The House of Lyall (29 page)

Marianne's deep sorrow for the loss of the man who meant more to her than her own father had ever done was made much worse on the day of the funeral by the shaking that assailed her when she neared the church, and when she was passing the manse, it was all she could do to keep moving, for Duncan Peat's lust-distorted face kept swimming before her eyes. Hamish, of course, was too immersed in his own grief to pay any heed to her, and it fell to Robert Mowatt to help her into the kirkyard, between the lines of people from near and far who had known and liked Hector Bruce-Lyall.

Her old horror of graveyards returned at that moment, and she clung to the doctor's arm as a ghostly Hector floated past her, looking at her accusingly and shaking his head. She was practically paralysed with terror before the service ended, and Robert had to whisper, ‘Bear up, Marianne, it's all over now,' before she could put one foot past the other.

The glen folk had always accorded her the courtesy of referring to her as Lady Marianne, but when the mourners returned to the castle and she heard someone calling Hamish ‘your Lordship', the realization of her entitlement to the title did much to restore her equilibrium, and to boost her confidence amongst the high-born guests in her home.

She had been pleased to see Andrew Rennie and his aunts in the kirk, but when she invited them to the funeral tea, Miss Edith had said, ‘Thank you, your Ladyship, but we must go home,' and Andrew had said,
sotto voce
, ‘Well, you've got your wish, Lady Glendarril.'

The line of people had moved on and she hadn't had another chance to speak to them, to tell them that she was still just Marianne, the same as she had always been.

Most of the women, not worthy of the title they held, had talked more to Miss Glover than to her, and even when they did address her directly, their manner was condescending. Only one had singled her out and had a conversation with her.

‘I saw them all giving you the cold shoulder,' she had begun, ‘but don't you worry your pretty young head about it. I got much the same treatment when I married Clarice's cousin and I've survived. In fact most of them have forgotten by now that I ever was a shopkeeper's daughter and had no right to mix with the likes of them. I'm Lady Matthewson, by the way, Barbara to you, and my daughter's Hamish's age. He used to come to Maxton House sometimes to play tennis with Pam – before he met you – but why don't you get him to bring you over to see us some time? Once the mourning period is past?'

Marianne hadn't known what to say. She was pleased to be invited, but was afraid that, if she did pluck up the courage to go, Lady Matthewson might change her mind about welcoming a shop assistant to her home. ‘Is your daughter not with you today?' she enquired.

‘Pam's touring Europe at present. She thought a lot of Hector, though, so she'll be very disappointed at not being here for his funeral.' Barbara Matthewson's eyes were caught then by someone she knew and, excusing herself, she walked away.

The parlour maid seemed ill at ease the day after the funeral when she knocked and opened the morning-room door. ‘There's a … woman at the door asking to see you, m'Lady.'

Marianne raised her eyebrows. ‘Didn't you ask who she was?'

‘I did ask, m'Lady, but she wouldn't tell me.'

Marianne frowned and began, ‘Tell her I do not wish to see anyone at –' but before she could finish, a figure appeared in the doorway, a figure from her past – a past, moreover, that she did not want to be reminded of, especially now.

‘Oh, m'Lady, I told her to wait outside,' the maid was excusing herself, but the woman came right into the room saying, ‘I think
her Ladyship
will see me.'

If the maid noticed the sneering emphasis, she gave no sign, but scuttled out so quickly that the door swung shut with a thud.

Marianne regarded her visitor coldly. ‘What do you want?'

Sitting down as if she were well accustomed to being in such opulent surroundings, Moll said, ‘I wouldna have needed to come if you'd ta'en some notice o' the letter I sent a while back.'

Marianne was genuinely puzzled. ‘I received no letter from you.'

‘Oh, so that's the wey o' it, is it? You're sayin' you never
received
it, are you? Well, let me tell you,
m'Lady
, it was Mary McKay that wrote it for me, an' it was her that posted it, so I ken fine you
received
it, unless you're cryin' Mary a liar?'

Marianne could feel her self-confidence draining away with each sarcastic word. Moll had made her feel like a child again, a silly child who had run away after stealing five sovereigns … but surely her father's wife wasn't here because of that? ‘When … was … the letter sent?'

‘I can tell you that easy enough,' Moll sneered. ‘It was the twenty-second day of June, that's when, just days afore we was put oot o' the hoose.'

‘Put out? But why …?'

‘Your father had to stop workin' wi' his chest, and we got a notice to quit or we'd be evicted, an' I got Mary to write an' ask you if you could send us some money so we could rent a decent place. A fat lot you cared, for you never answered, but Mary got us a room in Bridge Street.'

She had stopped for breath, but Marianne said nothing. She had never thought of her father since she left, had never even wondered if he was well or otherwise.

‘Aye, my fine leddy,' Moll went on in a few moments, ‘that's made you think. Here's you in your castle, wi' every blessed thing you need an' servants to run after you, and there was me and your father in one room wi' the damp runnin' doon the wa's.'

Marianne was caught on the raw. ‘And little you cared about me when I was at hame,' she snapped. ‘Him nor you, you were that ta'en up wi' each other you hadna time for me.' She did not notice that, in her anger, she had reverted to her old tongue. ‘I bet you were glad to be on your own wi' him, and it didna bother me. I managed to better mysel'.'

‘You did that, a' richt,' Moll spat out, ‘but what would your servants think, an' your fine friends, if they ken't you'd once been a skivvy and stole money fae your mistress?'

Marianne was even more infuriated by this. ‘Are you threatening me? If I don't give you money, you'll tell them, is that it?'

Losing her temper now, Moll shouted, ‘I dinna want your money … nae for mysel', ony road. I'll manage to work for what I need, but I think it's only richt that Alfie gets a gravestone, an' you can weel afford it. Mair to the point, it would let folk see his only lassie hadna forgot him.'

Marianne's chest was heaving now. She'd had enough to cope with before Moll turned up, and if the only way to get rid of her was to erect a headstone to mark her father's grave, so be it! ‘I'll get my solicitor to arrange it,' she said loftily. ‘And I'll get to the bottom of this letter you say you sent. I can assure you, that if I
had
received it, I would not have let my father die in a hovel.'

‘Aye, weel, then, just you mind.' Obviously at a loss as to what to say now, Moll decided against saying anything and stalked out, leaving Marianne leaning against the back of her chair with her heart palpitating.

Once she recovered, she went to Hamish's study and took out a sheet of crested notepaper, thankful that he'd been called to London on urgent business – some query about a price which had been quoted and not stuck to, that was all he'd told her except that he would not be home for at least a week – because she didn't want him to know about this. He believed that she had run away from home because she was being ill treated, but neither her father nor her stepmother had ever been physically cruel to her. It was more that she'd resented being ousted from her father's affections by a person she thought was common … but Moll had apparently been a good wife, looked after him right to the end.

The tear which plopped on to her hand now made her more ashamed of herself than ever. She
should
have contacted him, found out how he was, if they needed help. He had worked hard for her when she was small, and looked after her single-handedly after her mother died – until he married again. She had never wanted for anything … and he had died in poverty.

Then she remembered the letter Moll had said she sent. What had happened to it? Stretching out her hand, she pulled the bell rope at the fireplace and in less than a minute, the little parlour maid appeared at the door. ‘Yes, m'Lady?'

‘Rosie,' Marianne said, uncertain as to how to word her question because she didn't want to blame the girl if it wasn't her fault, ‘I have just found out that a letter came for me while I was in London, which seems to have got lost. Would you know what became of it?'

The girl had been smilingly waiting to hear what was required of her, but at the mention of the letter her face lost every vestige of colour and she looked as if she were about to faint.

‘Are you all right, Rosie?' Marianne enquired anxiously.

‘Oh, m'Lady, I'm sorry! I can't tell you how sorry I am. I forgot all about it. You see,' she hurried on, desperate to explain, ‘Cook asked me to go and get the veggies Dargie had promised her, and I just went out the door when Postie handed me that letter, so I stuffed it in my pocket and carried on. I stopped a wee while to speak to Davey Black, he's assistant gardener since Ben Rogie left and we'd been … keeping company … still are,' she confided, blushing a little. Then the haunted look returned to her eyes and a tear trickled out. ‘Oh, m'Lady, I know I shouldn't have wasted my time like that, and that's why I forgot about the letter. I'm that sorry. I hope it was nothing important?'

Marianne's smile was rueful. ‘It was very important, as it happens.'

‘Oh, m'Lady, you're not going to sack me, are you? I didn't mean it …'

Marianne hesitated. Her first instinct was to send the girl packing, but she liked little Rosie, who always spoke in her best English and always did what she was told willingly and efficiently. Besides, the poor thing hadn't meant it, yet … ‘Tell me, Rosie,' she said, as something occurred to her, ‘why didn't you find the letter if it was in the pocket of your apron? Surely you would have noticed it when you carried on with your own work.'

‘It was pouring rain that day, m'Lady, and I'd put on my coat, and I've never had it on since.'

Her eyes brightened a little. ‘It'll still be there! Do you want me to get it?'

‘Yes, I
would
like to see what it said.'

While she waited for the parlour maid to return, Marianne dipped the pen into the crystal inkwell, but she had only written ‘Dear Andrew' when the girl came hurrying in, holding out a rather crumpled envelope which her mistress grabbed and tore open. It was written in a beautiful script, which astonished Marianne until she remembered that it was Mary McKay who had actually done the writing, likely interpreting what Moll wanted to say.

Marion,

I wish to let you know that your father is very ill. He has not been able to work for some time now, so the mill is putting us out of the house. He needs constant attention, so I can not take a job myself. We will have nothing coming in and I am forced to ask you if you will help us. If you can let us have enough to give him a decent roof over his head and the nourishing food he needs to give him strength to recover, that is all I want from you.

Moll Cheyne

Marianne heaved a somewhat ragged sigh, then realized that the girl was still waiting. ‘It's all right, Rosie. I'm not going to sack you, but please be more careful in future.'

The girl did not take the intended dismissal. She had told Cook about the awful-looking woman who was in with the mistress, and knew that Mrs Carnie would expect her to find out who it had been. It was not in Rosie's nature to be bold, or to poke her nose into other people's business, but she was well aware that her life wouldn't be worth living downstairs if she didn't. And so, her face as red as a cock-turkey, she stammered, ‘Had the l-letter to do with the w-woman that was here? I know there was a row, for I heard you both shouting.'

Taking a moment to decide how to answer this, Marianne said, ‘She wrote it and she couldn't understand why I hadn't replied. But it's all sorted out now, so get back to your duties and we'll say no more about it.'

‘Thank you, m'Lady.'

Before knuckling down to writing to Andrew, Marianne couldn't help wondering if it would have made any difference if Moll's letter had been sent to London along with the rest of their mail, and came to the shaming conclusion that it probably wouldn't have, especially if it had followed the afternoon tea fiasco. At that time, she hadn't had even a drop of the milk of human kindness left in her, and she'd had no compassion for anyone else. She would most certainly have torn the letter up. She had never liked her stepmother and she'd have thought it was just a begging letter.

Since coming home, she'd had an even worse trauma to face, one she could never have come through without help … from Flora and Robert … and Hamish. He was still getting over it himself, and his father's death, which was why she couldn't let him know how callous she had been towards her father and it was time she got this letter written. She meant to do what little she could for her father now, but she needed Andrew's help.

Chapter Fourteen

Andrew had been surprised, and very pleased, by Marianne's letter. Having the Lord and Lady Glendarril as clients would be good for business. She had been married for over five years now, and he had only seen her for a few hours at a time, yet his heart still beat a full drum roll every time he saw her. While the train sped south, he decided that he should manage to cope with seeing her and her husband together for a whole weekend.

Carnie was waiting for him at Laurencekirk, but sadly for Andrew, he was in a talkative mood. ‘His Lordship's no' back yet,' he said, as he laid the young man's valise on the seat. ‘He's still away in London, but her Ladyship's expecting you.'