The House of Lyall (25 page)

Marianne was the most excited in the whole of the castle, with the exception of Jean Thomson, who was to be accompanying her mistress to London. Hamish was looking forward to seeing old school friends again, but his father was quite blasé about the whole thing.

‘We'll get down there in one day, not like in my parents' time when there was no railway. It took them a week, and I can remember my mother telling me she felt so faint at times they had to stop at the first inn they came to, and some were not fit for decent folk. Of course,' he added with a smile, ‘she was always having fits of the vapours. It was fashionable in her day.'

They were to be staying in his house in Piccadilly, which he used any time he was in the capital on business, which was also when he felt obliged to take his place in the House of Lords. The married couple whom he paid to look after the building while he was not in residence had been advised that he and his son and daughter-in-law would be there for about two weeks and, augmented by several temporary maids and boys, the caretakers had made the rooms ready. In spite of all Marianne's pleas, Hector would not allow Hamish to take her on ahead so that she could see a bit more of London. ‘You'll not like it,' he told her.

‘Maybe
you
don't,' was her spirited reply, ‘but I'm sure I will.'

Hector grimaced at Hamish. ‘This wife of yours will be the death of me, too saucy for her own good. I sometimes wish we had picked someone else to be the mother of your boys.'

Noticing the twinkle in his eyes, Marianne just grinned. She was proud of her two sons, and so were the glen wives. When they had been at the castle to view the robes and coronets, the sight of the two fair-haired, blue-eyed little boys racing around the lawns had made them smile, they bore such a striking resemblance to their father. Ranald had more than his share of devilment, but also a great deal of charm, which saved him from being punished for the scrapes he got into, whereas Ruairidh was much quieter, and often the butt of his brother's exuberant pranks. None the less, if either
one got on Nurse's wrong side, the other manfully defended him. She was going to miss them while she was away, Marianne mused, on the day before she had to make the journey, but this would be more than counterbalanced by her introduction to London society, the realization of all her dreams.

*    *    *

The Bruce-Lyalls arrived in Piccadilly on the evening of 23 June, three days before the coronation, and Hamish forbade Marianne to leave the house the following day. ‘You had better take time to recover from the long hours of travelling,' he told her. ‘You will want to look your best on the day.'

She was anxious to explore London, but his last sentence made her think. She
did
want to look her best to meet the cream of the nobility, so she had better do as her husband said. She was reclining on a brocaded chaise longue in the drawing room in the late afternoon when Hector burst in and sat down heavily on an uncomfortable-looking chair by the window.

‘You'll never guess,' he panted. ‘The King …' He stopped to wipe his perspiring brow, then began again. ‘They are having to postpone the coronation. Right this minute, the King's appendix is being removed.'

‘Is that serious?' Marianne asked. ‘How long before …?'

‘It is fairly serious in a man of his age, and I really do not know how long it will be before he is fit enough to be crowned … months rather than weeks, I should think.'

‘Does that mean …? Will we have to go home and come back?'

‘No, no, it is better that we stay in London, just in case …'

Not comprehending what he was hinting at, she felt a surge of excitement go through her. She would have plenty of time now to get to know Hector's titled friends, to do all sort of things she had not expected to do. She would start by exploring this house tomorrow and make friends with the caretaker's wife, who would be able to keep her right on etiquette, etc.

Moll Cheyne had been kept awake all night with Alfie coughing. Deep barks, on and on, till she'd thought he was going to choke, and a cold hand had squeezed at her heart. It was the middle of summer, she mused as she raked out the ashes in the grate, setting aside the cinders which would start the fire today, so it wasn't just a cold he had, and if he died, God forbid, what would she do? He hadn't been fit for the sawmill for a few weeks now, and if he was off much longer, they'd likely be put out of the house, for it went with the job.

Shovelling up the grey dust that was left in the ash-pan, she took it outside to throw on the midden, carefully shielding it from the draught when she opened the door, for she didn't want it blown inside again.

‘How is he the day?' asked a voice, as she turned to come back into the house.

She looked up into the concerned face of the foreman sawyer. ‘Oh, it's you, Joe. He's nane better. I was up near half the nicht tryin' to ease his cough. I'm right worried.'

‘You must be.' Joe Bain was silent for a moment but, realizing that he had no option, he handed her an envelope. ‘I'm sorry, Moll, it's nae my doin'. I hope things … go a' richt for you.'

He whipped away and she went back inside. She didn't have to open the envelope, she knew what was inside, but she slit the top anyway, and took out the small slip of paper to read the dreaded words.

NOTICE TO QUIT

She sat down by the flickering coals in despair. What would they do? If Alfie got any worse, she'd have to give up her little cleaning job to look after him, and with nothing coming in, how could they afford to rent a place to live? She had often wished she had some other means of cooking in the summertime when it was too hot with the fire on, but she was glad of it now, for her very bones felt numb with the cold – no, with shock, that's what it was. She'd thought Alec Murchie, the owner of the sawmill, would give them a few months' grace, but the twenty-sixth was less than a week away. She should really keep this bad news from her ailing man, but how could she, when he'd have to be hauled out of his bed in such a short time and made to go God only ken't where?

Mary McKay could likely get him into the poor's house, but it would have to be the last resort, and what about herself? She didn't fancy going back to what she'd been doing before she got wed, though she'd kept her figure, maybe a wee bit more curvy than it was, but most men liked a woman they could get a proper grip of.

While she waited to ask Mary what they could do – the nurse usually called in next door every second day at ten on the dot to see Maggie Burnett's old mother-in-law – she made a start on going through drawers and shelves to see what she would take when she left the house; very little likely, for she'd have no place to put it. She was on the second drawer of the dresser – the furniture all belonged to the mill and would have to be left for the next tenant – when she found a bundle of clippings she had taken from newspapers. She was an incurable hoarder of advertisements she thought might come in handy, corn cures and patent medicines for all kinds of complaints, when a vague memory
stirred within her of something else she'd once cut out for future use, something she hadn't wanted Alfie to know she had kept.

Racking her brains, she tried to think what it had been and where she had hidden it, but it was some minutes before she remembered. She gave a satisfied smirk as she removed the lid from the white china hen on the dresser, then lifted out the nest section which could hold one dozen eggs, and nestling underneath, exactly as she had placed it years ago, was the item about his Marion's wedding. It had completely slipped her mind, which showed what a poor housewife she was, for she'd only ever wiped the outside of the white hen, never given it a proper wash.

And then she heard the rattle of Mary's old bicycle and ran out to catch her. ‘Will you write a letter for me, Mary?' she asked. ‘Once you've done wi' Teenie Burnett?'

‘Aye, surely, Moll.' Mary had written many letters for other people in her time as visiting nurse – many of her patients were illiterate, but she knew that Moll Cheyne wasn't. ‘Something gey important, is it?'

‘Awful important, that's why I asked you, an' it'll need to be posted the day.'

Mary did more than post the letter. After hearing what had happened, she decided to do her best to help the Cheynes. Alfie had slaved all his life at the mill, and it was the sawdust he'd breathed in over the years that had ruined his lungs, but she knew she'd be as well speaking to the wind as trying to get compensation for him from Alec Murchie, for he was a tight-fisted old devil.

She could recommend that Alfie be given a place in the Institute, but he'd likely refuse to go; his mind was still alert enough to shrink from the idea of ‘charity'. There was only one alternative left, and she set off on her bicycle to see Jem Park, local businessman and committee member of the Institute's board. He had bought some near-derelict houses a few years back, and let them to people who couldn't afford to rent better places.

Mr Park was a big, rather awe-inspiring man, but very little, people or events, intimidated Mary McKay. ‘I'm here to see about a place for Alfie Cheyne and his wife,' she began, bold as brass. ‘He's not fit to work now, and they're being put out of the sawmill house, and I know you've got one empty, for I helped to clear it the day before yesterday, after old Jigger Lonie's funeral.'

Jem Park frowned. ‘I've got nothing to do with the letting,' he barked. ‘You'll have to see my factor, and I would think he's let it by this time. There's a waiting list, you know.'

Mary shook her head in irritation, but went in search of the factor. She had been at school with Greig Lawrie and knew a few little titbits about him that he wouldn't care to reach his wife's ears, so if she had to, she could try a bit of blackmail.

As she had known he would, Greig blustered for a few minutes, swearing that he had already let Jigger's house, then changing, when she said she didn't believe him, to say that she couldn't expect him to let anybody jump their turn. ‘There's three after it, and I half promised it to –'

‘Then you'll have to take your half-promise back,' Mary said firmly, ‘or I'll tell folk about you and Mrs Gill, the doctor's wife.' She had decided to start with his earliest indiscretion and work up to the more recent if the need arose.

His face drained of colour. ‘There was nothing atween Mrs Gill an' me! She asked me dae some jobs for her … I was only sixteen at the time, for God's sake!'

Mary grinned cockily. ‘So you were, but a man for a' that, eh?'

The flattery was all that was necessary.

Moll had still heard nothing from Marianne when the day of eviction came and they were forced to move into the cramped place Mary McKay had managed to get for them. Not only that, she had scrounged a few bits and pieces of furniture – a rickety bed, a couple of chairs and a table. It was anything but comfortable, but at least it was a roof over their heads, Moll told herself, and it would only be till Marion – Marianne – came to their rescue. No doubt it would take her a while to get something organized.

*    *    *

Marianne soon discovered that she loved the bustle of the capital, watching, when she ventured out with her maid, the elegant carriages conveying well-dressed matrons and their daughters, even trying to guess who sat in the black hansom cabs.

What pleased her even more when she returned from a window-shopping walk with Thomson, was the sight of several calling cards which had been left while they were out. This was the life she had pictured for herself, on the same footing as the barons and earls, although Hamish told her that barons were a lower rank.

In anticipation of returning the calls, she asked the caretaker's wife where the late Lady Glendarril had shopped for clothes, and on being given directions to a very exclusive salon tucked away in a side street practically just around the corner, she set off on her own.

It was the first time Marianne had bought such expensive clothes for herself, but she kept in mind how Lady Glendarril had dealt with the people who served her in Edinburgh, and when she finished her shopping spree, she was highly satisfied with her selection of day dresses and evening gowns, gossamer shawls and substantial capes. She
had
sensed a condescension in the salesladies' manners at times, even in the models who paraded for her, but she didn't care … the owners of all the establishments she patronized had shown enough deference to satisfy her, practically bowing and scraping as each sale was made.

Her husband refusing to go with her on any of the calls she meant to make, Marianne resolved to go alone. ‘But it's not done, Mrs Hamish,' wailed Thomson, who had gone with Lady Glendarril on her rounds and knew the tacit rules under which the gentry operated – not more than an hour in any house being one.

‘All right then, you can come in the carriage with me,' Marianne sighed. ‘I suppose they'll let you wait in the servants' quarters till I'm ready to leave.'

At the first three calls she made, she sensed that the hostesses felt as awkward with her as she felt with them, although none of them said or did anything to prove that. Wondering if she wasn't dressed properly, she chose carefully from amongst her new outfits for her next venture into the revered company, and plumped for a wine-coloured costume with a narrow skirt which just tipped her black kid shoes, and a hip-length jacket with black frogging. This would have been suitably conservative if she hadn't topped it with a bright blue hat trimmed with ostrich feathers dyed in gaudy reds, greens and yellows, which swept over one eye in a provocative style. ‘It'll give me a bit of confidence,' she defended herself to Thomson, whose shocked face told her she had gone too far.