Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘A shilling will be ample.’

  ‘Sweated labour!’ exclaimed Alec, chuckling.

  ‘Alec, listen. Why didn’t you go to London with Zilla?’

  ‘But I did,’ declared Alec’s voice in reproachful accents. ‘I said I would go to London with Zilla—so of course I went. I couldn’t stay in London because my lungs aren’t adjusted to breathing petrol fumes and diesel oil. I came back this morning by plane. When your lungs rebel you feel extremely ill.’

  ‘You don’t sound ill. In fact you sound particularly full of beans.’

  He gave a hollow cough. ‘I’m very ill,’ he said. ‘That’s why it’s essential for me to have a breath of pure Highland air.’

  ‘You aren’t really going to Loch Ron?’

  ‘Yes, on Thursday. Didn’t they tell you?’

  ‘Alec, please be sensible. There’s no need for you to take us. I’ve bought our tickets to Inverquill and engaged seats in the train.’

  ‘British Railways will refund the money.’

  ‘And I’ve engaged a car to meet us at Inverquill and take us to the cottage,’ I said desperately. ‘It’s all arranged, Alec.’

  ‘You can disarrange it.’

  ‘Alec, listen. You can’t stay at the cottage.’

  ‘Of course not. I shall put up at the inn in the village for a few days until I recover.’

  ‘Zilla said the inn was dreadfully uncomfortable.’

  He laughed. ‘Zilla probably said, “My dear, it’s frightful . . . an outside lavatory and no bath.”’

  ‘Something like that,’ I admitted.

  ‘But I don’t mind,’ explained Alec. ‘I can swim in the loch every morning. As for the other inconvenience——’

  ‘Quite,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I just thought if you were ill——’

  ‘Lungs,’ he reminded me. ‘Rebellious lungs.’

  ‘It sounds horrid.’

  ‘Air is what I want; lovely fresh Highland air and lashings of cream to my porridge. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly. It’s terribly kind of you, Alec.’

  ‘What is kind?’

  ‘To take us, of course—and our luggage—with the exception of the grand piano.’

  He laughed and said, ‘Do they tell you everything?’

  ‘They told me that, anyhow.’

  ‘Katherine, I want to see you. Can I come along now?’

  ‘No,’ I replied firmly. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Just for a few minutes to arrange what time we should start.’

  ‘You can tell me now. I’m listening.’

  ‘But, look here, I shall have to stop talking. There’s a fellow making faces at me through the glass. Perhaps he thinks I’ve been talking too long, or something.’

  ‘You’ve been talking much too long. Just tell me what time you want us to be ready on Thursday morning and then ring off.’

  ‘Oh, well, we can’t start until about half past eleven because I’ve got to look in at the office first. I’m afraid it will make us a bit late at the other end but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘We’ll be ready at half past eleven.’

  ‘I might be delayed,’ said Alec’s voice doubtfully.

  ‘Just come when you can. We’ll be ready,’ I told him.

  I put down the receiver and sat there, wondering. He had sounded unlike his usual self—excited, irresponsible. Daisy had said he was in a joky mood, because he was free . . . free to do what he wanted. I had intended to refuse his offer to take us to Loch Ron, but he had made it impossible for me to refuse. Quite honestly I didn’t want to go with Alec in his car—and I didn’t want Alec at Loch Ron. I wanted to get right away and have a peaceful time with the children. I wanted to be quiet and think things out; there were so many things, all tangled up in my mind like Florence Godfrey’s wool. The children were not exactly peaceful companions but they didn’t make demands upon my thoughts. I could dream my own dreams and attend to the children with the surface of my mind . . . but now Alec was coming! I couldn’t attend to him with the surface of my mind. Alec was invading my stronghold—yes, invading was the word—and I had to be on my guard to keep him out.

  Alec was a very good friend—that was what I wanted—the other sort of relationship was over and done with as far as I was concerned.

  I realised suddenly that I was very very tired, so I rose and went to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The weather conditions on Thursday morning were not propitious—clouds were rolling in from the east and a light drizzle was falling—but in spite of this the children were in tremendously high spirits.

  Alec was ten minutes late in calling for us, he arrived in a fluster full of abject apologies.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said soothingly. ‘You couldn’t help being delayed. Don’t worry about it, Alec.’

  He looked at me in surprise and I realised that if he had kept Zilla waiting her reaction would have been different. The idea made me smile.

  We had several large suitcases and two kit-bags—and of course the children had discovered various odds and ends which could not possibly be left behind. However, there was plenty of room in Alec’s car and everything was stowed away comfortably except the children’s bicycles which I had arranged to send by train to Inverquill.

  It was unfortunate that we had not a better day for the run, the drizzle continued steadily and there was mist on the hills. We stopped somewhere on the road and had lunch in the car; Alec had brought a picnic basket prepared for us by Ellen.

  ‘This isn’t a proper picnic,’ began Daisy in disapproving tones. ‘When you go for proper picnics——’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said firmly. ‘This is an al fresco meal. Wasn’t it kind of Ellen to make such lovely sausage rolls?’

  Den was munching happily. He said, ‘I liked Ellen, she was fat and smiley. She said we had nice manners and she made meringues even better than Bella.’

  ‘I’m afraid there aren’t any meringues to-day,’ said Alec apologetically.

  ‘They would be quite unsuitable for an al fresco meal,’ I declared with conviction.

  Daisy was squashed. She said no more about ‘proper picnics’ but set to work upon the sausage rolls and salad and cheese-cakes and various other good things with her usual gusto.

  ‘Al fresco,’ said Den, who was always interested in new words. ‘When we have lunch like this in Clara it’s an al fresco, but when we have lunch outside it’s a picnic. Is that right, Mums?’

  It wasn’t, of course, so I had to explain.

  We had hoped that the day would improve but there was mist and rain nearly all the way. Here and there the clouds lifted a little and we caught glimpses of moors and lochs and craggy mountains but for the most part there was nothing to be seen but grey mist and driving rain.

  ‘This is frightfully disappointing,’ said Alec at last. ‘It’s such a lovely run in fine weather. You would have enjoyed it.’

  ‘You can’t control the weather,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know, but all the same I feel I ought to have been able to provide a fine day for your visit to Craig-an-Ron—and I’m afraid we shall be a bit late in arriving because I can’t risk going at a decent pace. The visibility is so poor. Would you like to stop somewhere for tea or shall we push on?’

  ‘Let’s push on,’ I said. I was beginning to feel very tired and all I wanted was to get to our destination as soon as possible.

  At first the children had been good and happy, but presently they became restless and kept on asking how much farther we had to go, so we stopped and I got into the back seat beside them and told them stories.

  It was nearly seven o’clock when Alec said, ‘Look, this is Loch Ron village! That’s the little inn where I’m going to stay. We haven’t far to go now.’

  ‘But aren’t you going to stay with us at the cottage?’ asked Daisy in surprise.

  ‘No,’ replied Alec.

  ‘Why not?’ inq
uired Den. ‘It would be much nicer.’

  ‘There won’t be room for me at the cottage.’

  ‘But you could have Simon’s room!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘Mums, he could have Simon’s room, couldn’t he? It would be much cheaper for Uncle Arly to stay at the cottage.’

  Poor Daisy! She was used to counting the pennies so she could not understand why I did not extend a pressing invitation to ‘Uncle Arly’ to come and stay with us at the cottage. She continued to argue about the matter, backed up by Den, until we arrived at Craig-an-Ron.

  The rain had stopped, but it was a dull misty evening so we could see little of our surroundings. All we could see was the small whitewashed building with its lighted windows. The door opened as we arrived and a man and a woman came out.

  ‘Here are Mr. and Mrs. MacRam,’ said Alec cheerfully. ‘They’ll look after you all right.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ declared Mrs. MacRam. ‘Supper is ready. The poor wee children will be ferry tired and hungry. Och, it has been an awful day of rain! It has never ceased for a minute. I have a fire in the sitting-room—it is nice there. Will Mistress Wentworth come in and warm herself?’

  ‘Yes, go in, Katherine,’ said Alec. ‘Don’t hang about in the cold. I won’t wait, now. I’ll see you to-morrow.’

  By this time Mr. MacRam—a silent man—had finished carrying in the luggage so Alec got into his car and drove away.

  Zilla had said the cottage was ‘primitive’ and ‘a wretched hovel,’ but to me it seemed charming. The two good bedrooms were large and airy; the bedrooms on the top floor (which Zilla had described as ‘monkish’) were small and had sloping ceilings but, in spite of this, were perfectly comfortable. The children wanted these rooms—chiefly because the stair up to them was like a ladder—and I agreed. (Simon, when he came, could have the larger bedroom next to mine.)

  We had supper and unpacked and I put the children to bed. By this time I was absolutely dazed with fatigue. I had been tired when I left Limbourne—tired and worried—and I had spent two strenuous days washing and ironing and packing. The long motor-run in the rain had finished me. I refused Mrs. MacRam’s offer of a bath, stripped off my clothes and fell into Zilla’s extremely comfortable bed with a sigh of relief.

  *

  2

  When I opened my eyes next morning I gazed round in bewilderment. I had been dreaming about Limbourne so I had expected to see the luxuriously appointed room with its polished furniture and tall windows and long crimson curtains . . . instead of which I saw the smaller, simply furnished room and low casement windows with flowery cretonne curtains moving gently in the breeze.

  Then I remembered and glanced at my watch. It was ten o’clock!

  What on earth could have happened? I had told Mrs. MacRam to waken me at eight and we would have breakfast at half past; for, although I was so weary that I felt I could sleep for a week, I knew that the children would be up early, merry and bright—and hungry.

  For a few minutes I lay and listened. There was not a sound to be heard: no babble of children’s voices, no patter of feet. There was no sound at all except the distant cry of a curlew—so faint and far-off that it was scarcely distinguishable.

  I put on my dressing-gown and ran downstairs. The sitting-room was spick and span—and empty. The front door was open and for a moment I stood there, in the hall, quite breathless at the beauty of the scene framed in the doorway. The stretch of smooth green turf sloped down to the shore of the loch which lay still and clear like a mirror reflecting the hills. Beyond that were the hills themselves, towering into mountains, their outlines cutting a jagged slice out of the bright blue sky.

  I was standing there entranced, when I heard a movement behind me and turned to see Mrs. MacRam emerge from the kitchen premises, padding softly in carpet slippers.

  ‘Och, and I was hoping Mistress Wentworth was sleeping!’ she exclaimed in her gentle musical voice.

  ‘I’m terribly late——’

  ‘But you were ferry weary. It was a long, long way to come—and the packing up and everything.’

  ‘The children——’ I began.

  ‘Children waken early like the birds. They took their porridge and boiled eggs and have gone away out to explore.’

  ‘I never heard a sound!’

  ‘There was no sound to hear,’ explained Mrs. MacRam with a happy smile. ‘It was just a little game we had—the children and me—to be very quiet and not waken Mother.’

  ‘How kind of you!’

  ‘Och, it was not kind at all. I am very happy with children.’

  ‘Where have they gone? Will they be all right?’

  ‘They will be quite safe,’ she replied placidly. ‘I have said they must not go near the loch—and they are very biddable. There is nothing to hurt them on the hill, just the sheep and the birds and the little burns amongst the heather. Mistress Wentworth need not worry.’

  I was not worrying. There was something sweet and peaceful about this little spot—and Mrs. MacRam was sweet and peaceful too. I had been too tired last night to look at her properly, but now I saw that she was plump and rosy with dark smooth hair and brown eyes. Her voice was delightful and her slight Highland accent attractive; it was part of her make-up. She had said, ‘It wass chust a little game we had’ and ‘I am ferry happy with chiltren.’ Mr. MacRam’s accent was much more noticeable and one had a feeling that English was really a foreign language to him. Afterwards, when I knew them better, I discovered that when they were alone they always spoke to each other in Gaelic.

  Mrs. MacRam tried to persuade me to return to bed, but I wanted to go out, so I had a quick bath in Zilla’s super bathroom, dressed hastily and ate my breakfast in the sitting-room near the widely open window.

  When I had finished Mrs. MacRam gave me a tartan plaid and told me to spread it in the shade of a little grove of rowan trees beside the loch.

  ‘The grass will be a little damp this morning,’ explained Mrs. MacRam, ‘but it is a nice thick plaid and it will be restful for Mistress Wentworth to lie there in the shade.’

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ I agreed, ‘but what about food? Perhaps we should arrange what to have.’

  ‘Och, it will be easier for me to do the catering. I am used to children; good plain fare is what they need.’

  ‘Do you mean you’ll order everything?’ I asked in surprise.

  She nodded. ‘There is a ferry good butcher in the village and other shops as well. The grocer is a cousin of Mister MacRam so he will bring all we need in his van. I have only to send a message with the postie. It is all quite easy—if that will suit.’

  It suited me admirably. I had been wondering how we were going to get supplies but now I realised that I need not have bothered; I was only too glad to leave the matter in Mrs. MacRam’s capable hands. As I spread the plaid in the shade of the trees I could not help smiling. Despite her gentle manner there was a strange sort of strength in the woman—it was not surprising that she had found the children ‘biddable.’

  The turf was short and soft, the rowan leaves spread a flickering shade over my head. It was absolute peace. I had lain there for some time when I saw a shadow move across the grass and looked up to see Alec standing there.

  ‘I hope I didn’t waken you,’ he said.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep—just lazy.’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Of course not! Come and sit down, Alec.’ I moved to make room for him on the rug and added, ‘This is a perfectly heavenly place; it’s so blissful to have nothing to do.’

  He smiled and sat down beside me. ‘Yes, you’re looking better already; I was awfully worried about you yesterday. I didn’t want to say anything while the children were there, but you looked so strained and miserable. Did you have a troublesome time at Limbourne? I can’t believe they were disagreeable to you.’

  ‘They weren’t. They were really very kind, but—but I didn’t like them much, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘And Simon?’

>   ‘Alec,’ I said, ‘I want to tell you about it. I want a solid, sensible man’s opinion about the whole thing.’

  He smiled at me. ‘Well, I’m solid all right and I hope I’m fairly sensible.’

  ‘Could you bear it if I told you everything?’ I asked, sitting up and looking at him. ‘It will take a long time but unless I tell you everything it’s no good.’

  ‘Not the slightest good,’ agreed Alec. ‘Tell me everything. Time doesn’t matter in this place; that’s what makes it so peaceful. Begin at the very beginning and go on till you get to the end.’

  So that’s what I did. I told Alec all about Limbourne, its absolute tidiness and perfection, which extended to the rose-garden where every little bush had to obey its owner’s rule. I told him what everybody had said and done—as far as I could remember—finally I told him about Sir Mortimer’s plans for Simon.

  When I had finished there was quite a long silence.

  At last Alec said, ‘You mustn’t allow it, Katherine. It isn’t the right thing for Simon.’

  ‘Not right!’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘I thought you’d say it was sensible.’

  ‘You feel it’s the wrong thing, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I feel it’s wrong to—to feel it’s wrong,’ I explained. ‘It’s sensible for Simon to learn to look after the estate. My feelings about it are stupid.’

  ‘Your feelings aren’t stupid. Simon is too young and immature to be thrown into deep water and left to sink or swim.’

  ‘Yes, it’s deep water—muddy water—with undercurrents.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ said Alec thoughtfully. ‘Not right for Simon. The right thing for Simon would be to go to Cambridge—and grow up. It would be time enough after that for him to go to Limbourne and learn about the management of the property. Do think of this seriously, Katherine.’

  ‘Think of it!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s no need for me to think of it! It’s what I’ve always wanted for Simon—it’s what Gerald wanted for his son. Gerald used to say that a thoroughly sound education was never wasted; it didn’t matter what you were going to do in life, even if you were going to be a dustman. . . .’

  ‘He had the right idea.’