Mathew's Tale (25 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

M
ATHEW BARELY SLEPT THAT
night; it was cold and so he stoked the fire in his bedroom, but that made it so warm that he had to discard his duck-down quilt. Finally, at half past five, he gave up the effort; he rose and put on his dressing gown.

He peered into Marshall’s room; it was lit only by one small night lamp, but he could see the shape of his head in the pillow and hear his gentle snoring. Every time he saw the boy asleep he thought of Margaret, and how, to his surprise, he had come to love her very deeply, just as he knew that Lizzie had loved David.

He had been surprised also the evening before by his son’s skill on the piano. Neither he nor Hannah were any sort of musicians; the instrument had come with the house when he bought it, and had been ignored until Miss Liddell’s arrival. She had been Marshall’s tutor in music as in everything else, but the process had passed his father by for he had never been around when it took place, or when he practised.

This had filled him full of guilt; for much of the time, he thought, his boy might as well have been an orphan. He made himself a promise that when he and Lizzie were married, no matter how busy they were, there would be certain hours in his every week set aside for the two younger children, and maybe for another, if that transpired, for she was surely still a few years short of the change of life.

He went down to the kitchen and put a kettle on the range to make a pot of tea, then set himself to making French toast . . . or ‘Poor Knights’ as the Prussian soldiers had called it; two of them had shown him the trick in the army, to make meagre rations less boring. He was almost done when the door opened and his mother joined him.

‘Is that you at thon fancy bread again?’

He nodded. ‘Aye. Be quiet and have some; I know you like it. I’ll make some more.’

‘Ah’ll tak’ syrup on it.’

He smiled. ‘You always do, Mother.’ He spread the slices with golden syrup, then poured her a mug of tea, adding three spoons of sugar. That done he took three more eggs from the larder and cracked them into the bowl he had used before to beat them then soak the bread slices.

‘This is Christmas Eve,’ she said, when he joined her at the kitchen table. She peered at his plate, then observed, absently, ‘Ah dinna ken how ye can tak it like that, wi’ salt.’

He smiled. ‘Easily,’ he replied. ‘The Frenchies call it “lost bread”. They take it sweet too, but in the regiment we were not oversupplied with syrup and sugar, so we made do with what we had. And yes, Mother,’ he continued, ‘it is indeed Christmas Eve.’

‘Do ye mind them when your faither was alive?’

‘I remember Christmas Day,’ he said. ‘As I recall it, on Christmas Eve, Father was usually in the tavern.’

‘As he’d a perfect richt tae be,’ she retorted, defensively, ‘for he wis a hard-workin’ man.’

‘I’ll never deny either. What about our Christmases?’

‘They were special, for you were young and we were an entire family. We’ve never been that way since, and it’s a shame for wee Marshall. He’s never kent it either, no wi’ poor Margaret bein’ taken like that when he was born. Miss Liddell’s a fine wumman, but yon laddie’s missed his mother even though he’s never kent it.’

‘You’re rambling, Mother,’ he laughed. ‘All that syrup’s addling your brain.’

‘Maybe, but what Ah’m saying is this. Ah want tae be part of a family again, and Ah can see what’s happening wi’ you and Lizzie. It wid please me very much. But Ah fear for ye. Some people are fated, Mathew. Ah pray you’re no two of them, that’s a’.’

‘I see.’ He finished his egg-rich bread and took a mouthful of tea. ‘I pray that too, Mother,’ he told her. ‘But I would like to think that God might have finished shiteing on the pair of us, and that we might be allowed to enjoy a few peaceful and happy years.’

‘Blasphemy, boy!’

‘I know, I know,’ he chuckled, ‘God doesna shite.’

‘Stop it! This chirpy mood o’ yours is disturbin’ me. If Ah didnae ken better Ah’d think ye’d been at the Madeira wine like auld Barclay. Whit is it? Whit’s pit the cream on yer scone?’

‘As you said at the very start, it’s Christmas Eve, Mother. And this one will be different, I promise you, for me and for two other people. It goes beyond a dream and into the realm of miracle. I swore revenge for David, but this . . .’

‘Whit?’ she shouted, her calmness finally cracking. ‘Dinna tease me, boy!’

‘It is no tease, but the truth. You will know by the end of the day. Now I’m away to make ready.’

He left her in the kitchen and went back upstairs, just as the household was starting to awaken. There he bathed, shaved, and dressed in his most magisterial clothes. At eight fifteen, he had breakfast with Marshall and spent an hour discussing Christmas with the boy, and telling him his favourite stories.

They were all about a brave woman called Margaret Weir. He made up adventures in which she was the heroine, fantasies, stories of journeys to faraway lands, France, Spain and those places called the Low Counties. Marshall loved them and they all had happy endings.

He spent the next ninety minutes in his private parlour, reading reports from his Netherton managers, and an end-of-year review prepared for him and for Stockley by their accountant. He did some calculations of his own and was staggered to realise that in spite of all the expense he had incurred that year, his personal wealth had almost trebled.

At the foot of the pile he found a letter, one he had read before, but which still awaited a formal reply. It was from Sir Victor Feather, asking whether he would consider standing as a candidate for the Westminster Parliament.

‘As always your timing is at fault, my old captain,’ he whispered to the lamp-cast shadows in the room. ‘You are a year too late. Besides, the last time I went south for any length of time, it cost me an eye and a lot more.’

At eleven o’clock, his impatience overcame him. He pulled on a brass knob set in the wall of his room. It rang a bell in the kitchen, one whose message was, ‘Summon Beattie, we are on the move’.

The road was icy, and the sky was heavy with the promise of a snowfall. On another day Mathew would have been concerned about the coachman in his exposed position, but he could think of nothing but the visit to come.

The journey took longer than usual, but less time than in the darkness, and so they arrived in Carluke at five minutes before noon. The shop door was ajar as he arrived, and there were several customers inside. Beyond them, he could see Matt at the counter, smiling and nodding as he served them, each in her turn.

Lizzie was waiting at home and she was ready for the road. She was wrapped in a heavy cloak; she smiled as she opened it to show him what was underneath, an ankle-length, flour-caked apron, worn over a plain, high-collared dress.

‘I have been more beautiful,’ she chuckled.

‘You are radiant, my dear,’ he said, kissing her softly then drawing her hood over her head.

The entrance to the Cleland Estate was no more than half a mile away, but Beattie drove them at a gentle pace. When they arrived at the great black-painted iron gates, they saw that they were open. A man was waiting there, on horseback. He wore a long riding coat, a tall hat and there was a scarf wound round his face.

Mathew pulled down the carriage window. ‘You are ready? You know what is to happen?’

A muffled, ‘Yes, sir,’ came from within the scarf.

‘Then let us go.’

Horse and rider fell in step with the carriage. The mile-long road that led to the great house had been macadamised in the time of the old Laird, Sir George, but it had begun to crack in places, and with the ice that had formed on its surface it was unstable and the horses were unsure of their footing. Before they had gone very far, Beattie, and their companion, followed the example of an earlier visitor, whose tracks were visible on the frosty grass between the road and the tall trees that lined it.

‘Do you know,’ Lizzie murmured as she peered through the window, ‘I have never been here. I have never ventured past those gates, even though my husband was employed on the estate.’

‘I am sure that quite a few others in Carluke can say the same,’ Mathew replied. ‘I have only ever been here a few times myself. First with my father, and later in connection with the sale of saddles to Sir George.’

‘Then why are we here now?’

He squeezed her hand, gently. ‘Patience, my dear.’

‘That is not my strong suit, as well you know.’

As she spoke, the carriage cleared the last of the wooded approach and Cleland Hall came into sight. ‘Oh my!’ she gasped.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It makes Waterloo House look like a way station on the turnpike road.’

Cleland Hall was a vast country house with three storeys and attic windows that ran its entire width, and above them a castellated top, suggesting that there might be a roof terrace beneath the towering chimneys. It was a rectangular building that was at least one hundred and fifty yards wide, with curving arches on either side, concealing stables and outbuildings, and was built of hard yellow stone taken from a quarry near Lanark.

The entrance was not at ground level, but on the first floor, accessed by a broad flight of twenty steps, at the foot of which the party drew up, alongside a small coach that both Mathew and Lizzie recognised.

‘Why is the minister here?’ she asked.

‘He is, you might say, our advance guard,’ he told her. ‘I asked John to arrange an appointment with the Laird and to make sure he kept him occupied until our arrival . . . which is not on Sir Gavin’s schedule for the day.’

He helped her down from the carriage and took her hand as they climbed the stairway. It had been salted, but there were still icy patches apparent. Their companion dismounted also and followed behind them.

Close to, the building was less impressive than from a distance. Weeds grew in some of the corners of the building, while the pale grey paint on the double entrance doors, and on the windows on either side of them, was faded and had lost its original lustre.

That outer entrance was open, revealing a vestibule with a glazed doorway behind. Mathew pulled on the bell rope; a minute passed, and then they saw a servant approach, not rushing but at a sedate pace. He was clad in a black tailcoat and his shirt had a high wing collar, an elderly man, but still tall and straight-backed; Lizzie knew him as an occasional customer. ‘Mr Marston,’ she whispered.

If he recognised her, he gave not a sign of it as he opened the door, looking at her only briefly, then focusing his attention entirely on Mathew. ‘Yes?’ he boomed. If he was matching his voice to the grandeur of his surroundings, that was fitting, Lizzie thought, for they had both known slightly better days.

‘Mathew Fleming, Deputy Lord Lieutenant. My companions and I are here to see Sir Gavin Cleland.’

‘I am not aware of any appointment, sir,’ Mr Marston replied.

‘I do not believe I need one. We are here on magisterial business.’

The butler frowned, his nose wrinkling. ‘The lady too?’

‘It is the lady’s business we are about. Now please, sir, tell Cleland we are here.’

‘Sir Gavin,’ he emphasised the name, ‘is currently occupied, sir.’

‘I think you will find that his earlier meeting is over,’ Mathew said. ‘Now do as you are told, and quickly please.’

Mr Marston’s back went so stiff that it seemed about to snap, but finally he gave a curt nod, and turned, slowly on his heel, before departing to his right.

He left the glass door open and so the trio stepped into the great entrance hall; its floor and straight staircase were made from reddish-toned marble, and were carpeted in dark blue, although a few bare patches showed in the areas that were walked most often. A chandelier hung above their heads, but only a few of its candles were lit.

‘Down-at-heel,’ Mathew murmured.

‘And not too thoroughly cleaned,’ Lizzie added running her finger along the wall table on which the two men had laid their hats, and leaving a line in the dust. ‘The place is near freezing too.’

Mr Marston was gone for some time, but he did return. ‘Sir Gavin has graciously agreed to receive you,’ he announced. ‘Please follow me.’

He led them through a long reception room, furnished with various chairs and tables, some set around a high, empty fireplace, and then into a library, also without heating. Its shelves were no more than half full.

‘I have been here,’ Mathew murmured, slowing his pace as he looked around. ‘This was Sir George’s favourite room; he liked to receive his visitors here, for he had a great collection of valuable books. I doubt that either of his sons has read them to destruction, so they must have been disposed of in another way.’

‘If you please,’ Mr Marston said, from another doorway.

The old servant stood aside, allowing them to enter another chamber, then closed the door behind him as he withdrew. The room was smaller than the others, and it was heated. Sir Gavin Cleland stood with his back to the fire, and John Barclay, in clerical clothes, was alongside him.

‘This is a surprise, Fleming,’ the baronet drawled, ‘but at least you have spared me from any more of this old fool’s prattling. How can a man go on for so long about the content of a watchnight service? It defeats me. You can go now, Barclay. Do not look for me in your kirk tonight.’

‘The minister may remain, if he pleases,’ Mathew said. ‘He should hear what we have to say.

‘You know me, Cleland,’ he continued, ‘but you may not ever have met Mrs Elizabeth McGill.’ Lizzie smiled, made a little curtsy and opened her cloak. ‘Our companion is Mr Andrew Dunlop.’

‘That is very good, if a little disrespectful to a baronet. Now please tell me, what is this about? Or have you simply come to beg a goose,’ he sniggered, ‘for the poor widow woman’s Christmas table?’

Mathew ran his fingers though his close-cropped salt and pepper hair. Lizzie had seen him do that before, in their youth; it meant that he was making a decision.

‘Mr Barclay,’ he said. ‘Please close your eyes in a moment of prayer. Mr Dunlop, please look out of the window.’