Such were my thoughts as I walked through the grounds towards the orphanage hoping to see the lady, Mrs Bourne, who had taken Meg into her custody.
The orphanage, originally the stable block, proclaimed its presence by a handsome signboard invisible from the convalescent home.
The reception area was clean and cheerful, its desk occupied by a woman with a welcoming smile.
‘Mrs Bourne? She is not here at present. Can I help you?’
I explained my business with Meg Macmerry and she sighed. ‘Such a pity, madam, you are too late. Mrs Bourne has taken that little girl to Edinburgh to present her to interested new foster-parents. Here you are …’ Pausing to scribble an address, she added, ‘How unfortunate, you have just missed them. They left for the train half an hour ago.’
I left feeling the bitter irony of it all. Had I come first to Lochandor to interview John Lawers, Meg at that time would still have been here. And it was a frustrating thought that we might have passed by each other on the road.
* * *
As I made my way to the station halt, I felt the tide of affairs was running against me, already more complex than many of the cases in my logbook. My main concern was how I was going to explain all this to Jack. At least having Meg in Edinburgh was a consolation of sorts. There was only one other prospective passenger waiting on the short platform, a girl carrying a shawled bundle. As I approached, I saw that the shawl contained a tiny newborn baby. The girl looked pale and tearful and pointed to the printed timetable in a glass frame.
‘I have been waiting here for almost half an hour with no sign of a train,’ she wailed, looking up and down the railway line.
All was silent, then a rumble of wheels announced not a train but a carriage coming down the road, heading in the direction of the convalescent home, with a heavily veiled passenger inside.
The driver signalled to us. ‘No train, ladies – I’ll be back shortly.’
I smiled at the girl. She merely looked frantic, and wiping away a tear, moved a little distance away, my words of consolation lost on her. A few minutes later, we were both relieved to see the carriage reappear. We went over. What had happened to the train?
‘There’s been an accident, ladies. A tree down and a landslide back up the line. There won’t be another train to Edinburgh today.’
He looked at us both. ‘You had better find somewhere to stay for the night. I dare say the line will be clear and the trains running as usual in the morning.’
‘Is there a hostelry nearby?’ the girl asked. She had a pleasant voice, the kind used to giving orders to servants and lesser mortals.
‘No, but a little way down the road there’s a public house and you should get a room there. Jump in and I’ll take you.’
We sat in silence, the girl holding the sleeping babe close, occasionally wiping away tears.
‘I’m sure it will be all right,’ I said, words I hoped would alleviate her obvious distress. She said nothing, just shook her head and wept again. I gave up and that was the end of any communication until we reached a single street of half a dozen dingy-looking cottages, with a small shop and a public house, dark and dreary. No doubt it cheered up a bit at opening times.
The driver set us down, and perhaps taking pity on our predicament, gallantly refused the fare as he lived nearby and was going home anyway. He wished us well and I only wished he had offered to wait and see whether we were successful with accommodation. What would happen if there was none available? Being stranded overnight did not bear dwelling upon.
My travelling companion was looking anxiously towards the shop, muttering about getting something for the baby. She set off down the street and I went into the public house. Its unprepossessing interior, shabby, dirty and smelling strongly of stale tobacco smoke and beer, brought grave misgivings regarding rooms. But beggars not being choosers, I drew a breath of relief when the publican, whose exterior was a fine match for the conditions that surrounded him, said yes, there was a room.
Gratefully, I paid the modest fee of two shillings, and following his directions I was halfway upstairs when the door opened and the girl came in.
I hesitated, listening.
‘No, we have nothing else. Only the one room.’
‘What am I to do?’ the girl cried.
The man shook his head. ‘We’re not a boarding house, madam. Just the one room and it’s booked,’ he repeated.
The baby started to whimper, the girl slumped into a chair at one of the tables and, clutching the crying infant, she looked ready to faint.
I hurried downstairs. ‘You can have the room.’
‘Of course I cannot have your room.’ She stood up, swayed, and I grabbed her as she sat down again. She whispered, ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’
I called to the indifferent publican who was polishing the counter and regarding us with mild interest. ‘May we have some sandwiches and a pot of tea, please?’
He didn’t look enthusiastic about this suggestion and gave a reluctant sigh. ‘I’ll see if I can find anything.’
‘If you would be so good,’ I said heavily, and off he went in the direction of the kitchen premises.
I sat down beside the girl, the baby now quiet again, all her attention on its sleeping face. I murmured sympathetically, she nodded absently. In due course a plate of roughly cut sandwiches arrived containing beef slices, which the girl fell upon as if she was indeed starving.
I wasn’t particularly hungry, took one and said, ‘When you’ve eaten, off you go up to bed.’
‘No … I cannot,’ she said, doing battle with one of the thick crusts.
‘I insist.’
The man came back with a pot of tea, and, perhaps observing our plight or deciding that he might as well get the extra money, he said to the girl, ‘The room has two beds and a cot, so you could share – if this lady,’ he indicated me, ‘is willing.’
‘Of course I am willing,’ I said firmly.
‘I could not possibly—’
But I would accept no argument and indeed the girl was too tired and distraught for any further protestations.
She climbed the stairs like one in the last stages of exhaustion, clinging to the banister with one hand. Once inside the room I inspected it for the first time; there were two beds with thin mattresses, rather hard and covered by grey-looking sheets and pillows, plus one rough blanket on each. Indeed, the setting suggested that they might have provided accommodation for soldiers used to barracks rather than women travellers.
The baby awoke, and excusing herself, the girl turned her back, and undoing her blouse, put it to her breast. Eager sucking noises struck a chord for me from long ago, awakening that brief motherhood, the wonderful joys of fulfilment, the memories of which I had firmly rejected and thrust from my mind ever since.
The baby asleep once again, I watched her settle it in the cot cocooned in its shawl.
‘You have been so kind,’ she said.
‘A fine wee boy.’ I said, with lingering thoughts still of my Daniel.
She looked up at me and said shortly, ‘He is not a … wee boy. She is a girl and she is not mine. I have never seen her before – until a few hours ago.’ Her voice rose hysterically as she choked on the tears that flooded again. Pointing to the cot, she cried shrilly. ‘This is not my baby.’
‘But—’
‘You don’t understand, nor will anyone else. It’s so dreadful … a nightmare.’ And because she had to tell someone she proceeded to unburden a sorry tale of tragic love and betrayal.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her name was Elizabeth Montiford – Beth to her friends and family who, I gathered, were wealthy landowners in East Lothian. An only daughter, she had met an actor with the local Portobello Players, engaged by her father to provide Christmas entertainment for his tenants and the local villagers. During that brief stay, Beth had fallen in love with the handsome Highlander.
‘I had never met anyone like Adrian Dyce. He stayed at our home
. I believed our love was mutual, and when he asked me to marry him, I thought only of my wonderful future.’
I was already rushing ahead, filling in the details. It sounded all too familiar a story and never one with a happy fairy-tale ending either. When she paused, I asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. I was sixteen when we met. My father refused to even consider Adrian’s proposal. Insisted that he was a fortune-hunter and too old for me. He was only thirty-five, that’s not old, now, is it?’
I smiled indulgently. I certainly didn’t feel old but I wasn’t a man, an actor, in the marriage market.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘my father had other plans for me, to marry a titled neighbour who had known me all my life …’ She shuddered. ‘Middle-aged, like my parents, and now a widower, he had asked for my hand. I was horrified, and so was Adrian.’
As she dabbed at more tears, I felt I had been suddenly transported into a novel by Jane Austen. This was the twentieth century, after all, the age of progress, hardly believable that such situations existed outside the pages of fiction as she continued.
‘I offered to elope with him, run away to Gretna Green, but he said no; as a matter of fact, in all fairness he warned me that he couldn’t yet afford to keep a wife, although he was hoping for acting roles on the London stage. He loved me but we must bide our time; he would write to me meanwhile. We parted and that was all. I have never seen or heard from him again. But any letters would have been carefully scrutinised and destroyed by my parents.
‘I believe he still loves me as I do him,’ she added firmly. ‘I was distraught, heartbroken. When my parents discovered that I was carrying a child they were furious. They decided I must leave home, have the baby adopted and return to marry Frederick, their chosen spouse for me. I was to go immediately to Lochandor Convalescent Home, back there. To friends and acquaintances they said it was for the good of my health – an invented infection of the lungs – so that I would be fit to marry the following year.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘My parents were not being cruel; my father has always adored me and I knew I had let him down badly. My mother is made of sterner stuff, but was prepared to overlook this indiscretion if I would obey their orders. She pointed out that although I had disappointed them by my imprudence, it was vitally important that the scandal was kept secret and they did not lose face in their circle. I was told firmly to dry my tears; sending me away was the best they could do, and I was soon to discover that with wealthy families who could afford it, sending away unmarried pregnant daughters was not at all uncommon. Adulterous wives, anxious to conceal this unfortunate condition from suspicious husbands, were also regular patients.
‘My parents assured me they had made most careful enquiries and that I would get good care and live well at the nursing home. That was true, it was a lovely place, though not so grand as our own, and there were always other patients, ladies of quality in a similar condition, also under assumed names.’
She sighed. ‘I thought of writing to Adrian and telling him, then I changed my mind, afraid that news of a baby would upset him when he could not even afford a wife.
‘As the weeks passed, sometimes I could hardly believe that I was carrying a baby … Except that my clothes no longer fitted properly – I had been given a personal maid, and she was very discreet and attended the changes in my wardrobe most carefully. Then, at last, the day came.’ She shuddered. ‘A terrifying experience, I expected … wished … only to die, but instead it was all over and there was a baby boy put into my arms.
‘The arrangement with the home was that after two weeks I would be fit enough to return home to my parents and I could put the whole episode behind me, forget it completely. The baby meanwhile would go to the orphanage and be put up for adoption.’
‘That is the usual procedure at Lochandor?’ I interrupted.
‘Yes. And my parents would have paid them well to make sure that the scandal of my behaviour never became known.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Most mothers refuse to see their babies and have them taken away immediately after the birth, but I had seen my little boy. I presumed that in those first weeks while the adoptions were arranged the babies were put with wet nurses. But I insisted on feeding mine, especially as my breasts were sore, full of milk. The nurses didn’t like the idea and tried to persuade me against it, but I was quite determined.’
Again she sighed, looked at me and said, ‘I was having secret hopes that since my father had no heir – I am an only child – perhaps means might be found of persuading him to accept little Adrian, as I called him.’
Wiping away a tear, she went on, ‘But then yesterday, Mrs McQuinn, when I went to the nursery to collect my baby, I discovered that the one put into my arms was not my Adrian. They insisted that I was mistaken, but how could that be so? He had been in his cot at my side since the day he was born, so that I could feed him and look after his needs.’
Her voice shrill, she pointed to the cot, and cried, ‘The baby you see lying asleep over there is … a girl – they had substituted a female infant.’ Her voice trembled. ‘They refused to listen to me that I wanted my own baby. They said, “You wanted to keep your child, and this is it. Your time with us is at an end, so go now – at once.” They had called a carriage to take me to the railway halt, then they warned me not to make trouble or it would be all the worse for me – and my family. They said I would not like the scandal of my stay with them to be made public, my name advertised – and that’s what they would do if I did not abide by their rules.’
She broke down. I put my arms around her and she wept on my shoulder.
I said that it was a terrible story indeed, but there must have been some reason for this strange behaviour.
‘From rumours I heard among my fellow patients, sometimes the babies are born to order. Time is of the essence. Someone needs a boy, and quickly. In one case it was a mistress whose titled lover would only marry her if she could produce an heir. Lochandor have access to many noble houses. So my little son has been sold off and I am made to accept, without argument, a girl in his place or simply have her adopted.’
‘You could have left her for adoption.’
Beth smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I could have done so. But conscience said no. She cried to be fed and I am not cruel; I could not reject her hunger and I took her to my breast. As I looked at her, she reminded me of a baby doll I adored and lost when I was a little girl. A doll so real to me that I was heartbroken, inconsolable when she could not be found. I shed so many tears and now it seemed that I had her back again – and alive this time.’ She shook her head. ‘I could not abandon her. She looked at me with such pleading eyes and trusting smiles.’
In the silence that followed, her reasoning made little sense to me; I could think of nothing to add, and I realised that, exhausted, she had fallen asleep. I listened to her deep breathing, but an inhospitably hard bed, which was none too warm with its one coarse blanket, and too many problems scurrying round my mind like rats trapped in a cage ensured that I did not sleep much that night.
It must have been dawn and a baby crying that shot my fitful dozing into wakefulness. I wondered where I was. I had been dreaming I was back in Arizona, and the baby, my own wee Daniel, was awake and crying to be fed.
One moment of wild sweet joy and then alas, the present’s bitter reality.
The day had begun. I did my ablutions while Beth fed her baby. Giving her the privacy of the room for a while, I went downstairs in search of breakfast, to be told there was only porridge.
I accepted gladly – for another shilling. Beth came down, we ate and left. I refused payment of her share of what had been a miserable night’s lodging and hopefully we walked back to the station halt where the trains between Perth and Edinburgh stopped ‘on demand’ according to the timetable.
With two minutes to spare, the only prospective passengers, we found an empty carriage.
Sitting opposite, we didn’t talk much o
n that journey. Maybe her silence, her air of preoccupation, indicated regret that she had said too much, while I was considering what sort of a reception awaited her from her unforgiving parents at the stately home; perhaps for Beth there was little left to say. She had talked herself out last night. It was the old story, so often easier to confide in a stranger on a journey never to be met again than in one’s nearest and dearest.
As Edinburgh came into view, she smiled and apologised – in case I thought badly of her. I was quick with reassurances and added that if ever she needed a friend she could contact me.
‘You are very kind, Mrs McQuinn, but I have been giving much thought to what will happen when I arrive home with a baby – in full view of the servants.’
I mentally envisaged the consternation and horrified whispers below stairs, as she went on, ‘I have decided to call on Nanny Craigle. She took care of me from infancy and has always been a loyal servant. She now has a boarding house at Portobello – Adrian and some other actors stay with her when they are not on tour.’
She looked thoughtful, gave a wavering sigh, and I doubted whether this was a good move as she went on, ‘I am going to throw myself on her hospitality. I can leave the baby with her while I approach my parents and put myself and my future at their mercy. I am sure Nanny will help,’ she added in a tone of desperation.
We boarded a hiring carriage that would take her on the first stage of her journey home and deposit me en route. I was somewhat insistent about paying my share, but she laughed and assured me that she had money for the fare, otherwise she would have taken the local train.
We left the Pleasance, climbing the steep hill, and at the base of Arthur’s Seat arrived at Solomon’s Tower. Beth was one of the few people who did not gasp with admiration at the sight of that ancient and imposing tower. The reason was easy to guess: to someone who lived in a historic mansion on a grand estate it must have looked less than impressive.
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