The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘Everybody knew. It was in all the papers. There were twenty people killed. Didn’t Gertrude tell you anything about your parents?’

  ‘No.’ Ross’s voice was grim. ‘I didn’t even know my name was my father’s surname. There was nothing in the letter about them.’

  ‘Cameron should have told you! Gertrude and her morals and religion! She’s just a hypocrite. If the truth be known she might have caused a bigger slur on the Maxwell name than anyone if some of the rumours were true,’ Jim muttered angrily.

  ‘My father …?’

  ‘Your father had gone to a football match in Glasgow with some of his friends. According to gossip at the time, he hadn’t really wanted to go, his mother being so ill and the wedding only a few days away. They persuaded him to join them as a last fling before he settled down.’

  ‘When was it – the football match I mean?’

  ‘As far as I remember it was about March or April. The year was 1902, I remember that.’

  ‘I see …’ Ross’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. Jim cast him a sideways glance, ‘and I was born on the twenty-fifth of November …’ he muttered under his breath.

  Ross’s mind was racing. He felt his spirits rise for the first time since he had opened the letter and learned he was a bastard. He knew who his mother had been. She sounded just like Meg. And she had been going to get married. His father had not been someone she had met at a dance. His own face burned as he recalled the one occasion he had been persuaded to drink enough to fuddle his senses and be led astray by a woman nearly old enough to be his mother. He had feared he might be the result of just such a fleeting union. He had even wondered if Cameron Maxwell really was his father and if that was the reason for Gertrude Maxwell’s resentment.

  He was startled out of his reverie by the Factor’s greeting.

  ‘So what are your first impressions of The Glens of Lochandee, young man?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘They’re the very opposite to the last farm you showed me. I knew I could never live there. But here …’ he lifted an arm in a wide arc, embracing the sweep of fields spread out before them, the gentle folds of the low hills, the silvery ribbon of the burn meandering in and out of view, and beyond them the sheltering peaks of higher hills. Suddenly the lines of a poem he had learned at school sprang to his mind:

  Land of brown earth and shaggy wood,

  Land of the mountain and the flood,

  Land of my sires! What mortal hand

  Can e’er untie the filial band,

  That knits me to thy rugged strand!

  He breathed in deeply. He was overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings for a place he had never seen before. He smiled, the slow wide smile which had not lit his face since he set out from Windlebrae.

  ‘This is as near to perfect as I can imagine.’

  ‘Ah, now you’re a laddie after my own heart!’ A middle-aged woman chuckled at his elbow. He had not heard Alice Beattie approach. She was plump and rosy-cheeked with hair that still had more brown than grey. It was drawn into a bun but it was thick and wavy at the front. Ross guessed she had once been very pretty. Her smile was warm, her brown eyes dancing. She reminded him of an older edition of Meg. At the thought of Meg his face softened.

  ‘Come away in, all of you. You’ll be ready for a cup of tea, I’m sure.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, we would like to take a look around the farm first,’ Mr Shaw suggested. ‘Ross may have some questions he would like to ask you when he has had a chance to see everything.’

  Alice nodded agreeably and the three men moved away to the buildings. The dairy was adjacent to the house and there was a large empty room next to it.

  ‘This was the cheese dairy,’ Mr Shaw told them. ‘Alice has not made cheese since Tom fell ill. The milk has to be taken three and a half miles to the station early every morning. It goes by train to a buyer in the city.’

  They moved from the dairy to the stone-built byre with its wooden stalls. There was a passage in front of them to make it easier to feed the cows in winter, and a hay-loft above.

  ‘Stalls for thirty milking cows,’ Jim MacDonald whistled. ‘Six more than we have at Briarbush.’

  ‘Milk is the main income,’ Mr Shaw nodded. ‘Unfortunately they seem to have lost a lot of the cows since the man Kerr has been in charge. Nathan Wright and his wife have spent most of their married life in the cottage here. They were sickened and disgusted by Kerr’s neglect. I believe they might come back to help a bit when he gets out of the way.’

  At the far end of the byre a door led outside. Ross walked ahead, leaving the two men discussing the buildings. As he had anticipated he found himself in the stack-yard. He was dismayed to see how badly thatched the round straw stacks were. They would never keep out the winter rains. Adjacent to the byre an open-fronted shed ran to his right. It was piled high with dung and Ross drew to an abrupt halt at the sound of a man’s voice uttering obscenities, apparently haranguing someone.

  He peered through the slatted enclosure of the pens and saw a gangly limbed man loading mammoth forks of manure onto a cart. A little distance away another man was lounging on a low wall, smoking a pipe, one leg propped on the other. Between puffs at his pipe he continued his crude insults, exhorting the other man to impossible feats although his labours were already causing him to sweat profusely. Ross felt sickened by the bully. Mr Shaw approached.

  ‘Who is that lazy ruffian?’ Ross asked. The Factor’s face tightened with anger. He stepped forward.

  ‘Good afternoon, Alfie,’ he addressed the gangly young man. A wide grin split his thin irregular features. He lifted his arm in a wobbly salute.

  ‘G-g-’fte’n, M-M-M.’ He cackled with delight. The other man had jumped to his feet, stuffing his lighted pipe into his trouser pocket.

  ‘I should put that pipe out, if I were you, Kerr,’ Mr Shaw commented coldly, ‘Though a flame or two around your backside might get you moving enough to dirty your own fork.’

  ‘I-I was just …’

  ‘Just watching Alfie do the work, as usual,’ Mr Shaw nodded contemptuously. ‘That manure should have been out in the spring.’

  ‘I’m the only man around here. I can’t be expected to do everything myself!’ he argued sullenly.

  ‘That’s the trouble, you don’t do anything yourself – at least only when Mrs Beattie is there to watch over you. Let me tell you, my man, you will not get another hiring on any of the farms on this estate, I shall see to that. You are not worth the salt for your porridge.’ The man’s eyes narrowed angrily.

  ‘That old bitch has been complaining again, has she?’

  ‘If you mean Mrs Beattie, then you are wrong. I know you …’

  ‘You know nothing about me! What can you know? Riding around on your fine horse, acting like the Laird himself.’

  ‘If I were the Laird you would have been away from here months ago. If he hears how you have cheated Mrs Beattie you might find yourself without a place before the hiring fairs,’ Mr Shaw told him icily. ‘Oh, don’t deny it. I heard how you had sold half a dozen sheep to a dealer and another four to one of your cronies. You told Mrs Beattie they had died. Word of such treachery travels swiftly around an estate like this. Don’t you forget it.’

  Watching the encounter, Ross realised that Mr Shaw might be a good friend to Alice Beattie, and to the MacDonalds, people with an integrity to match his own, but he would make an implacable enemy. It was evident he kept his eyes and ears open too. Not that he could feel sorry for the man called Kerr. He was a typical bully to the poor young fellow who had been trying so desperately hard to please.

  ‘You can act all high and mighty if you like, but she can’t manage without me. This stupid idiot,’ he glanced malevolently at Alfie’s grinning face, ‘he doesn’t know whether to pull a cow’s tail or its tits to get it milked.’

  Mr Shaw simply turned on his heel with a look of contempt. Jim MacDonald raised his eyebrows at Ross and they followed on the Factor’
s heels in silence.

  Except for the unpleasant encounter with Watt Kerr, Ross thoroughly enjoyed looking around the rest of the farm, though he could see many jobs which had been neglected. Both he and Jim MacDonald commented on some of these as they passed, especially the breaks in the boundary fences and hedges which clearly allowed the cattle to stray onto their neighbours’ pastures, and vice versa. They paused at the highest point of the farm and turned to scan the panorama of fields below them.

  ‘It’s a beautiful stretch of countryside,’ Ross sighed. ‘Much kinder than Windlebrae.’ He turned to Jim MacDonald.

  ‘A great improvement,’ he agreed. ‘If I were you I’d put Windlebrae and Ayrshire into the past from now on, laddie.’ Ross sensed he was referring to more than farming. ‘Look you can just see the glint of the Solway Firth in the distance, to the left of that line of trees. The tide must be in. They are the Galloway Hills beyond. If you look further round towards the south east you will see the peaks of the Cumberland Fells.’

  ‘Yes, I see the Solway now. I didn’t appreciate we were so near the shore!’ Ross’s surprise was evident and both the men smiled.

  ‘We don’t often get snowed in here,’ Mr Shaw said.

  ‘It does happen sometimes though,’ Jim MacDonald cautioned. ‘Then you have to cart the milk across the fields to get it to the station if you want to sell it. Of course we get more than our fair share of rain. The westerly winds bring it. There is no such thing as an easy haymaking – you’ll have to remember that if you and Mrs Beattie come to an arrangement. It will be up to you to organise that side of things and make a good job of it.’ There was a grave note in Jim MacDonald’s voice now.

  ‘Yes,’ Ross nodded. ‘I may need to come to you for advice.’

  ‘You’ll be more than welcome, Ross,’ Jim agreed warmly. Glancing up he met Mr Shaw’s eyes, and saw a faint nod of approval. A display of over-confidence would not have gained the Factor’s recommendation for his young protégé, he realised.

  Mr Shaw made few comments until they returned to the house. He waited until Alice Beattie had carried the tea tray into the large square dining room. The mahogany table was already set for a hearty afternoon tea.

  As they discussed their walk around the farm and steading Alice was pleased to note Ross’s deference to the opinion of the older men but his own comments regarding the poor thatching of the corn stacks were valid, she acknowledged ruefully.

  ‘That is one task Alfie cannot attempt,’ she told them. ‘The poor boy cannot climb a ladder. His legs seem to go in the opposite direction to the rungs. In fact he’s not very good with heights of any kind. Watt Kerr had to do the thatching but he made a poor job of it. I shall be glad to be rid of him – even if it means having to give up my home,’ she concluded wistfully.

  ‘I don’t think it will come to that,’ Mr Shaw assured her. ‘Ross knows you can’t offer him much more than his keep. Anything extra will be what he has earned for you and for himself. Fair dealing all round.’ Ross thought there was a note of warning in the Factor’s voice. He remembered Kerr’s dishonesty.

  ‘For my part I would not want it any other way.’ He lifted his head proudly.

  ‘In that case it’s up to you and Mrs Beattie. What do you think Alice?’

  She looked at Ross, her eyes kindly but shrewd, her head on one side as she considered him. He felt his colour rise in embarrassment. Suddenly she gave a chuckle.

  ‘I think we shall do very well together. We both have a lot to gain. I shall be content if we can work in harmony and keep The Glens of Lochandee as his Lordship expects his farms to be kept.’

  Ross smiled widely in his relief.

  ‘And I shall be glad to accept the challenge of helping you do it.’ He looked at Jim MacDonald and gave an unexpectedly mischievous grin. ‘We shall aim to make Lochandee the best farm on the estate – even better than Briarbush!’

  ‘Well, you young rascal!’ Jim MacDonald chuckled. His heart had given a tiny flip. The glint in Ross’s eyes, his irresistible smile, reminded him of his youth and Cathie Maxwell. ‘I’ll take you up on that. Five years from now and Mr Shaw can be the judge, God willing.’

  Five years! The light died from Ross’s eyes. Would Rachel still be free? Would she be married? She had never written. He had to put her out of his mind. It was clear she did not want him. He must start a new life without her.

  ‘Take one day at a time, and do your best with it, laddie,’ Alice Beattie advised, seeing the shadows in his eyes, the pulse beating tensely in his jaw. ‘No one can do more than that.’ She had a good feeling about this young stranger.

  Chapter Eleven

  BACK AT ARDMILL, PETER Sedgeman’svillage, Rachel would have given her life to know Ross had not forgotten her, that he loved her and wanted her. As it was she had no idea where he had gone, or why. She felt deserted and filled with anxiety and dread about the future.

  Meg knew little of babies but it seemed likely that Rachel was expecting a child.

  ‘Ross told me he loved me,’ she sobbed. ‘He said he would always be my friend. He said I could trust him – always.’ She had subsided into Meg’s arms the second evening they spent together under Peter’s roof. Her distress almost brought Meg to tears.

  Meg had brought the carved box from Windlebrae and Rachel immediately offered her single gold sovereign to Peter.

  ‘Lassie, I don’t want your money!’ he exclaimed, and folded her small, work roughened hand around the precious coin. ‘You keep it safely.’

  ‘But I owe you so much … more than money.’

  ‘You have given me more than you’ll ever know,’ Peter beamed. ‘I’m sorry you had to suffer but it helped Meg to see her mother does not deserve her unswerving loyalty. Anyway, there’s plenty of room here, and plenty of work too. You are welcome to stay and help Meg until Ross returns.’

  ‘He will come back, won’t he, Mr Sedgeman?’ Her eyes were wide and troubled.

  ‘He’ll be back one of these days, lassie.’ Peter wished he could speak with true conviction. Neither he nor Meg could understand Ross’s disappearance, or his silence. Meg thought he might be on a ship bound for a new country.

  Peter and Meg were married quietly in the village church where Peter was an Elder. The whole house seemed alight with their radiance and joy. Rachel tried to be happy for Meg’s sake but whenever she went to church with Meg and Peter she saw the women casting her sly looks, and whispering behind their hands. She knew they were gossiping about her.

  Once when she went into the shop to take a batch of scones she overheard two of the women discussing her and Peter and her cheeks burned with shame and embarrassment.

  ‘There’s no smoke without fire. Maybe Eliza MacDougall had the truth o’ it. She was sure the bairn was Mr Sedgeman’s.’

  ‘Aye, could be. We’ve never seen any other man hanging around her.’

  Rachel wanted to go and shout at them. She wanted to defend Peter, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak to the women.

  The winter days grew shorter and darker and the full horror of her predicament preyed on her mind.

  ‘You are working much too hard, dear Rachel,’ Meg said anxiously one morning as they finished cleaning the last of the store rooms. Between them they had cleaned every inch of the house and shop, including the old bakery and the oven and griddle plates. Meg planned to bake more scones and bread to help Peter’s trade. Rachel shuddered when she considered her own future. How was she to manage? Where else could she find work – the kind where she would have a roof and where her baby would be accepted?

  The hurt she felt over Ross’s desertion was like a knife twisting in her heart. He had not even bid her a word of farewell. Day after day she had hoped and prayed for a letter. As time passed, her hopes faded. She knew Meg was hurt by his silence too. Neither of them mentioned him any more.

  Yet, in spite everything there was a little fountain of delight which bubbled up inside her every now and then. Rachel loved ch
ildren. She would have her very own child to love. She would no longer be alone in the world. How she would feed and clothe a helpless mite, without money or employment, she dared not think.

  She worked hard to help Meg with the bakery, determined to earn her keep. She was good with pastry and scones and Mrs Jenkins had promised to show her how to make bread.

  ‘I like the company m’ dear’ she had said to Meg the first week after her marriage to Peter. ‘If you don’t mind I would like to come and read a story to the wee ones, or help with the ironing and other wee jobs you might find for me. Every little bit ekes out the coppers and I’m managing fine – but I do enjoy the company most of all,’ she confided to Meg. ‘It was the best thing ever happened to Mr Sedgeman when he married you.’ In return Meg made sure she shared a good meal with them at midday. Peter was a kind man; he was also a very happy man now that he had Meg for his wife.

  Rachel and Meg used their new skills, with the help of Mrs Jenkins to bake cakes for Christmas, black bun and shortbread for Hogmanay, as well as soda scones and pancakes, oatcakes and potato scones, and loaves of bread. The venture was a huge success. Peter was delighted.

  In the cobbler’s shop next door to the grocery store Sam Dewar watched the changes with interest. He lived alone. His paddocks adjoined Peter Sedgeman’s and he often saw Rachel carrying out the huge wicker baskets full of washing, or tending Peter’s two horses and the cow he had bought.

  He wondered why a girl who was as young and pretty should look so pensive, even sad. As time passed and he noticed her thickening waist, he guessed her secret and shook his head sadly. Sam did not condemn. His own grandmother had suffered the same fate. She had not been a wicked woman. She had loved the wrong man and he had let her down. There were few people in Ardmill now who would still recall his family history, but Sam never forgot.

  He longed to banish the sadness from Rachel’s face, to see her smile and offer her reassurance for the future, but Sam was a shy man. He had known Peter Sedgeman all his life but they rarely passed more than the time of day or a vague comment on the weather. Even so an idea gradually formed in his head. It would not go away. As time passed it grew into an embryonic plan – a plan which would give Rachel security, and maybe bring a little comfort to his own life.