The Laird of Lochandee (8 page)

There was little heat from the banked down embers in the bottom of the grate. As Peter knelt before the grate he realised the smell in the room was coming from the twins.

‘Where is Eliza?' he asked sharply. ‘Is she ill?' Polly shook her head, still clinging to her father as though afraid he would disappear.

‘Is her aunt ill? Has she been called away?' Again the silent shake of Polly's head. ‘Where is she then, my wee lamb?'

‘In the shop.' Polly looked anxiously into his face, then she put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Eliza goes to talk to Mr Johnson in the shop. Every day.' She drew back and stared at him with fear in her eyes. ‘It's a secret. She will hit me with the rolling pin if I tell.'

‘I see …' Peter only half-believed his four-year-old daughter, but as his eyes moved round the untidy, dirty room, he recalled other incidents, work not done, meals not made. ‘Indeed I do see,' he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing. He felt anger rising in him but he controlled it when he saw the terror in his small daughter's eyes. ‘Don't worry, Polly, Eliza will not harm you. I came home earlier than she expected today so she cannot blame you.'

Polly still clung tightly. Her eyes looked doubtfully into his. It was clear that his child was more certain of retribution from Eliza than she was of his own ability to protect her. His first inclination was to stride along the passage and confront her with Johnson. He had thought his young manager was a trustworthy fellow with a wife and a family of his own. He felt thoroughly disillusioned and despondent. He needed someone to care for his children, and someone to help with the business. His father had started with a small grocer's shop but together they had built it up into a thriving delivery business as well as the shop. He had concentrated all his energies on it, but I have neglected my children, he thought with self-disgust. He was just as much to blame as Eliza MacDougall.

He bent to the fire and began to blow some life into it with the large bellows which stood beside the fender stool. There was a basket of logs which he had filled himself before he left that morning. It was untouched. When he thought about it the pile of logs in the shed had scarcely gone down at all, but the bags of dross, which he bought with his good coal, had almost disappeared. Did Eliza do this every day? How could she leave his children cold and alone?

‘Have you had tea?' he asked. Polly shook her head, her eyes on the door. She was still apprehensive. He drew her to him with one arm while adding logs to the fire with the other. ‘We shall soon have a nice warm fire and we'll make the kettle sing and have some tea and toast, shall we?' Polly nodded and offered a tentative smile.

‘What did you have for dinner?'

‘Haven't had any.'

‘What? No soup and bread?' A shake of her head was Polly's only response. ‘Did Eliza make potatoes and gravy today? Or pudding?'

‘No.' Polly hung her head and looked guilty. ‘We drank the milk,' she added in a frightened whisper. ‘Jane and Mary cried. They always cry. We were hungry.'

‘Then you were a clever girl to give them some milk,' Peter reassured her and was rewarded by a relieved smile. ‘When did Eliza go out?'

‘She goes when we hear you drive Tommy out of the yard.' ‘And when does she come back?' Peter asked tensely.

‘When Mr Johnson shuts the shop. She unlocks the door and runs everywhere and shouts at us.'

There was a tentative knock on the door. Peter had been so engrossed in his problems he had almost forgotten he had left Rachel out in the scullery. As she entered the dingy kitchen he marvelled at the difference in her appearance. Her face was clean and shining, her hair brushed and neatly braided around her head but there was a red mark down one cheek where the end of the whip lash had caught her. Her white pinafore was creased but it was clean and only the muddy hem of her skirt bore evidence of her ordeal.

‘Come in. The fire's beginning to blaze and the kettle will soon boil to make a hot drink for all of us. Polly, this is Rachel.'

‘Hello, Polly,' Rachel smiled and held out her hand but Polly hung her head and clung to her father's leg. Peter bit his lip. He felt thoroughly ashamed of his home and the condition of his children. He was seeing everything through new eyes – ones which till now had been clouded by his own despair and his obsession with work.

‘Eliza MacDougal, my housekeeper, has been neglecting her duties. She will be surprised to see me home so early today.'

Rachel nodded. She could not help wrinkling her nose at the smell from the two toddlers still lying lethargically on the rug together. It dawned on Peter they were barely aware he was their father. His heart was heavy as he looked down at them.

‘I'm afraid they need cleaned up before I do anything else,' he apologised.

‘I will attend to them,' Rachel offered.

‘You will? You can?' Peter asked in surprised relief.

‘I loved to help when we had a new baby in the village where we lived,' Rachel gave him a wan smile and he guessed she was wishing she was back there. Peter wondered again how Gertrude Maxwell could have treated her so cruelly. ‘Will you help me, Polly?' she asked, holding out her hand again. This time Polly slipped her own small hand shyly into Rachel's and they smiled at each other. ‘We shall need two clean napkins and something to wash them. A clean rag will do?'

Polly bit her lip and looked anxious. ‘I don't think we've got any clean nappies. Eliza has not done any washing for ages.'

Rachel looked questioningly at Peter Sedgeman. He rolled his eyes heavenward.

‘It's probably true. I'm beginning to think Polly knows more about my household than I do. I don't know what I can do about it, but I must not neglect my children any longer, whatever happens.' He rubbed a tired hand over his brow.

‘I will bring water from the scullery and perhaps we could have a little from the kettle to take away the chill for the poor mites.' Rachel winced at her own pain as she knelt beside the twins. Gently she removed the filthy napkins. She gasped in horror at the sight of the raw and bleeding buttocks. Their whimpering had grown louder as soon as she touched them and now she knew why. Polly brought her a piece of soft flannel and a towel which Peter had found for her. As gently as she could she cleaned up the children but their restrained sobs tore at her heart. She looked up at Peter Sedgeman with troubled eyes.

‘They really need a warm bath. Perhaps we could use the kettle and have some tea later?'

‘Oh, I would like a bath too!' Polly declared excitedly. ‘Eliza never lets us bath. She says it's too much trouble emptying the water after.'

Peter's eyes widened, then narrowed angrily.

‘I am sorry I have brought you to such a house, Rachel.'

‘I shall feel happier if I can do something to repay your kindness. Can you show me where you keep the bath, Polly?'

‘I'll bring it.' Peter offered. ‘We fill the bath from this tap beside the fire.' He indicated a brass tap at the side of the big black range. ‘This is a side boiler. The fire was very low but the water should be warm enough for the small bath which the children use.'

‘You can be first, Polly,' Rachel told the little girl, then the twins can go in together and soak their little bottoms. A handful of salt would help. It will sting but they will feel much better afterwards.'

‘I'll go through to the shop and get some while Polly has her bath,' Peter offered. ‘And I will bring some towels from the store. Perhaps we could cut one to make napkins for the twins.'

He was through the first store room when Cyril Johnson's voice brought him to a halt. He had not meant to eavesdrop on his shop manager but he could not help but catch the drift of the conversation and it sickened him.

He turned on his heel and moved silently away. He must make changes but he needed time. He ran a worried hand through his hair. He made his way back to the kitchen.

Polly was chuckling happily as Rachel helped her from the bath and wrapped her in the grubby towel. The fire was glowing cheerfully now.

‘I will get salt from the larder,' he said briefly.

‘But, Daddy, you didna bring towels for the twins either.'

‘How silly, I forgot!' Peter summoned a smile for Polly. Rachel said nothing but she saw how troubled he looked. She guessed something had distracted him.

The twins screamed when Rachel lowered them into the warm water but she persuaded them to sit in the bath and gradually the initial sting eased a little and the water soothed them.

‘I really will bring towels this time,' Peter said as he headed for the door again.

‘And Vaseline too, if you sell that in your shop?' Rachel suggested. ‘It would ease the soreness.'

‘Aye, I'll bring a jar. Maybe you should use some of it yourself, lassie.'

This time he went out through the scullery and entered the shop from the street. Eliza and Cyril Johnson could not have looked more startled if a ghost had entered. Eliza was immediately on the defensive but he sent her for milk from the farm at the other end of the village, deaf to her protests, blind to her sullen scowl.

‘I will speak to you later, Johnson, after you have closed the shop for the night. Open the new bale of towels in the upstairs store, if you please. Bring me three, quickly now. My children have been neglected enough already. I will get a jar of Vaseline and attend to the shop until you come down.'

Rachel deftly cut a towel into napkins and dealt with the twins. They were chortling happily now. Peter heard Eliza returning with the milk. He met her in the scullery and took it from her.

‘I will see the children to bed myself.' His voice was cold. ‘I will talk with you in the morning.' He closed the door, silencing her arguments. He had no intention of allowing her to upset Polly tonight and he was glad he had made that decision when he saw her relief.

Rachel boiled milk and made bread saps for the twins. They ate them hungrily and went willingly to their grubby cots. Eliza had made no preparations for an evening meal. Polly enjoyed holding the long toasting-fork to help her father make toast in front of the fire. Rachel felt too sore and weary and anxious to care what she ate. Peter went back to the shop and returned with butter and cheese and four eggs, as well as a jar of honey. She made a concoction of scrambled eggs with cheese and bread crumbs and they finished the meal with toast and honey and tea. When she had finished Polly got down from her chair and hugged Rachel.

‘You made the bestest tea I ever had. I am glad you came to live at our house.'

Rachel gave her a startled glance but before she could contradict her a tap at the door heralded Cyril Johnson. He withdrew quickly at the sight of Rachel sitting at the table. Peter got up and accompanied him back to the shop where everything was clean and tidy, as usual.

‘I shall have to make changes around here,' Peter announced grimly.

‘Please, Mr Sedgeman, please don't dispense with my services. I need the work. We need the money.'

‘I have not decided what the changes will be yet but I have been neglecting my children, I can see that now.' He looked directly into Cyril Johnson's unhappy eyes. ‘You are a family man with children of your own. Why did you not tell me Eliza MacDougall was neglecting mine?'

‘I-I tried to tell her. I wanted to tell you b-but …' he looked down at the floor shamefacedly. ‘I c-could not.'

‘Threatening you, was she?' Peter suggested dryly. ‘Threatening to tell your wife you had been unfaithful?'

‘But I have not! Indeed I have not, Mr Sedgeman.' His voice trailed away and again he stared down at the floor. ‘I-I did kiss her once. She almost begged me to do it. It was when she first came. She said she was lonely in a strange village. She had tears in her eyes.'

‘Yes. She tried that with me.'

‘She did?' Cyril Johnson's head jerked up in astonishment. ‘She is a – a …'

‘So it would seem.' Peter muttered wearily. ‘I am not sure what other arrangements I can make yet, but I intend to put my children first from now on, even if that means taking care of the shop myself.'

‘You – you mean you will cut my hours?' Cyril asked hoarsely. He looked such a picture of dejection Peter felt sorry for him. He was a good shopkeeper, clean and honest, and civil to the customers.

‘Well, we shall see. I don't suppose you can think of a good woman in the village who might be willing to help with my children?'

Cyril Johnson scratched his head thoughtfully.

‘Not that I can think of. Mistress Jenkins might be willing to do some washing and cleaning. You'll recall Mr Jenkins died three weeks ago?'

‘Ah, yes, so he did. Mistress Jenkins was always a kindly soul, but she must be nearly seventy?'

‘Sixty-six, and short of money. She's thinking of going to stay with her son and his wife in Ayr, but she doesna want to leave her own wee cottage, or her friends in the village.'

‘Would you call in on your way home and ask her if she would come to see me, please?'

‘Will do.' Cyril smiled for the first time. ‘And thank you, Mr Sedgeman. I love my wife and children. I don't wish ill to anybody, but I hope Eliza MacDougall goes back to the city as she keeps threatening to do.'

‘Maybe she will. I doubt if her aunt has been any better for her company.'

‘Indeed she has not. She told Miss Witney, she would be pleased to see the back of her niece.'

Rachel and the three children were asleep upstairs when Peter answered a knock at his door. It was Mrs Jenkins.

‘Mr Johnson said you wished to see me,' she said diffidently.

‘I do, but I did not expect you to come so soon.' Peter ushered her into the dusty kitchen. ‘The fire's low. I was just making my way to bed,' he explained apologetically.

‘That's all right. Mr Johnson said you might have work for me. I couldn't have gone to sleep without coming to see you first.'