A Maxwell Mourned (6 page)

It had been a great relief to find that Mistress Beattie was a pleasant faced elderly widow and not the handsome young woman Rachel had envisaged. She did not seem to be short-tempered or vicious either. Indeed she reminded Rachel of a younger edition of Minnie Ferguson – the mentor of her childhood. At the thought of Minnie her own expression softened and her lips curved into a smile. Alice Beattie raised her brows in a silent question.

‘You remind me of someone I used to know,’ Rachel explained. She looked at Ross. ‘You remember Minnie Ferguson – a younger version of course.’

‘I remember her,’ Ross nodded, then to Alice. ‘She was one of Rachel’s favourite people.’

‘Then I am flattered,’ Alice acknowledged, but she remained cautious. She did not know why it was so important to her that she should approve of Ross’s wife. She just knew that it was vital to the future of her beloved Glens of Lochandee that they should approve of each other, and get along together. Her experiences with Watt Kerr and his crooked ways had shaken her confidence in human nature.

Rachel was delighted with the large carved oak cot which Alice had prepared for Conan. Ross was amazed at her preparations, even improvising sheets and blankets.

The two days which Rachel spent at Lochandee were filled with new sights and experiences. Conan had taken an instant liking to Beth and crawled after her like a small devoted puppy, much to the girl’s delight.

‘I was used to playing with my half-brother and sister,’ she told Rachel. ‘I miss them sometimes, but I like living here with Mistress Beattie. I hate my step mother,’ she said with childlike candour. ‘I know it’s wicked to say so, but I do.’ She looked pleadingly at Rachel. ‘Will Mistress Beattie send me back when you come to live at Lochandee?’

‘Oh, surely not!’ Rachel was dismayed. She liked thirteen-year-old Beth and she understood her feelings after her own experience with Gertrude Maxwell. ‘Would you like me to ask Mrs Beattie what plans she has?’

‘Would you Mrs Maxwell? I’d be ever so grateful.’

Rachel was startled for a moment, scarcely recognising herself as Mrs Maxwell.

It was her last evening and Rachel took the opportunity to tell Mrs Beattie of Beth Pearson’s anxiety.

‘I had not considered so far ahead,’ Alice said truthfully, ‘I am glad you told me, Rachel. I would like to keep Beth. She’s scarcely more than a child but she’s very willing.’

‘I wouldn’t like to be the cause of her dismissal,’ Rachel said with concern, ‘but I hope I shall be able to help Ross earn his part of the agreement he made with you. She looked at Ross. ‘We have not discussed how we are to live, or what I am to do when we move to the cottage. Will there be work for me in the dairy? I did not see any butter making?’

‘Rachel is especially good at churning,’ Ross told Alice Beattie. ‘I have been thinking about some changes, especially now there are three of us to keep.’

‘What had you in mind, Ross?’ Alice Beattie asked curiously, quite unprepared for the suggestions which Ross must have been mulling over, even before he brought Rachel and his son to Lochandee. Perhaps their arrival had precipitated his ideas into plans.

‘I have a little money of my own. It was left to me by my grandfather. I would like to use it to buy more cows. I would like to see the byres of Lochandee full again. Rachel is a good milker and perhaps we could sell her butter locally, and set more eggs for hatching so we have more eggs to sell and …’

‘Are you proposing to be a farmer or a shopkeeper, Ross?’ Alice asked.

‘A farmer of course, but now that I have a wife I must try to bring more money to our partnership. That’s only fair. You know how much I want a farm of my own.’

‘I do, but you have taken me by surprise. I need time to think – and so do you.’

‘I have thought …’

‘Not about every aspect,’ Alice cautioned. ‘For one thing you have not said how the extra money will be divided. You are not a tenant, there’ll be additional costs – and some losses no doubt. You may buy in disease with unknown cattle – tuberculosis, foot-and-mouth, abortion for example …’

‘Don’t mention such things!’ Ross shuddered.

‘But I must. Don’t be too hasty. You might lose everything. Now,’ Alice Beattie took a deep breath and sat up straighter. ‘I have some news for Rachel. Mr Shaw, the Factor for the estate, is coming tomorrow morning with his motor car. He will take you back to the railway station.’

Ross sighed with disappointment, believing she had deliberately changed the subject. In fact Alice was thinking of the Factor. When he had heard Ross was married he was as surprised as she had been and he had asked to meet Rachel at the earliest opportunity. He was a shrewd man. He knew a good wife could do a lot to help a moderate tenant, but a bad wife could ruin the best of men. He knew she wanted Ross to be made a joint tenant with herself because she wanted to make sure he would stay at The Glens of Lochandee, but neither of them had known he had a wife. Mr Shaw had made it plain he would not recommend Ross as a possible tenant if he had made a hasty marriage with an unsuitable wife.

Naturally Alice could not tell Ross this, and neither would she make any decisions. She knew the Laird would only act upon Mr Shaw’s advice concerning the tenancy. On every large estate the Factor’s authority and influence were far-reaching. She had a feeling there were changes afoot regarding the estate now that the Laird’s health was failing and his son still showed no interest in anything except pleasure. Mr Shaw had told her Lady Lindsay, the young Laird’s wife, showed more interest. He felt it was unfortunate that her husband had forbidden her to spend time in the estate office, if only for the sake of her two young sons and their future inheritance.

Chapter Six

R
ACHEL COULD NOT HIDE
her low spirits when she had to say goodbye to Ross the following morning. She climbed into the car beside Mr Shaw, hugging an excited Conan on her knee while trying to brush aside her tears and wave goodbye, all at the same time.

Mr Shaw gave her a few minutes to compose herself

‘All right now?’

‘Y-yes. Th-thank-you,’ Rachel stammered nervously. She had noticed Mistress Beattie afforded this man considerable respect and she realised he had influence on matters to do with the estate and its tenants. She gulped and took out a clean white handkerchief to blow her nose and banish the last of her tears. ‘You must think me very silly. I did not want to come to Lochandee, and now I do not want to leave.’

‘A beautiful place, friendly people with a warm welcome …they can have that effect, I’m sure,’ Mr Shaw said, surprising himself. ‘The Glens of Lochandee is one of the most pleasant places to live.’ He gave a wry smile, ‘But I’m sure it is not leaving Lochandee which distresses you, so much as leaving your husband?’

Rachel was silent. Lochandee was a lovely place – both the village and the farm above it, but it was true, the thought of another parting with Ross was unbearable. He had loved her so tenderly. He had tried to take an interest in Conan too, but she wondered if there would ever be a bond between them as there was between herself and Conan.

‘It-it is very kind of you to take us to the station. We have never been in a motor car before.’ She stroked Conan’s head with a gentle finger and he cuddled against her breast, though his eyes were wide with curiosity.

‘He’s a fine boy,’ Mr Shaw complimented. ‘Ross must be very proud of him.’

Rachel tensed. Had he read her thoughts? He glanced at her delicate profile, noting the slight droop of her mouth.

‘How long have you been married?’ The question was an innocent one, intended to put Rachel at ease, instead she shot him a startled look. She reminded him of a frightened fawn. He raised his bushy brows in silent question. Rachel bit her lip. Then she sat up straighter, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

‘Mr Shaw, I am not very good at deceiving people. I know Ross wants to keep our affairs private, but if you asked him a direct question I know he would answer truthfully. We were married last week, when Ross came to stay.’

‘Last week!’ The Factor was shaken out of his usual equanimity and the car swerved alarmingly. Rachel’s heart sank. Mr Shaw set the car back on course. His gaze fell to Conan. ‘I see …’

‘I don’t suppose you do,’ Rachel sighed. ‘It was not Ross’s fault. I did not know I was expecting his child. He did not know he had a son until he returned for the funeral. Indeed he scarcely believes it even now.’ She stroked the child’s hair.

‘Well there’s little doubt about it,’ Mr Shaw commented dryly. ‘The wee fellow is the image of Ross, though I suppose he will change several times as he grows up. My own boys resemble my father now they are young men, but they looked like my wife when they were children.’ Mr Shaw raised a hand and rubbed his temple. How was he having this kind of conversation with a young woman he was supposed to be vetting as the wife of a possible tenant? Rachel began to feel more at ease. This stern looking man seemed quite human after all.

‘It was not Ross’s fault,’ she repeated slowly. ‘I will tell you the whole story, then you can judge for yourself. I know that’s what you are supposed to do anyway,’ she added with surprising candour. ‘My father said the Factor in our own village often had more influence than the Laird. He was responsible for the people on the estate.’

‘Your father was right about that,’ Mr Shaw agreed wryly. ‘Sometimes the decisions are hard to make.’

‘You mean when you have to turn people out of their homes because they will not pay their rent?’ Rachel asked, recalling once such incident.

‘Yes, and when a man dies. Sometimes his widow has to be put out of the farm. It can be difficult. Was your father a farmer?’

‘No, he was a blacksmith.’ Rachel began to talk, telling him briefly of the circumstances which had led her to Windlebrae, omitting Gertrude Maxwell’s insane behaviour, but explaining merely that Meg and Peter had married and offered her a home.

‘None of us knew where Ross had gone, or whether he would return. He is very … sensitive underneath his stubborn looks. It must have been a shock to discover he was not who he thought he was. I have no parents now but I did know who they were, and that they loved me, as I loved them. Ross has never known that sort of caring. Although Mr Cameron Maxwell is a nice old man and I am sure he regards Ross as another son,’ she added warmly. ‘And he is his uncle after all.’

‘And you are returning to help the couple who befriended you, rather than stay here with Ross?’

‘I must! I do not want to leave Ross, now that we have found each other again.’ Her cheeks flushed a rosy red at the memory of that finding and uniting. Mr Shaw bit back a smile, but he was in for more surprises as Rachel told him about her cows and churning butter, and the work involved in running the bakery and shop. ‘Meg is not in good health. I cannot leave them in the lurch. Do you understand?’ she pleaded

‘My word, here we are at the station already,’ Mr Shaw exclaimed, ‘and your wee son has fallen asleep.’

‘He’s not used to me talking so much. I am sorry if I …’

‘Don’t be sorry, young woman.’ He held up a hand. ‘I am glad you told me the truth, and something of your background, and Ross’s. I shall respect your confidence, never fear. I usually suspect when people are hiding things. Sometimes perhaps I imagine what they are hiding to be worse than the truth. You have not done Ross a disservice today. Mistress Beattie has great confidence in his ability and in his integrity. I do not think either of you will let her down. Loyalty is a quality I admire.’

He helped her from the car and found a carriage occupied only by a cheery-looking middle-aged couple. Then he lifted her luggage onto the rack and bid her good bye as the train began to get up steam again, doors slammed and the guard prepared to wave his flag.

Rachel was tired and hungry and Conan was fretful when they arrived back at Ardmill but all thoughts of her own adventure disappeared when she found Meg in bed and the house in turmoil.

‘Oh, but I’m pleased to see you back, lassie,’ Mrs Jenkins welcomed her thankfully. ‘I never knew you got through so much work in a day, all by yourself. What it is to be young.’

‘But what’s wrong with Meg?’ Rachel asked anxiously. ‘It’s usually such a struggle to get her to sit down in a chair.’

‘She collapsed in the bakehouse, barely an hour after you’d gone. Doctor Gill made her promise to stay in bed until he returns. He told her she would damage her baby – and her own health, if she did not follow his advice.’

‘I should never have left her,’ Rachel said. ‘I guessed she was not as well as she pretended.’

‘No good blaming yourself, Rachel,’ Peter told her, coming into the kitchen and overhearing, ‘She wouldn’t have listened to anyone except the doctor. But I am thankful to see you back and Meg is asking to see you and hear all your news.’

‘I’ll take her a drink of tea, but I see there is much to do.’

‘Willie has bought the cows. He and Sam Dewar walked them over to Windlebrae. I’m sorry lass, but we couldn’t manage everything.’

Rachel nodded. ‘They would have had to go anyway. Meg will be busy enough when the baby is born.

Concern for Meg grew as the days passed. Even lying in bed her feet and fingers were puffy and swollen. Her face seemed rounder, but it was not a healthy roundness. Rachel thought it looked bloated.

‘I think the baby will be due in six or seven weeks,’ Doctor Gill confirmed.

‘How shall we get Meg to rest for so long!’ she wondered aloud.

‘It is vital.’ His tone was urgent. He lowered his voice. ‘It could mean the difference between life and death.’

‘Oh no!’ Rachel’s face paled. ‘Peter could not bear that again.’

‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to worry you unduly Miss O’Bri … Sorry, it’s Mrs Maxwell now, is it not? The minister told me Conan’s father had returned. I’m so pleased. A boy needs his father. When do you plan to join him?’

‘As soon as – as Meg is well again. I pray to God she will be well.’ she added vehemently.

‘I shall add my prayers to yours,’ Doctor Gill said sincerely. ‘We must do our best for her. Make her some beef tea and clear chicken soup – keep up her strength without straining her system.’

Even the children seemed subdued. Rachel had taken over the bakery but she was having difficulty fitting everything into the days. It seemed she had no sooner gone to sleep than it was time to get up again.

‘I’m thinking of asking the nursemaid to start work immediately, Rachel?’ Peter said, after hearing her speak sharply to Conan. ‘You look exhausted.’ She stared at him blankly. ‘She could sleep in the girls’ room,’ he added quickly. ‘She’s used to sharing. I don’t want you to think I am criticising …’

‘If only you could get another pair of hands! Any hands. Not to mention a pair of eyes to watch the twins and Conan.’ Rachel could almost have wept with relief. She was so tired and so tense with anxiety. ‘Is she willing to come so soon?’

‘Yes. Her name is Flora and she is 14.’

Flora arrived two days later. She was bright-faced and cheerful and completely unruffled by the busy household.

‘It’s no worse than home,’ she told Rachel laughingly. ‘We are all used to work. Work or starve, my Ma says – and sometimes we have to do both when things are bad.’

‘Does your father keep cows?’ Rachel asked.

‘No – only one for the house and a few hens and a pig. The farm’s on top of a hill – bleak in summer, snowed up in winter,’ she said philosophically. ‘Even the sheep struggle to survive. Dad talks about giving up – but what else could he do? There’s no work round here. He’d hate living in Glasgow when he’s country born and bred.’

Flora’s help made a big difference. Even Meg seemed more relaxed, though still lamenting the fact that she was to stay in bed for another five weeks.

Nature interfered with this plan and six nights later Peter knocked urgently on Rachel’s bedroom door.

‘Meg says can you come!’ he called hoarsely. ‘She thinks the babe is coming.’

Rachel paused only to light her candle and pull on a woollen dress. She ran to Meg’s room.

‘Bring the doctor!’ she ordered Peter. He obeyed like a child.

Fortunately Doctor Gill was at home in bed and he came at once. His manner was calm, but Rachel sensed his concern.

‘We must get your wife to the cottage hospital immediately, Mr Sedgeman.’

‘Shall I bring my van round?’

‘The back of my car, I think. Perhaps you would follow in your vehicle? Easier for getting home.’

Peter nodded, his face white as the bed sheets. Meg did her best to hide the pain which made her want to scream, but Rachel could see the perspiration already dampening her hair and running down her temple. Her heart was filled with fear. The baby was not due for a month yet. Something was wrong. She packed Meg’s night clothes and the sheets and towels they had prepared for the hospital. Then she supported Meg down the stairs with the help of the doctor.

Rachel waited up for the rest of the night hoping Peter would telephone with news, as he had promised to do. Strangely he had forgotten about his new gadget and run to get the doctor in person. It was probably just as quick Rachel reflected wryly. Doris, the local operator, was always curious.

All next day they waited but there was no word from Peter. Rachel’s anxiety grew. Apparently Doctor Gill had not returned from the hospital either. The old Doctor had taken the morning surgery. News spread around the village. Cyril Johnson had more customers that day than he usually had in a week. Nearly everyone called in on the pretext of buying a box of matches, a reel of cotton, some linen buttons or four ounces of sugar, a packet of Woodbine cigarettes or two ounces of tea. Without exception they asked for news of Mr Sedgeman’s’ wife, Cyril reported later.

‘Their concern was genuine. Some of them offered prayers.’ Rachel could barely speak for the anxiety gnawing at her stomach. She knew she ought to eat but she couldn’t. Flora took the children for a long walk. Later they were bathed and fed and put to bed. Mrs Jenkins insisted she could not go home to worry alone. The old house settled down to its usual creaks and groans as darkness fell again. Rachel must have dozed. She wakened with a start. Mrs Jenkins was snoring in the wooden chair on the opposite side of the fire. The door creaked and Peter, white faced and exhausted put his head around.

‘Peter!’ Rachel’s voice was no more than a nervous squeak. She ran to his side. ‘Oh, Peter, you look exhausted.’ She took his arm and led him to a chair. He moved like a sleep walker. ‘Meg? Is she …? Is she all right, Peter?’

‘Very ill. Doctor thinks she has a … a chance …’ His voice was slurred with weariness and tears began to trickle silently down his cheeks. Rachel turned away and shoved the kettle onto the fire. Mrs Jenkins stirred and stretched stiffly. She opened her eyes, still confused.

‘Tea. I’ll make you some tea,’ Rachel croaked hoarsely. She could not bring herself to ask about the baby. She was sure it must be dead. Peter had not mentioned it. He looked stunned and bewildered.

‘They’re in a sort of tent …’ he muttered, half to himself.

‘Who? Who, Peter?’ Rachel did not know she was gripping his arm. She thought he was hallucinating.

‘Boys,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Don’t think he will live. So small … Must get back to her.’ He looked up. ‘Can’t believe Meg could have twins as well.’

‘Twins? Two boys?’ Rachel stared incredulously.

‘So small,’ he repeated. ‘They say … one might survive.’ He kept shaking his head. ‘My poor Meg.’ He shuddered. ‘Please God let her be all right.’

‘Does she know? About the twins, I mean?’ Rachel asked. Peter shook his head. ‘It took so long. They seemed to need so many – “things”.’ He shivered. ‘Could only wait outside. They wouldn’t let me in. She’s sleeping.’

‘Sleep is the best cure, Mr Sedgeman,’ Mrs Jenkins assured him. ‘Now you drink this cup of tea – hot, sweet and strong. It’ll put new life into you.’