Turn of the Tide (41 page)

Archie shook his head. ‘Safer not. To tell the truth, I was fortunate to come at all. It was Lady Glencairn’s doing. William wasn’t best pleased, but didn’t dare say
anything, for he isn’t exactly the favourite at the minute.’

Kate intercepted a warning glance from Sybilla that sent a rickle of cold down her back, as if her dress funnelled a draught.

‘Well,’ Munro rose and stretched, cracking his elbow. ‘When it’s sanctioned, send word and I’ll come and look it over for you and see what needs must be done and
what can wait.’

‘And I will stay behind and plan for the wedding.’ Kate stroked Ellie’s head as she lay sound on Sybilla’s shoulder. ‘We may not be able for matching James but we
will make a fine show none the less.’

The following morning a line of light slanting through a gap in the shutter fell across Sybilla’s face. In the moment before full consciousness, she turned her head into
the warmth of it, her lips curving in a smile for Archie, who was propped up on one elbow on the horse blanket beside her, tickling her nose with a long strand of grass. Her eyelids fluttered.
‘Stop it, Archie . . .’

Maggie giggled, snatching the feather out of reach, then leant forwards again to swish it along Sybilla’s chin. ‘It’s Sunday and we are all up and have had our breakfast and
Mama said if you didn’t stir soon you’d likely miss the kirk and would have to play the invalid.’ Bird-like, she tilted her head. ‘What’s invalid?’

‘Someone who can’t get up because they’re sick.’

‘But you’re not sick?’

‘No. I’m not sick.’ Sybilla pulled herself up in the bed. ‘But you’ll have to move else I won’t be able to get up and will have to pretend that I am.’
She caught Maggie round the waist and tipped her onto her side rolling her towards the edge of the bed. Maggie squealed and wriggled and Sybilla, rolling with her, misjudged the distance so that
they both ended up in a heap on the floor, the bedspread trailed between them.

She disentangled herself and, setting Maggie on her feet, clambered onto her knees.

‘It’s glad I am to see you start the day so holy,’ Kate poked her head around the door. ‘But if it’s breakfast you’re wanting you’ll need to hurry.
Robbie is already in the stables supervising the saddling of the horses. With the children we can’t make the same pace. Maggie rides with her father but Robbie has his own Sheltie and, though
game enough, it isn’t built for speed.’

‘Is it the kirk in town you make for?’ Sybilla stepped into her corset and turned her back to Kate, grabbing the bedpost with both hands as Kate pulled on the strings.

‘It’s been repaired and we have a new minister.’ Kate released the cords a fraction; then knotted them securely. ‘I’d better not tie you so tight that you
can’t sing.’

‘What like is he?’ Sybilla shook out the worsted wool skirt of her riding habit and picked at furring on the left panel, where the cloth had balled with rubbing against the
saddle.

‘Gey fond of the psalms and with such a fine voice is precentor and preacher both.’ Kate was straightening the bedcovers, an odd, uncertain note in her voice. ‘He came newly
from St Andrews and, whatever else folk may say, he has a way with words. He speaks for an hour or more and it seems but minutes and all without a crib sheet.’

‘Some folk don’t like him?’

‘He isn’t always easy listening and times when he looks straight at you, it’s as if he sees into your soul. There are those that don’t take to the fire in him, or maybe
it’s that he hits too close to home.’ She gave a final tug to the bed curtains, looping them back against the posts. ‘I can’t help but like him, for all that listening I
feel this small inside.’ She held up her hand, the finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘We have had a naming and a burying and he made a fine job of both and I have no doubt that
he’ll marry you right. They were halfway down the stair when she said, ‘Mary fair took to him; he didn’t miss to visit her every week at the end and gave her right comfort. She
died well, and I know it was his doing. I have thought since . . . he has such certainty . . . I envy him that.’ She broke off, ‘If we get a move on, you’ll have a chance to hear
for yourself.’

It was well past noon, and though strands of cloud like carded wool streaked the sky, there was enough sun to give welcome warmth as they filed out of the church. James Melville
stood at the door, nodding to, or perhaps, Sybilla thought, counting his parishioners. She chided herself for such uncharitability. His straight blond hair and pale face, with just the hint of a
shadow around his jaw, gave him the appearance of extreme youth. He had indeed spoken well, if well was to make those who listened shuffle their feet and focus their eyes firmly on the floor, the
plain-raftered ceiling, the dust motes dancing in the narrow shafts of light arrowing through the window slits; anywhere except on Melville’s sharp eyes, their colour the piercing blue of a
rain-washed sky. Evidence to Sybilla, if her own feelings were anything to go by, of inward squirming. Forbye Agnes, who had remained at Broomelaw to look to Ellie, the whole household was there
and Melville ducked his head to each in turn.

Maggie wriggled her way to tug at the wide sleeve of his gown, her small face creased into a frown. He patted her bonnet.

‘Why was Jesus an auntie?’

Robbie choked and Sybilla bent her head, as if to quiet him, stifling her own laugh. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kate suck on her cheeks as she too struggled for composure.

Melville tilted Maggie’s face upwards. ‘What do you mean child?’

‘You said ‘Auntie-Christ’.’

Sybilla saw that Melville’s eyes also twinkled, though his face was grave.

‘I’m glad to see that you paid attention.’ He kept his grip on Maggie’s chin. ‘Though sorry I am that I wasn’t clearer in my discourse. It isn’t
‘auntie’, like ‘uncle’. This kind of ‘Anti’ means opposite. So . . .’ He looked at each of the children in turn.

Robbie lifted his head. ‘Anti-Christs are gey bad?’

Over the top of his head Melville smiled at Kate. He touched Robbie’s head. ‘As bad as ever you could imagine.’

Agnes bustled to greet them as they came through the gate and handed a grizzling Ellie over to Kate. ‘I have given her broth and a wee bit bread and cheese, but it’s
milk she’s wanting. It’s as well the lunch will keep.’

‘We were a mite delayed. Maggie . . .’

‘Thought Jesus was an Auntie.’ Robbie was hopping from foot to foot, pointing at her.

She flew at him, eyes flashing.

‘A perfectly reasonable mistake.’ Munro swung her up into the air, shooting a warning glance at Robbie. When Agnes continued to look puzzled, he said, ‘We have been right
through the Epistle of John. And are well-warned not to fall for Anti-Christs.’

Seeing Maggie’s deepening frown, Agnes turned her own laugh into a cough.

Munro tightened his grip as Maggie tried to wriggle free. ‘We aren’t laughing at you, sweetheart.’

Sybilla mouthed to Archie, ‘Lying to the bairn and only out of the kirk . . .’ so that he too took a fit of coughing.

Munro brought his face close to Maggie’s and pretended to nuzzle her neck. ‘But I am hungry . . . maybe I’ll just have to eat . . .’ He slapped his lips together noisily,
nibbling on her ear until she squealed, then set her down. ‘No? Well then, lunch will have to do instead.’

Had it not been for the children, they would have stayed close to home all afternoon, the adults content to sit behind the barmkin wall, which gave protection from the light
easterly wind, allowing them to enjoy the sunshine. As it was, they managed to steal half an hour of idleness, courtesy of Ellie sleeping sound in the chamber above the solar, while Maggie rooted
around for worms at the edge of the vegetable patch and Robbie was occupied with whittling the bark from a hazel switch.

‘The beauty of the Sabbath . . .’ Sybilla slid her feet from her shoes and stretched them into a patch of sunlight, wiggling her toes against her fine wool stockings.

‘Besides the hearing of the Word?’ Archie opened one eye.

She paid no apparent heed to his interruption, nor to his finger teasing her collarbone, but directed her conversation at Kate. ‘The beauty of it is to do nothing at all and yet be
virtuous.’

‘Enjoy it while you can.’ Robbie had disappeared and Kate cocked her head towards the stable, ‘With bairns, ‘nothing’ generally turns into ‘something’
quicker than you might wish.’

‘They’re quiet the now.’ Sybilla leaned back against the wall, tilting her face up to the sun.

‘Aye, well,’ Kate yawned. ‘That’s when you need to worry. It isn’t always wise to leave them to their own devices over long.’

‘The devil finds mischief . . .’ Archie’s mimicry of Mary was so accurate that Munro, who had been drowsing, startled upright.

‘Don’t worry, she hasn’t come back to haunt us.’

They were all laughing: harder and longer than the joke warranted; so that Sybilla guessed that though it had been more than a year since Anna’s death, laughter was a rare commodity
still.

Robbie appeared, leading his Shetland pony, already saddled. He was a shaggy little beast, tufts of mud-brown, winter coat still protruding at random between the smooth patches that Robbie had
brushed to a shine.

‘Aunt Sybilla hasn’t seen the glen.’ Robbie tossed the remark like a pebble into a pool, waiting for the ripple of reaction.

‘Neither she has,’ Munro kept his face straight.

‘And you can’t work.’ Robbie made a caricature of the minister. ‘Not on the Sabbath.’

‘Neither I can.’

Sybilla thought Munro would be able to outstare Robbie, but wouldn’t have bet so much as a bawbee on it. Maggie appeared around the corner of the tower, her fist tightly curled. Unwilling
to go round the pony, she curved herself into a ball and squeezed underneath the sagging belly, unrolling in an explosion of petticoats at Sybilla’s knee.

‘I want to go.’

‘Go where?’ Munro was clearly enjoying himself.

‘With him.’ Maggie uncurled her fist to point at Robbie. ‘Oh.’ Her lip trembled as she looked at the worm that dangled from her palm, squashed and lifeless.

Sybilla put her arm around Maggie and pulled her in close.