The House of Lyall (39 page)

‘It's the kitchen door you should've come to,' the little maid told her when she asked to see Lady Glendarril. ‘And her Ladyship never sees nobody without an appointment.'

‘She'll see me, Jessie.' The sight of her old school friend had given Melda some extra courage.

Jessie shoved her lace cap up off her brow. ‘She'll gi'e me a row if I show onybody in the now, for she's havin' a rest.'

‘Go in and tell her I have to speak to her – it's important.'

Marianne was sitting in a chair by the fire wearing a silk peignoir over her underclothes when the light tap came at her door. ‘Come in,' she called, frowning, because she did not feel like seeing anyone. ‘Yes?' she asked, when the maid opened the door. The girl looked scared, but since it was her first week as parlour maid – she had previously been kitchen maid – her mistress could understand how she felt. ‘What is it, Jessie?'

‘There's somebody asking to see you, m'Lady. I said you wasn't at home to folk, but she says it's important.'

‘She? Did she give you her name?'

‘She didna need to, m'Lady. It's Melda Mowatt, and we was at the school at the same time.'

‘Show her in.' A chill of presentiment made the woman draw her négligée closer around her. Why on earth would the doctor's daughter want to speak to her? When the visitor appeared, she looked every bit as scared as the maid had been, and Marianne, forcing a smile to her lips, prepared for an unpleasant surprise. ‘I believe you have something important to tell me, Melda?'

‘Yes, your Ladyship,' Melda murmured timidly, wondering if her nerve would hold until she got it out.

Marianne gestured to a chair. ‘Sit there and tell me.' The girl sat down, but it seemed that she was unable to come out with whatever had brought her to the castle. ‘I won't eat you, my dear. Tell me.'

‘I've come … I thought I'd better … you see … I'm expecting.'

The last two words, bursting out like the cork from a champagne bottle, were so unexpected that Marianne did not understand at first. ‘But why come to me? What can …?' With comprehension came a violent lurch of nausea that had her gripping herself together in case she was actually sick. Then she felt as if her body was floating away, that she was looking down on a scene which had nothing to do with her. After a few moments, reality returned and, noticing that the girl was looking anxious, she managed to say, ‘It is my son's child?'

‘Yes, m'Lady, but it wasn't just his fault …'

‘No?' Marianne was desperately trying to think how to cope with this situation, so similar to many she had dealt with over the past few years, yet so different, the boy concerned being of her own flesh and blood. ‘It might be best not to apportion blame,' she quavered.

‘But I want you to understand,' Melda said beseechingly. ‘It was the night he came home on leave, and we hadn't arranged to meet, but we'd both gone to the old hut in the woods, and …'

Marianne was scarcely taking anything in, she felt so angry at her son for putting her in this position, and she said nothing as the girl continued.

‘… and we were both crying, and trying to comfort each other, and we got to kissing, and then –'

Marianne sat up in astonishment. ‘You were trying to comfort each other? You and Ranald? What on earth for?'

It was Melda who looked astonished now. ‘Not Ranald, m'Lady. It was Ruairidh.'

‘Ruairidh? But Ruairidh wouldn't …' Her head swimming, Marianne had to stop. Much as she had hated to think ill of Ranald, she could easily see him as the culprit, whereas her younger son could never … ‘I suppose you are going to say he raped you?'

‘No! Ruairidh would never harm me, he loves me, and I love him.'

A warning bell started ringing in Marianne's head. Was this talk of love a prelude to a forced wedding? She could not allow Ruairidh to marry the daughter of that madman! It must be all of sixteen years since the minister had made that attack on her, yet she could still see his deranged eyes, still feel his clawing fingers, his hot breath. Oh no! She would have to do something to prevent …

She drew a steadying breath and smiled sugar-sweetly to take the edge off what she was about to say. ‘You can't have this child, of course. You can't disgrace the Bruce-Lyall name like that. I will have to arrange for an abortion.'

‘But it's your grandchild!' Melda gasped, shocked both at the very idea, and that it should come from this respectable pillar of the community.

‘I am well aware of that, but with Ranald … gone, Ruairidh is heir to the title, and he can not have an illegitimate child hanging over him, possibly dividing the family in future generations and causing embarrassment in this one.'

‘But he'll marry me when he comes home,' Melda said firmly. ‘I'm sure he will, when I tell him …'

Marianne's manner changed completely, her face hardening, her eyes narrowing as she barked, ‘You will
not
tell him about this! I will arrange for you to have an abortion, and …'

This was too much for Melda. ‘I will
not
have an abortion!' she said, firmly but quietly in case Jessie heard. ‘It's my baby, and you can't make me! I know you're the laird's wife, and you likely think you own the whole glen, but you don't own me! I won't let you kill my baby!' She glared defiantly at the woman.

Marianne's hand itched to slap her across the cheek, but she would lose control of the situation if she did. Making up her mind that appearing to climb down might be the best policy, she changed tactics again. ‘I'm sorry, my dear,' she said softly, ‘I was trying to think what would be best for you, but I can understand you wanting to keep the child. The trouble is, I haven't had time to think properly, so I want you to go home now and come back in the evening. Ruairidh's father will not be back until tomorrow, so come round the side of this wing, and I'll let you in by the french window. We don't want the servants to start wondering why you are here a second time, and if Jessie asks you why you wanted to see me, tell her you brought a message from your father.'

When Melda left, Marianne went upstairs to dress for dinner, as she usually did at this time. She must do nothing to rouse the slightest suspicion that something was wrong. The hour she normally spent in answering letters could be used to think how to get rid of Melda or her expected child … preferably both.

Her hour of concentrated thought was almost up when a plan occurred to her; a scheme to out-scheme all schemes. It would take a lot of arranging, probably much greasing of palms, but it could be done … as long as Andrew Rennie played along with it.

Chapter Twenty-one

Melda Bruce opened her eyes slowly, hardly believing that the birth was over. For hours there had been brief respites between the labour pains, and then they had accelerated into the excruciating agony that had made her scream and scream until she was sure that her lungs would burst. She had been praying for God to take her, to release her into that heaven where no pain existed, when she was given morphine to help her through the final stage, and the last thing she clearly remembered was feeling ice-cold though she was drenched in perspiration. But she felt better now. Someone had sponged her then told her she had a son, but she couldn't remember anything after that.

‘How do you feel now?'

The young nurse who had held her hand and stroked her brow during her labour was by her bed again, and Melda gave her as bright a smile as she could to show how much she appreciated the kindness. ‘Still a bit tired, but not too bad.'

‘You'll soon get over it.' The girl seemed to be on the point of saying more when the ringing of a bell made her hurry out.

Melda lay back lazily, suddenly realizing that she hadn't asked if her son was all right. That must have been what the nurse had been going to tell her if she hadn't been called away, but she'd tell her next time she came in. Lady Glendarril had said she wouldn't be allowed to see it, but at least she knew which sex it was.

She took a good look around her – she had been in no state to notice anything when she was taken through from the labour ward. Like the rest of the maternity hospital it was disinfectantly clean, but there was a more homely look to this private room. It was furnished with a matching walnut chest of drawers and cabinet, two padded armchairs and a small circular table standing on one beautifully carved leg that ended in three clawed feet. The walnut bed ends supported a firm spring under the mattress, so the bed was quite comfortable, with a plump feather pillow for her head and several fluffy white blankets. She snuggled down into the soft eiderdown that lay on top, and closed her eyes again.

It had all been so unexpected. At first, when she had refused to agree to an abortion, she'd thought that Ruairidh's mother was going to strike her, but only for a moment. She was bound to have been angry, of course, being defied by a sixteen-year-old girl whose condition would cause the glen folk to think that one or both of the laird's sons had seduced her. But later, when the woman had had time to think, she came up with what she'd said was an infinitely better solution. For the hundredth time, Melda wondered how she had ever let herself be talked into it, but it had been the only option open to her. Her mind went back.

Although she had bravely refused to entertain the thought of having her child's pre-life terminated, she had felt anything but brave when she made her second visit to the castle. Her stomach churned, her legs shook, her breath came in harsh gasps, but she kept saying, ‘No!'

Suddenly, Lady Glendarril's expression had softened. ‘You know, my dear, I can understand how you feel. If I loved somebody, I wouldn't want to dispose of his child either, but there is another way to save all our faces. I could arrange to have it adopted.'

Not caring a fig about saving anyone's face, least of all her own, Melda clung to the back of the nearest chair. ‘I told you! I want to keep it! It's mine … and Ruairidh's, and when I tell him the things you've been saying, he'll never want to see you again.'

The woman's face turned grey. ‘So you would have me lose both my sons? I did not think you could be so cruel.'

‘I'm sorry, your Ladyship, it's just … you're getting me so muddled, I don't know what I'm saying.'

‘Sit down, my dear, and we'll discuss it.'

Melda kept standing. ‘There's nothing to discuss. I'm not getting it aborted, and I'm not letting it be adopted …'

‘Please sit down … Melda, you're overwrought, too upset to think clearly. I was not thinking clearly either when I spoke of abortion, but I cannot … I can
not
allow you to flaunt my son's bastard –'

‘Oh!' Melda gasped, sitting down because her legs gave way. ‘What an awful thing to say!'

‘It's the truth. A bastard, that's what it will be, and I will not allow Ruairidh to admit being the father, nor take any responsibility for it.' Marianne's eyes hardened. ‘If you refuse to do as I say, I shall tell him – and his father – that you do not know whose child it is, that it could be any one of the soldiers billeted in the old hall. That would put an end to any hope you may have of marrying my son.'

‘But you can't do that!' Melda wailed. ‘A lady in your position? You can't tell a downright lie!'

‘I will, if you force me to. I am fighting for my family's good name, remember, and that means more to me than anything. I dislike making threats, but I am prepared to go to any lengths to …' Taking in a deep breath, Marianne hesitated before going on. ‘On the other hand, if you will only be reasonable, we can work out something to your advantage.'

Melda stared at her. She had gathered earlier that the laird's wife could be devious, so what had she hatched up now? ‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you may not have heard, but Jean Thomson is leaving me at the end of next week. She has been my personal maid since I was married, and I have worried that I may not find another one so dependable.'

‘You're offering me her job?' Melda was astounded. ‘But wouldn't that …? When they notice I'm expecting … it would look like you're admitting it's Ruairidh's.'

‘No one will notice your condition. I have told my husband, ever since we heard about Ranald, that I need a decent holiday to help me accept it, but he is always too busy to spare the time. He suggested taking me to London next time he goes, but there are reasons I do not want to go there, and in any case, his trips last for only a few weeks, and we need longer than that.'

Wondering what was coming, Melda decided that nothing Lady Marianne said or did would surprise her – but she was wrong!

‘How far on are you?'

‘Nearly three months now.'

‘Good! I will book a holiday for myself and my companion …'

Mystified, Melda murmured, ‘Companion?'

‘Have you not understood? If I employ you to replace Thomson, it will explain why you have visited me twice in one day, but it will also let me take you away from all prying eyes. We will leave as soon as possible – Thomson will instruct you in your duties first – and no one we know will see you again until after the birth, which, of course, will be in a reputable maternity home or small hospital. Until nearer the time, we can take lodgings somewhere as mother and daughter, and to save tongues wagging, we can say the boy you were going to marry was killed in the war. I'll pay all expenses.'

Almost struck dumb by the thoroughness of this plan, Melda managed to say, ‘And the conditions …?'

Shrugging, Marianne smiled. ‘You let me arrange for the adoption of the child. You don't ask to see it.' She paused with her eyebrows raised. ‘You have not been writing to Ruairidh, have you?'

Melda's head-shake encouraged her to go on. ‘Good, but part of the bargain is that you will never tell anyone about this, ever! Your father does not know, I hope?'