A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) (3 page)

Chapter Three

G
ERTRUDE
M
AXWELL MADE NO
effort to hide her resentment and Rachel realised she would extract her pound of flesh at every opportunity. She was young, she was innocent of the ways of the world, but she was intelligent. She sensed that Mistress Maxwell bore her a grievance, though they had never met until now.

She had not come to Windlebrae expecting charity. She was used to work. Minnie Ferguson had taken her under her wing from the day her mother died when she was eight years old. She had been a stern tutor.

‘It’s for your ain good, my lassie,’ she wagged her white head, whenever she made Rachel repeat a task. She had a wealth of experience gleaned in her long years of service in the household of Lord and Lady Danbury. She had started as an under-maid at twelve years old and finished as housekeeper. In return for her labour and loyalty she had been granted the use of her tiny cottage for the remainder of her life.

Rachel was grateful for her training now but nothing had prepared her for a house so lacking in warmth and laughter as Windlebrae.

On that first dark February morning Gertrude Maxwell marched her across to the byre as though she was a prisoner. Rachel soon guessed she was to be given the worst of the cows to milk – a flighty young heifer who was bent on kicking, a dejected looking old cow with long tough teats who seemed to grudge parting with every drop of milk, and a fidgety blue-grey young cow with a wild gleam in her eye. Meg gasped a protest. She was silenced with a quelling scowl. Ross was more outspoken.

‘You canna expect the lassie to milk Bluey!’ he objected. ‘I’ll milk her.’

‘You’ll get on with your own work and mind your business,’ Gertrude snapped. She stood with her hands on her hips watching Rachel settle herself on her stool. She tucked her head firmly against the cow’s flank as her father had taught her to do. She felt drained and deadly tired. It was the morning after his funeral, her first morning in her new home. Home? The memory of her father brought tears to her eyes. She turned her head away from Gertrude’s gimlet glare only to encounter the wild eyes of Bluey. Instinctively she murmured in the soothing way she had with animals. Her hands were gentle, almost caressing on the swollen udder. After a few uneasy movements the cow stood quietly and let her milk flow.

At breakfast Ross and Meg praised her success with Bluey.

‘Aye, lassie, your father always had a way with animals, especially horses,’ Cameron told her. ‘There was no one like him for gentling a spirited young colt. You must have inherited his skill.’

His wife sniffed, but before she could comment they were interrupted by the cheerful whistle of Tam McGill with his mail bag.

‘I see ye’ll be having a visitor?’ he remarked curiously, handing Gertrude a postcard.

‘Is that any business of yours?’ she snapped, snatching it from him.

‘Och, I just wondered if it was one o’ the MacDonalds who used to bide across in the Lang Glen. They had a laddie called Jim. His family went to a farm in England I believe.’

‘They went to a farm down in Dumfriesshire – near the Border.’

‘Ah, so it is the same MacDonald then?’ Tam grinned and winked across at Meg and Ross. Then he caught sight of Rachel. ‘Well, well, a new face at Windlebrae! And who might you be, lassie?’

‘This is Connor O’Brian’s bairn,’ Cameron enlightened him swiftly, before Gertie could make any more acid remarks. ‘You’ll remember him, Tam?’

The two men fell to reminiscing about old acquaintances while Meg poured Tam a cup of tea.

Gertrude made a surprising fuss over Jim MacDonald’s brief visit. The flagged stone floor was scrubbed regularly but it had to be scrubbed again from corner to corner, and the outdoor steps edged with scouring stone. The china tea service was taken from the corner cupboard and washed. She baked shortbread and a fruit cake, although these were usually reserved for Christmas.

Outside the yard had to be swept, the byre and stable given an extra clean and the dairy, which Meg kept spotless at any time, had another scrub.

‘What is all the fuss about?’ Cameron grumbled irritably when he and his wooden armchair were pushed aside and a cold east wind blew through the wide open door to dry the floor and freshen the air. ‘Jim and you were never great friends as far as I remember, Gertie. He spent more time at our house when he first left school.’ He added reminiscently. ‘Mother used to think he was sweet on our Cathie …’

‘Stop your foolish talk! He was only a lad.’ Gertrude cut his meandering.

‘Aye, Cathie was his childhood sweetheart.’ Cameron sighed. ‘It was a pity the MacDonalds moved away. They’ve done well by all accounts.’

‘I’ll show Jim we are as good as he is …’ she broke off.

‘Aye? What were you going to say? I can tell you have some bee in your bonnet. I know the signs after all these years – but I can’t think what business ye can have with Jim.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘He isn’t even a close relation.’

After all the preparations Meg and Ross were disappointed not to meet this long-lost relation. Meg was despatched to town on the bus which ran once a week from Five Lane Ends. Usually Gertrude went herself to sell her butter and eggs and buy essential groceries. In spite of the two mile walk from Windlebrae, Meg considered the outing a rare treat.

Ross was less pleased with his task of loading the cart with oats to take to the local mill. He had only spoken briefly to Jim MacDonald at O’Brian’s funeral but he had quite liked the man and he would have enjoyed hearing about his farm in the Borders.

Rachel was left to carry out the daily tasks. As soon as Gertrude heard the pony and trap, which Jim MacDonald had hired, she gave Rachel a thick crust of bread and told her to eat it in the dairy and get on with her work.

‘So how is the farming in your area, Jim?’ Cameron asked. ‘Is it as bad as it is up here?’

‘Much the same everywhere, I reckon, but we’re still managing to make a living. I’ve got both of my laddies into farms on the same estate so we’re not grumbling. Mind you there’s a few tenants giving up. The Factor was telling me he has had one farm vacant for more than a year. He’s offering it rent-free for twelve months if he can get a tenant who would take it on and improve it.’

‘That may not be easy with prices the way they are and all the food coming into the country,’ Cameron said.

‘You’re right there. None of the tenants can afford to do repairs, or fencing and draining. One of the best farms on our estate is called The Glens of Lochandee. It has been in the same family for generations – almost gentry themselves. There is just a widow left now and the Factor was saying he has never seen a farm deteriorate so fast in his life.’

‘Aye, it’s the same on this estate. Our neighbour is giving up his tenancy. If I had been in good health I’d have taken it on for Ross. He’s keen to have a farm of his own. He and Willie would have helped each other with the hay and the shearing if they were neighbours.’

‘Well you’re not fit. It’s out of the question,’ Gertrude snapped. ‘Can I give you another cup of tea, Jim?’ The subject of a farm for Ross was dismissed.

Rachel celebrated her sixteenth birthday on the third day of March, 1902 – eighteen days after her father’s funeral.

‘Mother’s not coming to the milking regularly from now on,’ Meg announced that morning. ‘She says she has plenty to do attending to Father and cooking the breakfast for us.’

‘If you ask me she has seen that young Rachel is just as good at milking as she is – maybe even better,’ Ross grinned, ‘but she would never admit it.’

‘Mother does not believe in giving much praise,’ Meg admitted reluctantly and was rewarded by Rachel’s shy smile, her nod of acceptance. It was the lack of tenderness and affection which she had missed since coming to Windlebrae, the absence of laughter. Gertrude Maxwell’s presence was like a cold dark shadow, forbidding merriment. Her absence from the milking was the best gift Rachel could have wished for.

The warmth and friendliness which now filled the byre, even on the coldest March mornings, began to dispel some of the chill and grief from her young heart. Ross teased her as though she was his young sister and Meg was always ready with a kind word of appreciation or encouragement. Willie looked after the horses and fed the cattle and sheep so he was rarely in the byre at milking time, but he included Rachel in the conversation when he came to feed the cows.

‘You must come to the cottage and meet Annie and the children,’ he suggested one afternoon when she was helping him sweep the byre and prepare the cows for the evening milking.

‘Oh, I would love that.’ Rachel was delighted at the prospect of seeing the children. ‘But …’ she looked at him doubtfully.

‘Even Mother can’t keep you working all the time,’ he said dryly. ‘She’s strict about keeping the Sabbath but after you have been to the kirk you could walk down to see us, maybe?’ Rachel nodded eagerly, feeling a surge of optimism. Maybe life would not be so bad at Windlebrae after all. In any case she had no money and nowhere else to go so she must make the best of her situation. She had no way of knowing that youthful optimism and innocence could prove a hazardous combination for a pretty girl with no one to guide her.

When Rachel accompanied the family to church the following Sunday she sat at the end of the Maxwell pew next to Meg so she could not help noticing the frequent glances which passed between Meg and the man in one of the pews across the aisle. There was something strangely sad, almost wistful in the man’s smile as they filed out of church after the service. It was Willie’s wife, Ruth, who told her his name was Peter Sedgeman, a widower with three young children.

‘According to Willie, he and Meg loved each other even before he married. They still do if you ask me,’ Ruth declared.

‘Then why didn’t he marry her?’ Rachel asked innocently.

‘It was all before I knew Willie,’ Ruth shrugged. ‘Willie says Meg can’t have children and their mother convinced her it was wrong to marry, knowing she couldn’t give a man a family. Meg would make a wonderful mother though. I reckon Peter would marry her tomorrow if he got any encouragement. He feels he has nothing to offer her except the burden of his children now.’

‘But if Meg still loves him …?’

‘She scarcely gets chance to see him. Peter has a grocer’s shop in the village of Ardmill about four miles away. He delivers round all the farms in the area, but Mistress Maxwell will not have him near Windlebrae. Did you notice he didna get speaking to Meg on her own after church?’

‘How awful.’ Rachel frowned.

‘She is selfish. My father summed up Mistress Maxwell the first time they met. That’s why he insisted we should have a cottage of our own. Willie is loyal but he’s not blind to his mother’s faults. She worshipped Josh apparently so Willie and Meg and Ross are all used to playing second fiddle. Now that Willie’s father needs so much care she will never let Meg out of her clutches and Meg is too gentle to defy her. She hates quarrels and Willie says she has always been close to their father.’

Rachel enjoyed playing with Ruth’s little girl, Annie, and nursing the baby. She felt she had made a new friend and enjoyed Ruth’s cheery company. She returned to the farmhouse in time to change her best black dress ready for the milking, her pale cheeks glowing. Cameron Maxwell noticed the lifting of her spirits and was relieved. He was grateful to Ruth and Willie for making the lassie welcome. Gertrude also noticed the little smile and the tender light in Rachel’s eyes and remembered Mhairi Maclean. She looked just like her mother.

‘You should be mourning your father, girl instead of gallivanting around the countryside on the Sabbath.’

‘B-but …’ Rachel stared at her. ‘I was visiting your grandchildren, Mistress Maxwell.’

‘My grandchildren do not need the likes o’ you. Your time would be better spent reading the Bible and showing respect for the dead.’

‘Oh, come on Gertie,’ Cameron protested. ‘Connor would never have expected his lassie to mope. It’s good for her visit Ruth and the bairnies.’

‘I’ll thank you not to interfere with the way I discipline my maids, Cameron Maxwell. Get into the dairy and remember what I’ve told you. I’ll have a word with Willie.’

So the brief pleasure of getting to know Ruth and the children ended before it had begun.

Chapter Four

R
ACHEL WAS SURPRISED WHEN
Tam the postie delivered a letter for her. She sensed that Gertrude Maxwell would have snatched it from him if she could, but he arrived while they were having breakfast. She fancied there was a devilish gleam in his eye as he deliberately stretched across the table to hand it to her personally. Certainly there was no doubt about the wink he gave her. She turned the letter over and over, puzzled by the unfamiliar, rather shaky, writing.

‘Well don’t stare at it all day, girl. Get it opened and then we can all get on with our work.’

‘Oh no!’ Rachel gasped and the colour ebbed from her face. Meg placed an arm around her thin shoulders.

‘Surely it can’t be bad news for you, Rachel?’ she prompted gently, wondering what could upset her so much when she had already lost both her parents and she had no other close family.

‘It’s Minnie.’ She looked across at Ross, her mouth trembling. She bit her lip. ‘You remember Minnie Ferguson, Ross?’ she pleaded.

‘Of course I do,’ he agreed recalling the old woman who had befriended Rachel. ‘Is she ill?’

‘She has died. Two weeks ago,’ she added in a whisper, ‘and I never knew.’ She scanned the careful sentences. ‘This letter is from our neighbour. She lived next door to the smiddy. The minister gave her my address. Minnie has left a vase for me as a wee minding. It belonged to her parents.’

‘Much good an old thing like that will do you,’ Gertrude sniffed. ‘A few sovereigns would have been more use.’

‘Minnie did not have much money,’ Rachel defended her old friend. ‘The vase was the thing she loved more than anything else in her little cottage. It was a wedding gift to her parents. It was very pretty. Mistress Chalmers says she will keep it safe for me until I can collect it.’

‘Aye, weel I reckon it’s real nice of the old lady to leave the lassie something to remind her of an old friend,’ Tam nodded vigorously. He looked shrewdly at Rachel. ‘You canna have too many friends, lassie.’

‘Tam’s right. If I’m invited over that way to play the fiddle I will collect it for you, Rachel.’

‘Oh, would you, Ross? Really?’

‘A-ah,’ Tam gave a knowing wink at Ross, ‘I reckon you’ll be collecting it before long then if Widow Fawcett has anything to do with arranging the entertainment over there.’ Ross scowled silently at Tam, but Cameron saw the guilty flush which coloured his fair skin. He felt a twinge of uneasiness. He knew only too well the temptations which could fall into the path of entertainers after a good evening of merriment.

Gertrude sniffed impatiently and made a noisy clatter of collecting the porridge plates, a pointed hint that Tam should get on his way.

Memories were awakened by the letter and Rachel could not dispel the brooding melancholy which descended on her during the days which followed. The last true and trusted friend from her old life had gone and she felt deserted and alone in an alien world. Cameron Maxwell noticed her preoccupation and the haunting sadness which filled her eyes.

‘A-ah, lassie you’re like your mother, and no mistake. I remember how upset she was when one o’ the girls in our school died with scarlet fever. You need a bit of a change.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Gertie will be going to market tomorrow to sell her butter and eggs. If you can finish your tasks you might enjoy a wee visit to Ruth’s cottage to see the bairns.’ He frowned. ‘No, on second thoughts you’d better not do that. Wee Annie might tell tales now she’s beginning to chatter. It’s real bonnie up the burn at this time of the year.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Rachel smiled at the old man. She knew he was doing his best to make up for his wife’s constant criticism. ‘But I must not idle my time away.’

‘What’s that about idling time away?’ Ross asked, coming to stand at the dairy door, grinning down at them.

‘I was just telling Rachel to take herself for a walk by the burn. It’s a lovely spot where the two burns meet – on the far side of the top meadow.’ He sighed heavily. ‘What I’d give to be able to walk up there now. I’ve spent many an hour guddling for trout, and helping you laddies collect frogspawn. The wild roses will be out and the air …’ he drew in a long breath as though he could smell it still, ‘it will be filled with the scent of the honeysuckle.’

‘Father is right. It is beautiful, especially on a summer’s day,’ Ross agreed. ‘We’ll hurry up with the work and take a basket of food. Meg will help us. We shall be back long before the bus brings mother home.’

‘Aye, you and Meg go with her,’ Cameron nodded. ‘You’ll see great golden King Cups, and dainty Milkmaids, and Cowslips. There’s a little wood a bit further up the hill. There’s always something of interest there, even in winter.’

Meg decided to stay with her father, despite his protests, but Rachel knew she would remember the tranquil beauty of that day for as long as she lived. The peace seemed to fill her heart and help her set aside the pangs of loneliness and loss.

‘Mistress Ferguson must have been a very good friend?’ Ross remarked as they walked side by side across the low meadow.

‘Oh, she was, she was my one true friend in all the world.’

‘But you have us now – Meg, Willie, and me – and I know my father is pleased you came to Windlebrae. You seem to bring back memories of his youth.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, but she was frowning at some inner thought.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Ross asked curiously.

‘My father always said you could never be certain people would not let you down – even your closest friends. But I knew in my heart that Minnie would never let me down. Even though I was no kin to her, I knew she loved me as though I had been hers. I said that to Father once …’ She frowned again.

‘Didn’t he agree?’

‘Oh yes. He believed Minnie was a rare person with a truly honest heart. But he said even a parent could sometimes let down his own flesh and blood.’

‘I’d say he was right about that,’ Ross muttered glumly. Rachel glanced up at him. She knew he was thinking of his own mother.

‘Father said even parents are human beings with weaknesses, the same as everyone else.’

‘But surely he didn’t mean you could not trust him?’

‘When he was dying he felt he was letting me down. I expect it was because he could not protect me any more, or leave me any money. But I didn’t feel he had let me down. He was a wonderful father.’ Her blue-green eyes were luminous with remembered affection. ‘He seemed troubled towards the end, though. He kept saying he had betrayed someone’s trust.’ She rubbed her brow as though the matter still perplexed her. ‘Yet he said he would still have made the same choice. I hate to think he may have died with a troubled conscience. Minnie said he was just trying to warn me not to be too trusting.’

‘I suppose we are all human,’ Ross reflected. ‘There’s a bit of bad in the best of people. No one is perfect.’ He grimaced. ‘I think Mother would have gone through fire and flood for Josh, but I know she would not do much for me if I needed help. She has always regarded me as the black sheep, even when I tried my best to please her.’ Rachel caught a fleeting glimpse of pain and bewilderment in his blue eyes, before he lowered his lids and flicked impatiently at a clump of grass with a hazel wand he had taken from the hedge earlier.

‘I don’t believe any mother could really favour one of her own children more than another.’ She had intended the words to comfort him but they seemed to make him angry.

‘Well, my mother must be unique then, because she has always made me feel like a cuckoo in the nest.’

‘I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …’

‘Och, let’s forget the rest of the world. The day is too beautiful for dark and serious thoughts.’

‘All right.’ She knew Minnie would not have wanted her to grieve. She smiled as she remembered the old lady’s dry humour. Seeing the tiny smile lifting the corners of her mouth Ross knew his father was right to get her out of the dreary atmosphere at Windlebrae. He clasped her hand in his.

‘Come on, we’ll run to the top of the brae.’ Without waiting for her consent he loped away, pulling her with him. She bunched up her skirts with her free hand and did her best to keep up with his long legs.

She was light and fleet of foot but she was gasping for breath, her cheeks flushed as they breasted the hill and sank down together onto the soft turf. Just below them there was the tinkle of running water where a silver spangled cascade tumbled over some rocks. It swirled into a pool where two burns met, before flowing onward, a little deeper, a little wider than before. They were sheltered from the north by the gentle rise of the hill behind them. In front, beyond the meandering burn, a green patch of fields and hedges stretched away to meet the sky. At their feet wild flowers spread their petals and a little further up the burn she could see the edge of the wood.

‘It’s just as pretty as your father promised.’ She laughed with delight. She had scarcely seen anything except the farmyard and the kirk since she arrived at Windlebrae. Today she felt free and light as the summer air.

‘It is good to see you smile, Rachel.’ Ross was fascinated by the tiny dimple which came and went at the corner of her mouth. ‘You were meant for laughter. No wonder my father is pleased to have you at Windlebrae. Somehow I can’t imagine my mother ever being young and truly happy. Even Meg does not sing to herself and laugh aloud as she used to do. It is as though there is a dark cloud over the whole house. It was different when Josh was alive.’ He turned onto his stomach, propping himself up on an elbow, his eyes studying her intently. ‘It’s strange, but you remind me of Josh in a way. He had a little dimple at the corner of his mouth that seemed to flicker in and out.’ His finger traced the contour of her cheek wonderingly, coming to rest on the spot where the dimple was hidden. He looked down at her, shaking his head. ‘Josh was meant for laughter too. He could charm the birds off the trees. Even when he was up to mischief, he never roused mother’s anger. She was not always as grim as she is now.’ He sounded almost apologetic.

‘It must have been dreadful to lose a son. It was kind of your parents to give me a home. I don’t know what I would have done if they had refused my father’s request.’

‘Well they didn’t refuse,’ Ross grinned. ‘And Meg and Willie and I are all thankful for that. When a little more time has passed and your heart is less sore, I think you will be a ray of sunshine in all our lives. Now shall we eat the food Meg packed for us?’

‘Mmm, I’m ravenous!’ Rachel agreed. ‘Meg is so kind to me. I feel in my heart that she is just as trustworthy as Minnie.’

`Then follow your instincts. Meg is one of the best. She deserves more happiness herself.’ As they ate his eyes wondered to the distant fields. Eventually he turned his head and stared morosely up at the hill behind them.

`Are you worried about something, Ross?’ Rachel ventured as the silence lengthened between them.

`What?’ He seemed startled, almost as though he had forgotten she was there. `No, no I’m not worried – just dreaming impossible dreams.’

`Are your dreams impossible? Tell me about them?’ She lay back on the grass, shielding her eyes, her appetite assuaged, her skin caressed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of an ash tree.

‘The farm just over the hill will be vacant at the term. Mr Willis is giving up. He says prices are so bad he can’t pay the rent. He is probably right but I wish someone would just give me the chance to rent a farm of my own. If only I had enough money to buy a couple of cows and a few hens and a horse.’ He sighed. ‘I’m young. I’m strong. I work hard. If only …’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no point in dreaming. Mother will never let go of the purse strings now that Father is an invalid. She’ll keep Meg and me tied to Windlebrae as long as she lives. Speaking of Mother!’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Come on young Rachel. We had better hurry back and pretend we have both been slaving hard all day.

‘Ah, the fresh air has put a real glow in your cheeks, lassie,’ Cameron Maxwell remarked as soon as they entered the house. ‘You’ll need to get your work done in good time every Wednesday and have a bit of time to yourself.’

‘Father is right,’ Meg smiled. ‘And if Mother asks, you can tell her the bottom hen house has been cleaned out.’

‘But I couldn’t tell a lie! Or claim to have done the work you have done, dear Meg.’

‘No-o,’ Meg smiled conspiratorially, ‘I’m not suggesting you tell a lie, but there are ways and ways of saying things …’ Her dark brows rose humorously.

‘You are so good to me,’ Rachel chuckled in response. ‘One day I hope I can repay your kindness, Meg.’

When Gertrude Maxwell returned home she was too tired and anxious to notice the glow of happiness which seemed to cloak Rachel like a mantle. It had been almost impossible to sell the butter. In the end she had had to let it go to Taffy for six pence a pound, and the eggs had not been much better. She had barely made enough to purchase the week’s flour and oatmeal and the other few essentials for her household. Taffy’s comments on her butter had not helped either.

She had known the little Welshman since he moved to the town twenty years ago. His real name was David Lloyd but from the beginning he had been known as Taffy. Consequently he had put the name above the grocer’s and general store he had opened. Like herself he was getting older. Life was getting harder for him too. People wanted to buy food but many of them had no work, and therefore no money. He was a staunch Methodist and on that account alone he and Gertrude had always had a love-hate relationship, or maybe it was more of a cut and thrust. Despite her wariness Gertrude knew he was basically a fair trader and she respected his opinion, though she would never have admitted it.

‘It is a just man, I am, Mistress Maxwell,’ he would chant in his sing-song voice, and cocking his head on one side and with his forefinger wagging, he always added, ‘Not a generous man, maybe, but a just one.’ It was true too. Even Gertrude had to admit that. Why should he pay more for her butter and eggs when he could get them cheaper from a dozen other farmers’ wives, eager to sell their week’s produce.