Moorland Mist

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘I was enjoying it until the mist came down,’ Emma said, ‘and no one can help that.’

  ‘I suppose not. What do you say to us settling down for a while and eating the rest of the food in the carrier bag?’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea. I’m hungry.’

  ‘We shall know better where we’ve walked when the mist clears,’ William said dryly. ‘Come on then, we’ll find a mossy patch of grass or a bit of a hollow.’

  A few minutes later, he chose a spot and they settled side by side to eat the rest of the bread and ham and take a drink of milk.

  ‘We’ll save the apples in case we’re still here when night falls.’

  ‘Do you think it will be that long?’ Emma shuddered.

  ‘It could be,’ William said, and he gnawed his lower lip, cursing himself for bringing Emma now the day had changed so dramatically. He looked down at her small hunched figure. She was not wearing her maid’s cap today and the damp mist was making dark curls all around her face. ‘Don’t worry, Emmie. We’re quite safe, you know, even if it is a bit damp and uncomfortable. It’s better to sit it out than wandering for miles in the wrong direction, or even worse, spraining an ankle or breaking a leg.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Emma nodded. William moved closer and put his arm around her, drawing her against him. He commanded Queenie to lie at her other side.

  ‘We’ll keep you warm between us, Queenie and me,’ he said gently and Emma snuggled against his long thick jacket.

  They talked quietly. William asked about her family and she told him about her brothers, especially Davy who had enjoyed school and won a prize when he left.

  ‘He let me borrow it when I first came to Bonnybrae. It was a book of poems by Robert Burns. I’ve seen your father reading from a similar book.’

  ‘Yes, he likes reading poetry. So do I, especially about nature and the countryside. Robert Burns seemed to understand such things.’ He began to talk of his own childhood when they were all at home. His voice was deep and soothing and Emma felt warm and safe snuggled up against him. She drifted into sleep. William looked down at her curled in his arm. He’d never had a younger sibling and his eyes were tender. She was so soft and warm. There couldn’t be a greater contrast between Emmie and Eva McGuire, the woman he had last held in his arms up here on the lonely hillside. He laid his cheek against her hair and fell into a doze himself.

  Sometime later, Emma stretched and mumbled in her sleep, then curled into him as instinctively as a lamb curls against its mother. Only William was not a mother. He was very much a man and he was rapidly becoming aware of Emma lying half on top of him, one leg flung across his body as she burrowed into his coat with her head on his chest. He was half-sitting, half-lying against the grassy knoll and there was no denying the emotions which Emma’s pliant young body was awakening. He tried hard to control his desire. He wriggled, easing her down onto the grass at his side but she mumbled a sleepy protest and clung to him.

  ‘Emmie,’ he groaned in protest.

  At the sound of her name she opened her eyes sleepily.

  ‘Where am I?’ she muttered, then remembered. ‘Oh, the mist. It hasna cleared at all.’ She shuddered and pressed closer to William, unaware of the effect she was having on him.

  ‘Emmie.’ William’s voice was firmer, more urgent now. ‘You can’t be so innocent you don’t know what you’re doing to me!’ She blinked and looked up at him with bleary eyes. He moved and she felt the hardness of him against her thigh. Her eyes widened.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know? Don’t you realize you’re – you’re tempting me?’

  ‘Tempting? Do you mean like Eve in the Bible?’ She shook her head and frowned. ‘Does that mean I’m wicked, William?’

  ‘You’re not wicked, Emmie.’ William sighed and eased himself away a bit. ‘Women are wicked when they deliberately make men want them, then run away. That makes them frustrated and angry. I don’t think you intended to make me feel like this, did you, Emmie? Have you ever been with a boy?’

  ‘No,’ she said unhappily, thinking this was a fault on her part. ‘Most of the time I’m working, here at Bonnybrae. Father says there’ll be plenty of time for boys when I’m a woman. I–I didn’t mean to make you angry.’

  ‘Och, I’m not angry, Emmie,’ William said gently.

  ‘I hate this fog and being lost, but you make me feel safe.’

  ‘I know, lassie. I don’t like the fog either, but I can’t keep on cuddling you like this …’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you like being close to me, even though we’re warmer?’

  ‘I do like feeling you close to me, Emmie. I like it a lot. Don’t you understand anything about women’s wiles?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I might know more if I had a sister instead of three brothers. I would like to know how it feels to be a proper woman.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.’ William looked into her upturned face and wide serious eyes. She aroused more than desire in him. He felt protective and tender as he cuddled her closer. Blast the fog, if only it would clear and let them gather the sheep as he had intended. Emmie was in his mother’s employ, in her care. She would fly into a real rage if she knew they were up here together, however innocently they behaved. He ought to have considered that. He wanted Emmie to enjoy the walk and see the views.

  ‘Would – would it make me feel good, being a proper woman?’

  ‘It certainly makes a man feel good.’ William laughed softly. ‘I suppose it must make women feel good too.’ He thought of Eva McGuire’s insatiable desire. He stroked Emma’s hair gently back from her face and felt a longing to be the one to teach her everything, to make her his. He tangled his fingers in her hair and she lifted her face to his.

  ‘You’re so sweet, so very innocent, Emmie, but I must take care of you.’ He thought of Jim saying he would want a virgin if ever he took a wife. He felt a twist in his gut at the thought of some other man teaching Emmie what it was like to be a woman, maybe hurting her if he was a brute. His arms tightened instinctively. Emmie would be a good wife when she was older, and she would be older by the time he got a tenancy of his own. Maybe he could marry her then. He sighed, frustrated as always when he knew he might need to wait for years before his father helped him get a farm on his own.

  ‘I’m tired of everyone treating me like a child,’ Emma said, unconsciously pouting her lips.

  Her mouth looked like a pink rosebud and William bent his head and kissed her. Her lips parted in response, taking William by surprise. He knew he should push her away from him before things got out of hand, but Emmie was pressing closer, enjoying the warmth of him. She liked the feel of his mouth on hers and the way the blood seemed to tingle from her toes to her head and back again.

  ‘God, Emmie, you drive a man wild.’

  ‘Do I? Because I liked your kiss?’

  ‘Yes, and because I like kissing you,’ he said gruffly.

  She pressed her mouth to his again, soft and yielding, and oh, so desirable in her innocence. William returned her kisses, growing more demanding when she responded so eagerly. Almost automatically, he found his hand stroking the curve of her hip and her leg, which was pressed against his own. His own desire intensified. He slipped his hand beneath her skirt and found the naked skin above her stocking. She gasped against his ear, tickling it with her warm breath.

  ‘God, Emmie, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ he breathed and drew away but she clung to him.

  ‘I like it,’ she said artlessly. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. What man wouldn’t? But you’re so young, so innocent, and you’re in my mother’s employ.’

  ‘Oh.’ He heard the flatness in her voice and she pulled back, the happy lilt gone. ‘You don’t like me because I’m only a maid.’

  She remembered the gossip she had overheard John the ploughman telling the odd job man. He had said Mistress Sinclair was a snob and she had intended to marry
the landlord’s son, but he had married a girl of his own class. She’d had to make do with James Sinclair instead. Now, she intended all her family should marry well. William couldn’t help pulling her close again when she sounded so sad and forlorn.

  ‘That’s not what I meant, Emmie. You’re very pretty and my mother would expect me to take care of you and – and be responsible for you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be responsible for me. It’s bad enough having three big brothers, as well as my father. Kiss me again if you really like it.’

  She lifted her face to his like a child and William’s resolve melted away. His kisses grew demanding. He was surprised and delighted by Emmie’s generous and passionate response. His fingers traced the shape of her leg, now lying across him, arousing him, filling him with desire. He found the warm flesh at the top of her stockings again. His hand moved higher. He glanced at her face, knowing he ought to stop. He saw her eyes widen and darken as he awakened feelings she had never thought possible.

  ‘I – I think it may hurt if …’

  ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop, William,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You make me feel – wonderful …’

  ‘Mmm, me too …’ He groaned and tugged at his trousers. ‘I’Il try to be gentle, Emmie.’ He wasn’t sure she heard. She was so sensitive to every touch. He heard a little gasp and felt Emmie tense beneath him. He stroked and soothed and knew he was in control as she relaxed again, meeting his passion with a joyous exultation which surprised him and filled him with tender satisfaction

  Later they slept, wrapped in each other’s arms for warmth and comfort. When they wakened it was too dark for William to see his watch and the mist was thicker if anything. Emmie stirred in his arms and raised her head a little. She moved stiffly.

  ‘Are you … are you sore, Emmie?’ he asked gently, filled with remorse in case he had hurt her.

  ‘No, but it’s cold.’

  ‘It’s the mist. It’s miserable and—’

  ‘Hold me close. Love me again, William?’ Love? He stiffened slightly. Was this love? Certainly Emmie was the most loveable girl he knew. She cuddled closer, her fingers moving to his thigh.

  ‘You really are a temptress,’ he chuckled softly. ‘Are you sure, Emmie? It will not hurt this time.’

  ‘I liked it,’ she said simply.

  ‘I would like to think you remember only the pleasure of being a woman.’

  Eventually they dozed fitfully until a short sharp bark from Queenie wakened them. They sat up, stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. There was a sickle of moon and the wind had risen, driving away the mist. William pulled out his watch and peered at it in the faint light. Nearby, an ewe grazed contentedly, ignoring Queenie.

  ‘It’s twenty to four,’ William announced. He stood up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. In the distance, further up the hill and to their right, he saw the dark shape of the stone circle of the sheep fank. ‘If we walk down and diagonally we should reach the wire fence between the hill land and the pastures, Emmie. From there I’ll direct you back to the house. I think that would be better if no one sees, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said gratefully. ‘It would be terrible if I lost my job for being late back.’

  ‘With any luck you’ll be able to creep into bed and get an hour’s sleep before it’s time for the milking.’

  ‘What about you, William?’

  ‘I’ll come back up here and Queenie and I will start gathering the sheep and bringing them down as soon as there’s a bit more light.’

  ‘You’ll be very tired.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ William smiled down at her. ‘This way we shall not have lost a day’s work if the sheep are penned and ready for Jim and Father.’

  William drew Emmie close and gently kissed her soft lips one more time before he lifted her over the fence. He pointed out the hedges she must follow to bring her into the bottom end of the orchard at the back of the house. She turned to look at him anxiously.

  ‘You – you’ll not tell anyone I stayed out all night? Not ever? Promise? I mean my brothers or – or Maggie…?’

  ‘No, Emmie. This is our secret. I shall not tell.’ She smiled at that and gave herself a mental hug. She was a real woman now and all her woman’s instincts told her William was as pleased and happy as she was herself.

  Four

  Emma positively bloomed in the weeks which followed. She felt on top of the world. Even her mother remarked on her daughter’s glowing skin and jaunty step.

  ‘I am happy,’ Emma said. ‘Usually I hate gathering potatoes but the weather has been crisp and bright, and even Mr Sinclair was in fine humour. He says he’ll send you some potatoes next time somebody is driving the trap down this way.’ She didn’t tell them that William Sinclair sometimes teased her, or winked at her to make her blush, or that the twinkle in his blue eyes made her heart sing.

  ‘That’s very good of Mr Sinclair. I remember he sent us some last year.’

  ‘It’s part of my wages, I think. The men in the cottages get six bags each and as many turnips as they want and they get a can of milk every day and a dozen eggs each week. When there’s a pig killing, Mistress Sinclair always gives something to each of the men in the cottages. I never thought I could eat liver but I love it when it’s fresh, and Maggie fries it with a bit of bacon.’

  ‘Aye, I’d always heard Sinclair fed his workers well, even though he’s known to be a hard man when it comes to expecting a good day’s work,’ her father said. ‘That’s more than I hear about a lot of the farms.’

  ‘Mrs Sinclair is going to stay with Bess for a few days next week. I’m not supposed to know but Maggie told me it’s because her sister is expecting a baby and she’s been ever so sick. Her mother is going to help her.’

  ‘Some women are bothered that way,’ her mother said. ‘I never had any problems until after you lot were born, then I felt low in spirits. I suppose we’re all different.’

  Emma would have liked to ask her mother more about how you made babies when you got a husband but Eliza Greig had never been one to discuss such things and she was too shy to ask questions when her father was present.

  The autumn turned to winter and in December, Mrs Sinclair went to stay with her youngest daughter again, fearing she might be unable to see her for some time if the cold intensified and they were snowed in.

  ‘Bess is keeping a lot better now,’ Mrs Sinclair said to Maggie on her return. ‘The sickness has stopped.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Maggie said. ‘The baby is not due until spring, is it?’

  ‘Bess thinks it will come about mid-May,’ her mother said. ‘I must get on with knitting the shawl. And you, Maggie, Bess tells me you promised to crotchet three woollen blankets as well as some wee jackets.’

  Emma was skimming cream from the large shallow bowls of milk in the pantry and the door was ajar so she listened intently to the two women and wondered how they knew when the baby would be born. Although she was expected to help with almost every task there was to do at Bonnybrae, the women were never present at the mating of the boar with the sows or a cow being taken to the bull and she was astonishingly ignorant of such matters. Had she been working in a factory with groups of women of all ages, her education in such things would have been broadened.

  When Maggie saw her letting out the seams of her dresses, she teased her. ‘I noticed you’re beginning to fill out at last, Emmie. I’d begun to despair of ever putting any meat on your bones. It must be all the Black Bun you ate when you went home at New Year.’

  ‘I did enjoy it,’ Emma grinned. ‘Mother always makes two or three because my brothers like it so much.’

  ‘Aye, it was a pity we got word that the thrashing machine was coming the next day or you might have had an extra night at home.’

  The winter days were bitter and they all got throbbing fingers after breaking ice on the water so that the animals could drink. Eventually the frost and snow melted, and spring slowly emerge
d with the appearance of dainty, green-tipped snowdrops and the golden celandines beneath the trees in the orchard, and the copse at the end of the track. The ice on the pond where the men had enjoyed curling melted and the spring work progressed.

  ‘It will soon be time to start spring cleaning again,’ Maggie said cheerfully on a bright day at the end of February when the wind was blowing strongly. ‘If it stays like this, we’ll take a blanket from each bed and make a start on washing them.’

  Many of the woollen blankets had been woven by Mrs Sinclair before her marriage and they were washed with care, turned with the wooden dolly in the wash tub, then rolled through the heavy wooden rollers. It was heavy work, whether turning the handle or lifting the sodden blankets to guide them through the rollers. Maggie and Emma usually took it in turns unless Mrs Edgar was there to help Emma do them. They were rinsed at least twice in cold water and put through the ringer again before being lifted onto the clothes line in the orchard where the March winds blew away the moisture and left the blankets soft and dry. This was a ritual which was followed every year, and Emma remembered how tired she and Maggie always felt by the time they’d had several days of blanket washing, but she didn’t remember feeling quite so exhausted as she did by the end of their second day with the blankets. Fortunately for her, the weather turned showery and it was ten days before they proceeded to wash the rest.

  They were on the last blanket of the day and Emma was winding the handle of the mangle with Maggie close beside her, guiding the blanket evenly between the rollers. She had felt peculiar little spasms in her stomach for some time now but a particularly painful thump made her gasp and let go the handle. She clutched her stomach.

  ‘What’s wrong, Emmie? Are you ill?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘N-no, I’m not ill. It’s just, I felt as though I’d been punched. Punched from inside. It was worse this time. It took my breath for a second, that’s all.’ She was standing, smoothing her dress over her stomach and Maggie stared. Her eyes widened in disbelief.