The House of Lyall (43 page)

Hamish bent and kissed her cheek. ‘I am so pleased to hear it, and I am sure that you will never regret it.'

‘I'm glad your mother gave in,' Melda sighed.

Ruairidh ran his finger gently down her cheek. ‘I'd have married you even if she hadn't.'

‘I couldn't have gone against her. I'd never have felt easy in the house with her.'

‘I'd have taken you away, my darling. I still could, if you wanted me to. We'd be happier on our own somewhere.'

‘I know we would, but you're the heir. You can't just go away when you feel like it. Your father would probably disown you and cut you off without a shilling.'

He grinned. ‘I'd give it all up for you.' His face sobered. ‘I mean that, you know.'

‘I wouldn't let you. You've a duty, a role to fulfil and you can't let your father down.'

‘I suppose not. He's desperate for us to give him a grandson.'

‘Must it be a grandson? Wouldn't a granddaughter please him?'

‘A female can't inherit.'

With a twinkle in her eyes, Melda murmured, ‘Well, we'll have to see what we can do.'

Forced to succumb to pressure, Marianne was now planning a lavish wedding. Unfortunately for her, both bride and groom were adamant that they would rather be married in the glen kirk than in the big cathedral in Edinburgh. Furthermore, Melda insisted that she wanted a plain, inexpensive gown and that her mother would help her to make one, which did not go down at all well.

Adding fuel to the fire, Hamish laughed off his wife's moans that people would think they were short of money giving the future laird a tuppenny-ha'penny do. ‘If you're speaking about all those horsy-faced uppity old frumps who used to be friends of my mother's,' he grinned, ‘or the huntin', shootin' and fishin' pals of my father's, let them think what they like. Our son's taking a daughter of the glen for a wife and it's glen folk we want to celebrate with us.'

Marianne's pained sigh made him slide his arm round her waist. ‘Why can't you be happy for them, my dear? Surely you can see how much they love each other?'

‘I do see, Hamish, and I am happy for them, it's just … well, we were married in the glen, as well, and …' She stopped, drawing back from the memory of the man who had joined them in holy matrimony.

Her husband swung her round and kissed her tenderly. ‘I had not forgotten, my darling, and the only thing I regret is that it took me so long to tell you I love you.'

She looked at his dear face and summoned a smile. ‘I'm sure Ruairidh and Melda won't regret it, either.' She felt the coldness coming back into her heart, the coldness she had been trying to dispel for days because she truly did not want to hold the girl's parentage against her.

The wedding was everything that Ruairidh and Melda had wanted. The Reverend Stephen Drummond – the incumbent there for seventeen years now – conducted an impressive ceremony, and it was not only the two mothers who were moved to tears. When the lovely young bride lifted her veil to let her handsome groom kiss her, the ‘Oohs' and ‘Ahs' echoing from every corner of the kirk were followed by sniffs and the flourish of handkerchiefs, men's as well as women's.

Then the whole congregation was transported to the castle in the Bruce-Lyalls' carriages adorned with the family crest, and though several journeys had to be made, those who were left until last did not complain; they didn't mind waiting.

Extra staff had been engaged to ensure the smooth operation of providing and serving the banquet, all the best china and silver cutlery were on show, and once the guests had eaten as much as they possibly could, the tables were cleared and placed round the walls of the dining room to be set out with the bottles of spirits. All the inhabitants of Glendarril took full advantage of the filled glasses handed round, and with whisky available almost on tap, it was not surprising that many a man thought he was kissing his own wife in the ballroom when it was somebody else's he was dancing with; an honest mistake … or so he professed. The women didn't seem to mind, not even Marianne. It had taken one brave soul to give her a swift kiss during a waltz, then she had a steady stream of partners, most of whom gave her a proper smacker on the lips.

‘I'm glad she's entering into the spirit of things,' Robert Mowatt murmured to Hamish. ‘I was a wee bit afraid she'd –'

‘She's got over all that,' Hamish said, watching his wife fondly. ‘Your little lecture did the trick, thank goodness.'

The doctor deemed it best not to say that he hadn't convinced her of anything. She had promised that she wouldn't take her spite out on Melda, but even if she fully meant to keep that promise, there was always the possibility that something the girl would say or do might trigger off the paranoia again.

Marianne's thoughts at that moment, however, as she sat down and let her eyes follow the radiant pair, were not on Duncan Peat; she was recalling the two sweet infants she had thought of suffocating. She thanked God that she hadn't, but she didn't regret instructing Andrew Rennie to put them up for adoption. She had safeguarded herself by telling him to keep her identity secret – to prevent them turning up at some time in the future to claim their inheritance. She had also forbidden him to tell her where they had been placed or anything about them, but to salve her conscience had ordered him to send a sizeable allowance to the adoptive parents each month until they came of age – to provide for the twins' maintenance and education.

She glanced at Andrew, standing on the other side of the room, and catching her eye, he came across to ask her to dance. When they got into the rhythm of the Scottish waltz, he said, ‘You're looking very serious, Marianne. I hope nothing's wrong.'

‘Nothing you can do anything about, Andrew. It's all in the past.'

The slight squeeze he gave her let her know he understood, so she rewarded him with an affectionate smile. ‘I don't know what I'd have done without you, Andrew. You've always been there for me.'

‘And I always shall be, my dear.'

‘But I shouldn't have asked you to … I don't know what you must have thought of me.'

His love for her was evident as he regarded her earnestly. ‘You know what I think of you, Marianne, what I've always thought of you. Nothing will ever change that.'

A lump came in her throat – he was such a good man. She sometimes wondered … To cover the embarrassment of her thoughts, she said, ‘Why don't you find yourself a wife? I'm sure you must meet some eligible young women in the course of your work.'

He shrugged wryly. ‘I seldom meet young women. My female clients are generally widows – middle-aged matrons or ancient matriarchs who control their families by threatening to disinherit them. Besides, I'm happy the way I am. What about you? Are you happy with Hamish?'

‘Yes, Andrew, I am. He's a loving husband.' Even now, after all this time, she saw the pain surfacing in Andrew's eyes, but it was too late to unsay it.

She wished that Miss Edith had been here for him, but his last aunt had passed away some time before, protesting right up to the last moment, according to the nurse he had paid to check on her every day, that she didn't need a doctor. Poor old dear, Marianne reflected, she was always so independent.

Because the glen folk had not had a celebration like this in the memories of many, they made the most of it, not only the men who clamoured for a dance with the laird's wife or the wife of the future laird, but the women who, their courage also bolstered by the free alcohol – claimed the young Master for a dance, and even the laird himself.

Not until the beer and whisky had almost run out did they show any sign of leaving, and the Bruce-Lyall family, now extended by one, stood outside to wave them off. When they went inside, Ruairidh, with his arm still round his bride, said, somewhat bashfully, ‘If you'll excuse us, we'll go up to bed now. It's been a long day.'

Andrew, who had been asked to stay the night, got to his feet a little unsteadily when Marianne and her husband entered the sitting room. ‘I had better get to bed, too.'

Hamish grabbed his sleeve. ‘No, no, you'll take one last dram with me, surely?'

Marianne left them to their nightcap.

Chapter Twenty-four

When the young couple returned from their three-month honeymoon in France, Ruairidh joyfully announced that Melda was pregnant and, the Mowatts having been asked to the castle to welcome them home, there followed a round of cheek-kissing and back-slapping in which Marianne had to steel herself to take part. Fortunately for her, with so much commotion going on, no one noticed her hesitation … except Melda, who concluded that her mother-in-law, like herself, was remembering the boy infant who had died.

To banish this from both their minds, she said, turning rather pink, ‘The doctor in Paris said my
accouchement
was due in six months.'

Showing none of her embarrassment, Ruairidh boasted, ‘He said I must have planted the
enfant
on our wedding night.'

The two fathers glanced at their wives to see how they had reacted to this indiscretion, a breach of good manners especially in mixed company, then caught each other's eye and bellowed with laughter.

‘Good for you, son!' boomed Hamish, and Robert added, ‘Well done!'

Marianne tried not to show how nauseated she felt, and when Flora leaned over and murmured, ‘Well, it was only to be expected, wasn't it?' she nodded stonily.

When Ruairidh attempted to take Melda in his arms that night, she pleaded exhaustion from the travelling and turned away. If he had been too blind to notice that his mother wasn't pleased about the baby, it wasn't up to her to tell him. Not that the woman had said anything, it was a look in her eyes at one point, as if she hated her son's wife. But
why? She couldn't still believe that the minister had been afflicted with an insanity which could skip a generation and be passed on to his grandchildren? Yet it had taken her, Melda, some time to believe her father – she would always look on Robert Mowatt as her father – when he swore to her that the man would have recovered from his temporary madness if he hadn't killed himself.

What else could Ruairidh's mother have against her? The boot should really be on the other foot. It was
her
fault that the other baby, her first grandchild, hadn't lived. If she'd just let it be born where it should have been born, everything would have been all right. But maybe it wouldn't, Melda conceded sadly. Maybe it had been meant to die all along. If it hadn't, she would have always been wondering where it was, what had become of it … and remembering that it had been conceived on the day she had learned of Rannie's death, which wasn't exactly a pleasant thought. She
had
been grateful to Lady Marianne for seeing her through that pregnancy and saving her from being the butt of gossip in the glen, but she'd only done that for her own sake, to preserve the good name of her family, and its pure blood line.

But she had better not start her marriage off on a sour note by tackling the woman about her present attitude, Melda mused. Ruairidh wouldn't want friction between his wife and his mother, but she wouldn't knuckle under to the woman if she started ordering her about. She was the next Lady Glendarril, wasn't she? With a sob in her throat, she turned to her husband.

When it came to the last month, with Melda's belly appearing to be almost at bursting point, Hamish excused Ruairidh from all duties at the mill to let him be with his wife as much as possible. ‘She's just a young slip of a thing,' he explained to his wife. ‘She has no idea what childbirth means, and she needs him here with her.'

Marianne couldn't help thinking that she had been little older when she produced Ranald, and that Melda
did
know what childbirth meant, but she didn't feel like arguing with him. She had her old worry on her mind again. She couldn't possibly allow Melda to keep her child if it turned out to be a boy, bringing the possibility of madness into the Bruce-Lyall blood. The problem was, she'd only had Hamish to contend with last time, unobservant and gullible. It had been easy to pull the wool over his eyes and whip the girl out of sight, but Ruairidh was different. He'd been furious, and had refused when his father had told him to book Melda into an extortionately expensive maternity home in Edinburgh rather than trust the local ‘howdie' to bring this special child into the world, because he couldn't bear the thought of her being taken away from him.

Robert Mowatt, of course, as the man the whole glen thought was Melda's father, was out of the question, they were all agreed on that, which relieved both Marianne and the young mother-to-be, for the doctor would know as soon as he examined the girl that this was not her first pregnancy. It was he, however, who gave Hamish the name of a highly recommended trained midwife.

A solution to the problem of what to do with the baby occurred to her which made her draw a deep shuddery breath. Could she possibly ask Robert …? Would he do for her what Andrew Rennie had done before? It would be worth trying, and it would only be necessary if Melda produced a boy.

Before the arrival of the trained midwife from Edinburgh, everyone in the castle was affected by the tense nervousness that seemed to pervade the place, but Nurse Crombie, as starchy as her voluminous apron and the cap sitting squarely on her straight greying hair, had an efficient manner that inspired confidence. She organized a special room for the confinement, and when Melda's first pains began, she shepherded the girl there and banned Ruairidh from even opening the door.

‘The father can not be present at the birth,' she lectured when he protested vehemently at being excluded. ‘It is just not done, and I will look after your wife. Nothing will go wrong, I assure you.'

Marianne, however, categorically refused to be kept out, but was such a nuisance that Melda asked her to go down and keep Ruairidh company.