The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘Is it a nice place to live?’

  ‘Oh yes. Margaret will be happy there. She will not have any more pain.’

  ‘And no awful cough? No horrid medicine?’

  ‘No, she will not have any of those things,’ Rachel had answered, and prayed to God she was right.

  Christmas and Hogmanay passed almost unnoticed. There had been two more cases of diphtheria at the beginning of December. One of the children had died. Since then the infection seemed to have faded away and by the end of January life reverted to as near normal as it would ever be for those who had lost children. The Reverend Simms was joined in fervent prayers for better times ahead.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  AS SPRING CAME AND the young lambs were born Ross wished they had been able to rent the extra land to provide fresh spring grass for the ewes and their offspring. It angered him to see the stretch of land which McNish and Jim Douglas had given up. It lay neglected on the boundary of The Glens of Lochandee. Already there were signs of bracken and reeds and the brambles and gorse would soon spread from the hedges into the fields.

  ‘Surely the Laird cannot know his land is being so shamefully wasted,’ Alice said. ‘No wonder he’s short of money, but he has only himself to blame. His father and grandfather always came to inspect their property from time to time, and they had far more reliable Factors than Mr Elder.’

  ‘It makes me wonder if there will be a future for Conan in farming.’ Ross said morosely.

  ‘At least he’s doing very well with his lessons, according to Mr Hardie, the headmaster,’ Alice remarked. ‘You should be proud of him Ross.’

  ‘Rachel is proud enough for two of us.’

  ‘You must admit there is little he misses with such sharp eyes and ears,’ Rachel said defensively. She knew Margaret’s death had grieved him, as it had herself, but she had a feeling that Ross could not bring himself to express pride in his son. He never praised Conan and it had begun to cause tension between them. But it was the death of Sam Dewar which caused the most serious rift of all.

  On a Saturday morning in August, Rachel received an astonishing letter from Sam Dewar’s lawyer.

  ‘Sam has left nearly everything he possessed to Conan!’ she gasped.

  ‘To Conan? Why would he do that?’ Ross demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. According to the copy of his will, which the lawyer has enclosed, Conan was only a few months old when he made it.’

  ‘I expect it was just the whim of a lonely old man.’ Ross shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose he had much to leave to anyone.’

  ‘More than you think. Listen to this. Shortly before he died he had added a request that three hundred pounds should be paid to Meg for looking after him.’

  ‘Three hundred pounds! I’m sure Meg was a good neighbour … but even so …’

  ‘She was a very good neighbour. But listen! He owned his house and shop and the fields. After his visit here, to Lochandee, he instructed his lawyer to sell them after his death. The proceeds, and the remainder of his savings, are to be put into a Trust for Conan. I am to be the main Trustee, but his lawyer, Mr Finlay, will be my adviser. The money is to be used for Conan’s future. A Trustee – whatever that means? Goodness! I can scarcely believe this. The total comes to one thousand, one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, ten shillings and sixpence!’

  ‘One thousand! Pounds? But where did he get all that? And why would he leave it all to a baby? Your baby, Rachel! Why your child?’

  ‘I don’t know. The solicitor requires Conan’s birth certificate and he has sent some papers for me to sign …’ She looked up and saw Ross’s face flush, but he scowled and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No!’ Ross said harshly. ‘Oh, no. Why should there be anything wrong? Some old man leaves your son all his worldly goods. Why?’ His tone was a mixture of accusation and sarcasm, and Rachel hated it.

  Conan, cleaning his clogs in the adjoining scullery, had paid little attention until his father’s raised voice startled him. It was so unusual to hear his parents quarrelling. He listened curiously.

  ‘Conan is your son too. Surely you are pleased that he has been so fortunate?’

  ‘My son … Mine?’ Ross had not consciously intended to form a question.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Rachel demanded angrily.

  ‘Nothing … Except … Well why would a man leave everything he possessed to a young child, unless he had a particular feeling of … of responsibility? Or … or …’

  ‘Ross! What are you saying? What are you implying?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes, you are! You surely can’t think Sam Dewar had anything to do with …with …’ She stared at Ross, her eyes more green than blue now, and sparking angrily. ‘You can’t still doubt that Conan is your son? Not after all this time?’

  Ross was silent. Pale, angry, guilty. Jealous? He could find no words to express the confusion he felt.

  ‘Is that why you never praise him? He tries so hard to please you – you more than anyone else, because you are his father. Have you ever told him you love him? Have you ever told him you are proud of his achievements at school? No, you have not. I blamed Gertrude Maxwell! I thought she had repressed your natural emotions. Now I know …’

  ‘Rachel …’

  But Rachel was beside herself with anger and indignation. When Ross reached out a placating hand she brushed it furiously aside.

  ‘Just get me his birth certificate,’

  ‘Very well,’ Ross muttered stiffly. ‘But – I had better warn you...’ He bit his lip, wishing now that he had explained about the birth certificate long ago. Changing it to show he was the boy’s father had not been the simple matter he had anticipated. He had not wanted to upset Rachel just when she was settling in so well at Lochandee. But he ought to have explained later. He knew how it would seem to her now, especially right now, after his stupid outburst. Already he regretted his words, his petty suspicion, his fleeting jealousy. ‘It has not been changed. It still bears your maiden name – O’Brian.’

  ‘But you promised!’ Rachel’s voice rose.

  Conan understood little of all this, but he did know the matter was serious enough to make his parents angry, and he was the cause.

  Rachel’s face was white. Her green eyes flashed.

  ‘After all these years, you do not believe you are Conan’s father.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘You really think Conan is not your son? How dare you, Ross? How can you?’

  ‘I did not say that. It was not possible to change the certificate because …’

  ‘You have not added your name to his birth certificate,’ Rachel hissed. ‘That is what you said. There can only be one reason.’ Without warning she burst into a storm of weeping. All the old hurt resurfaced. Ross had let her down again.

  ‘It was not like that, Rachel!’ Ross reached out for her but she jerked away from him in anger. ‘Please, let me explain?’ His hand fell helplessly to his side as she dashed out of the kitchen. Why hadn’t he told her at the time? He knew how much the birth certificate had mattered to her. As time passed he had forgotten about it. Conan was known to everyone as Maxwell, and that at least was acceptable and legal.

  Rachel felt even worse when she went into Conan’s bedroom later that evening. She had heard him tossing and turning restlessly.

  ‘Why are you not asleep, Conan?’ she asked softly, bending to stroke his wayward hair and kiss his cheek. He considered himself a big boy now and the only time he allowed her to kiss him was when they were alone and he was tucked up in bed.

  ‘Mama …’ He bit his lip and Rachel wondered if he had been crying. ‘Mama, I do belong to Dad, and to you, don’t I? He is my father …?’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘Yes!’ she said. Then more gently, ‘Of course you belong to both of us. We love you very much.’

  ‘Does Dad love me as much as he loves Bridie?’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Rach
el assured him. ‘Would you like me to read you a story to help you get to sleep?’

  ‘Course not! I can read my own stories now.’

  Bridie remained a happy smiling little girl, ever ready for a cuddle and a kiss, unaware of the undercurrents between her parents, but there was a change in Conan as the weeks went by. Rachel knew she was not imagining it. He had lost his mischievous smile and cheeky grin, in fact he rarely smiled at all. He was too thoughtful, too withdrawn for a nine-year-old. He seemed to be brooding over some secret anxiety.

  Rachel was not aware that her own tension was equally plain to those closest to her. She did not discuss her concerns over Conan with Ross any more. Alice sensed all was not well but she could neither understand the reason nor bridge the invisible wall which Rachel seemed to have erected between herself and the world.

  Ross was at a loss to know how to placate her. She had written to the lawyer enclosing Conan’s birth certificate. It hurt her to explain why it bore her maiden name. She did not realise her circumstances had been Sam Dewar’s main reason for leaving his house, and later its proceeds, in the care of a young woman he admired and respected. Sam had trusted her to use his legacy in the best interests of her child, even though the boy was no relation to himself.

  Even when Sam Dewar’s affairs had all been taken care of, Rachel remained subdued and withdrawn. Ross had given up trying to explain why the birth certificate could not be changed, however much he might want it. In his heart he blamed himself. If he had been there when Conan had been registered, if he had been present to claim his son, then the certificate could have borne his name after they married. As it was, the current law allowed no more than a brief addition in the registrar’s records. Rachel had refused to listen to any explanations, or even to discuss it. She was convinced he was making excuses.

  When Ross took her in his arms at night she no longer responded. He could not arouse her to the passionate lover he had always known. Even worse he missed her as his friend and confidante. They were like polite acquaintances. He knew she was brooding, blaming him, watching his reactions whenever he was with Conan. It made him strained and edgy with his son.

  It was nearing the end of the spring term when Rachel met Mr Hardie, the headmaster of the village school. He mentioned his concern for Conan.

  ‘Ever since he returned after the last summer holidays he has seemed unable to concentrate on his lessons as he used to do. He’s an intelligent boy. He was so keen to apply himself. A change has come over him. He seems wary, nervous almost. He’s less sure of himself and his own ability. He’s more ready to pick a fight with other boys. I had such great hopes for Connor. I believe you call him Conan?’

  ‘Yes, yes we do …’ Rachel answered absently. Her mind was searching for things which might be affecting Conan. It did not occur to her that he had overheard her quarrel with Ross, or that he was too sensitive to be unaware of the tension between them. She could never have guessed that he might blame himself for her own unhappiness.

  Meg was Rachel’s confidante. Their weekly letters had often proved a mutual comfort when either of them were anxious. Rachel had been too hurt by what she considered Ross’s rejection of Conan and his mistrust of herself, to confide in anyone, even Meg.

  Supposing Conan had sensed his father’s rejection? Suddenly all her fears and uncertainties seemed to pour onto the page as the words flowed in a long letter to Meg.

  The reply came by return, evidence of Meg’s genuine concern.

  “I think you and the children should come to visit us at Easter, dearest Rachel,” she wrote. “We would love to see you all. The change will do you good and it would make me so happy.” Meg always saw the good side of everybody and she had a most forgiving nature. “Ross was such a loving wee laddie when he was young,” she went on, “but Mother rebuffed him so often. I believe he learned to suppress his feelings at an early age. Don’t you think all those years of repression may have become a habit? Even with Conan?”

  “I admit he seemed to be different with you – almost as though he had found his soulmate. Perhaps you released the real Ross.

  Please, dearest Rachel, try to understand and forgive his complex character. I’m sure there must be an explanation. I know you love him, and I know he loves you. Please try to forgive and understand him. Even husbands and heroes are little boys at heart.”

  Alice readily agreed that Rachel should visit her old friend.

  ‘Emmie’s proving useful now that she is accepting the death of wee Frances,’ she said. ‘We shall manage. As a matter of fact I have been concerned for you and Ross recently, my dear.’ Alice paused, hoping Rachel would confide in her. Rachel merely withdrew into herself.

  Alice shook her grey head. She could not solve other people’s problems but she did not like the atmosphere they created in her home. It troubled her, and she knew it affected Conan. She had seen him watching his father with an intensity which puzzled her. They no longer laughed, or even spent time together. Conan was moody, even bordering on sullen, whenever Ross asked him to do anything.

  The short holiday at Ardmill with Meg and Peter and the children proved a great success.

  ‘It would have been lovely to see Willie and Ruth and the children,’ Rachel said the night before she was due to return to Lochandee.

  ‘Yes, I miss them terribly, but,’ Meg chuckled, ‘have you noticed how well Polly and Conan have been getting on?’

  ‘I noticed them having long chats. And Rory and Max have been wonderful at entertaining Bridie and making her chuckle. She will miss their company, and Jane and Mary too. Polly seems to be doing really well at school?’

  ‘She is. We were so proud of her last year when she won the scholarship to attend the Academy. She will be able to stay there until she is sixteen and she loves it. She would like to be a teacher herself.’

  ‘You have brought them all up beautifully, Meg,’ Rachel said sincerely. ‘Mr Hardie had great hopes of Conan but I fear they will all come to nothing.’

  Rachel had been back at Lochandee for nearly a week when Meg’s letter arrived.

  ‘I think Polly may have discovered what has been troubling Conan all these months,’ she wrote. ‘He told her he had overheard you and Ross quarrelling. He did not fully understand what it was about but he has jumped to the conclusion that Ross is not his real father and that he does not want him as a son. I do hope you can reassure him, Rachel. Surely there must be an end to all these uncertainties in our family? I fear my own Mother’s influence has been far reaching into all our lives. I thank God many times that Peter has been so patient and loving with me, and with our children. Ruth and Willie have overcome her domination and they seem very happy together. I hope and pray you and Ross will find the strength to resolve your problems and regain your happiness. You have both suffered too much anguish already.’

  Rachel knew Meg was right but somehow she could not bring herself to bridge the gap she had created. She thought there seemed to be little change in Conan’s attitude in spite of his holiday but she was wrong. Mr Hardie waylaid her at the village a few weeks later, beaming with satisfaction.

  ‘Conan is our star pupil again. I am almost afraid he has gone to the other extreme he’s working so hard. I am pleased you have managed to help him overcome his problems. One day you and his father will have cause to be proud of him, I am sure of it.’ He hesitated, then added diffidently. ‘Though I do not foresee him wasting his abilities on farming.’

  ‘You think it is a waste of ability to farm, Mr Hardie? To care for the welfare of animals? To tend the crops? To produce food to keep people from starving? You think all these things do not require skill and intelligence? Arithmetic and budgeting? Calculating how many cubic feet of hay we have left or the size of the corn stack, worrying how long it will feed the animals if winter stretches into spring? You think all these things do not need Conan’s intelligence?’

  ‘No, no. At least I did not mean to make you angry Mrs Maxwell, or infer that far
ming was easy …’

  ‘It certainly is not!’

  ‘Yes, yes. I-I understand … but I simply do not visualise Conan using his talents to farm.’

  ‘Well I hope you will not voice your opinion to Mistress Beattie. She has set her heart on Conan following in my husband’s footsteps and farming The Glens of Lochandee.’

  ‘Yes,’ the schoolmaster sighed. ‘Preservation of her beloved land has always been Alice Beattie’s first priority. Indeed I fear she is passing on her enthusiasm to your daughter.’ He smiled. ‘Young as she is Bridie can tell us everything that’s going on at the farm. She’s far less concerned about reciting her multiplication tables than about the number of chickens which might have hatched now that she has to come to school. But have you talked to Conan yourself recently? He told me he would like to build aeroplanes – even fly one.’

  ‘Ah!’ Rachel laughed in relief. ‘Surely all small boys want to drive a train? I suppose Conan thinks aeroplanes are something similar. It’s just a little boy’s day dream.’

  ‘Maybe, Mrs Maxwell.’ Mr Hardie sighed. ‘Maybe you are right. I am sure you know your own son better than I do.’

  This conversation gave Rachel much to think about. She paid more attention to Conan, the books he had begun to read from the local lending library which supplied the school, the way he seized any opportunity to listen to the radio. It was true he performed his tasks around the farm diligently as soon as he returned from school – but did they really interest him?

  Although she was only five years old, Bridie already had a calf of her own. She called it Silky Socks because of her smooth red and white hair and dainty feet which looked as though she was wearing four white socks. She fed the calf herself each day. Her two pet lambs had quickly learned to follow her everywhere in the hope of getting a bottle of milk. She would have taken them to bed if Rachel had not been firm. Bridie almost always accompanied them to the milking. Already she knew most of the cows by name. Her pinafores were always filthy long before bedtime but Bridie just tossed her brown curls and wrinkled her little freckled nose. Her wide smile was innocent and would have melted the most stony of hearts.