The Laird of Lochandee (12 page)

‘But you'll remember my wee lass? You'll ask Mistress Beattie?'

‘I'll see what she says,' Ross promised. He was astonished when Alice Beattie took the pony and trap to the village the following day and returned with a slight shy girl beside her.

‘This is Beth,' said Ross. ‘I hope you will be patient with her. I intend to teach her to milk. Maybe we could start to churn again. I need a live-in dairy maid now that Nathan's wife is too old to help in the house.

Ross decided he would write one more letter to Rachel, and one to Meg. He smiled to himself as he took his first cycle ride down to the village to post them on Christmas Eve. When they opened his letters on Christmas morning they would be full of goodwill. Surely they must reply this time. Optimism bubbled up in him. Life was improving.

When Tam McGill pushed his red post bicycle up the road to Windlebrae he also believed Christmas might be a time of goodwill and forgiveness.

Gertrude waylaid him in the yard and relieved him of his mail. He was no longer welcomed indoors for a cup of tea and a blether with Cameron, even as an old friend.

As he pedalled away Tam reflected sadly on the changes. Things had deteriorated since Meg and the lassie had gone, and young Ross too. He was almost certain the letters were from Ross and he wondered if the girls would receive them. Whatever the quarrels that had driven them all away he knew Gertrude Maxwell was the most unforgiving of women.

If he had guessed how desperately Ross and Rachel longed to hear from each other, Tam would have walked the four miles to Ardmill in his bare feet.

As winter turned to spring Peter's cow calved and Rachel milked her each morning. She made butter once a week for the household and Peter sold any surplus. The three little girls followed her around at every opportunity. Despite the heaviness of her own heart their company cheered her and she was always kind and patient with them.

‘I think we should buy another cow,' Peter suggested one evening. ‘I can't supply all the orders for your butter, Rachel.'

She flushed with pride.

‘We must wait until Rachel's baby is born,' Meg warned. ‘She's working far too hard already.'

‘She must have something new to welcome her into the world,' Mrs Jenkins declared sentimentally, convinced the baby would be a girl. ‘I shall knit a jacket and bonnet, with leggins and mittens to match. I shall use up all my wool ends to crochet a blanket. Now Polly, just you sit there and hold the hank of wool while I wind it into a ball.' The little girl held the skein of wool patiently, full of excitement about the new baby.

In fact the baby took them all by surprise, coming into the world swiftly and with the minimum of fuss during the evening of the twenty-second of May. It had been the hottest day for half a century in London but at Ardmill Rachel had ignored the increasing pain in her back and had fed the chickens and milked her cow without complaint. Two hours later her baby son entered the world with a lusty cry.

‘Mrs Jenkins will get a surprise when she comes in the morning,' Meg laughed with relief. ‘This baby has done everything contrary to her expectations.' Meg's smile was getting broader by the minute as she cradled the newborn infant tenderly in her arms, crooning softly between her chatter. ‘He has not taken several days to come into the world as she said first babies do. Dear Rachel, I must leave you to get some rest, but have you thought of a name for him?'

‘No,' Rachel shook her head. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘If only Ross had come back. He must bear my name now.' She gulped on a sob. ‘He will never know his father.' Gently Meg laid the small swathed bundle in her arms.

‘He is beautiful,' she crooned softly. ‘He will comfort you.'

‘Perhaps I should name him Peter? You have both been so kind to me,' Rachel looked up through swimming eyes.

‘Think about it tomorrow,' Meg murmured. ‘Sleep now, Rachel. Everything will seem better when you are not so exhausted.'

‘Thank you, Meg,' Rachel caught her hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you for everything.'

The baby was christened – Connor Cameron Peter O'Brian – after both of his grandfathers and the man who had befriended her in her time of need. Even before the christening the twins had given him their own version, combining Connor and Cameron to Conan – a name which was to stick. Rachel made no further mention of Ross so Meg and Peter tactfully avoided his name.

Willie and Ruth came to visit and brought a perambulator.

‘It is such a generous gift!' Rachel said with tears of gratitude.

‘It's a Burlington,' Ruth chuckled. ‘Don't worry, Rachel. They may cost three guineas new but Father always gets a bargain. He brought it ages ago and we have been keeping it a secret.'

The three little girls, Mrs Jenkins, and most of all, Meg, were thrilled with the pram. They all wanted to take Conan for walks down the village street, but Rachel would not venture near except to attend church.

‘This wee fellow is going to be the most spoiled young man in Ardmill,' Peter chuckled, ‘With so many women to look after him.'

Peter watched Meg's attachment to her nephew with growing concern. Her love for children was evident in the way she cared for his own young daughters and their love for her could not have been greater had she been their natural mother. It was the wistful look which troubled Peter. He saw it in her eyes as she cradled the baby to her breast, or allowed him to suck the tip of her little finger. On the evening he first smiled at her, Peter's worst fears were realised. ‘He's so beautiful,' she breathed softly. ‘If only I could have given you a son of your own, Peter. It would have made me the happiest woman on earth to bear your child.'

Peter shuddered with fear at such a thought and hugged her closer.

‘Meg, I am the happiest man on earth already, now you are my wife. You are all I ever wanted. I could not bear it if I lost you now.'

‘I know, I know how you have suffered, my dearest,' Meg whispered against his chest, but there was a kind of desperation in her response to his loving that night and many more nights when her emotions were aroused. Peter was troubled.

Every second week Meg had returned to Windlebrae while Gertrude was at the market. Since the birth of Rachel's baby she had been torn between her desire to see her father and her reluctance to leave the baby.

‘You must visit Windlebrae, Meg,' Peter advised with some concern. ‘You know that Rachel is the best of mothers.'

‘But she is so young, Peter.'

‘She has a natural instinct. She's a wonderful mother and you would be the first to admit it. Anyway Mrs Jenkins is always here the day you are away.'

Cameron Maxwell was also concerned by his daughter's obsession with Rachel's baby son. He alone knew of her secret hope that Peter would allow her to adopt him and rear the boy as their own. He prayed she would not develop her mother's possessive nature. Whatever struggles lay ahead he was convinced Rachel would never agree to give up her child, even to Meg.

‘Is there no word of Ross?' he asked one day.

‘No. It's strange that he has not written to you, Father, not even at Christmas. Sometimes I feel so angry with Ross, but at other times I do worry about him. Suppose he's ill or had an accident? How should we know?'

‘I don't know, lassie, but there's little we can do. He could be working his passage on a ship to Canada to start a new life there. I hear others are trying their fortune over the sea.'

He had asked Gertrude several times if she had any idea where Ross had gone. She evaded his questions. In his heart he was sure she had had something to do with Ross's disappearance.

In August, the death was announced of Mr Alexander Graham Bell. Whether it was coincidence, or whether his death had brought attention to his invention, Peter did not know, but there were several proposed installations of telephones in the towns and villages. Peter decided such a link might prove useful for his business.

The household and shop accounts were showing a small profit in Meg's capable hands and he felt more confident. They had already decided that he should change his horse drawn van for one with an engine before winter. Meg was concerned for his health when he was out in stormy weather. Peter agreed it would shorten many of the country journeys.

Rachel's skill at making butter was proving a great asset. Peter decided she should be paid a small wage, in addition to her food and lodgings. Rachel was surprised.

‘It's no more than you deserve, dear Rachel,' Meg assured her with a warm smile. It's time you had something of your own. When Conan grows too old for wearing dresses he will need breeches and shirts.'

‘Yes. It troubles me, wondering how I shall clothe him. Mr Dewar has promised to make him his first pair of clogs as soon as he's able to walk.'

‘The clogger is a kind man,' Meg agreed, ‘even if he is rather quiet and shy.'

‘He's not really shy when he gets to know people.' Rachel bit her lip. The old cobbler was always kind and gentle when he greeted her and they often exchanged a few words together while she attended the cows and chickens. ‘He – he offered us the use of his paddocks now that Peter has bought two extra cows. All he asks in return is some butter and a little fresh milk for his porridge each morning. Do you think Peter would agree? We really do need extra grass and Mr Dewar does not even keep a horse to graze.'

‘He does not go anywhere to need a horse. Apparently he has no family either. I'm sure Peter will accept his offer.' Meg agreed enthusiastically, little guessing what other plans Sam Dewar had in mind for the well being of Rachel and her baby son. ‘Speaking of going out – it's time you went out more, Rachel.'

‘There is nowhere I want to go. Conan is my life now.'

‘Peter has promised to buy me a Singer sewing machine before winter sets in so that I can make clothes for Polly and the twins. Mrs Jenkins says the new women's association – Women's Rural Institute, I think they call it, is going to give demonstrations in sewing and other crafts in the village. It would be very useful for both of us. Would you come with me to the meetings during the winter?'

‘Oh, I couldn't, Meg! You know I couldn't.' Rachel's face had flushed and then paled, even paler than before.

‘You must meet people now that the birth is over. You never go near the village, except once a week to the kirk.'

‘And that's hard enough,' Rachel admitted with a distinct quaver in her voice. ‘You know the women whisper behind their hands. You know they think I am wicked and sinful because I have a baby and no husband.'

‘There are always some people eager to make the most of any gossip,' Meg said sadly, ‘Once they get to know you they will realise what a fine person you are. They will learn to love you as we do.'

‘No,' Rachel shook her head. ‘They are not all as generous as you, Meg. She shuddered at the thought of meeting the women in Ardmill. Her eyes filled with the tears which came so readily since the baby's birth, and caused Meg much concern. Her anger with Ross flared. Rachel did not deserve the shame of bearing his child alone.

Chapter Twelve

A
S THE YEAR OF
1922 progressed Ross threw himself into his work. Alfie had become his constant shadow. His had phenomenal strength and an eagerness to please. They were great compensations for his handicap. Between them they fenced and ditched and mended boundary walls, thatched the stacks and cleaned out the sheds. Slowly The Glens of Lochandee was returning to the tidy, well run farm which Alice Beattie remembered.

She blessed the day the Factor had brought Ross to her. She enjoyed his company in the house too and was beginning to look upon him more like a favourite nephew. She sensed there was something overshadowing his happiness and keeping him from being totally content. It troubled her. She knew little of his family or his background. When such matters arose in conversation he seemed to draw a veil between them.

On Sunday afternoons Ross explored the countryside on his bicycle, even when the weather was less than kind. He could not rest. Whenever he was not working his thoughts returned to Rachel and Windlebrae. Although he knew nothing of her changed circumstances and the shame she felt at bearing a child without a husband, he experienced a growing tension within himself, as though some sixth sense mirrored Rachel's need.

Beth Pearson was so thankful to be out of the clutches of her stepmother and would work endlessly to please Mrs Beattie. She had her own small bedroom off the kitchen. It had been the maids' room for as long as Alice could remember and Beth was always up first to clean out the ashes and kindle the fire ready to cook the porridge as soon as milking was finished. In her free time she went to see her grandfather in his cycle shop.

‘Grandpa is going to make me a bicycle of my own,' she announced joyfully on her return one afternoon. ‘He says if you had been going to sack me, Mistress Beattie, you would have told me to leave at the May term. That was last Sunday, the twenty eighth.'

‘So it was. The term day,' Alice Beattie reflected, ‘And I did not even think of it. Indeed lassie, I wonder how I got through all the work before you came.' Beth beamed happily. She was not a clever girl, but she was far from stupid and she had blossomed under Alice's guidance.

The month of May had always filled Ross with a joyful exhilaration. The trees and hedgerows burgeoned with buds and unfurling leaves. Lambs danced in the fields and the world seemed refreshed. He remembered last year how Rachel had lifted her head to breathe in the scent of the hawthorn blossoms floating in the breeze like snow in summer. She had loved to watch the birds flying hither and thither in their search for wisps of straw or wool, or bits of dried grass to build their nests. She had clapped her hands like a happy child when she discovered a four-leaf clover.

This was the first spring Ross had ever spent away from Windlebrae and he told himself it accounted for his tension, the vague anxiety, the restlessness which disturbed him whether he was awake or sleeping. He could not get Rachel out of his mind.

Rachel's yearning at this time more than equalled his own. They were separated by many miles, with memories and thoughts their only link. It had never occurred to Ross that she could be carrying a child – his child. He had no way of knowing she had given birth to a son. He simply knew he had the strongest urge to see her again, to hold her in his arms and talk with her.

He was tempted to ask Alice Beattie if he could take time off to journey back to his old home. Only the thought of Gertrude Maxwell held him back. He owed her a debt. She may not have loved him, but she had not abandoned him to an orphanage. She had fed and sheltered him. The price was his silence and his absence. The gift of fifty pounds he could repay but in his heart he knew nothing would make Gertrude Maxwell accept him, even less welcome his return. But Cameron Maxwell was his uncle, his flesh and blood. Had he agreed to his wife's plan? Ross could not believe he had known of it.

The only home he had now was at Glens of Lochandee with Alice Beattie. She showed him more warmth than Gertrude Maxwell had ever done. He was grateful, but if only he could get Rachel out of his mind … The memory of her, the scent of her skin, the feel of her body … He groaned. However hard he worked, however many plans he made, Rachel's shadow was there.

At Ardmill Grocery Store Peter had sold the horse and wagon. He was well pleased with his new motor vehicle and had gained one or two extra customers. He still kept the small trap and a pony which Meg used to visit her father, and for local deliveries.

Rachel was determined to prove herself worthy of her wages by supplying the growing demand for her butter. So Peter had bought two more milk cows. They grazed in the adjoining paddocks belonging to Sam Dewar.

‘We shall need a shed for them in the winter,' Rachel reminded Peter. ‘Mr Dewar says we can use his byre. He has been helping me to clear it out.'

‘Then I must call on him and arrange payment for the use of his fields and buildings,' Peter nodded. ‘I will go round to see him tonight.'

He need not have worried. It was not part of Sam Dewar's plans to drive a hard bargain. He was enjoying the activity and Rachel's company.

‘I am pleased to see Miss Rachel attending her cows each day. Such a lovely smile she has, though still a little sad. The sight of her pretty face cheers a man's heart. As for storing the hay you could use the lean-to shed at the side, there is a door leading into the byre so it is quite convenient. Jock McCabe was in here to collect his clogs yesterday. I took the liberty of asking if he would have hay to sell. He said you could buy all you would need and he would deliver it here if you are interested?'

‘That's splendid. Thank you very much.' Peter was delighted by Sam Dewar's co-operation. ‘But we must agree on a rent for the use of the paddocks and the buildings. I would rather pay my way,' He waved aside the cobbler's protest. ‘You are obliging me greatly. Will the Laird be agreeable if you sub-let your land and buildings to me? I would not like to cause any trouble for you.'

Sam Dewar did not answer immediately. He took his time lighting up his pipe, then he had another sip of whisky.

‘Not often I take a second glass these days,' he commented, ‘But it's a good blend you've brought.' He frowned and when he spoke his words came slowly. Peter was astonished at the story which unfolded, but he was even more surprised at the careful thought Sam had given to this arrangement. He was even more astonished at the attention Sam had given to Rachel's situation, and to her future.

The August day was well and truly over by the time Peter returned to his own home. Rachel and the children were asleep. Only Meg was waiting for him and she stifled a yawn as he entered.

‘Come on to bed, lass,' Peter said apologetically. ‘I'll tell you about my talk with Sam Dewar once we are tucked up for the night.' Meg agreed readily but once Peter started to recount the evening's events her weariness disappeared.

‘Apparently, when Sam's grandmother was a young girl in the 1830s, she went to work for the family who owned most of the houses and property in Ardmill. The eldest son fell in love with her. He wanted to marry her. That did not suit his parents. They sent him abroad to travel. Unbeknown to them, he had already given the poor girl a child. She returned to her father who was one of the cloggers in Ardmill. When the young Laird inherited the estate he returned with a wife. He realised the misery he must have caused. As a form of recompense and a measure of security for his child he gave her the deeds for the clogger's property, and the two extra paddocks. That's why he has more fields than the rest of us in Ardmill. The child was a boy – Sam's father. He learned his trade from his grandfather and took over from the old man. He passed his skill on to Sam, along with some artistic additions in leather tooling apparently. Sam says there is little call for such things in the village now. The gentry all shop in Edinburgh or London, but he does nicely from making and repairing the clogs and boots.'

‘So Sam Dewar owns the house and the land.' Meg smiled in the darkness. ‘He is such a shy, modest wee man you wouldna think he owned two matchsticks. Some of the women in the village say he fills his mouth full of nails so that he does not have to talk to them, but he is always very civil to me. I often see him chatting to Rachel.'

‘He's a very genuine man. I have lived next door to him all my life and tonight I had the longest conversation I have ever had with him. Anyway he's perfectly willing to rent the land and buildings to us at a very modest price. Apparently Rachel has confided her desire to earn her keep.'

‘She's a little more settled now that she's more independent.'

‘Yes. Sam is planning …' Suddenly, instinct warned Peter that Meg might not accept the cobbler's observations, or his proposals, with quite the same approval as he had done.

Sam Dewar's perception had surprised him. It was clear the old man had noted Meg's devotion to Conan. He approved of her love, but it troubled him too.

‘The way I see it,' he had said slowly, choosing his words with great deliberation in case he caused offence, ‘The bairn will scarcely know whether his mother is Miss Rachel, or your wife. When he gets older he will cajole one whenever he canna get his way with the other – not good for a boy's character,' he added, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘Not that I have had any o' my own to rear, but I've watched two generations of bairns growing up in the village and I can tell which ones will turn out to be men and women to respect.'

‘Well, what else did you and Sam Dewar discuss?' Meg asked with some amusement at Peter's apparent reverie.

‘Sam has plans … not until next spring. We must not interfere. He will discuss them with Rachel. It must be her decision.'

‘What plans?' Meg was suddenly alert. ‘What decision?'

‘He's going to improve his cottage, install a water closet and a hot water boiler. He's going to paint the windows outside and in. When it is finished he intends to ask Rachel if she will live there, as his housekeeper, with Conan of course …'

‘Live there! Take Conan? No! no …'

‘Hush, Meg,' Peter reached out for her, pulling her back beneath the bed clothes, trying to calm her agitation. ‘He's not doing anything until the spring. He was asking my opinion...'

‘Well I hope you told him it's a stupid idea!'

‘No-o. As a matter of fact I think it would be a good opportunity for Rachel to have a house of her own to run, and a place to bring up her son.'

‘Oh Peter! How could you? How could you send them away? After all the hard work Rachel has done for you?'

‘Meg, I'm not sending them away. If Sam Dewar puts his proposition to Rachel it's up to her to accept or refuse. He's getting an old man. He needs someone to look after him. He obviously likes Rachel's quiet manner, and he has seen how capable she is. I suspect her situation reminds him of his grandmother's. He has some sympathy for her predicament and that is a lot better than condemnation, which is all most people offer her.'

‘I couldn't bear it, Peter! I don't want Rachel to take Conan away. We have plenty of room here – you said so yourself.'

‘Oh come on, Meg! They would not be going away. They would be next door – just a few yards away.'

‘But Conan would live in a different house. He would eat there, sleep there. I would not be able to bathe him. He loves his bath already …'

‘Please, Meg, calm down.' Peter was worried. Meg sounded almost as obsessive as her mother. ‘Think about Rachel and her son. Think about Sam Dewar. He has neither kith nor kin.'

‘You want rid of Rachel and Conan. I love him, Peter. He is the nearest I shall ever have to a baby of my own. He's so lovely …'

‘He's Rachel's son, Meg,' Peter insisted sternly. ‘And you have to admit it does not look as though Ross is going to help her bring him up. We must encourage her to look to the future for her sake as well as Conan's.'

Meg began to weep. Peter could not bear to see her so upset. He drew her into his arms and comforted her in the only way he knew – loving her with all the warmth which came so naturally to him. As always the desire he had been denied for so long flared into passion. The whisky he had drunk earlier added fire to his veins, sweeping aside his usual control as he gave himself up to Meg's wild passion. The sublime ecstasy of their loving exhausted them both. They slept, arms entwined around each other, harmony restored.

Peter was careful to avoid the subject of Sam Dewar in the following weeks and Meg preferred to put the whole matter out of her mind. Her thoughts were preoccupied with Windlebrae and her father. The signs of neglect were increasing and it was clear her mother had too much work to do in spite of the girl she had hired from one of the neighbouring farms. It hurt and troubled her that her own mother maintained the silence between them.

‘Mother must be aware of my visits but Father says she never comments on the baking and groceries I take for them.'

‘At least your father appreciates your visits, lass,' Peter comforted. ‘There's little more you can do. Willie and Ruth have done their best too.'

‘That's true. I would be happier if they had a live-in maid. Father says Carrie is often late in the mornings. They have fewer cows too. That's a sure sign mother is finding the work too much.' Peter murmured soothing noises but he knew Mistress Maxwell's stubborn attitude.

It was the end of October. Alice Beattie received a letter from Mr Shaw to say the Laird hoped to pay one last visit to The Glens of Lochandee.

‘He wants to meet you, Ross. I remember the time when his Lordship used to ride round the estate on his pony with his father. They always visited the tenants at least once every quarter. The present Laird kept up the visits until he became crippled with the rheumatism but his son has never accompanied him. Now that he has two small boys of his own I thought he might have shown more interest in his tenants and the way they farm. After all the estate will be his one day.'