The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  He ran across the road, almost tripping as his leg knocked against the pedals. He always treated his bicycle with the greatest of care but now he abandoned it and ran with open arms.

  He caught Rachel ecstatically, swinging her round as effortlessly as if she were a child. Sam, watching unashamedly, saw the radiance which lit Rachel’s face momentarily, before she had time to consider or compose herself. He understood now what had been missing from her gentle smile. Always serene, always pleasant, ever ready with a helping hand – yet there had been a cloud dimming the light. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that this must be the father of her child. He wondered what had kept them apart for so long. He sighed, rejoicing in the happiness of the girl he had come to regard as an exemplar for the daughter he had never had.

  Ross set Rachel on her feet and took her face gently between his hands, wiping away two stray tears with the pads of his thumbs, smiling down at her.

  ‘I thought I would never see you again, Ross.’

  ‘I did write. Did Meg tell you?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Yes.’ He saw the pain in her eyes and understood that the silence and separation had hurt her as badly as it had hurt him.

  ‘I found the letters in the bureau. She had hidden them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you Rachel? Did Meg … did she tell you I am not – I am not the son of Cameron and Gertrude Maxwell?’ He stared down at her anxiously.

  ‘She told me. In a way I am glad.’ She shivered remembering again Gertrude Maxwell’s insane outburst.

  ‘Glad? Rachel, do you understand? I am a – a bastard?’

  ‘I understand very well,’ she said sadly.

  ‘You do not condemn me then? For my parents’ indiscretion?’

  ‘Who am I to condemn anyone?’ Her tone was bitter.

  ‘Who are you? You are the girl I love. The most important person in my world. Does it matter to you that I am illegitimate? Born in sin?’

  ‘Did you think my feelings for you so shallow that the circumstances of your birth would change them?’ Rachel asked. The hurt and doubts and fears were evident in her trembling voice.

  ‘I couldn’t help but doubt when I received no reply to my letters.’ He glanced briefly up the empty street then bent his head, kissing her mouth in a lingering kiss. All the love and desire flooded through her veins like fire but there were more important matters than her own heart’s yearning.

  ‘Come and meet Conan.’ She slipped from Ross’s embrace and grasped his hand, pulling him towards the back door.

  ‘Who is Conan? I have not much time, Rachel. I left Father alone and I promised to help Willie with the milking.’ Rachel stared at him.

  ‘Meg did not tell you?’ she asked hoarsely, her face suddenly pale.

  ‘Tell me what?’ But Rachel was tugging him urgently now, through a wash-house, across a passage, into a large cheery kitchen. Three small girls sat on a bright rag rug before the fire. A baby chortled happily, waving chubby arms at them, as though eager to join in. Rachel crossed to the pram and lifted him.

  ‘This is Conan.’ She held the baby towards him. ‘Your son.’

  ‘My what?’ Ross stepped backwards as though he had been struck.

  ‘Your son. Our son, Ross …’

  ‘He can’t be …’ Ross muttered faintly, staring at Rachel. Was she teasing him? Or was he was dreaming.

  ‘He’s your son.’ Rachel heard the note of consternation in her voice.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ross had not meant to blurt out such a stupid question. Later he knew it must have been there, in his subconscious. He could not believe he had fathered a child.

  He would have given anything to recall his words. He could have bitten off his tongue. Even so he did not realise how cruelly, how deeply he had hurt Rachel. He saw the horror in her eyes. He watched her face turn pale, her mouth tighten. She squared her shoulders and hugged the baby close. Tears had sprung to her eyes but she turned away. She would never let him see.

  Watching, Ross felt she and the child were one. He was shut out – again. Jealousy flared in him. Rachel was his. She belonged to him. He could not believe the child, that tiny stranger was part of her – even less a part of himself. He was too numb for it to register that his reasoning was irrational.

  Mrs Jenkins returned to the kitchen with a loaf and a jug of milk she had just collected from Meg in the bake house. She paused in the doorway, sensing the tension in the air. She looked at the tall young man, all six feet of him. His legs looked extremely long with his trousers still held at the ankles by his bicycle clips. She set the provisions on the table and came forward. ‘There’s no doubting who you are,’ she smiled cheerily. ‘Conan’s hair is going to be just like yours – can’t decide whether it wants to wave, curl or just lie straight – so up it turns at the front and won’t lie down no matter how we try.’ Ross stared from the old woman to the child. It was true the baby’s hair was sticking up at the front. When he was a schoolboy Meg had tried many times to brush his own hair flat. She had called his peculiar front quiff a calf’s lick. Mrs Jenkins, head on one side, studied Ross intently. He felt his colour rising at such scrutiny.

  ‘His eyes have more green than yours, more like his mother’s,’ she nodded. ‘Rachel has a good bit of red in her hair as well.’ Ross wondered whether he had imagined a warning in the old woman’s last remark. Rachel had always had spirit he remembered. He looked at her set mouth. He felt a surge of fear. He must not lose her again. She had managed without him so far. She was proud. She would never plead with him. Conan was her son. He guessed the child had become the most important person in her life during the time they had been apart. Ross looked at Mrs Jenkins. He might face some opposition, but Rachel was his. This time he would fight for her.

  ‘The wee fellow has his mother’s mouth and nose,’ Mrs Jenkins went on in the way of old ladies. ‘He has her dimple too when he laughs, but he has your jaw. He can be stubborn, young as he is and he’ll be a strong laddie boy when he’s a bit older.’ She surveyed Ross critically.

  ‘Er … yes, well I shall look forward to – to getting to know him,’ Ross stammered uncertainly. ‘Where’s Meg?’

  ‘She’s busy in the bakehouse. She was supposed to be resting but there were things she wanted to do for her mother’s funeral.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ross nodded. ‘I shall see her tomorrow. I must get back now, Rachel. I left Father resting but he will wonder where I am.’ His eyes met hers, pleading with her to accompany him outside. He reached out a hand. She did not take it but she followed him into the passage, still hugging Conan close to her breast, almost as though he afforded her protection.

  ‘We must talk, Rachel,’ he said urgently as soon as the door had closed behind them. ‘It was such a shock, seeing him – Conan.’ The name was not yet familiar to him. ‘How did you choose his name?’

  ‘The twins shortened his names to Conan. He is christened Connor Cameron Peter,’ She swallowed hard, trying and failing to keep the hurt and bitterness out of her voice as she added. ‘O’Brian, of course. He’s born out of wedlock too,’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. Ross flushed. He could only guess at the shame she had felt, the stigma of bearing her child without a husband. He knew well enough how the village folk talked, gossiped, condemned. The thought of just such talk had haunted him ever since he had discovered his own roots – or lack of them. Would the shadow of this child’s birth always lay between them? He looked into her eyes. ‘I love you Rachel. If only I had known … We must be married without delay. We must make plans. I will see you at the funeral …’

  ‘No!’ Then less sharply. ‘No, I cannot attend Mistress Maxwell’s funeral. I shall be needed to care for the children while Meg is away.’ It was true, and she could not bring herself to tell him how she had been whipped out of Windlebrae. The last thing she wanted was to attend Gertrude Maxwell’s funeral and hear everyone saying sweet and pleasant things about her now she was dead. She shuddered. ‘You m
ay call on me here when the funeral is over.’

  Ross was taken aback by her new maturity, the gravity and decisiveness she had acquired. She had been a pretty young girl when he went away. The capricious years of teenage seemed to have passed her by almost overnight. As he looked down into her face he noticed the more finely chiselled features of her cheek bones, firmer curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

  ‘You have grown even more lovely,’ he said softly.

  Later, as he helped with the milking, Willie asked,

  ‘Do you intend to marry Rachel? Better late than not at all. Conan would soon be accepted as a Maxwell. I don’t think you will be able to change his birth certificate officially though.’

  ‘I want Rachel more than anyone else in the world. I don’t know what my future holds now though.’ He told Willie of the arrangement with Alice Beattie, how he was working for his keep, how she had promised to share some of the profits.

  ‘I don’t know how she will feel about keeping me on when I have a wife to keep as well.’

  ‘A wife and son.’ Willie grinned. ‘No, I suppose that will make a difference. Can you trust her? This Mistress Beattie?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure I can. I feel I belong there. We get on well together.’

  ‘Well, you can always come back here, Ross, if your Mistress Beattie does not approve of you taking a wife. We would manage somehow.’

  ‘Thanks ,Willie,’ Ross said quietly. ‘You’re one of the best – just like Fath … just like your father.’

  ‘You may as well go on calling him Father,’ Willie said wryly. ‘He’s the only one you’ve ever known and he looks upon you as a son. He was always proud of the way you play the fiddle – the only musical Maxwell left, he used to say.’

  ‘Tonight I will write a letter to Mrs Beattie. I had intended to tell her about myself and my own family anyway – or lack of family. I just can’t believe I have a son.’‘A wife and a son. The people down there need not know when you married.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Ross frowned thoughtfully.‘It would be better for Rachel to be Mrs Maxwell before she arrives in a new village amongst strangers.’

  As soon as Cameron Maxwell had settled to sleep Ross found the pen and ink and began a letter to Alice Beattie. He knew the brief sentences were stilted but he did not realise his own hurt showed through, or that the letter would explain so much that had puzzled Alice Beattie. “I shall understand if you do not wish me to return,” he concluded, but his heart was heavy at the thought of leaving the farm he had already grown to love.

  As he sealed the letter it did not occur to Ross that Rachel might refuse to accompany him. His main concern was whether Mistress Beattie would want a man with a family. If he posted the letter in the morning she would receive it the following day – the day of the funeral. He wondered how long it would take her to consider and write back to him.

  Alice Beattie’s response came far quicker than Ross could have anticipated. A telegram was delivered to Windlebrae as the last of the mourners were leaving. When he read the contents he felt more like cheering than mourning, but he had to maintain a modicum of respect. He read and re-read the flimsy yellow page. “Lochandee needs you. Look forward to your return. A.B.” It was only when he had read the telegram for about the fourth time that Ross discovered what a great relief it was to know he could return to The Glens of Lochandee. Already it felt like home.

  Meg and Peter were staying at Windlebrae until evening to make sure everything was clean and tidy in readiness for Ruth and Willie to move in. Rachel would be alone with the children. Ross decided to cycle to Ardmill and tell her his good news. There was no time to lose. He must arrange their marriage and their return to Lochandee.

  In his excitement he announced his plans to Rachel after only a brief greeting.

  ‘I will make arrangements for our marriage. Then we shall travel to The Glens of Lochandee together. There’s a cottage on the farm where we can live, if Mrs Beattie is agreeable and …’

  ‘Ross! Please wait!’

  ‘Wait? What do you mean? I must return as …’

  ‘You have not even asked me if I want to be your wife,’ Rachel reminded him coolly.

  ‘But you said you loved me …’ Ross frowned. ‘Have you changed your mind now that you know I am illegitimate …?’ His tone was accusing and defensive.

  ‘Oh Ross! Forget about yourself! And your parents – or lack of parents. I do love you – or at least I did love you. I am beginning to wonder whether you have changed while you have been away. Our own wee son carries the stigma of being illegitimate. You condemned him to the same fate as you are suffering.’

  ‘But we shall change that when we are married,’ Ross protested.

  ‘Nothing can change the facts,’ Rachel declared, remembering the weeks and months she had hoped and prayed for Ross’s return – always in vain.

  ‘He will have my name of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rachel repeated. She was shrewd enough to understand Ross was still finding it difficult to accept that he had fathered a child. She had found it difficult to accept that babies were made so easily too, but she sensed his lingering doubt and she was hurt.

  ‘You will be Mrs Maxwell before we go to Lochandee. No one will know the circumstances of our marriage and the child’s birth.’

  ‘Not even your wonderful Mrs Beattie?’

  ‘Least of all Mrs Beattie,’ Ross said more sharply than he had intended. ‘You will like her Rachel, I promise you,’ he added more gently.

  ‘Maybe I shall, maybe not. The truth is Ross, I cannot go with you.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ROSS RETURNED TO LOCHANDEE the morning after the funeral, filled with disappointment. He was also anxious as he recalled the lines from a poem.

  Oh! what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practise to deceive!

  He had not intended to deceive Alice Beattie but he knew she would be wondering about Rachel, and now he was returning without the wife he had claimed to have. He bit his lip in frustration.

  He had missed Rachel so much during their months apart. He could not accept any obstacle to their union now. He longed to have her at his side again. In his mind he went over and over their conversation. He knew his voice had risen with anger and dismay as he repeated her words.

  ‘Cannot go! Why can’t you go with me? Why?

  ‘I made a promise to Peter, and to Meg. I cannot leave them until after Meg’s baby is born. You know she’s not so young for a first baby and there is so much work to do with the children and the shop, the bakery. We have four cows … I make the butter to sell. Don’t you see? They need me.’

  ‘I need you!’

  ‘You have managed very well without me for more than a year,’ Rachel reminded him.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to be associated with me. I was shocked, confused, forbidden to return.’ Even he felt his excuses were feeble now. ‘Meg will find someone else to help.’

  ‘The children are used to me. I know the routine of the bakery and the household. Meg needs to rest more. The doctor has warned her and Peter is terrified in case anything happens to her. I promised I would not leave her and I owe them both a debt I can never repay. They gave me a home when I was alone.’ Her gaze held his steadily. He flushed with guilt and anger.

  ‘This is different, Rachel. I am asking you to be my wife and you have to think about our future – and your son’s future.’

  ‘Our son! He’s your son too, Ross whether you like him or not.’

  ‘Our son then but surely you want to be married now?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do …’ Rachel said doubtfully.

  ‘Either you want to marry me or you don’t!’

  ‘There was nothing I wanted more when I knew I was to have your child,’ Rachel told him bleakly. ‘But you were not there. Everyone in Ardmill knows he was born out of wedlock,’ she added bitterly, ‘A few more months will make little difference.’
<
br />   ‘A few months? Months!’

  ‘We can be married whenever you arrange it, but I shall not leave Meg until she has had her baby and recovered.’ Rachel’s mouth set. ‘I owe my life to Peter Sedgeman – and possibly Conan’s life too. I shall keep my promise to him.’

  It was a relief to be back at Lochandee and find Alice Beattie accepted him as before.

  ‘I feel as though I have come home,’ he told her later that evening while they sat in front of the blazing fire drinking the bedtime cocoa she had brought on a tray.

  ‘That pleases me more than I can say, Ross,’ she smiled warmly. ‘I confess it was a surprise to hear you have a wife and son though. I pray they will feel as much a part of Lochandee as you do.’ She was cautious, stifling the questions she longed to ask, the doubts and fears she had experienced when she received Ross’s letter. He was so young to be married. He had been away more than a year. When had the child been born? Had Ross been trapped into marriage by some cheating hussy? Was the child really his?

  ‘I hope Rachel will be happy here too,’ Ross agreed fervently. ‘I tried hard to persuade her to come back with me but she is determined to keep her promise to Meg and Peter to stay until their baby is born.’

  ‘I can understand your disappointment, laddie, but perhaps if Rachel forgot her promises easily she would not have earned your respect or your love? In the Bible I believe Jacob waited seven years before he could make his Rachel his wife. If you truly love your Rachel, and if she truly loves you, it will be worth waiting surely?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ross sighed heavily, ‘you’re right. It just seems such a long time until May.’

  Alice realised there were still many things she did not know, things which did not add up and which she did not understand. She was relieved to have Ross back and she slept more soundly, but she could not banish her doubts about this unknown wife. Ross’s future as joint tenant of The Glens of Lochandee would depend on more than his own ability now. If she did not like the girl, worse, if she did not trust her?

  Alice would have been surprised to know that Rachel’s doubts and fears equalled her own. Ross had been sparing with details and Rachel had no idea whether the Mistress of Lochandee was a pretty young widow, or another vindictive woman like Gertrude Maxwell. She felt unable to cope with either and half of her wanted to stay in the shelter of her present existence.