Turn of the Tide (12 page)

Reaching Alexander, Hugh saw that William had caught up with James. He urged the horse again, but was held back by Alexander.

‘Bide your time, laddie. Don’t press the beast too hard, the terrain we cover today will tax the best of mounts – something in reserve will, I think, serve us well.’

Alexander, although making every appearance of pushing his horse, was, in reality, holding him in check.

‘Not much chance of pressing this one,’ Hugh saw James favour William with a smile and some pleasantry that brought an answering smile in return. ‘William makes capital at our
expense. This was not, I take it, in the plan?’

‘Of course not,’ Alexander was brusque. ‘We have a day ahead of us. The end will be better than the beginning, have no fear. Let William burn himself out in the preliminaries
and do you make sure you are in at the finish.’

‘And how,’ Hugh, gave his horse, who showed signs of slowing further, another jab, ‘do you suggest I achieve that on this beast?’

‘I don’t. Your poor beast will serve me well enough later and mine you. There is not the expectation on me to keep up with James – my talents are otherwise. We can exchange
mounts once the real work starts. I suspect William will be less than pleased when he finds yours is the fresher horse. And though I cannot swear to it, it’s likely Glencairn will give him
blame if his horse fades before the finish. But still, I have no wish to end the day in walking, so content yourself with second place for now.’

At Greenock, it was a different sort of sport that concerned Elizabeth. The steward stood at the door of the solar, rabbits in one hand, his other firmly clasping the back of
the urchin’s ragged tunic.

‘Janet cried me to the warren to choose a fine pair of bucks and there was this rogue bagging them as if they were his own.’

‘Rogue, Hamish, hardly, he’s only a child and not above five or six.’

The steward did not relinquish his grip of the lad. ‘Old enough to know right from wrong.’

‘There are different sorts of right and wrong.’

‘Stealing’s stealing whatever your age and he will do well to learn his lesson now, before he grows up to swing for it.’

The lad looked up at the mention of hanging and wriggled uneasily, hopping from foot to foot, so that she saw that his feet were not only dirty, but also criss-crossed with old scars. It was
likely he came from one of the clutter of cottages that huddled on the fringes of the town, though she couldn’t tell if she had ever seen him before.

‘What matter a rabbit or two, and that probably the only meat the boy’s family are likely to see this side of the fair. With half the household away, we have plenty and to spare.
Leave the child to me. I’ll reprimand him and send him on his way. And take the rabbits to the kitchen.’ She looked down. ‘I don’t wish to have them drip blood on my floor,
more than I have already suffered.’

He turned and she saw by the set of his back that he didn’t trust her to deal with the boy, but that his sense of loyalty, if not to her, at least to her position as temporary mistress of
the house, meant that he would not openly question her authority. No doubt in the kitchens it would be a different matter. As he pressed down on the latch, she said, ‘And would you take a
look at Star. I thought this morning he was perhaps a little lame. Your opinion wouldn’t go amiss.’

He clumped away, clearly not mollified, and pulled the door behind him so hard that it bounced open again. The child shivered in the draught and Elizaeth put out a hand towards him, but he
shrank back, a flash of desperation in his eyes.

Her thoughts were not easy, for it was aye fine for a laird’s daughter when food was scarce and prices were high; though they might tighten their belts a little, they didn’t fear to
starve. But for the cottars it was a different story. Through the child’s thin clothes she could see his shoulder blades and hips protruding sharp and angular, his legs stick-thin. She
thought of her brother John as a bairn and how he had fought them all for crying him ‘Roly-poly’. This child was so skinny that he had scarce any flesh on him at all. Under his nose she
saw the telltale trail indicating a constant discharge, and the whites of his eyes were stained the colour of pale urine. Her initial pity hardened into anger: against the steward for finding the
lad; against society that made of eating a crime; and, most of all, against herself, that she upheld a system which she knew to be unjust.

‘Don’t fret, child, I have no mind to beat you.’

He looked up, still wary, wiped his nose on his sleeve. She avoided looking at the green gob, ‘Come. There’ll be a scrap or two in the kitchen you may eat and then you must be off.
And remember,’ she made her voice stern, ‘it isn’t well done to poach in other folk’s warrens and foolish besides.’

In the kitchen, Janet, who had already heard from the steward of the child’s capture, turned from stirring the contents of a heavy black pot. ‘Save us,’ she exclaimed, as she
looked him up and down. ‘It’s feeding him we should be at, not taking food away from him.’

‘We must be quick about it then, before Hamish is back to lecture us.’

Janet humphed, ‘It’s a sin the way he went on, and not long since he was poaching himself. Aye, and not just rabbits neither. Rising in the world has surely improved his
conscience.’

She bustled in and out of the pantry, the child’s eyes growing bigger as she clapped a loaf down on the table, cutting thick slices and spreading them with butter. Elizabeth saw his tongue
slip from between small pointed teeth and skite quickly over his lips and caught a glimpse of gums that were unhealthily pale.

‘Here.’ She steered him over to the table and tried to press him onto the bench as Janet topped the bread with a slab of ewe’s cheese. He remained standing, staring at the
food, as if he thought that if he once blinked it would disappear.

‘Eat, child,’

He shook his head, balling his fists at his side, as if he was afraid that they would grab the bread, whether he would or no.

‘What ails you? You’re surely hungry? Else why take the risk of raiding the warren?’ She dropped down to his eye level, ‘Would you rather we gave it you to take
home?’

He uncurled his fists.

Elizabeth sliced and Janet buttered, and the child’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. The loaf done, Janet disappeared, returning with a pail, newly sluiced, and wiped it dry. Elizabeth
reshaped the loaf, wrapping it in a clean piece of muslin and, placing it in the pail, topped it with the remainder of the cheese. She rolled the child’s fingers around the handle.

‘There. Home, and don’t dawdle, else someone may think you’ve stolen pail and food both.’

She waited only until he shot out through the gateway before calling for the stable lad, himself not much older than the child, but healthy and strong and bright withal. ‘See to it that
both child and pail are safely arrived. Note if you can, which of the cottages he comes from and don’t hurry back: a little dilly-dallying may teach us something of his family
circumstance.’

He nodded and grinned, betraying by the skip in his step that the errand was a welcome one and she determined that if news came back of a family in more than usual distress, she would conspire
with Janet to ensure that some of their wastage went to fattening them, rather than the household stock. A mite less around a pig’s middle would scarce be noticed in the butchering, but the
waif had been nearer to a skeleton than a child.

It was unfortunate that he had strayed rather farther from home than she had anticipated, so was not the Shaws’ direct responsibility, but that of a neighbour, Elliot, whom they
hadn’t seen since the previous Yuletide and only then because her father had looked to some trade advantage from his company. The rest of the family had groaned when told they were to
entertain him overnight and she had found it hard to stifle her laughter when Christian, catching his tone perfectly, stood at the entrance to the solar and declaimed,

‘My dear James, I trust we have not incommoded you by our little visit.’

Nevertheless, she intended to attempt to move him into improving the lot of his cottagers. It was a small step from that thought to consideration of wider responsibilities. With John in Glasgow
on some business or other and unlikely to return before the week was out, she spent three days in wind and rain systematically covering the low-lying land along the Clyde shore. Each time she came
upon an isolated cottage or a huddle of huts she stopped, on the pretext of a few moments’ respite from the elements, and saw for herself the conditions the folk lived in. It was not a few
days that she wished to repeat and each day, as she came home and warmed herself by the solar fire and had placed in front of her a good hot meal, her sense of guilt grew.

Her concern now firmly focussed on the whole area, she spent the next two days visiting each neighbour in turn. And although the weather had changed, so that she rode with the sun warming her
back, the exercise in itself justifying the jaunts, at most of the tower-houses her visits were a surprise. Her parents still away from home, the majority of her neighbours, closer to their
generation than her own, could hardly have anticipated her social call. In several cases she caught them so unawares that there was an obvious fluster to provide some refreshment.

As to the purpose of her visit: that became an increasing frustration. In the face of polite disinterest, she paraded her ideas like penny pamphlets and with as little effect. There were no
outright refusals, for there was no doubting that a general scheme of poor relief would likely result in less thieving and poaching, to the benefit of all. There was, however, a skilful side
stepping of the issue, cloaked in pleasantries; and much talk of the need for the poor to merit the support they received from those of a better class. Mention everywhere was made of the wastrels
who plagued the community, and the lack of control that produced families far in excess of what was reasonable. At house after house she was soothed and petted and in the politest of tones sent
away empty. Some pledged to consult with her father on his return from the Low Countries, a ploy that she suspicioned was based on the premise that he would have less of the crusader about him. In
which, of course, they were right.

In only one house did she approach achievement of her end, though at the first she had thought him as hopeless as the rest. Patrick Maxwell, a Cunninghame cousin and therefore kin of a sort to
her mother, received her in the great hall at Newark and she knew that the high ceiling, the fine French tapestries, the polished limestone chimney piece, all clear evidences of his standing, were
not intended to be wasted on her. His hand when he greeted her was hot and moist and inwardly she recoiled from his touch. Mindful of her aim in coming however, she didn’t pull away, rather
glanced downwards as if shy. God forgive me she thought, but he is a fool, and may perhaps be tempted into a promise that he can’t later avoid. She swept a low curtsey, lifting her eyes and
opening them wide, accepting the chair that he set by a window looking across the Clyde. It was impossible not to admire the view: the broad expanse of dimpled water, the deeper green of the woods
that strayed onto the opposite shore, the purple sweep of the mountains beyond. Equally impossible to refrain from comment. Yet a compliment would be but the truth and could pay dividends.
‘You are well-set. It would be hard to be miserable faced with such a view.’

‘And would happily share my good fortune.’ He leant across her to name the hills, the highest Ben Lomond.

She took care not to shudder as his arm brushed her breast.

Initially, he blustered at the notion of the establishment of a warren on common land, pouncing on the problem of management.

‘Why not the parish? It would be but a slight extension of their customary role.’

‘Indeed. Though I hardly think the additional effort would prove popular.’

The soft mockery in his voice strengthened her determination. ‘My other purpose is to canvas subscriptions for a fund to be plundered in times of scarcity.’

He edged closer to her. ‘Fine ambitions, Elizabeth, but who has either the time or inclination to be Joseph?’

Inwardly, irritation flared. Outwardly, she kept her tone light. ‘I thought the task could perhaps be shared. . .’ A new expression in his eyes caused her to rise. ‘But I see I
have troubled you long enough.’

His tongue slid over his lips. ‘On the contrary, the topic is most interesting and I am half-way to a convert. And may be convinced altogether by dinner time.’

She summoned a regretful smile. ‘With my parents and John from home, I can’t leave my sisters over long. The youngest is but a bairn.’

‘You have servants – let them look to the bairn.’

This time her smile was genuine. ‘It isn’t the child’s well-being that concerns me, but rather the mischief she might make.’

‘Well, then, I am only sorry that I cannot oblige the now, but . . .’ his tongue flicked out again, ‘. . . if you will favour me with another visit, I will be better placed to
swell your purse.’

The capitulation took her by surprise and she had the uncomfortable thought that it had little to do with any feeling of prodigality towards the poor. Handing her up onto her horse, she felt the
dampness of his palm and a small shiver took her. He pounced on it at once,

‘It looks gey like rain. Bide a while, till you see what the weather may do.’

The courtesy lie stuck in her throat. ‘Would that I could, but they look for me at home.’ She passed through the arched pend of the gatehouse and raised her hand in farewell, her
skin rising in goosebumps at the vigour of his answering wave. And in her head made an attempt at justification that the money was necessary and whatever he thought, she hadn’t given him any
real grounds to suppose she looked on him with favour. Yet fully aware that neither her brother nor her father would react well that she made herself beholden to Newark, however finely set he might
be, she resolved to conclude the job before John’s return from Glasgow. And as for Hugh, she had no wish to give him any grounds to become embroiled in another argument. That Patrick Maxwell
was thick with William Cunninghame made caution the more necessary.