The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘Mother! She canna sleep in there! My bed is plenty big enough for two …’ Meg protested.

  ‘That’s where she’ll sleep if she stays here.’

  ‘Th-thank you ma’am,’ Rachel stammered, but she could not suppress a shudder. Where was the kindly welcome her father had assured her she would receive?

  ‘I shall be all right,’ she whispered in a choked voice as her eyes met Meg’s. She looked and sounded so young and dejected that Meg almost wept. The room her mother had prepared had once been a larder for storing salt meat because it was the coldest corner in the house. It had a single pane of glass, no more than nine inches square. It was bare and damp.

  ‘Let… lassie sleep with … Meg.’ Cameron’s voice, slurred with drug induced sleep, rumbled from somewhere behind his wife.

  ‘I’ve told her where she’s to sleep.’

  ‘Tomorrow … soon enough …’ Cameron muttered with a great effort. Ross, on his way to the door to see to the pony, turned, remembering.

  ‘I met a man named Jim MacDonald at the funeral. He reckons he’s a distant relation.’ He was astonished when such a trivial bit of news effectively diverted their mother’s attention.

  ‘Jim MacDonald?’ Gertie stared. ‘What was he doing at Connor O’Brian’s funeral?’

  Ross moved back to the alcove, jerking his head towards the stairs. Meg needed no further prompting. She took Rachel’s hand and led her up to her own attic bedroom above the kitchen.

  ‘I will bring you something hot on a tray,’ she whispered. ‘You climb into bed and get yourself warm.’

  Downstairs Gertie had not even noticed as Ross went on,

  ‘He plans to call on us.’

  ‘What was Jim MacDonald doing up here?’ she repeated. ‘His parents moved to a farm near Lockerbie in Dumfriesshire.’

  ‘He came up to Ayrshire to attend another funeral – his aunt, or great-aunt, I believe.’ Ross frowned, trying to recall the brief meeting, little realising the importance it would play in his own life.

  ‘My father and Jim MacDonald’s father were cousins,’ Gertrude mused aloud, her mind concentrating on the family connections.

  ‘The old lady was ninety-two.’ Ross supplied obligingly. ‘He’s staying with friends on the other side of the glen, so that he can catch the milk train to Kilmarnock on Friday morning. There’s a train south from there.’ Ross stifled a yawn. ‘I must see to the pony now.’

  Rachel trembled as she climbed into Meg’s large bed. The prospect of living with Mistress Maxwell was daunting. She was not afraid to work, but she sensed Mistress Maxwell did not want her at Windlebrae. Yet what alternative did she have? She remembered the dismay she had felt when she discovered her father had no money to pay the doctor’s fee. She had already killed the pig. When the hens stopped laying she had made them into soup, praying that nourishing food would restore him back to health, or at least keep him alive. At the thought of her beloved father, the scalding tears spilled once more. She wished she could join him. Surely the grave could be no less welcoming than this house?

  Granny Ferguson would have given her a home, but she had no space and little money. Her cottage belonged to the Laird and would return to him when she died. She could not inflict herself on an old woman of ninety, even if she could have found work. Doctor Gall said there were a million unemployed men in the country and work was hard to find even for men in desperate need of it.

  Well, she was young and strong and she would work hard and prove that she was worthy of her keep. A hazy memory of her mother floated into her mind. She remembered the soft voice telling her always to say her prayers each night, and to think of pleasant things before she settled down to sleep. Wearily she scrambled out of bed and knelt down to pray. This was the way Meg found her when she returned with hot milk and bread and butter.

  It would take a great many prayers to win her mother round, Meg thought, in spite of her assertions that she was a God-fearing Christian. Even Meg did not suspect the depth of her mother’s bitterness, much less its cause and a growing obsession for revenge.

  Chapter Three

  GERTRUDE MAXWELL MADE NO effort to hide her resentment and Rachel realised she would extract her pound of flesh at every opportunity. She was young, she was innocent of the ways of the world, but she was intelligent. She sensed that Mistress Maxwell bore her a grievance, though they had never met until now.

  She had not come to Windlebrae expecting charity. She was used to work. Minnie Ferguson had taken her under her wing from the day her mother died when she was eight years old. She had been a stern tutor.

  ‘It’s for your ain good, my lassie,’ she wagged her white head, whenever she made Rachel repeat a task. She had a wealth of experience gleaned in her long years of service in the household of Lord and Lady Danbury. She had started as an under-maid at twelve years old and finished as housekeeper. In return for her labour and loyalty she had been granted the use of her tiny cottage for the remainder of her life.

  Rachel was grateful for her training now but nothing had prepared her for a house so lacking in warmth and laughter as Windlebrae.

  On that first dark February morning Gertrude Maxwell marched her across to the byre as though she was a prisoner. Rachel soon guessed she was to be given the worst of the cows to milk – a flighty young heifer who was bent on kicking, a dejected looking old cow with long tough teats who seemed to grudge parting with every drop of milk, and a fidgety blue-grey young cow with a wild gleam in her eye. Meg gasped a protest. She was silenced with a quelling scowl. Ross was more outspoken.

  ‘You canna expect the lassie to milk Bluey!’ he objected. ‘I’ll milk her.’

  ‘You’ll get on with your own work and mind your business,’ Gertrude snapped. She stood with her hands on her hips watching Rachel settle herself on her stool. She tucked her head firmly against the cow’s flank as her father had taught her to do. She felt drained and deadly tired. It was the morning after his funeral, her first morning in her new home. Home? The memory of her father brought tears to her eyes. She turned her head away from Gertrude’s gimlet glare only to encounter the wild eyes of Bluey. Instinctively she murmured in the soothing way she had with animals. Her hands were gentle, almost caressing on the swollen udder. After a few uneasy movements the cow stood quietly and let her milk flow.

  At breakfast Ross and Meg praised her success with Bluey.

  ‘Aye, lassie, your father always had a way with animals, especially horses,’ Cameron told her. ‘There was no one like him for gentling a spirited young colt. You must have inherited his skill.’

  His wife sniffed, but before she could comment they were interrupted by the cheerful whistle of Tam McGill with his mail bag.

  ‘I see ye’ll be having a visitor?’ he remarked curiously, handing Gertrude a postcard.

  ‘Is that any business of yours?’ she snapped, snatching it from him.

  ‘Och, I just wondered if it was one o’ the MacDonalds who used to bide across in the Lang Glen. They had a laddie called Jim. His family went to a farm in England I believe.’

  ‘They went to a farm down in Dumfriesshire – near the Border.’

  ‘Ah, so it is the same MacDonald then?’ Tam grinned and winked across at Meg and Ross. Then he caught sight of Rachel. ‘Well, well, a new face at Windlebrae! And who might you be, lassie?’

  ‘This is Connor O’Brian’s bairn,’ Cameron enlightened him swiftly, before Gertie could make any more acid remarks. ‘You’ll remember him, Tam?’

  The two men fell to reminiscing about old acquaintances while Meg poured Tam a cup of tea.

  Gertrude made a surprising fuss over Jim MacDonald’s brief visit. The flagged stone floor was scrubbed regularly but it had to be scrubbed again from corner to corner, and the outdoor steps edged with scouring stone. The china tea service was taken from the corner cupboard and washed. She baked shortbread and a fruit cake, although these were usually reserved for Christmas.

  Outside the yard had to be swe
pt, the byre and stable given an extra clean and the dairy, which Meg kept spotless at any time, had another scrub.

  ‘What is all the fuss about?’ Cameron grumbled irritably when he and his wooden armchair were pushed aside and a cold east wind blew through the wide open door to dry the floor and freshen the air. ‘Jim and you were never great friends as far as I remember, Gertie. He spent more time at our house when he first left school.’ He added reminiscently. ‘Mother used to think he was sweet on our Cathie …’

  ‘Stop your foolish talk! He was only a lad.’ Gertrude cut his meandering.

  ‘Aye, Cathie was his childhood sweetheart.’ Cameron sighed. ‘It was a pity the MacDonalds moved away. They’ve done well by all accounts.’

  ‘I’ll show Jim we are as good as he is …’ she broke off.

  ‘Aye? What were you going to say? I can tell you have some bee in your bonnet. I know the signs after all these years – but I can’t think what business ye can have with Jim.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘He isn’t even a close relation.’

  After all the preparations Meg and Ross were disappointed not to meet this long-lost relation. Meg was despatched to town on the bus which ran once a week from Five Lane Ends. Usually Gertrude went herself to sell her butter and eggs and buy essential groceries. In spite of the two mile walk from Windlebrae, Meg considered the outing a rare treat.

  Ross was less pleased with his task of loading the cart with oats to take to the local mill. He had only spoken briefly to Jim MacDonald at O’Brian’s funeral but he had quite liked the man and he would have enjoyed hearing about his farm in the Borders.

  Rachel was left to carry out the daily tasks. As soon as Gertrude heard the pony and trap, which Jim MacDonald had hired, she gave Rachel a thick crust of bread and told her to eat it in the dairy and get on with her work.

  ‘So how is the farming in your area, Jim?’ Cameron asked. ‘Is it as bad as it is up here?’

  ‘Much the same everywhere, I reckon, but we’re still managing to make a living. I’ve got both of my laddies into farms on the same estate so we’re not grumbling. Mind you there’s a few tenants giving up. The Factor was telling me he has had one farm vacant for more than a year. He’s offering it rent-free for twelve months if he can get a tenant who would take it on and improve it.’

  ‘That may not be easy with prices the way they are and all the food coming into the country,’ Cameron said.

  ‘You’re right there. None of the tenants can afford to do repairs, or fencing and draining. One of the best farms on our estate is called The Glens of Lochandee. It has been in the same family for generations – almost gentry themselves. There is just a widow left now and the Factor was saying he has never seen a farm deteriorate so fast in his life.’

  ‘Aye, it’s the same on this estate. Our neighbour is giving up his tenancy. If I had been in good health I’d have taken it on for Ross. He’s keen to have a farm of his own. He and Willie would have helped each other with the hay and the shearing if they were neighbours.’

  ‘Well you’re not fit. It’s out of the question,’ Gertrude snapped. ‘Can I give you another cup of tea, Jim?’ The subject of a farm for Ross was dismissed.

  Rachel celebrated her sixteenth birthday on the third day of March, 1902 – eighteen days after her father’s funeral.

  ‘Mother’s not coming to the milking regularly from now on,’ Meg announced that morning. ‘She says she has plenty to do attending to Father and cooking the breakfast for us.’

  ‘If you ask me she has seen that young Rachel is just as good at milking as she is – maybe even better,’ Ross grinned, ‘but she would never admit it.’

  ‘Mother does not believe in giving much praise,’ Meg admitted reluctantly and was rewarded by Rachel’s shy smile, her nod of acceptance. It was the lack of tenderness and affection which she had missed since coming to Windlebrae, the absence of laughter. Gertrude Maxwell’s presence was like a cold dark shadow, forbidding merriment. Her absence from the milking was the best gift Rachel could have wished for.

  The warmth and friendliness which now filled the byre, even on the coldest March mornings, began to dispel some of the chill and grief from her young heart. Ross teased her as though she was his young sister and Meg was always ready with a kind word of appreciation or encouragement. Willie looked after the horses and fed the cattle and sheep so he was rarely in the byre at milking time, but he included Rachel in the conversation when he came to feed the cows.

  ‘You must come to the cottage and meet Annie and the children,’ he suggested one afternoon when she was helping him sweep the byre and prepare the cows for the evening milking.

  ‘Oh, I would love that.’ Rachel was delighted at the prospect of seeing the children. ‘But …’ she looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Even Mother can’t keep you working all the time,’ he said dryly. ‘She’s strict about keeping the Sabbath but after you have been to the kirk you could walk down to see us, maybe?’ Rachel nodded eagerly, feeling a surge of optimism. Maybe life would not be so bad at Windlebrae after all. In any case she had no money and nowhere else to go so she must make the best of her situation. She had no way of knowing that youthful optimism and innocence could prove a hazardous combination for a pretty girl with no one to guide her.

  When Rachel accompanied the family to church the following Sunday she sat at the end of the Maxwell pew next to Meg so she could not help noticing the frequent glances which passed between Meg and the man in one of the pews across the aisle. There was something strangely sad, almost wistful in the man’s smile as they filed out of church after the service. It was Willie’s wife, Ruth, who told her his name was Peter Sedgeman, a widower with three young children.

  ‘According to Willie, he and Meg loved each other even before he married. They still do if you ask me,’ Ruth declared.

  ‘Then why didn’t he marry her?’ Rachel asked innocently.

  ‘It was all before I knew Willie,’ Ruth shrugged. ‘Willie says Meg can’t have children and their mother convinced her it was wrong to marry, knowing she couldn’t give a man a family. Meg would make a wonderful mother though. I reckon Peter would marry her tomorrow if he got any encouragement. He feels he has nothing to offer her except the burden of his children now.’

  ‘But if Meg still loves him …?’

  ‘She scarcely gets chance to see him. Peter has a grocer’s shop in the village of Ardmill about four miles away. He delivers round all the farms in the area, but Mistress Maxwell will not have him near Windlebrae. Did you notice he didna get speaking to Meg on her own after church?’

  ‘How awful.’ Rachel frowned.

  ‘She is selfish. My father summed up Mistress Maxwell the first time they met. That’s why he insisted we should have a cottage of our own. Willie is loyal but he’s not blind to his mother’s faults. She worshipped Josh apparently so Willie and Meg and Ross are all used to playing second fiddle. Now that Willie’s father needs so much care she will never let Meg out of her clutches and Meg is too gentle to defy her. She hates quarrels and Willie says she has always been close to their father.’

  Rachel enjoyed playing with Ruth’s little girl, Annie, and nursing the baby. She felt she had made a new friend and enjoyed Ruth’s cheery company. She returned to the farmhouse in time to change her best black dress ready for the milking, her pale cheeks glowing. Cameron Maxwell noticed the lifting of her spirits and was relieved. He was grateful to Ruth and Willie for making the lassie welcome. Gertrude also noticed the little smile and the tender light in Rachel’s eyes and remembered Mhairi Maclean. She looked just like her mother.

  ‘You should be mourning your father, girl instead of gallivanting around the countryside on the Sabbath.’

  ‘B-but …’ Rachel stared at her. ‘I was visiting your grandchildren, Mistress Maxwell.’

  ‘My grandchildren do not need the likes o’ you. Your time would be better spent reading the Bible and showing respect for the dead.’

  ‘Oh, com
e on Gertie,’ Cameron protested. ‘Connor would never have expected his lassie to mope. It’s good for her visit Ruth and the bairnies.’

  ‘I’ll thank you not to interfere with the way I discipline my maids, Cameron Maxwell. Get into the dairy and remember what I’ve told you. I’ll have a word with Willie.’

  So the brief pleasure of getting to know Ruth and the children ended before it had begun.

  Chapter Four

  RACHEL WAS SURPRISED WHEN Tam the postie delivered a letter for her. She sensed that Gertrude Maxwell would have snatched it from him if she could, but he arrived while they were having breakfast. She fancied there was a devilish gleam in his eye as he deliberately stretched across the table to hand it to her personally. Certainly there was no doubt about the wink he gave her. She turned the letter over and over, puzzled by the unfamiliar, rather shaky, writing.

  ‘Well don’t stare at it all day, girl. Get it opened and then we can all get on with our work.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Rachel gasped and the colour ebbed from her face. Meg placed an arm around her thin shoulders.

  ‘Surely it can’t be bad news for you, Rachel?’ she prompted gently, wondering what could upset her so much when she had already lost both her parents and she had no other close family.

  ‘It’s Minnie.’ She looked across at Ross, her mouth trembling. She bit her lip. ‘You remember Minnie Ferguson, Ross?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he agreed recalling the old woman who had befriended Rachel. ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘She has died. Two weeks ago,’ she added in a whisper, ‘and I never knew.’ She scanned the careful sentences. ‘This letter is from our neighbour. She lived next door to the smiddy. The minister gave her my address. Minnie has left a vase for me as a wee minding. It belonged to her parents.’

  ‘Much good an old thing like that will do you,’ Gertrude sniffed. ‘A few sovereigns would have been more use.’