It was while I was half-heartedly eating a stew whose chief ingredients seemed to be ragged and unidentifiable vegetables mingled with suspicious pieces of gristle which put me much in mind of elderly horses like Meg, that I saw the skivvy, Rebecca, loitering about the doorway.
‘The mistress fell asleep in front of the fire, and I slipped out for a minute, but she’ll skin me alive if she finds out I’ve been talking to you.’
‘Then tell me quickly. Tell me what you’ve come to say.’
‘Only that they were far from kind to the puir lassie. That woman and her worthless husband, deil tak’ them for a pair of greedy beggars. There was little I could dae. But they had her sewin’ away for all she was worth, night and day. The mistress would tak’ the things away and sell them, but never a penny did she gie to your lassie. She said it was to pay for her bed and board. And they had her daein the washing an’ all an’ feedin’ the chickens they keep oot the back. She was mair o’ a skivvy than I am, if you ask me, for a’ that she was faim’ly to them.’
I sat amazed, my spoon clutched in my hand like a dagger.
‘But what about her cousin, the lady that was so ill? She was sent to help with the nursing, surely?’
The lassie looked at me with scornful pity. ‘Whit cousin?’ she said. ‘Whit lady? There’s nae ladies in that hoose, except maybe for your puir lassie. And what nursin’ are you talking about? There’s naebody sick in that hoose. Ah weel, sick in the heid mebbe.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I speak as I find. It was cruel to have a lassie in that state workin’ day and night, and nae wunner she went aff. I’m tellin’ you, if I’d had mair courage, I’d have been aff tae. I’d have gane wi’ her. She said, “Will ye come with me, Becky?” but I didnae have the courage. So she went all by herself, God love her. It was about a week ago. She left in the middle of the night, taking her bundle wi’ her, and a wee bit breid and cheese that I had saved for her, and a few bawbees that she took from the jar in the kitchen to buy mair breid on the road. And that was the last ony of us saw of her.’
I felt my heart contract in my chest.
‘But where did she go?’ I asked. ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’
‘Are ye daft?’ she said.
‘In God’s name, for what reason would she set off all alone? Why?’
‘Ach,’ she said, as if I were a simpleton, which indeed I think I was. ‘Only just to seek the faither of the wean. Whit other reason could there be?’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Coming Home
The weather had broken. All the long, uncomfortable way back to Glasgow, with the old mare plodding along and the autumn rains tumbling down the back of my neck and hers, the stench of damp and dirty clothes compounded the sour smells lodged in my nostrils and the discomfort of the itches and scratches of flea-infested inns along the road. All the way, I hoped and prayed that she would be back in her father’s house by the time I arrived.
I took the horse to Thomas’s stable without seeing anybody but the lad who took the reins from me. Meg had picked up speed, the closer we came to Glasgow. I think she could smell home and she positively cantered into her stable with the steam rising from her coat. I paused only to change my clothes at my own house, to grab a mouthful to eat and drink, to counter all my mother’s arguments that I was weary from the road and should sleep first – all true, but I could not do it – and set off again for Jenny’s house. It was late and very dark by the time I rapped on her door. Her sister Anna came to answer it, ladle in hand. The room smelled of cooking, and her father was seated at the table over his evening meal: a bowl of stew with a mound of potatoes floating in the gravy, a loaf of bread, a slab of white cheese. She had been serving him and herself, ladling the stew into wooden bowls. He looked up, startled by my entrance.
‘William! Come in and sit yourself down,’ he said. ‘Here, Anna, bring the lad something to drink. He looks fair worn out.’
‘I am.’
I sat down in the proffered chair. No point in antagonising the man from the off. He knew more than he had told me, for sure, but perhaps he didn’t know everything. As I rode back to the city, I had had more than enough time to consider the matter from all angles.
He gestured to a stone flagon on the dresser, and Anna poured whisky into a small glass. It was good whisky, but not something he dispensed lightly. Not like Thomas.
‘Drink up. You look half starved with the cold.’
‘I’ve had a long journey.’
He looked startled at that, as well he might. ‘Journey?’ he asked.’ What journey?’
‘I went to Dumfries. I was sick of half truths, Mr Caddas, and so I thought I would find out for myself just what was happening with Jenny.’
He had the grace to blush. He glanced across at Anna, and I saw that she looked puzzled. She was not in on the secret then. Or perhaps she had been told only the fiction of the cousin who was in want of a nurse.
‘Here,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Anna. Take yourself off next door for a wee while.’
‘But I haven’t had my supper yet,’ she said, plaintively.
‘Nancy will give you your supper, lass. Say I sent ye. I have serious business to talk about with William here. Just tak’ yourself off next door for a while and leave us in peace, hen, there’s a good lass.’
She went, frowning and none too happy about it, but she went.
He followed her to the door, watched her go along the lane, watched her knocking on the low door of Nancy’s cottage and saw her admitted before he allowed himself to come back in and sit down at the table. He pushed his supper away from him, untouched, but poured himself a large measure of the spirit and refilled my glass. We sat in silence for a moment, during which he rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with his fists, like a wean.
‘Ye should have asked me before you went, lad,’ he said.
‘I asked you often and often and you wouldnae tell me.’
‘So you ken why she went?’
‘I do now.’
‘I thocht just at first the wean was yours, William.’
‘Did you?’
‘Why would I no’? I was angry enough, Will, but she declared it wisnae yours at all, only she wouldnae tell me the name of the faither, no matter how I pressed her.’
‘Then she told you the truth. If there is a wean, it isn’t mine.’
‘God forgive me, Will, but I said tae her, why would she no’ tell you it was yours anyway. Many a man has brought up another man’s child in blissful ignorance, and since you were so obviously fond of the lassie, I saw no reason why you should not do the same.’
‘You would have had her lie to me?’
‘God help me, I would. But I thought only of her wellbeing. I was feart that you would reject her, and I’m sure she was feart of that herself. Why would she no’ be, given the circumstances? I said “He’s a good lad. He’ll stand by you if you only tell him the wean’s his.” That’s what I said to her.’
‘And what did she say to that?’
‘She said she couldnae and that was that and I was not to press her further.’ He saw my nod. ‘You’re not surprised?’
‘No.’
‘And when I did press her further, she tell’t me she couldnae dae that for the simple reason … because you and she, you and she …’ His voice trailed off. He was very flushed, his hands clenched on the table.
‘She told you the truth in that at least. We did naething but hold hands. Whiles she would kiss me, maistly on the cheek and once or twice I kissed her back, maistly on the lips. That was it. I have small experience with the lassies, Mr Caddas, but even I ken that ye cannae get a wean that wey.’
‘So she tellt me and blushed as she said it. But somebody was not so shy and who that man was, she wouldnae say.’
‘Some weaver lad maybe,’ I muttered. ‘And maybe married? Eh?’
He cast me a swift, stern glance as much as to say, ‘why blame the
weavers?’ but he could not deny the possibility. There were lads and men too, in and out of the weaving shed most days, and Jenny was a pretty lass.
‘So, we made a plan,’ he said, ignoring my interruption. ‘We made a plan that she would go to stay with these cousins in Dumfries. When once the wean was born, she would decide what to do. I said I wouldnae force her into anything. She could find a home for the wean down in Dumfries – her cousin said she would see tae that herself – or keep the wean if she wished. And I would not turn her away from my door. But I knew she was still fond of you. I thocht she might want to let the wean go and come hame and marry you. Besides … there’s many a slip. What if she lost the wean and had ruined all her chances with you for naething?’
How did I feel? I can’t rightly say. There was shock right enough. Oh and anger. I could feel rage at the duplicity of it all, boiling up inside me. But alongside it, there was this stream of terrible sadness, like water flowing among boulders. It hurt the heart of me. Had she not trusted me enough to tell me of her predicament? But perhaps she had been right. How else would I have reacted if not with anger at her news? I could do nothing but picture her confusion. Mr Caddas’s confession enraged me too, but then it occurred to me that in his position I might well have done the same thing. He loved his daughter, none more so. Not even myself.
There filtered back into my mind the question that must have been exercising her father too. If the child was not mine, then whose was it? I couldn’t begin to imagine. I thought I was the only lad she saw, but I found myself wondering if there had been other lads she chatted to over the garden wall, other lads who might have helped her to take a swarm of bees or shelled peas for her or gathered lavender with her. And suddenly I remembered that Mr Caddas himself had only half the story, and I had better tell him what I had come to say.
He pre-empted me. ‘How is the lass?’ he asked. ‘Is she well?’
I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’
‘You didn’t see her?’
‘She was not there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. She was not there. They treated her very badly, those cousins of hers and yours. I cannot imagine that they were blood relatives or, if they were, she is naething like them. I had the sorry tale from a servant of the house. They worked her half to death. And so she left. She must have been quite far gone. With the baby I mean. I have asked after her along the way. There was no sign of her along the road, no word at all of her, and believe me, I asked. But then I was some days behind her.’
I had made a nuisance of myself with questions about Jenny. Nobody had seen her.
He had already leapt to his feet, the chair falling over behind him. He began to pace up and down the kitchen.
‘Gone?’ he said. ‘But where is she? Where has she gone?’
‘Mr Caddas, how should I know? I thought, hoped, prayed even, that she would be at home with you, but I assume that there has been no sign of her here, either.’
‘No. None whatsoever. Where is she? Where is she?’
I could see that the same sense of helpless panic was invading his mind as had already invaded mine. If she had not come home, where in the name of God had she gone? To search for the father of her child. That’s what she had told the skivvy, Rebecca. Had she found him? How would he have reacted? Was she with him, or had he cast her out too? It didn’t bear thinking about, now, when the year was falling rapidly towards winter.
Sandy Caddas had turned pale and then so crimson in the face that I feared for him. I thought he might have a seizure. I made him sit down, gave him more whisky. ‘Where is she? Where can she be?’ he kept muttering.
‘I only wish I knew.’
He seized my hand. ‘William – dear God in heaven – what shall we do? How can we find her?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know where she’s gone. I hoped she might have come back to the city. That I would find her here. But she isn’t here either and she did not come to my house, for I have been there already.’
‘What can we do? If we spread the word, she will be ruined. Her reputation in tatters.’ He looked at me piteously. I had always thought him so wise and strong, but he crumbled before my eyes.
‘I care nothing about her reputation, sir. I would marry her with or without it.’
They were very fine words, spoken in the heat of the moment, but I wondered afterwards if I had really meant them. Well, perhaps I should give myself the benefit of the doubt and maybe I would have seen it through, if I was indeed the fine, honourable man I thought myself.
‘You’re a good lad.’
‘Aye. Maybe. But that doesn’t help us in this predicament. First we have to find her, see her safe, make sure the child is safe. Reassure her.’
‘Would you really be able to bring yourself to care for another man’s child?’
I honestly didn’t know. How could I tell? The thought was so new to me. But there was the idea at the back of my mind that it wasn’t the wean’s fault. No child could help the accident of its birth. So perhaps I could. And it came into my head that I would rather have Jenny Caddas with another man’s wean than no Jenny Caddas at all. So I said, ‘Maybe. Maybe I couldn’t and maybe I could. But first we have to find her. All that matters now is her safety.’
‘What will we do?’
His bluster, his confidence, was all gone. ‘What will we do, William?’ he repeated, miserably.
‘I don’t know.’
We sat there like a pair of eejits, drinking whisky with thoughts and suggestions whirling around our heads. I needed to speak to somebody else about this, but who? My mother would be so shocked that she would be no help. Besides, there was something in me that shrank from betraying Jenny’s secrets to her. I thought it was exactly the sort of predicament in which I would have turned to Jenny herself for advice. She would have been wise and thoughtful, and she would have told me what to do and where to turn.
And then it struck me that I could perhaps turn to Thomas for help. I would not want him to tell Marion about it, but he knew when to keep quiet. He liked Jenny, had been kind to her, loved her work. Out of regard for me, if nothing else, he would keep his own counsel. Besides, he was a doctor and used to keeping confidences. But he was an influential man, with many colleagues in the town. He would know how to make discreet enquiries. If anyone could find the means to lead us to Jenny, then he surely would.
I told Mr Caddas that I would make careful enquiries through certain contacts of my own, but without making it particularly clear who those contacts were, who I would be consulting. I thought he would be mortified to know that I would be confiding his family’s shameful secrets to the likes of Thomas Brown. How could I explain about our friendship? How could I explain to him that I knew I could trust Thomas with my life, never mind with these secrets? So I told him only that I would make enquiries, and would tell him as soon as there was news. That maybe he had better go about the streets of the town himself and see if there was any sign of Jenny at all. And this he agreed to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Repercussions
I went home to my bed if not to sleep, and the next day I got on with my work, which had all fallen behind in my absence, but what could they do to me? They had already dismissed me and it would be well-nigh impossible for them to replace me before Candlemas. Nevertheless, I worked with a will and set James and Johnnie and the other lads to putting right all the many things they had neglected while I had been in Dumfries. Later in the day, when I felt I had control of the gardens again, although by no means control of myself, I took myself off to Thomas’s house to tell him all that had passed.
As ill luck would have it, he had visitors. Professor Jeffray and his wife were there, for dinner. I had forgotten, of course, that they ate much later than we did, particularly when they were entertaining. I could smell the appetising scent of roast meat and hear Jeffray’s great braying laugh from the dining room, although I never got a sight o
f him, and I felt more like an intruder than I ever had in this house before. For once, I felt like the common gardener I was, standing at Thomas’s door with my cap in my hand and despising myself for the sense of inferiority that came over me at that moment. I think I always had the fear that one day Thomas would avert his gaze from mine for good, come to his senses, renounce our friendship. I don’t know why I was like this with Thomas in particular. I was never so unsure of myself with anybody else, but Thomas seemed to open within me a positive abyss of uncertainty.
The maid, new to the household, didn’t invite me in, but looked askance at my muddy boots and went to fetch her master. Thomas came to the door and – surprised to see me, but welcoming as ever – pulled me inside. I think he would actually have asked me to join them, but I felt the full weight of the dirt in my fingernails and my shabby clothes. I stood there like a gowk, turning my cap over and over in my hands and telling him that no, I wouldn’t come in to spoil their evening. Thomas felt badly about it, that was plain to see, but Jeffray was an influential man and no great friend to me either. It was certainly better if I didn’t meet him. And besides, it would ruin Marion’s party. And Thomas would have rued his unwise behaviour, I’m sure. Jeffray would have seen to that.
‘I have to ask for your advice. But I won’t do it tonight,’ I told him.’ Tomorrow will do. There’s not a thing that can be done tonight, after all.’
He seemed intrigued. ‘Advice about what?’
‘No, no. Tomorrow will be soon enough. But I need to talk to you. I need a friend’s help. Maybe you would come to the garden? Tomorrow? Maybe we could talk then?’
‘Aye. Aye, of course.’ He seemed torn between embarrassment and curiosity, but I think he could tell from my manner that it was a serious matter. ‘What’s wrong, William?’ he asked. ‘At least tell me what’s wrong?’
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