The Laird of Lochandee (7 page)

‘I enjoyed meeting your family,' Ross told Jim MacDonald. ‘It has made the journey seem almost worthwhile after all.'

‘I'll show you your bedroom,' Ginny MacDonald beamed. ‘I've aired the bed so I hope you sleep well, son.'

‘I feel tired enough to sleep for a week,' Ross smiled down at her.

‘My, but you're a handsome laddie when you forget your troubles!' she chuckled.

‘You'll not forget to bring me Gertie's letter, Ross?' her husband reminded, puffing hard on his pipe to get it to draw.

Ross found the letters in his case. Disappointment and anger made him rip open the one for him.

He was astonished to find five large ten pound notes inside. Fifty pounds! It did not make sense. Could it be that his mother had genuinely thought the farm would be suitable for him? There was a letter beside the packet and he began to read.

The first sentence was like a punch in the stomach. He slumped onto the side of the bed. He read the sentence again. He read it a third time. It was brief. It was stark. He was stunned.

‘It can't be true!' he muttered. The colour drained from his face as he read on. “
To Ross, It is time you learned the truth and made your own way in the world. You are no kin to me. You were born out of wedlock. I have treated you as a brother to my children. Knowledge of your true parentage would have brought shame to their good name. The evil shadow of your birth would have cast itself upon them. I am a God-fearing Christian. I tried to bring you up the same. I have failed in that. I fear you will bring more shame to me and mine. Now you must go your own way.

I am not without charity even in these hard times. I enclose money but in return I insist that you never return to Windlebrae, or to this area. Cameron's health is uncertain. Another scandal could kill him and you would be responsible.

Meg and Willie are in ignorance of the disgrace your birth brought upon us. I trust they will remain so.
”

Ross read and re-read the letter. It was stiff, like its writer. There were no words of tenderness. Could he ever have expected any? Should he have guessed? His mind was in turmoil. The woman he had believed was his mother was no kin at all. He had no right to the love he had craved, no right to anything … food … clothes, not even the roof he had shared. Nothing. Certainly not the fifty pounds to buy his absence, and his silence.

Oh yes, it was clear to him now why she had given him the money. She never wanted to see him again. He was nothing. He was nobody. He was like a plant without roots.

“
Your true parentage
”. The words echoed and re-echoed around his brain. Who was he? Why had the Maxwells taken him in?

As through a thick fog he heard Jim MacDonald calling up the stairs.

‘Did you find Gertie's letter for me? Ross?'

He rose stiffly from the edge of the bed. He had no idea how long he had sat there, hunched, his thoughts milling round and round. His brain felt numb. He picked up the letter addressed to Jim MacDonald and descended the narrow stairs like one in a nightmare.

‘Mercy me, laddie!' Ginny MacDonald greeted him. ‘Are you ill? Is it something you've eaten?'

‘I'm fine.' His voice was no more than a croak and he cleared his throat with an effort. ‘I am all right, thank you.'

‘You dinna look it,' Jim frowned. ‘Sit down in that chair while I see what Gertrude has to say.' His eyes met his wife's concerned stare and he jerked his head towards the corner of the room. Ginny scuttled to an oak cupboard fixed to the wall and reached down a bottle of whisky and two glasses. It was her husband's cure for all ills. She poured two stiff measures and carried them back towards the fire.

Ross hesitated when she proffered one to him, then he reached out a shaking hand and grasped the glass.

‘Thank you, Mrs MacDonald. Thank you.' He lifted the glass, tilted back his head and drained the lot. Jim MacDonald raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, well,' he mused. ‘That was not the first time you've tasted whisky.'

‘No.' Ross acknowledged grimly. He breathed deeply, desperately trying to control his quivering nerves. The amber liquid warmed him. Gradually his hand steadied. He became aware of Jim MacDonald eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I am not a drunkard, if that's what you are thinking,' he said stiffly.

‘No?'

‘No! I was offered it often enough after a night's fiddling. Once only I accepted all that I was offered. That was lesson enough.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it. Whisky has its uses. I'd say you have had a shock?' His eyes moved from the letter in his own hand to the page still grasped tightly in Ross's fist. He had been unaware that he was still clutching the single sheet. He glanced down at it.

‘A shock?' He gave a harsh laugh, but to his dismay there was almost a sob in it. ‘You could say that.' His mouth tightened and his square jaw jutted, but a pulse beat visibly in his temple as he strove for control. He felt as though he had been beaten inside out, then back again, but the pain was not in his body.

‘The cure for shock is a cup of hot sweet tea,' Ginny insisted, bustling to shove the big kettle back onto the fire to boil the water.

‘Please, don't bother for me,' Ross protested.

‘It's no bother, son,' Ginny smiled kindly down at him. ‘I couldn't rest if I let you go to bed in your present state.'

Son. Her words, her gentle smile, the comforting pat on his shoulder were almost Ross's undoing. He was alarmed to find himself on the verge of tears. He was a grown man. He couldn't remember shedding tears since the day he fell out of a tree when he was five years old, and here he was swallowing a huge knot in his throat like some stricken maiden. He coughed huskily. When he looked up he saw Jim MacDonald's blue eyes were blazing and his face was ruddy with rage.

‘That's just typical of Gertrude McQuaid. Just like her old grandmother! My father used to say the old woman could cause trouble in an empty field.' He looked across the hearth at Ross. ‘She didn't have the courage to tell you to your face! Did she? That's the trouble, isn't it? You've just found out? Is that what's in your letter?'

‘That I'm a – a bastard?' Ross's tone was bitter. ‘That she is not my mother?' He nodded. His mouth twisted but whether in pain or scorn it was hard to tell.

‘When you get over the shock, I reckon you might be grateful for that,' Jim muttered. `Does she say she doesn't want you back at Windlebrae? You would bring shame to her family?' He mimicked his half-cousin's waspish tones. `For God's sake they are grown men and women!' He muttered an oath which made his wife raise an eyebrow.

`Gertrude's father ruined her when she was a girl. Since she grew older she's always been a bit unbalanced whenever things didn't go her way. Holier than the saints one minute and supping with the Devil the next. Cameron must have been a saint to put up with her all these years.'

‘Do calm down, Jim,' his wife said quietly. ‘It isna good for you to get so upset.'

‘Maybe you'll be upset, Ginny, when you read this letter.'

Ross sipped the tea gratefully. Right now he did not want to think – not even about Meg or Rachel, or anyone at Windlebrae.

‘Gertrude certainly makes it clear she is expecting me to keep you down here,' Jim MacDonald stated dryly. ‘How I am supposed to do that if you don't want to take on the farm we saw, I don't know.'

‘This will not make me take a farm like that. And I would not go back to Windlebrae now if it was the last place on earth. I can work. I shall look for a job.'

‘Surely we can find work for Ross here, can't we Jim?' Ginny pleaded.

‘We can find work all right. There's always plenty of that, as you'll know, laddie.' Jim MacDonald frowned, measuring his words carefully. Ross respected him for that. He felt he would not make a promise he could not fulfil. ‘While prices are as poor I could not hire another man, but you are welcome to earn your keep here for as long as you like. Ginny misses not having her own lads to feed and care for and worry over.'

‘That's all we ever had anyway – our food and clothes – in return for our labour,' Ross said flatly. ‘Moth …' He cut his words short. ‘She has controlled everything these last few years. I promise not to be a burden to you any longer than I can help, but I appreciate your offer. I shall be glad to accept it while I look for a job.'

Ross had been with Jim MacDonald and his wife over a week. They treated him with warmth and friendliness. Jim and his men appreciated an extra pair of willing hands, especially now the days were growing shorter, but Ross was well aware Jim MacDonald was giving him work to ease his pride and earn his keep. He was glad to throw himself into hard physical labour so that exhaustion might bring him sleep and blessed oblivion from the confusion of his tortured thoughts.

‘Don't get discouraged, Ross,' Ginny MacDonald said at breakfast. It was nearly the end of his second week with them and she had noticed his downcast expression as he watched Jim opening a letter. Ross did not realise she was watching him. ‘There will be work available at the end of November. Not many men move before the term and it's only a few weeks away.'

‘Just another account to pay. It's for the stallion fees,' Jim announced, setting aside the letter. He glanced at Ross. ‘Ginny is right, laddie. There will be more work available at the hiring fairs, but I've put word around the neighbours to say you are available. We are all keeping our ears open in case any of the farms round here are expecting a change of men. Meanwhile you are doing a good job. If prices showed any sign of getting better I would be glad to keep you.'

Ross nodded and ate his breakfast but his heart was heavy. He had no desire to return to familiar haunts now but he couldn't get Rachel out of his thoughts. He had gone over and over his situation, his ignorance of his roots. He felt he had no identity. He was like a boat adrift on an endless sea – no anchor to hold him fast, no sails to propel him forward. Was he the son of a whore? Why had Cameron Maxwell taken him in? “
We are not your parents
,” the letter had said. Was she telling the truth? Was it possible Cameron Maxwell had sired him after a night of revelry?

Again and again his thoughts returned to Rachel. He ached for the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her body against his own, her sweet smile and sparkling eyes. He yearned for the comfort she could give him. He had written her a letter, pouring out his heart, his dismay at finding he had no roots, the sick feeling of isolation, and lastly his love for her. He had promised to write again when he found work. He had given the letter to the postman who called most days at Briarbush, the MacDonalds' home.

Each morning he longed for Rachel's reply. He was desperate to know she still loved him for himself. He needed her reassurance but there were no letters for him. Ross grew despondent, he began to question himself. Was Rachel ashamed of him? He could only interpret her silence as one thing – rejection. She no longer wanted to be his friend, or even acquainted with him.

Chapter Eight

G
ERTRUDE
M
AXWELL WOULD NOT
have admitted that Rachel's arrival had brought the past vividly alive again, and with it an overwhelming and bitter desire for revenge. Rachel was the only living link to Connor O'Brian and Mhairi and her happiness was linked with Ross. Getting rid of him too suited her well.

The drizzle which Ross had left behind on the morning of his departure had turned to a persistent rain as Rachel made her way along unfamiliar roads and tracks. She could scarcely bear the touch of her garments against the raw and bleeding lacerations on her back and shoulders. She was completely lost and shivering from shock and cold and the ever-present nausea. Her stomach churned from lack of food.

The narrow twisting roads all looked the same. There were tracks but whether they lead to fields, or to isolated farms, she could not tell. The mist creeping down from the hills obliterated everything more than twenty yards in front of her. The very silence seemed ghostly, not even the forlorn bleating of a ewe or the cry of a curlew.

Rachel shivered and huddled beneath her shawl but it was already damp. Droplets of rain clung to the woollen fibres. She plodded on doggedly.

Her legs began to tremble with weakness. Her bundle was pitifully small but it seemed to weigh more with every step. Rachel had no idea how far she had trudged but she had to be several miles from Windlebrae by now. She was half-afraid she had been walking in circles.

When a small stone building loomed out of the mist some way up the hill to her left she knew she must take the chance to rest. She leaned against the bank of earth at the base of the hedge, gathering strength to climb the slope. She stared at the building, willing it to show some form of life. There was nothing, not even a lone sheep or cow. The rain was falling faster now. Even the animals would be seeking shelter.

Wearily she dragged her leaden limbs up towards the barn, slithering on the wet grass. The door was partly open and she shoved at it tentatively. It was dark inside but as her eyes became more accustomed to the gloom she could see it had been used to store hay, probably for winter feed for sheep. There were remains from a small truss of hay against one wall, bristly where it had been cut from the stack. She bent to feel it. At least it was dry. Her stomach churned with hunger. She wished she had thought to find a spring and have a drink of water.

The more she thought of it the more she craved a drink. She shuddered as she recalled a newspaper cutting she had read about Russian children dying of starvation and people eating twigs and mixing clay with their corn. The thought made her stomach heave. She took off her shawl and shook it, then spread it out to dry on some of the hay. Even that small effort made her feel faint. She plumped up a mound of hay and lay down pulling the hay round her to keep herself warm.

Her mind was buzzing with the worry of what to do when the mist cleared. She must find her way to a house or farm and plead for shelter. How she would find work she did not know. The little money she had was in her box at Windlebrae.

Inevitably the memory of Gertrude Maxwell's fury returned. What had she done to deserve such a cruel beating? She had worked and tried hard to please. What was the sin she had committed? Forni … Forni … Her brow creased in an effort to recall Gertrude Maxwell's accusations, but she had not understood and could not remember. Why had Meg not come to her aid? Had Ross really run away? Rachel trembled. She had believed Meg and Ross and Willie were true friends. “Friends for ever,” Ross had pledged.

She must have fallen into a light sleep because she suddenly sat up with a start. She felt disorientated but the pain across her shoulders from the whipping was intense. Memory flooded back and she began to shake.

The sound which had wakened her was growing louder. It took her some seconds to recognise it was a horse and cart. She jumped to her feet, wincing at the pain, but she grabbed her shawl and threw it round her shoulders as she slithered down the slope towards the road, clasping the pillowcase which contained everything in the world she possessed.

She was sure it must be Ross with the pony and trap. Or perhaps Willie, with his favourite Clydesdale, Lucy? They were coming to take her back.

Yet could she ever live in the same house as Gertrude Maxwell again? The thought brought her to a halt almost at the side of the narrow road. A cart was coming round the bend towards her. It was much larger than the trap, higher and covered in. The driver sat up at the front under a small overhanging shelter and the chestnut horse looked plump and well-groomed. Rachel shrank back with a feeling of despondency. The wind had risen, driving the rain away and improving the visibility but the cold penetrated her thin dress and she shivered miserably, tugging at her shawl to hold it closer. She was certain she must look like a vagrant woman and wished she had tidied herself. She wanted to hide but there was nowhere to go. The driver of the vehicle had already seen her and was drawing the horse to a halt.

‘Can I help y …?' The driver of the horse-drawn van broke off with a startled frown, then uncertainly, ‘It is Miss O'Brian – isn't it? Rachel O'Brian?' Rachel nodded mutely. She stared up at the man but her head swam. She sank down onto the wet grass, fighting against the waves of dizziness which threatened to overwhelm her. She recognised Peter Sedgeman as the driver of the cart, and felt deeply ashamed of her appearance. Her hands and face were grubby, her hair straggling and unkempt. He had jumped down and was speaking to her again, his voice low and full of concern.

‘You are miles from Windlebrae, lassie. Why are you heading into the hills? Are you hurt? Are you lost?' The kindness in his voice was her undoing. Her control snapped and she was sobbing into her shawl like a frightened child. At length she managed to calm herself. She felt Peter Sedgeman's hand on her shoulder. He tried to help her to her feet but she cried out as the pressure of his arm reopened the wounds on her back.

‘Are you hurt? Look lassie, tell me what ails you. I will help if I can, but I have groceries to deliver and the daylight will soon be gone.' He eyed her keenly, seeing the way she held her shoulders as though afraid to move. Her face was deathly pale, stained with mud and tears. Her hair was blowing wildly where it had escaped from its braids.

She bit her lip hard, striving for control. Haltingly she tried to tell him that she had lost her employment at Windlebrae. Peter listened in silence, his brow growing darker as he filled in the gaps which Rachel would not, or could not, put into words. At last he moved to her side again and put a gentle arm about her shoulders. She winced sharply.

‘You're hurt. Surely … have you been beaten?' She nodded miserably, her head bowed.

‘Who?'

‘M-Mistress M-Maxwell,'

‘Surely even she … but where was Ross?'

‘She says he has gone away. She – she says h-he is not c-coming back.' Rachel bit back a despairing sob. She stared at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Wanting him to tell her it was not true. Indeed Peter Sedgeman could not believe Mrs Maxwell would allow Ross to go anywhere. What Gertie had, Gertie kept, he thought bitterly.

‘I must find work and shelter,' she told him urgently. ‘I must earn money – for food.'

‘Have you eaten since breakfast?'

‘I did not have any breakfast.'

‘No breakfast? Nothing all day! No wonder you can scarcely stand.' He left her side and opened the double doors at the back of the van. He returned with a small loaf of bread. ‘I'm afraid I've no butter to go with it,' he apologised.

‘It's wonderful!' Rachel's eyes shone with tears of gratitude. Then she put her hands behind her back. ‘But I c-cannot accept it. I have no money to pay for it.' Suddenly the tears flooded her eyes again and ran down her cheeks. ‘She would not let me bring my box – the wee carved box Dada made for me. It has a secret drawer. I had a shilling and a gold sovereign from Minnie, and M-Mama's necklet and ring. Wh-what am I to do?'

‘For a start, lassie, you can take this wee loaf. Eat it now, if you can eat it dry?'

‘Oh, I can, I can.' Rachel assured him fervently. ‘I c-can't thank you enough, Mr Sedgeman.' It was all she could do not to cram the bread in her mouth. She had eaten nothing since the previous afternoon and the sickness had drained her strength. She turned away from him, to return to the shelter of the barn, out of the rising wind. Peter watched her.

‘It's no use, I can't leave you here.' Peter frowned, pushing back his cap. He rubbed his head. ‘No, I can't leave you here alone,' he repeated firmly, making up his mind. ‘It's usually after seven before I finish my deliveries, but if you can squeeze up onto the seat beside me I will turn for home at the next crossroads. My housekeeper will make you a bed for tonight. In the morning we will decide what can be done.'

‘If – if you give me shelter Mrs Maxwell will be displeased with you.'

‘Ugh!' Peter uttered a harsh sound. ‘Mrs Maxwell and I are old enemies, didn't you know?' Rachel was too busy chewing on the crusty bread to answer. ‘She banned me from Windlebrae long ago. So that just makes me more willing to help you, Miss O'Brian.' He smiled suddenly and Rachel noticed what a pleasant face he had when he was not looking harassed and unhappy. ‘Let me help you up onto the seat.'

She gasped at his touch.

‘Sorry,' Peter said apologetically. ‘She must have beaten you badly to make you wince like that.'

‘She used the horsewhip …' Her voice faded as the horror returned. ‘Her eyes … they were so wild.' She shuddered.

‘I must make one more delivery to an old woman who is crippled with rheumatism. I can't let her down but after that we shall return to my house. It will be a surprise for the children to see me home so early. I will deliver the rest of the groceries tomorrow.'

‘I am sorry to be a trouble,' Rachel mumbled unhappily.

‘Don't worry, there's plenty of room. My premises used to be three small shops. I have a paddock at the back for my horse, and we have a large garden.' He was trying to put her at her ease but he had the feeling nothing he could say would comfort her. ‘I have a housekeeper to look after my three young daughters,' he went on speaking quietly. ‘Her name is Eliza. She came to live with her elderly aunt in the village about three months ago – just when I was desperate for help.'

‘Ruth told me you had lost your wife. I am so sorry.'

‘Yes. We had an elderly neighbour who looked after us but she became ill. Eliza MacDougal is a poor substitute.' His mouth tightened. ‘She comes in daily to care for the children. They are usually in bed before I return home, except on Saturdays. I don't go out with groceries after three on Saturdays.'

Rachel made no response. When he glanced at her he saw she had fallen into an exhausted doze, the remaining bit of loaf clutched tightly in her hand, her head propped against the side of the wagon. He fell silent, deep in his own troubled thoughts. Surely Meg could not have known how cruelly her mother was treating Rachel. Where had she been?

Rachel woke with a jerk when Peter pulled the horse to a halt. He had not stopped directly outside his shop. Rachel could see the long stone building with one larger window and two sash windows, then a tiny window in a low steeply roofed lean-to at the end. It was at this building that Peter set her down, leading her along a narrow path away from the street to a side door with peeling green paint.

‘This is the scullery, Rachel. The wash-house adjoins it through that door and the closet is just down the garden.' He pointed to another green door. ‘I thought you might like to wash your face and tidy yourself a bit before you meet Eliza and the children?'

‘Yes please!' Rachel agreed gratefully.

‘There is cold water.' He indicated the long stone sink with a single brass tap high above it. There were dirty dishes which looked like the breakfast dishes and a porridge pan with a little cold stiff porridge still in the bottom. There was an enamel bowl and a tall jug at the other side. Neither looked very clean but Rachel was longing to wash her face and brush out her hair and re-braid it. She looked at Peter Sedgeman with troubled eyes.

‘Everything I have now is in the pillowcase,' she said apologetically.

‘Ah yes,' Peter smiled suddenly. ‘I had forgotten I had it.' He set down the small bundle. ‘Your clothes will be very creased.'

‘Yes, but at least I have a clean apron and my hair brush.'

‘When you are ready just come through here, he opened a door at the far side of the scullery and Rachel saw an L-shaped stone flagged passage. ‘The kitchen is straight across. The other two doors lead to store rooms and through to the front shop. The stairs are at the end of the passage. We have a front room upstairs. It looks out over the village – but we seldom use it now.' Rachel heard the wistful note in his voice. ‘I shall go and surprise the children,' he smiled with real pleasure this time, ‘and I will ask Eliza to make a little extra dinner.'

He closed the scullery door behind him and crossed the passage to the kitchen. He was surprised to find the door locked and the key on the outside. He frowned, puzzled. He turned it and entered the large room. One small head turned fearfully towards him. At the sight of her father, four-year-old Polly stared incredulously, then with an expression of intense relief, gave a squeal of joy and hurled herself into his arms.

‘Daddy! Daddy!'

‘Well, well, my wee lassie. What a welcome! Maybe I should come home early more often.' The last he had muttered regretfully to himself but Polly clutched him tightly.

‘Oh, Daddy, could you?' Her soft mouth trembled. The twins did not even look up. They were huddled side by side, on their stomachs on the rag rug which their mother had made shortly before they were born. It was dull now with dust and spills. Both toddlers were sucking at their thumbs as though life depended on it and whimpering miserably to themselves.