were the only occupants of the card room. Alistair Ashton let out a high, nervous bark of laughter.

Lord Robey stifled a yawn. “Handley’s joking,” he said. “Let’s all go home.”

“No, I’m not joking.” Handley shuffled the cards expertly. “Let me fill up your glass, Strathairn. Hey, what the devil…!” He stared at the door. The other three men swung around. There was no one there.

“Oh, it was nothing,” said the marquess, pushing a glass of whisky towards the earl. “I thought I saw someone who is supposed to be in Australia. Come along, Strathairn. You must have played for wilder stakes when you were in India.”

“Oh,” said the earl with a reminiscent smile, “we played for all sorts of mad things. I remember once the loser had to swim the…” He gave his head a shake. He had suddenly become almost abnormally sleepy. All at once, his memory went. Why was Handley starting at him so expectantly? What was he saying now?

The marquess’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Well,” he was saying impatiently, “Shall we play?”

Lord Strathairn looked at him wearily. It was something about one more game. “Very well,” he said sleepily. “So long as it’s only one hand.”

The marquess rang the bell and asked the servant to bring the betting book. The earl rallied enough to say, “What do we need the betting book for?”

“As you will see,” said the marquess, languidly dismissing the servant who had entered. “We’ll just sign a bit of paper and Robey and Ashton here will witness it. All good fun, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed the earl. “Oh, let’s get it over with. I’m dog-tired.”

The room swam out of focus. The earl clutched at the edge of the table and shook his head to clear it. He realized
he must have drunk far too much but he was damned if he would disgrace himself by showing he could not carry his drink in front of such a cad as Handley. He saw the blur of a piece of paper in front of him and shakily affixed his signature.

He automatically drank the glass at his elbow and tried to concentrate on the game. But voices seemed to ebb and flow and, he was not quite sure how it happened, but all at once he was being helped to his feet, and the marquess was laughing and slapping him on the back and saying he would see him at the wedding.

He felt himself falling and clutched at a chair back for support. But a great black void rushed up to swallow him and he plunged into unconsciousness.

He awoke some time the next morning with only a hazy recollection of the evening’s events. His head ached like the very devil and his mouth was a dry and raging furnace.

At first he could not think where he was until his manservant, Roshie, came quietly into the room and opened the curtains and placed a cup of tea and two Osborne biscuits on the bedside table. Roshie had been the late earl’s gentleman’s gentleman and Lord Strathairn had inherited him along with the estate.

“Where am I, Roshie?” asked the earl faintly.

“Ye’re in Mr. Farquharson’s in Glasgow and ye wis carried hame in the wee hours,” said Roshie gloomily.

“Oh, God.” The earl sat up in bed and clutched his head.

“Furthermair, that there Marquess o’ Handley is doonstairs waitin’ fur your lordship. Now, I ken I shouldnae speak ill o’ ma betters, but that cheil…”

“It’s all right, Roshie. I know what you mean. Give me my dressing gown and send his lordship up here. I’ll soon be shot of him.”

He propped himself against the pillow and thirstily drank
his tea, wishing he had asked Roshie to bring the whole pot.

The door opened and the earl stared coldly at his visitor. “Well, Handley, what brings you calling so early?”

“Why, to see you wed, old boy,” grinned the marquess, tossing his top hat onto the bed.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you remember our last game of cards? Loser marries Maggie Macleod?”

“Nonsense. I would never make such a bet. Go away. My head aches.”

Still grinning, the marquess pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the earl.

The earl read it several times as if he could not believe the evidence of his eyes. But there it was. He, Peter, Lord Strathairn, had solemnly promised to wed Maggie Macleod.

He turned white. “You cannot keep me to such a bet.”

“But I can, my dear fellow. You signed the paper, and I’ve a great wish to see you married. You’ll be a widower soon enough. She’s bound to hang.”

“And if I refuse?”

The marquess’s green eyes narrowed. “If you refuse, laddie, I’ll have your wager published in all the newspapers. It is the first time I have had to argue with a
gentleman
about honouring his bets.”

Lord Strathairn swung his legs out of bed and shrugged himself into his dressing-gown. The slip of paper with his bet on it fell to the floor and the marquess stooped and picked it up.

“I should have torn that up,” said the earl.

“And what a better story that would have made,” retorted the marquess. “We have two witnesses, you know.”

“Oh, publish and be damned,” said the earl wrathfully, unconsciously quoting the Duke of Wellington.

“Really? Have you no care for your reputation? In your new position you would never live down the scandal. On the
other hand, if you marry the girl, I’ll make sure nobody knows about it.”

The earl ran his fingers through his thick fair hair. He had not realized until just this moment how seriously he did take his title and the social responsibilities that went with it. He had been warned by the solicitors that although his estates in Scotland lay in the south-west, rather than in the Highlands, he still might encounter a certain amount of suspicion and resentment because of his English birth. But, they had added, a display of responsibility and concern towards his new tenants would soon dispel that.

What on earth would the whole county of Strathairn think if they read in the newspapers that shortly after his inheritance he had gone into Glasgow to get drunk, gamble, and indulge in tasteless bets? If he could not hold his drink like a gentleman, then at least he could behave like one. Still, the whole affair was like some bad dream.

“But why?” he burst out suddenly. “
Why
are you doing this to me?”

The marquess surveyed him blandly. “Because it amuses me,” he said. “You’re a little too priggish for my taste, my friend.”

“But how can such a thing be kept quiet? There will need to be a minister or priest. A special licence. That sort of thing.”

“This is Scotland,” said the marquess. “It’s enough to stand before two witnesses and announce you’re married and the deed is done. It’s a game, laddie, a game. Dinnae fash yersel, as the peasants say in this neck of the woods.”

“Are you quite serious about putting it in the newspapers?”

“Oh yes,” said the marquess softly. “Oh, yes.”

The earl thought furiously. He tried to remember the events of the night before but could not.

At last he looked full at the marquess, his blue eyes
blazing. “Damn you,” he said. “I’ll go through with it, but before I do, then you, Handley, and your friends will sign a paper promising to keep quiet about it.”

“Gladly,” said the marquess smoothly. “I have it here, you see. I felt sure our written word would make you feel better about the delicacy and secrecy of the whole business.”

He produced the paper like a conjurer. He had forged Alistair Ashton and Lord Robey’s signatures himself, since he could not be bothered going in search of the two young men on a freezing cold foggy morning. He prided himself, however, on his foresight. He had been sure the earl would demand such a promise, if only to salve his pride. The marquess considered himself a good judge of men. He had been frightened that Lord Strathairn would prove to be too difficult for him to handle, but he turned out to be as easy as all the rest. It was a joy to torment him like this. Not only was Strathairn a sickening prig, he was an Englishman, and the Marquess of Handley hated the English with almost as much venom as his Jacobite ancestors.

The earl put down the paper containing the pledge of secrecy and asked, “How is such a marriage to be achieved?”

“I have made arrangements for you to visit Mrs. Macleod in her cell at the High Court during the dinner recess,” said the marquess. “Dinner is eaten in the middle of the day in this town. I have spoken to her advocate, Mr. Byles. He will be there, and so will I.”

“She will probably refuse. What then?” asked the earl.

“In that case, you will have fulfilled your part of the bet and all can be forgotten.”

The earl studied the marquess’s foxy face and began to wonder whether the man were mad. But then society in London went to endless lengths to play malicious practical jokes on each other. This could not be happening to him. He must not allow it to happen. He could ring for the
servants and have Handley thrown out and then take himself off to the South of France until the scandal died down. But he had been brought up on the rigid principles of what a gentleman could do and what he could not do. A gentleman always honoured his bets. No use blaming Handley for the whole thing. But why, oh why, had he, Peter Strathairn, become so abominably, stupidly drunk?

Aloud, he asked, “What is an advocate?”

“A barrister.”

“Then why not say so?”

“Scottish law is based on Roman law. It’s different from English law which is based on Common law. There are fifteen on the jury, for example, not twelve, and there is no opening speech by the prosecution outlining the case and the Crown’s assumption of guilt. No indication is made of what form the prosecution will take. There are different names and different procedures.”

The earl walked to the window and stared out at the blackness of the day outside and at the gaslights burning in the streets below. “What o’clock is it?” he asked over his shoulder. “It looks like the middle of the night.”

“Eleven o’clock in the morning, my lord,” said Roshie, coming quietly into the room and beginning to lay out his master’s clothes.

“What a filthy climate,” said the earl bitterly.

Roshie primmed up his mouth in disapproval. “Weel, the winters in Scotland are aye a bit dark on account o’ the lang nights, and o’ course in the city, ye get a big o’ fog that disnae help, but the summers, it hardly ever gets dark. If his lordship would care to wait below until ye’re barbered, my lord…”

“Yes,” said the earl hurriedly. “I’ll join you presently, Handley, and get this matter over with as soon as possible.”

Roshie’s eyes narrowed in his brown, wrinkled face as he looked past his master to the marquess who was polishing his top hat on his cuff.

“Are ye no’ havin’ a bite o’ breakfast, my lord?”

“No,” said the earl with a shudder. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“Aye, weel, now. Wherevers ye’re going, you’ll be takin’ me.”

“No, Roshie. I shall not need you.”

Roshie began to strop the razor, looking as if he would like to slit the Marquess of Handley’s throat with it. As he often said afterwards, he knew that something bad was afoot.

Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone flags of the passage leading to the cells under the High Court.

The earl felt ill. Everything seemed divorced from reality. The marquess walked in front of him, and Mr. Byles, the Sheriff of Inverness, behind. He felt as if he had just been arrested.

The day outside was black and foggy. Mr. Byles reflected sourly on the morning’s proceedings in court. He felt he would like to strangle Flora Meikle, the Macleods’ housekeeper.

Flora obviously believed in telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so that when asked if there had been anything in her mistress’s manner which would lead the housekeeper to believe that she could be capable of murder, the grim Flora sniffed and said she considered most people capable of murder, somehow, thereby giving the impression that she believed her mistress guilty but was loyally begging the question. Asked if Mrs. Macleod had made tea for her husband herself, Flora had replied, “Yes, certainly, but she did not put anything in it.” But when asked if she had seen Mrs. Macleod make the tea and carry it in to her husband, Flora had again sniffed and remarked sourly that she had more to do with her time. Every inch of her rigid being emanated loyalty to Maggie Macleod, but it was a loyalty
which contained no personal warmth. It was the loyalty of a good servant who prided herself on always behaving as a good servant should. She had made a most unsympathetic witness.