Beyond Reason (12 page)

‘Why, ’tis no more than a broken-doon hen hoose, next tae the burn on auld Bowman’s bit o’land. A good March wind will blow it doon in minutes. I dinna think she’ll go back there. Anyway, how is your ain wife these days, Wull? Mistress McClure said she
was a very sick woman the last time she was up at your place.’

‘Och, she’s fine.’

‘Glad tae hear that. Sent Lily on her way, did she then?’ Sparks asked innocently, but with a sly wink at the rest of his customers. Wull Foster slurped at his drink and chose not to answer.

Hannah Foster remembered Mrs McClure’s warnings about the troubles a woman like Lily Bloddret could bring, but no amount of feigning sleep or trying to reason with her husband would make him see reason and she was forced to submit to his brutal demands.

After a few unseasonably mild days, the weather turned bitterly cold again. Each night since Lily left, Wull Foster had gone to the inn but no one there had seen anything of her since she left Braeheights. Even the sauciest of the girls who hung around refused to have anything to do with Wull Foster when they knew he had been with Wandering Lily. This added to his frustration and it was his wife who suffered. Joe, coming in from tending the pony, heard his mother’s muffled sobbing and his young fists clenched, but he knew he had neither the strength nor the right to stand up to his father, even for his mother’s sake. Janet now had a bolt on her bedroom door but Joe admitted he was disappointed that it was such a slender affair and the door was so warped he had only managed to fix it near the top where the door met the frame.

Janet grew increasingly tense and nervous – jumping whenever she heard Wull Foster’s voice. She took care to keep the table between them when she served his meal for even in his wife’s presence he did not hesitate to touch her.

Then came a morning when Janet wakened to find the whole world transformed.

‘The snow looks so beautiful,’ she said to Hannah when she returned from the log shed with her basket piled high. ‘It is a pity we have to spoil the perfection.’

‘Aye, beautiful it might be,’ Hannah sighed, ‘but it makes a lot of extra work watering the animals and trudging through it to feed them. There will not be many hens laying either if it stays as cold as this.’

‘No, I didn’t collect many eggs yesterday. They were all too
busy fluffing out their feathers to keep warm.’

‘Was the snow still falling when you were out?’

‘Yes, but it’s already quite deep and it is getting worse.’

‘So Joe will not be able to take the pony and trap to the store today, think ye?’

‘I doubt it, but we are fairly well stocked except for paraffin, which Joe uses for the storm lanterns he uses in the byre when he’s milking.’

‘Aye we shall have to make do with tallow candles inside until he can bring more for the lamps. There’ll be no trip to the inn for himself tonight either,’ she muttered, more to herself than to Janet. Even his own wife dreaded Mr Foster staying at home on winter evenings. A shiver of fear shook Janet’s slender frame. If only she could be sure of locking him from her own small room.

‘I wonder where Lily Bloddret is now and where she will find shelter?’

‘I don’t know, lassie, but she was a foolish woman to take off so early in the year. She could starve to death beneath the hedge and no one would know.’

It was still snowing on and off when Foster and his sons came in for their dinner. They were cold, hungry and bad-tempered but the meal was ready and Janet served them ample portions of potato and cabbage with a little of the fat pork from the pig which was hanging from the iron hooks in the pantry. Hannah had made a suet pudding and some jam sauce.

The snow was deep by evening and a cold wind was beginning to blow small drifts against the buildings and hedges. Janet was glad to step in the footprints which Joe had left when she made her last visit to the privy. Even so, the hems of her dress and her mother’s old cloak were powdered with snow and clinging wet and cold about her ankles by the time she returned to the house. Janet was thankful to get to her room, cold though it was, with its tiny, ill-fitting window with bits of old duster stuffed in gaps to keep out the draught. She pulled on her thick flannel nightgown which covered her toes and warmed her feet if she curled up small. Her prayers before sleeping were always for her mother and Fingal. She often read a poem from his book before going to sleep.
Tonight it was too cold to keep her hands above the blanket and she had only a small stub of candle left. It was a bitter night. She got up again and groped for her thick woollen drawers and her socks, pulling them on in the darkness, then spreading her damp cloak over the bed. She fell into an exhausted sleep as soon as she was warm.

She never forgot to slide Joe’s flimsy snib into place and wedge the small trunk between the door and her bed. The trunk had belonged to Molly, and Joe had carried it downstairs, along with Molly’s pitifully few clothes, her treasured hairbrush and a small mirror. She hadn’t even had a room to sleep in, only a curtain across a corner of the loft, screening her from the boys.

‘I reckon she’d want ye to have these,’ he had said gruffly over the ache of grief in his chest. Janet’s room was so small she often knocked her shins on the edge of the chest, but since Mrs Foster’s warning she had been doubly glad of it to use as a wedge between her door and the bed. She had witnessed Foster’s strength, and his fury, so she knew it would not keep him out for long, but at least it would warn her of his presence.

Janet had been deeply asleep when a thump on her door disturbed her. She yawned and blinked in the darkness, turned over and prepared to sleep again. Another thump and loud curses brought her wide awake, her heart thumping with fear.

‘What have ye done to this bloody door?’ Foster growled. ‘Open it up, you silly wee bitch.’

Janet began to tremble. She clutched her blankets close to her chest. ‘G-go away,’ she called nervously. ‘I shall scream for Joe if y-you don’t g-go away.’

‘Joe?’ Foster gave a guffaw. ‘Come on now, do as I say and open the door. ’Tis time ye earned your keep and learned how to pleasure a man.’

Fear propelled Janet from her bed. She pushed her fists into her boots and hammered against the small window. It was her only chance of escape. There were gaps at the bottom and side but the top was firmly wedged. Even if she opened it she would struggle to squeeze through, but Foster would not be able to follow her. The swollen frame would not budge but the four slender struts holding
the glass were rotten. Two of them broke, shattering the glass and making a jagged cut along Janet’s arm. She was oblivious to the pain as she heard Foster burst the latch at the top of the door. His sheer strength would move the trunk, and the bed, enough for him to squeeze into her room. She grabbed her cloak from the bed. Fingal’s book fell at her feet. She picked it up and stuffed it in one of her boots. She threw them both out of the window. She heard Foster grunting as he heaved against her door.

‘Open it up, you bitch. You’ll pay for this.’

Desperation made her squeeze through the small aperture head first, ignoring the cuts from the glass splinters left in the frame. There was nothing she could do to steady herself. Her window opened onto the sloping roof of the wash house, which had been built as a lean-to. Everything was covered in snow and Janet could not stop herself from sliding head first down the roof and onto the ground. A hundred fleeting thoughts crowded her mind in those desperate seconds. Even if she broke her neck it was better than her fate in Foster’s hands.

‘Oh, Fingal,’ she sobbed beneath her breath. She remembered Molly. She had drowned herself because of the fiend who was her father. She landed in a heap of snow, spluttering but with no more than a bruised hip bone from a boulder hidden beneath the snow. She groped for her boots and shoved her wet feet into them, clutching her poetry book as though her life depended on it. She dare not stop to do up her laces in case Foster came out with his lantern. She tucked them in, pulled her cloak round her and ran. To reach the track to Molden she needed to go through the farmyard. Foster might seize her as she passed the door. Tom Friar had taken her across the fields to the Crillion road. She ran that way, stumbling in the darkness, hampered by drifts of snow. She passed the privy and scrambled through the hedge into the field beyond. Her blood seemed to freeze when she heard Foster’s furious roar from her window.

‘Come back here! You stupid bitch. D’ye hear me? Ye’ll freeze to death. Come back inside, you silly wench. I’ll warm ye.’

There was only a silver sliver of moon and Janet prayed he could not see her as she cowered against the hedge. Then she
heard him bellow again.

‘All right, stay out there. Ye’ll be glad to come back.’ Did he mean he would not pursue her? Janet didn’t believe he would give up easily. Was he waiting for her to crawl back into the house? Or was he already pulling on his clothes to haul her back again? She had to run as far and as fast as she could.

Swearing to himself Foster regarded the broken window and vowed to board it up in the morning. She would not get away from him that way again. He had known she had spirit. He was going to enjoy mastering this one.

The hedge hid Janet from view but the snow was deeper where it had blown off the fields. It would be easier to see her in the open field but the night was dark and speed was what mattered. She dare not imagine what Foster would do to her if he caught her, but her heart almost failed her as she remembered the long distance to the road, even in daylight with Tommy to guide her. Flurries of snow kept falling and her cloak was already damp and heavy. She ran on, holding her side when she developed a stitch, determined to keep going. She scrambled through another hedge. How many fields had she crossed with Tommy?

Sometime later, she saw the side of a wood loom into view. They had definitely passed a wood. She breathed a sigh of relief. She must be heading in the right direction. It would be more sheltered in the wood, beneath the trees.

‘I must stop and lace up my boots,’ she muttered to herself, ‘and catch my breath.’ She had nearly lost one of her boots several times and she knew there were blisters on her heels. She crouched against the trunk of a sturdy tree. Her fingers throbbed with cold and it seemed to take forever to lace her boots tightly. Her toes were numb with cold. She was beginning to get her breath back when she heard the snapping of a twig.

Janet did not wait to discover whether it was a fox, or Foster. She ran on as fast as the undergrowth allowed. She reached another hedge and knew she had not come this way with Tom. Still her only desire was to put as much distance between herself and Braeheights as possible. No one would hear her scream here, and no one would find her starved to death beneath a hedgerow.
She pushed her way through the hedge, oblivious to the scratches from the thorns. Her strength was waning now and the deepening snow hampered her. Fortunately the field was sloping downhill. She came to another hedge, and another field. Janet lost count of the fields; she was lost. She was freezing cold and exhausted. Instinct told her Foster would have caught her by now if he had pursued her as far as the wood. She was tempted to curl up in a ball and wait until daylight. She thought of Fingal: he would never give up. Without warning she almost stumbled into the burn. The banks were covered in snow and it was difficult to tell how wide it was. Relief warmed her temporarily. At least she was heading in the right direction even if she had arrived at a different part of the burn.

She put a boot tentatively onto the ice-covered water but it shattered, not yet thick enough to bear her weight. She must jump and hope she would reach the other side. She did her best but one foot went into the water before she managed to crawl up the side of the burn. Her feet were so numb already she was barely aware of the freezing water. She paused to ease the pain in her side, but she had to summon her strength and keep moving.

It was several hours later before Janet saw the road down to Crillion Keep. All thoughts of reaching her mother had long since vanished. She plodded up the familiar road like a homing pigeon, putting one foot before the other by sheer force of will. At last the dark shape of the stables loomed into view. She could go no further. She had not the strength to climb the ladder to the hayloft. She fell onto the small pile of hay at the bottom as oblivion claimed her.

It was Mark Wright, the undercoachman, who found her.

‘Mr Baird! There’s a body in the stable,’ he shouted hysterically. ‘C-come and see.’

‘Is’t a tramp, laddie? It was a rough night. He’ll do ye no harm.’

‘N-no. ’Tis a lassie an’ I think she’s dead.’

‘Surely not!’ Donald Baird hurried from the coach house and followed the shivering youth into the stable next door. ‘Oh my God!’ Donald fell to his knees and touched Janet’s cold cheek with a gentle finger. ‘It’s Janet! Oh, lassie, whatever can have driven
ye tae this on such a night?’ he muttered, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘Open the door wide, laddie. I’ll carry her to my wife.’

‘Is she dead, Mr Baird?’

‘She’s not far off,’ Donald said grimly. ‘You be getting on with the horses, laddie.’

As he approached the cottages, he met Maggie McLauchlan, his mother-in-law, coming out of hers, on her way to the Keep to start cooking breakfast.

‘Whatever has happened?’ she gasped.

‘It’s Janet. She was in the stables. She’s near frozen to death.’

‘Carry her into my house. Peggy will be upset and the bairns….’ She pushed her door open. ‘I’ll need to light the fire. Will ye go and tell Mr Saunders what has happened and I’ll come as soon as I can. I must get her out o’ her wet clothes and rub some warmth into her.’ Donald was relieved to leave Janet in the capable hands of his mother-in-law, though he feared there was little hope for her and his kindly heart was heavy with sorrow.

‘Janet Scott? The dominie’s granddaughter?’ Josiah Saunders echoed incredulously. ‘You found the child in the stable?’

‘Aye, sir. She’s no a child now but I doubt if she’ll survive this night’s freezing.’