Maggie (10 page)

“You mustn’t think too hardly of Peter,” ended Miss Rochester. “Men are funny about bets. They’ll cheat their wives and their tailors without a blush, but settle their gambling debts they will, come hell or high water.”

“Poor Lord Strathairn,” said Maggie. “What will he do?
Mr. Byles said he need not consider himself married to me and I shall certainly not hold him to it.” Maggie looked across the lawn to where a blackbird was engaged in tugging out a large worm. “I shall soon be strong enough to go home, and then you too will be free of me.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Rochester gruffly. “Haven’t had such a fascinating thing happen to me in ages. We’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Watson… don’t know who’s who. We’ll go back to that godforsaken city and find the culprit.”

“No!” said Maggie, involuntarily.

“Not now. Not yet,” said Miss Rochester, stooping to her work again. “You’ll have to be strong in mind as well as body. I’ll stick with you and you tell me when you feel you’re ready. Trouble is, you ain’t had any fun. Young gels like you should be going to balls and parties and theatres.”

Here she twisted her head and looked at Maggie wistfully. “I haven’t been to a play in
years
. Haven’t got the money for jaunts to town. But Peter has. We could live at that town house of his for a bit and do the Season.”

“I couldn’t,” gasped Maggie, sitting upright. “People would recognize me and it would be awful for you and Lord Strathairn.”

“Tell you a bit about m’self,” said Miss Rochester, jabbing the edge of the flower bed viciously with her trowel.

“My father was the dean here, and I gave up my whole life to the church. After mother died, well, it seemed natural that I should fill her shoes, making parish calls, running mothers’ meetings, doing the flowers, that sort of thing. And then father died and I was left with this house and a little annuity, enough to live on.

“Before you came, I was thinking of all the things I hadn’t done… apart from not having married, I mean. I was thinking, I never had any fun. It seems I was born middle-aged, grew up middle-aged, and here I am in my fifties and ought to be content. But all I want is just one
fling. Just one. Just to walk down Piccadilly and see the electric lights and see the new motor cars and go to the music hall and eat dinner at midnight, and… oh, so many things that people do without thinking.

“I’ll see to Peter. We could dye your hair. Give you another name. No one will be looking for Maggie Macleod at the London Season. Please!” Miss Rochester had turned beet-red with excitement and her eyes were as guileless as a child’s.

Maggie gave a little sigh and looked about the sunny garden. How lovely it would be to stay here and never have to see anyone in the outside world again. It was the first time in her young life that Maggie Macleod had had the friendship of another woman. It seemed to her that it was the first time anyone had ever been kind to her, anyone had ever wanted to listen to her. And in Maggie’s Highland code, kindness must always be repaid, never taken for granted.

“If Lord Strathairn agrees,” she said sadly, “then I will go.”

Maggie lay back in the cane chair and closed her eyes. She still tired easily. The sun shone through the bare branches of willow tree at the edge of the garden and threw a network of shadows on Maggie’s pale face. Miss Rochester, who had opened her mouth to say something, closed it again and fought silently with her conscience.

“I am using the girl,” she thought grimly, “because I feel if I don’t have one little bit of excitement, I shall go
mad
. But it would do her good as well, so I am not being entirely selfish.”

Her young companion had fallen asleep, her face calm and relaxed. The long folds of her teagown moved gently on the grass at her feet, blown by a soft breeze. Miss Rochester had had several gowns made for Maggie by the village dressmakers. They were, she realized, hardly
haute couture
,
but what was precisely wrong with them, she couldn’t quite say. The materials were of the best. Perhaps it was because they were too fussy.

It would be hard to persuade Peter to allow them to live in Town. He seemed content to send an allowance for Maggie’s keep, and seemed to expect the arrangement to go on indefinitely. He had been kept well informed of Maggie’s progress back to health, but he did not seem to feel any urge to see the girl himself. But Peter had always been a handsome devil, even as a boy. He probably had a lady-love tucked away somewhere in London. Maggie Macleod was beautiful. But Lord Strathairn did not even seem to have noticed.

And then Miss Rochester began to consider her own appearance. She thoughtfully ran her square hand with its stubby fingers across her chin, feeling the wiry length of the long hairs which sprouted so energetically and embarrassingly.

Lord Strathairn climbed slowly down from the rented carriage which had brought him from the station at Oxford, paid the driver and then let himself quietly into
The Laurels
.

He had been busy putting the house in Charlton Street in order, moving down the Scottish servants, and hiring a firm of decorators to restore the old mansion to its former beauty.

For the earl was beginning to grasp the immensity of his fortune. Not only that. He had been helped with his task of decorating by the fascinating Mrs. Murray, a society widow of great wealth and beauty.

An old army friend, on leave in London, had met him at the Cavalry Club and had taken him along to one of Mrs. Murray’s afternoon salons. The earl had been charmed and bewitched. Mrs. Murray had appeared delighted with the new earl and had recommended a firm of interior
decorators in which she held a controlling interest, although she omitted to tell his lordship that fascinating fact.

Scotland, Maggie and Miss Rochester had been pushed to the back of the earl’s mind.

He was calling at Beaton Malden only to make sure that Maggie was fully restored to health. His conscience was easy. He was paying Miss Rochester a generous amount to take care of Maggie. He now had his life neatly mapped out. Maggie should stay with Miss Rochester until she felt well enough to travel north, and, hopefully, out of his life.

At times he wondered what had possessed him to take on the onerous charge of looking after a possible murderess. Mr. Byles had shown him the way out and the girl herself had said she would not hold him to the odd marriage. At times the earl also wondered what had possessed the Marquess of Handley to play such a malicious trick. Possibly the man simply enjoyed the sight of other people’s humiliation. Goodness knows, he had met enough of that kind before.

Money was a great healer. He could satisfy himself that he had behaved very generously towards Maggie by supplying her with a companion, a home and the best of medical attention.

He realized he had, in fact, come to say goodbye.

Suddenly an agonizing scream rent the air. And another.

The noise was coming from the bedrooms upstairs.

Heart beating hard, he took the steps two at a time.

Another scream. It was coming from Miss Rochester’s bedroom.

He flung open the door of his aunt’s bedroom. She was seated at her dressing-table, her face buried in her hands.

“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Where’s Maggie?”

Miss Rochester raised an embarrassed face which looked strangely red and raw.

“It hurt so,” she mumbled. “But I got it all off.”

“What the dickens…?”

“My whiskers,” said his aunt, blushing a fiery red. “I was using hot wax to take off my whiskers and it hurt like the very devil.”

“My dear aunt,” said the earl with great relief, “I thought you were being murdered. Such cries of agony! Why all this sudden beautifying?”

Miss Rochester looked at him cautiously. “Tell you later,” she mumbled. “Maggie’s in the garden.”

“I would like to talk to you first,” said the earl. “Do you think Maggie was responsible for the death of her husband?”

“How can you
think
such a thing?” Miss Rochester lumbered to her feet and began to pace up and down the room like an agitated elephant, the drooping hem of her teagown trailing along the carpet. “The girl’s innocent. As a matter of fact, I’ve grown very fond of her which is why I have a suggest…”

“Splendid!” interrupted the earl. “That is why I am prepared to continue to pay you an allowance so that you can…”

“
Suggestion
to make,” continued Miss Rochester firmly. “Seems to me that little gel could benefit from some social life. Take her around a few places during the Season.”

The earl thought immediately of the beautiful Mrs. Murray. He could not wait to return to London to continue his courtship, for he realized that that is what it was. Courtship. He had surely done enough for Maggie Macleod.

And he said so. He explained at great length that he had decided at last to get married and that he would find the presence of a young lady in his house difficult to explain away.

While he was talking, Miss Rochester’s brain was working furiously. All at once she realized she had expected the earl to fall in love with Maggie and live happily ever after. Not
for one minute had she envisaged him having the remotest interest in any other female. Now it seemed as if the earl would live in London and she and Maggie would stay in Beaton Malden and that was that.

Goodbye to glorious dreams of parties and theatres, bustling streets and electric lights—Beaton Maldon was lit by candles, had not even gas, and still boasted the services of an antiquated link boy to light you home at night.

Miss Rochester took a deep breath. “See here, Peter,” she said in her gruff voice, “it’s all very well to give the girl money and gowns and a home. But money doesn’t solve everything. She’s all right in body but her mind’s still troubled and she’s had a quite dreadful life. Wouldn’t it be splendid just to give her a few week’s fun? I would take care of her. Nobody need know who she is. Surely interest in Maggie has faded by now. We could say that she’s your cousin. Yes, that’s it! No, don’t interrupt! Hear me out. We could call her by another name. All you need to do is introduce her to a few young people and I’ll do the rest.”

“I don’t want to seem callous…” began the earl.

“Of
course
you don’t, Peter. I just
knew
you would agree.” And seeing that he was about to protest, she rushed forward and enveloped him in a great bear hug.

“Aunt Sarah, I…”

“And Maggie’s in the garden. Do run along and see her, dear boy, while I do something with this old face of mine.”

The earl bit his lip. He turned and left his aunt to her beauty aids and went slowly down the stairs, feeling trapped. Why had he visited Beaton Malden? A letter would have sufficed. He simply could not trail around the London Season with a notorious Scottish murderess in tow. “And I’ll bet she did murder Macleod,” he thought viciously.

He paused at the top of the garden steps leading down into the garden.

Maggie was lying back in a long cane chair, the type they
have on cruise ships, reading a book. Her hair was tied at her neck with a pale blue ribbon, and one long, airy tendril floated against the faint healthy pink of her cheek. As if she sensed him standing there, she put down her book and looked up. Her eyes widened slightly and she gave a hesitant smile.

The earl walked down the steps towards her. It was her very reactions to him that were strange, he thought. He was used to girls simpering and flirting and blushing, always the awareness in their eyes that he was a marriageable man.

But this girl with her wide, wary eyes viewed him as she viewed most people, with a hint of timid fear. “Please don’t get up,” he said as she would have risen to her feet. He drew up one of those heavy garden chairs which are described as ‘rustic’, all uncomfortable knots and bumps, and sat down next to her.

The garden blazed with a sort of ordered jumble of spring flowers although the air still retained some of the cold of winter.

“How are you?” asked the earl, wondering all the while whether he would always have this nagging doubt about her, always wonder whether she had killed her husband.

“Very well, thank you my lord.”

“Peter.”

“Peter, then,” smiled Maggie shyly.

Maggie had forgotten how very handsome the earl was with his crisp gold hair and strong, tanned face. His eyes were extremely blue and fringed with heavy lashes. He was wearing a blazer and flannels with a soft white shirt and cravat.

“Miss Rochester has outlined a plan to me,” said the earl. “She thinks it would be a good idea if you came back to London with me. She feels that your mental health would benefit from a little social life. We have decided that you should change your name and we will put it about that you
are a cousin of mine.” The earl watched her covertly as he spoke, hoping she would refuse.

Maggie sat silently, her eyes veiled. Another man in her life, another house to be shared. He had been very patient, but surely once they were both living under the same roof he would expect some sort of reward? Maggie had a sudden memory of the inspector’s sweating, grunting body and shivered.

She became aware that the earl was still speaking.

“Of course,” he was saying, “I can’t promise to be always on hand to squire you about. The fact is… as a matter of fact, I… dash it all, I want to get married.”

“To me?” asked Maggie wonderingly.

“Well, no. Not you. You very kindly said you would not consider that silly business in Glasgow legal and binding. I have met a perfectly splendid lady.”

Maggie’s first feeling was one of relief. But that feeling was immediately followed by a sense of loss, tinged with depression.

She glanced at the earl from under her lashes. The sun was gilding his crisp hair. His long, strong hands were clasped around one knee and he was watching her anxiously.

Maggie did not think much of herself. All at once it seemed natural to her that such a very good-looking man as this earl should not find her attractive in the least. He belonged to another world. A golden sunny world where young people laughed and flirted and fell in love. She wished he would go away and leave her in this quiet country village with Miss Rochester. But Miss Rochester wanted one last fling and without Maggie’s co-operation she would not get it.