Beyond Reason (3 page)

Mary scarcely left Billy’s side as month followed month, but in spite of her tender ministrations his strength ebbed away. Janet Scott never knew the earnest young man who had been her father, nor was she ever to catch more than a glimpse of the merry, carefree girl who had been his wife.

Mary accepted her loss as God’s will, but the light had gone from her life. Only her promise to Billy that she would give his young son the best education possible gave her a reason to go on living. She was numb with grief. Her father took charge, acting as he believed best. He persuaded her to give up her rented cottage near the shore and move back to her childhood home at the schoolhouse. She obeyed without argument or enthusiasm. Her options were few with two fatherless children and little money. It was to be a long time before she realized the folly of giving up her own home.

Her father was not a man of wealth but he had a secure home and a regular income of one hundred pounds a year, four times what most labouring men earned. Mary knew he had been a benefactor to several boys whose parents could not afford to continue their education. Occasionally, he had managed to persuade his fellow elders to contribute towards fees and one of his students had gone to university in Edinburgh; the parish looked after its own. Collections in the parish box sufficed to keep the poorest
from starvation without the English Parliament’s plan to introduce the Poor Laws to Scotland. Mary shuddered at the thought of depending on the Poor Box and agreed to take over the running of the schoolhouse from her father’s elderly housekeeper.

In winter, those families who could afford it paid the schoolmaster to board their children during the week. In summer, they walked several miles to school each morning from distant parts of the parish. Mary seized every opportunity to earn whatever she could and keep up the meagre savings in the Trustee Savings Bank in accordance with Billy’s dream to educate their son. Mr Cole, the tailor, offered her a few hours’ work. He knew she had helped Billy with the orders for lengths of tweed and thread, buttons and buckles. She had a neat hand and a good head for figures. On winter evenings, she spent hours spinning and weaving the locally grown flax to make fine linen.

During their second winter at the schoolhouse, Fingal McLauchlan became one of the young boarders. He was the same age as Andrew and the two quickly became friends. They both regarded Janet as a younger sister and were happy to entertain her when lessons finished for the day. She was a lively toddler and Mary was grateful for their help.

Dominie McWhan often gave extra lessons to his young grandson in the evenings and Fingal joined in eagerly.

‘They’re both bright laddies,’ he declared proudly.

‘Father, they are only five years old!’ Mary reminded him.

‘I can recognize a diamond long before it’s polished,’ he insisted. ‘Fingal now, he’s already strong in character, as well as in body. I’ve noticed how he protects Andrew when older boys would bully him.’

‘Aye, he’s a kindly laddie,’ Mary agreed, thinking how gently he treated Janet.

As time passed, a close friendship developed between the two boys, but it did not prevent a healthy competition, something the dominie encouraged for their mutual benefit.

‘I can just about afford to pay the fees for Andrew to go to university,’ Dominie McWhan told Mary when the boys approached
their fourteenth birthday. ‘Fingal is preparing to leave and follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps as coachman at Crillion Keep but it’s a waste of his ability and hard work. He is better than Andrew at the English and Latin, though Andrew has the edge with the mathematics and science.’

‘Are you thinking both boys should go to the university, Father? You know the McLauchlans could never afford it, and they would never accept charity.’

‘I know that, lassie.’ The dominie sighed. ‘The laddie has more than his share of pride and independence already. But….’

‘What’s worrying you, Father?’

‘Andrew being away from home. He’s a delicate laddie. I’d feel happier if he had a good friend beside him when he leaves us. His cough gets worse every winter.’

A chill of fear struck Mary but she replied sharply, ‘Well you can’t send Fingal as a nursemaid.’

A fortnight later, Dominie McWhan was sitting in church when his eye fell upon Josiah Saunders. Josiah was not a son of the parish. He had inherited the small estate and the house at Crillion Keep from his great-uncle. He was in his early twenties but he looked older due to a weak heart which had kept him in poor health since boyhood. He was a reserved man who kept his own council, but the dominie respected him as a man of integrity, with a fine intelligence and he was exceptionally well read. There were some who resented him. He had declined an invitation to become an elder of the kirk, but the Reverend Drummond, the doctor and the dominie knew he contributed to the parish Poor Box more regularly, and more generously, than most of the elders who considered themselves staunch pillars of the kirk. His workers considered him a fair employer, compassionate, even generous, when they or their families were ill. This aroused jealousy and resentment in his mean-spirited stepsister, Mrs Eliza Ross.

It occurred to the dominie that Josiah might be responsible for Fingal carrying on at school after the usual leaving age of twelve. Would his largesse stretch to financing a university education for Fingal McLauchlan, only son of his own coachman?

The dominie sighed. It had taken a lot of persuasion on his part
to get the fees from his fellow elders to send young Charlie Nichol to university but now that he was soon to be ordained as a minister, they all claimed it had been their greatest pleasure to help him on his way.

Two days later, Dominie McWhan rode to Crillion Keep to put the case of Fingal’s education before Josiah. He found his task easier than he had anticipated. Josiah already knew his coachman’s son was intelligent, as well as being polite, kind and helpful to his parents and to his half-sister, Peggy. After some pertinent questions regarding the dominie’s opinion of Fingal’s ability and aspirations, Josiah agreed to finance the boy’s education.

‘The only problem will be overcoming Jacob’s pride. I respect the independent spirit of my head coachman so I must insist on remaining an anonymous benefactor.’

‘Then I shall devise a plan to offer a bursary for which any pupil in the school can compete,’ the dominie suggested. ‘I shall ask the Reverend Drummond, as minister of the parish, to judge the competition but I shall ensure the examination will have an emphasis on English and Latin. Fingal excels in these subjects. Andrew will do well in mathematics.’

If his plan succeeded, the boys would attend university together, subject to the approval of Fingal’s parents. They were a modest couple who had never considered the possibility of their son attending university. They believed Fingal had little hope of winning a bursary, especially in competition with the dominie’s own grandson, so their consent was easily won.

Fingal was excited at the prospect of competing for the bursary. If he should win, it would mean the attainment of his dreams. Andrew knew his grandfather was prepared to pay his own fees,
hoping he would follow in his footsteps and become a dominie too. He was kind and generous and already he taught himself and his sister without payment. Janet was eager to learn. She was well ahead of many pupils considerably older. She was patient too and loved to help the younger children. Andrew knew university fees would drain his family’s resources and his grandfather was becoming an old man. So both he and Fingal worked hard, absorbing all the knowledge the dominie could cram into them.

‘Extra learning is never lost. It will give you an advantage when you start at the university,’ he told them.

The Reverend Drummond was scrupulously fair in his assessments. He praised Andrew for his excellence in mathematics and science, but it was Fingal who gained the bursary.

Mary hid her disappointment, but as daughter of the dominie she had received more schooling than any of the other women in the parish. She asked if she might see the examination papers.

‘You arranged for Fingal to win, Father,’ she said shrewdly, after studying them.

‘The examination was fairly and independently marked.’

‘I’m sure the Reverend Drummond would never be anything but fair,’ Mary nodded, ‘but the dominie who set the examination knew which of his students would win.’

Her father shrugged, neither agreeing nor denying.

‘You’ll see, my dear. We shall be glad Andrew will have a friend with him.’

‘I am hoping that the air of the east coast will clear his chest,’ Mary said. She was always defensive when her father mentioned Andrew’s lack of stamina, or his cough.

‘It’s a pity girls don’t attend university,’ her father observed, moving her thoughts away from her son. In his heart he knew Mary was more obsessed with giving Andrew a good education than he was himself. She paid scant attention to her ten-year-old daughter.

‘Girls? You mean Janet?’

‘Aye, I mean Janet. She shows every sign of being as clever as Andrew, and she is bursting with good health and energy.’ He looked out of the window to where his granddaughter was
swinging dangerously on a branch of the old apple tree. His eyes softened at the picture she made with her round rosy cheeks and curly chestnut hair. She reminded him of his late wife, especially when she smiled in the impish way she had. She had the same smoky-blue eyes as her brother, though, inherited from their father. Lovely eyes they were, with their thick fringe of dark lashes and that steady, measuring gaze. It was unusual in one so young and it could be disconcerting. He sighed.

‘I hope she doesn’t get too badly hurt by life. She is as honest as the day, and expects everybody else to be the same.’

‘She’ll have a lot to learn, then,’ Mary said grimly.

She herself had been let down twice recently by people she had trusted. She had often helped Billy and she had learned a lot about drafting and cutting patterns and sewing garments. Recently Mr Cole had begun to depend on her to write out his orders because his wife’s memory and her eyesight were failing rapidly after she suffered a turn which had rendered her unconscious for three days. He had recommended Mary to some of the ladies from the larger houses when they required garments made or alterations done. She was grateful to him but two so-called ladies had unjustly accused her of not making dresses to their instructions. They had taken the dresses but refused to pay a single farthing for all the work she had put in. The two women were friends and she knew it was a plot to cheat her out of her earnings. One of them was Mrs Eliza Ross, stepsister of her father’s friend Josiah Saunders, but she resolved she would never sew for either of them again.

Mary’s mouth set in a tight line, remembering how hard she had worked to finish the dresses on time, and in excellent order, knowing they were for a dinner being held at one of the large estates. She would never forget Billy’s resolve to save a few farthings every week to put in the parish savings bank for Andrew’s education. The university fees would be a drain on her father’s income and there would be books and food to buy. She was determined Andrew must not neglect his health. She had been bitterly disappointed when he did not win the bursary, but it made her even keener to take on extra work and save whenever she could.
Her hopes for an improvement in her son’s health were futile. The cough did not improve but as the dominie had predicted, Fingal was a loyal and much-needed friend.

Both boys worked hard at their studies, conscious that they owed a debt to those who had assisted them. As time went on, Andrew found it difficult to summon the energy to learn all he wished to learn. Fingal was troubled. During their second winter they returned home for the break. They were fortunate to get a lift in a carriage, driven by the father of a fellow student, but it brought them only as far as the northern boundary of their home county of Dumfries. They walked the remaining thirty miles.

At the first opportunity, the dominie called on the McLauchlans. Janet had begged to ride up behind him on his big horse. She never missed a chance to visit Peggy Baird and her mother, Maggie McLauchlan. There was always a warm welcome for her even though Peggy had two children of her own now. Angus was two years younger than herself, and Beth, a little girl of four. Unknown to Janet, Peggy had lost two more babies and she cherished all children with a spontaneous and generous love Mary Scott seemed unable to show her daughter.

Janet loved to see the two young Bairds, reading them stories and pretending to teach them as her grandfather taught his pupils. As for Fingal, he had always been like another brother to her, although she was a little in awe of him now. He wore a suit and grew whiskers like her grandfather, but he did not grow a beard; he shaved that away every day. Her grandfather sent her off to find the younger children. He wanted Fingal’s opinion on his grandson’s health.

‘I want the truth, laddie,’ the old man said. ‘Andrew has scarce been out of his bed since he arrived home, though even in bed his books are at his side. He is tired. He looks ill.’

Fingal regarded his old dominie anxiously. He liked and respected Mr McWhan. He owed the dominie a debt he could never repay and he was reluctant to tell him of his deep concern for Andrew.

‘The truth, laddie?’ the dominie prompted.

‘It takes all Andrew’s energy to study. Sometimes I fear he is
too tired to eat, but I insist.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘He accuses me of fussing like a broody hen.’

‘And the cough? It is no better?’

Fingal shook his head slowly. Then he looked the dominie in the eye. ‘I fear it is getting worse, sir. But Andrew will never give in. He has set his heart on winning the highest award the university can offer. He wants you to be proud of him.’

‘I am proud of him. I am proud of you both, laddie, but I would not wish either of you to risk your health for the sake o’ book learning.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Mr Telford? Mr Thomas Telford from near the town of Langholm?’

‘I have heard of him,’ the dominie said slowly. ‘A shepherd’s laddie who has turned himself into a builder?’

‘He has learned much from books himself, sir. He is planning to build a canal all the way across Scotland from east to west. Andrew reads everything he can find about him. He says Mr Telford must be a great engineer. His ambition is to become an engineer himself and do work like he does. Mr Telford has used cast iron in some of his constructions. Andrew wants to understand how it is done. He – he has a vision of building bridges over great rivers – bridges to carry steam engines like the Puffing Billy.’

‘Andrew? The laddie will never be strong enough to be a builder. Doesn’t he want to teach? To pass on his knowledge to his fellow men?’

‘I don’t think that is his dream, sir.’ Fingal bit his lip, knowing the dominie would be disappointed, and knowing in his heart that his friend would never have the health and strength to achieve his ambitions.

‘He – er … he dreams of steam engines which will carry people.’

‘Never! It is an impossible dream.’

‘Perhaps. He says wherever there are roads and towns they will need iron tracks. Like the ones Mr Stephenson made two or three years ago. Do you really believe such a thing is impossible, sir?’

‘The rich people will always ride in comfort, in carriages drawn by fine horses. The rest of us must go on horseback, or walk on
our own feet. It is but a youthful dream of Andrew’s. When he settles down he will be a good teacher. And you, laddie? Do you want to be a teacher?’

‘You think I am able?’

‘Assuredly, my boy. You have a fine mind for learning, and great patience. The Reverend Drummond tells me the Academy at Dumfries is a good school. Maybe you will be selected as a teacher there one day.’

‘Or – or maybe I could be apprenticed to a lawyer?’

‘You were always good at the Latin.’ The dominie smiled. ‘I had not thought I was educating a man of the law when I was teaching you. I shall be proud of you, Fingal, whatever you decide.’

A few months later, Fingal recalled his conversation with Dominie McWhan when Andrew came to him, white-faced and distraught, holding out the single sheet of paper.

‘It is from Mother. It came by messenger.’

Upset though they were, neither of the young men realized the full importance of the news.

Dominie McWhan had eaten his evening meal with Mary and Janet as usual, before retiring to the small room where he prepared the lessons for his pupils, marked their exercises, or read his favourite books. Two hours later, Mary carried in the drink of hot milk she had prepared, just as he liked it with a dash of pepper. She thought he had fallen asleep at his desk. She laid a hand on his shoulder, an affectionate smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

‘You work too hard, Fath….’ The milk slopped onto the tray. ‘Father! No! Oh no!’ Mary stared, numb with shock. This was no ordinary sleep. This was the long sleep of death! She looked down at the bowed white head. ‘Oh, Father….’ A sob rose in her throat. She trembled violently. She could scarcely think what to do.

Janet slept dreamlessly. She knew nothing of the night’s grief and turmoil.

‘Grandfather can’t be dead! He wouldn’t … he couldn’t – just die…. No! No, I don’t believe you,’ she sobbed when Mary broke the news the following morning.

It was true. The pillar of their existence had gone for ever. The
pattern of their lives had changed from the moment the good dominie breathed his last breath.

It was several days later before Mary sat down to write a letter to Andrew, in Edinburgh. As she had intended, the funeral was already over. She was determined that nothing must disturb her son’s studies, or further drain his energy.

A new dominie was appointed to take over the schoolroom. Isaac Todd was unmarried. It suited him well to take over the household when he realized the old dominie’s daughter had little option but to agree to whatever terms he chose to impose.

Mary’s initial response was one of immense relief. She had worked hard to keep the school and the dominie’s house clean and tidy, making sure the winter boarders were fed and warm, and that day pupils dried their feet and sodden clogs before the iron stove. In summer, they drank water with the hunk of bread and scrap of cheese which most of them brought for the midday break, but in winter Mary made each of the children a hot drink. She had expected the routine would continue but she had reckoned without the mean nature of the man who was now her employer, a man whose desire was to rule everyone in his power with an iron hand. Gone was the kindly father who had been her friend and protector since the day she was born, the man who had given her strength to carry on when Billy’s death had snatched away her happiness, who had supported her children, educated them and loved them.

Isaac Todd had a lean, narrow face with protruding pale blue eyes and a high forehead. His thin brown hair was already receding. He paid Mary a pittance and expected a slave in return. She had to pay fees for Janet’s lessons now, in addition to finding the money for Andrew’s studies at the university. Her father had managed to save a little money in the parish savings bank but she knew it would not be enough for Andrew to finish his course. Dominie McWhan had not expected to die before his grandson had completed his education. He had paid the university fees from his own earnings.

Mary had managed to save a small amount in the parish bank
too, mainly because it had been Billy’s most earnest wish. There would never be enough, but she was determined Andrew must finish his education. It had been his father’s dream; her beloved Billy’s dying wish.

‘I intend to stay up later and weave more flax, and perhaps Mr Cole will send me more work,’ she confided to Peggy Baird when her old friend called on her.