* * *
Alex Robertson was in love, and it was making him neglect his work. Almost every evening he could be seen under the first span of the bridge waiting, as if by accident, for Emma Jane when she walked back to Camptounfoot. When she appeared, he would dismount from his horse and walk with her, listening sympathetically as she talked about the day’s work. She liked his company so she talked freely to him, more freely than she did to any other man around her, though not quite as freely as she did to Tibbie or Robbie. His gentle nature and slow smile were soothing, and she began to look forward to their evening rendezvous. She had no idea that he was in love with her, but felt that he was nervous in her company and hoped he might relax when he got to know her better.
She always had something fresh to tell him when they met, and on one sweetly-smelling spring evening, she burst out with, ‘I had a visit from Sir Geoffrey Miller today.’
‘Did you know he was coming?’ he asked, but she shook her head.
‘No, he just appeared with Jopp. They’re very rattled about the embankment collapse. He offered to take the contract off my hands – at least, that’s how he put it.’
‘If he paid enough you should accept his offer,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s not good for you to be working like this. You’ll wear yourself out.’ His look was adoring but she wondered if he was dropping a hint about something amiss in her state of health that had so far escaped her.
‘I feel quite well,’ she said defensively. ‘Anyway, Sir Geoffrey’s not prepared to pay enough money for the contract. His offer this time is more than it was before, but it’s still paltry. I suspect he thinks Jopp can do the rest of the bridge without my plans. He probably could. His big worry now’s the north pier, and this will hold up the schedule which will give me more time.’
Robertson asked gravely, ‘Are you only doing this for the money? Is that all that matters to you?’
She was surprised. ‘Of course not! Anyway, the money’s not for me. I’ve got my mother to consider. From my point of view, the real object is to get my father’s bridge built the way he imagined it, and by a member of his family. It’s Wylie’s Bridge – my bridge too, in a way. It’s like my child. Isn’t that silly? A child as big as that…’ She threw her hands up to the piers soaring above her head for they were walking under the first arch at that very moment and though Robertson’s heart expanded with love and admiration as he watched her, he felt that she was being too idealistic.
‘How much did Sir Geoffrey offer you to give it up?’ he asked.
‘Three thousand pounds,’ said Emma Jane.
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘My father’s debts amount to much more than that, and as I’ve said, there’s my mother to consider. She needs an income for the rest of her life.’
‘But she must understand that things will have to change for her now that your father’s dead.’
Emma Jane looked at him and spoke frankly. ‘She’s very spoiled and unworldly. Mama closes her mind to anything unpleasant. It’s a great gift – I wish I could do it.’ The letters that had arrived for her from Aunt Louisa recently said her mother was much recovered in health, but Louisa was still scathing about life in the cottage.
‘When you’ve finished, this nonsense with the bridge, you’ll have to sell this terrible cottage and buy a decent house for your mother. I’ve been looking at suitable properties already because I’ve decided to live with dear Arabella permanently,’ she wrote. The thought of spending the rest of her life with her mother and her aunt together made Emma Jane’s toes curl. She’d rather go on building bridges in the rain and mud forever.
By now she and Alex were walking past Craigie Scott’s house, which looked grim and blank-eyed now that the owner was in the asylum. His sisters still lived there and the two Lilies went on working the land because they all believed that Craigie would get better and come back one day. The sisters were completely ungrateful to their industrious bondagers, however, never acknowledging that without them the farm would revert to a wilderness, but Big Lily worked on stoically, for she knew what was needed at every season of the year and was prepared to go on doing it without thanks.
At Tibbie’s door Emma Jane said to the doctor, ‘Tie up your horse round the back and come in for a cup of tea. Tibbie won’t mind, she likes company.’ He didn’t need asking twice. ‘I’ll let you in at the back door,’ said the girl, slipping into the little hall. When she opened the door to the kitchen, however, she was surprised to see that Tibbie had company already. A tall, black-bearded man was sitting at the table drinking tea. Beside him on the floor stood a huge brass cage with a green and yellow parrot in it. The bird looked up at Emma Jane with a beady eye and croaked: ‘Bonjour, ma belle.’
The man laughed and looked at her too. When their eyes met she felt as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus; the breath was driven out of her body and she had to fight to collect herself. Tim Maquire was staring at her and he was looking as dashing as a dandy, dressed in a short jacket with black braiding round it, a white shirt and a floppy bow tie made of scarlet silk. Beneath the jacket was a waitcoat of red and gold brocade with glittering buttons. What made him even more eye-catching was the fact that his skin was very brown, his beard very thick and there were two bright golden rings glittering in his ears. Her legs seemed to have lost the power to hold her up any longer and Dr Robertson, coming in the kitchen door at that moment, saw something was wrong so he rushed over to help her into a chair.
‘Sit down – you’re exhausted. I’ve told you this can’t go on,’ he said warningly.
Tibbie was worried by Emma Jane’s reaction, too. ‘Oh, did Tim give you a fright? It’s that beard. You’ll have to shave it off, my lad, it makes you look like a dervish. Doctor Robertson, of course you remember Tim Maquire – my Hannah’s man? He’s back from the Crimea and he’s brought me a parrot and the loveliest scarf you’ve even seen.’
Proudly she draped a length of shimmering silk between her outspread hands and Emma Jane touched it admiringly, astonished at how fast her heart was beating. She wondered if she was going to faint. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said politely to Tibbie, but with an effort. She felt Maquire’s eyes on her and wondered what he was thinking.
‘Are you back on a visit, Mr Maquire?’ she asked him in a formal tone. His eyes were still fixed on her face and she felt her own gaze hardening in self-defence.
‘Not really. I’m looking for work – I thought you might be able to use me,’ he said.
‘Oh, indeed I could,’ she gasped, and then felt silly at having been so effusive, but for the first time in weeks a glimpse of light appeared in the gloom of her prospects.
He didn’t stay long after that. ‘I’ll have to go and find lodgings in Rosewell. I’m not going back to the camp. I’ll spend tonight at the Abbey Hotel and look for something better tomorrow,’ he told them as he stood up to leave. Then he put on his big hat, shook hands with Alex and strode away down the street.
Tibbie came back from seeing him off with a starry look on her face. ‘That’s a grand man – and to think that I didn’t like him when he and Hannah got married! If only he could find some other nice lassie and settle down. I wouldn’t mind a bit.’
Dr Robertson, also preparing to leave, was standing by the door with his hat in his hand. ‘From the look of him I don’t think it’ll take him long to find somebody. He’s a fine-looking fellow,’ he said generously.
Emma Jane sat silent, wondering how she was going to cope with the disturbing presence of the dashing Tim Maquire on her workforce. ‘Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have taken him on after all,’ said a little voice inside her head.
‘I think I’ll go over to see Robbie,’ she announced suddenly, getting up and ignoring their protests against going out again. Visiting Robbie was a pleasure, for her faith in her young friend had proven correct. He was getting better every day and now was able to swing around on crutches. To Emma Jane he was i
nvaluable, for he spent his days doing calculations and re-drawing plans and was currently engaged in drawing up specifications for the new bridgehead.
When she arrived at his cottage, out of breath, he had the precious papers spread on a table, waiting for her, and she gradually calmed down as they studied them together.
‘I think we should blast back deeper into the rockface and build up another artificial face for ourselves. We’ll make it wedge-shaped – a solid wall of stone. The embankment can be laid on the top of it,’ explained Robbie, pointing at the north pier with a pencil.
Emma Jane gazed at his drawing with awe. ‘It’s huge! It’ll take tons of stone.’
He nodded. ‘I know, but it’s the only way. Otherwise every time it rains heavily there’ll be the danger of another landslip. Put it to Miller and say that he has to share the cost of the stone with you. He’d have to build it up anyway so it’s only fair.’
‘But what about time?’ she fretted. ‘How long will it take to build it?’
His face darkened. ‘I was thinking about that as well. I don’t know how long it’ll take. It won’t be easy to do…’
Then she smiled. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened, Robbie. Black Ace, my father’s right-hand man, has come back – and he’s going to work for us again!’
Robbie was delighted. ‘I remember him, of course – he’s the best! If anybody can get this done, it’ll be him. Leave it to Black Ace, Miss Emma. He’ll sort out the work, and you and I’ll draw up the plans. What luck he’s come back now!’
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ she said, but she was not entirely sure that she meant it.
When Emma Jane returned from the Rutherfords’ cottage it was almost midnight. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear. A fine mist drifted over the valley and a pale moon was glittering above the shoulder of the nearest Sister. She stopped in the middle of the street and stared westwards up the valley to where the lights of Rosewell glittered like diamonds against the blackness of the hills. Everything seemed bathed in peace and tranquillity until she turned to look southwards and saw a tongue of flame leap like a dancing imp up into the sky from a dark patch of trees on the lowest slope of the hill. The first flare-up was followed by another and another, red and orange devils dancing together against the encircling night. Something was burning and it wasn’t a bonfire. It was too big for that…
Tibbie was in her box bed by the fire but still awake when Emma Jane ran into the kitchen. ‘There’s a big blaze on the hill. What’s up there?’ she gasped, pointing in the direction of the flames.
Tibbie sat up with her grey hair flowing loose over her shoulders and her eyes wide. ‘There’s only Bella Vista, where Hannah used to work. It’s Colonel Anstruther’s place.’
‘It’s burning, it’s blazing,’ Emma Jane told her agitatedly. ‘I wonder if anybody knows about it?’
‘We’d better tell somebody. Let’s find William – he’ll know what to do,’ said Tibbie, scrambling out of bed.
‘You stay there. I’ll go and tell him,’ offered Emma Jane, and she ran out of the house again, across the road and up to the smiddy.
William stuck his head out of the window when she hammered on the door and called down, ‘Whatever’s up, lass?’
When she told him about the fire, his head was quickly withdrawn and soon he was out beside her. ‘I’ll ride over there,’ he announced, ‘It’s a big house, Bella Vista, and if it’s on fire they’ll need all the help they can get. You go back to your bed. I’ll tell you what’s happened in the morning.’
Bella Vista was well ablaze when he reached it, and the Rosewell Volunteer Fire Brigade were already in attendance with their horse-drawn van, brass helmets glittering with the reflection of the leaping flames which were tearing up from the central part of the house, through the roof and into the sky. There was nothing anyone could do to save it, and the men were standing around watching the destruction with tense, awestruck faces.
‘Is everybody out?’ gasped William when he reached the first group.
The leader of the Brigade turned and said bleakly, ‘They think there’s still some poor souls inside but it’s impossible to reach them. It was burning like kindling by the time we got here.’
William groaned, ‘Oh my God, how many are missing?’ As he spoke a huge timber from the roof went crashing into the heart of the flames, sending up a dazzling display of sparks.
‘I’m not sure yet. The old man and his wife are safely out – the butler rescued them – and so are most of the maids and the cook because they lived in a wide wing. But the son and his wife and her maid and a couple of wee bootboys who lived in the attic haven’t been accounted for yet. Mind you, they might have got out on their own and wandered off. People do funny things when they’re running away from a fire.’
Behind William, the two maids Madge and Jessie were clinging together and sobbing hysterically. ‘Oh, what about Mrs Bethya? Where’s she? And Francine? Where’s Francine?’
Allardyce the butler was passing them in search of a coat to wrap round the old Colonel and there were tears running down his cheeks when he shouted, ‘Don’t waste your pity on Francine. She’s the one who did this. It’s that Francine who set the house alight.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the chief fireman.
‘Because I saw her, that’s how I know. I saw her pouring lamp-oil over the furniture and setting fire to it. She was mad – I always thought so.’
The Rosewell policeman had arrived now and stood listening with a bemused look on his face. ‘You saw her setting fire to the hoose? Why didnae you stop her?’ he asked.
‘I tried to but she was raving. She’d already set fire to the first floor by the time I woke up. All I could do was get the Colonel and Mrs Anstruther out and raise the alarm, then the whole of that floor fell in. Oh Christ, what a terrible thing to happen. Bonny Mrs Bethya’s still in there. This’ll kill the Colonel.’ He didn’t mention Gus. The loss of the family’s dissolute son would only be devastating for his mother.
The Colonel was sitting on the grass with his back against the trunk of a tree. His normally highly-coloured face was ghastly white, and his eyes were staring. Beside him knelt the manservant who had been at his side through many adventures in India. The man was chafing his master’s hands and imploring, ‘Bear up, sir, bear up. I’ll fetch you a drop of brandy in a minute.’ Then he looked over his shoulder and called, ‘Has anybody a drink on them? Give it to me for the Colonel. He needs it badly.’
William passed over a battered tin flask saying, ‘It’s whisky.’
The manservant hurriedly unscrewed it and held it to the Colonel’s blue lips, whispering, ‘Take a sip, sir, take a sip. It’ll do you good.’
The Colonel swallowed, shuddered and then asked in a shaking voice, ‘Is everybody out? Is the Begum out?’
The manservant lied to him, ‘Yes, sir, she’s out,’ he said.
‘Colonel Anstruther, sir, Colonel Anstruther!’ Raeburn of Falconwood came running over the lawn with his hands held out in sympathy. He had been wakened with news of the tragedy and had come at once to see if he could render any assistance.
The Colonel stared at him with bleak eyes but did not speak and Falconwood said to the old man’s attendants, ‘Help the Colonel and his lady into my carriage. I’ll take them home with me – they can’t stay here.’
After they were driven away, the servants and the firefighters stood together staring with horror at the burning house, which they now knew was a funeral pyre for five people. Buckets of water were carried from the stable-block by a line of willing workers, but nothing could be done except to dowse the snaking tongues of fire that were trying to creep across the stableyard and attack the outbuildings. When dawn broke it was judged safe enough for the exhausted helpers to go and lie down in beds of hay and straw in the hayloft. There they fell into a merciful sleep.
When they woke there was nothing left of Bella Vista but a mound of smoking ruins. The Fire Brigade climbe
d back on to their cart and went home, and one by one the dispirited spectators drifted away. A feeling of doom and disaster hung over the scene.
‘This’ll take a few days to burn itself out and cool down, and then we’ll come back to look for the bodies – if there’s anything left of them, though I doubt it. That was an awful blaze, the worst I’ve ever seen,’ said the Rosewell policeman to Allardyce the butler, who was in a state of shock and couldn’t stop talking about what he’d witnessed when he first realised the house was burning.
‘I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,’ he kept repeating. ‘That Frenchwoman did it – God knows why. I heard noises and got up to find out what was going on. There she was in the drawing room, setting fire to everything – the curtains, the furniture, everything. I tried to stop her but she started screaming about not being able to trust anybody, about nobody ever loving her, that sort of stuff. She was mad. She didn’t care that the fire was going to kill her… the last I saw of her was with her dress all in flames. Oh my God, what a sight!’
He sank his face in his hands as the policeman asked, ‘Why was she trying to kill herself?’
Allardyce shook his head and jabbered on, ‘God knows! God knows, but she’s killed other folk too. That’s the tragedy of it. And she was laughing… laughing like a crazy thing. Oh God, it was a terrible sight.’
A young footman came over to help the distraught man, and he had something to contribute to the story. ‘That Francine was acting odd before it happened. I heard her yelling at a man who came to the back door and asked for Mrs Bethya, but he wouldn’t go away… I think Mrs Bethya went down to see him in the end, but I’m not sure. Aw, poor lassie…’ He was one of the many who were badly affected by the tragic death of the beautiful Bethya.
A Bridge in Time Page 54
