The House of Lyall

by Doris Davidson

  ‘So it is!’ he exclaimed, trying it for himself.

  A large rockery set with alpine plants held her attention next, and when they moved on to where one of the younger gardeners had been trying his hand at topiary, she was fascinated by the shapes he had created. ‘That’s a duck! And that’s a swan! And that’s a … stork on one leg!’ She clapped her hands in delight. ‘Oh, I just love this, and he’s done animals down the other side. He must be awful clever with his shears.’

  Hamish gave a wry smile. ‘I doubt if Dargie will be so happy about it. He has spent years training these hedges to be perfect and this boy has hacked into them –’

  ‘No, Hamish, he hasn’t hacked into them. He’s done it carefully … it’s a work of art.’

  There were apples, pears, plums in the orchard, and even a small orangery built against a south-facing wall, and strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries and blackcurrants in the soft fruits cages. ‘I bet Mrs Carnie makes hundreds of jars of jam with that lot,’ Marianne remarked, adding without thinking, ‘I used to love watching Mam boiling the berries, and she let me sup the scum before she poured the jam into jars. I liked rasps best, then strawberries, then the goosers, but I didna like the rhubarb, for she aye put ginger in, and I canna stand ginger.’

  He let her ramble on, not wanting to let her know that he had asked Andrew where she came from originally, and was well aware that she had been in service to a banker’s wife in Tipperton. It was the first time she had ever spoken about her first home, and she was using the words of her childhood. She was like a breath of fresh air to him, even when she did remember to talk and act like a lady. If only he could tell her how he really felt about her.

  Next day, he took her along well-trodden paths through the woods outside the family’s private grounds, and even where there were no paths. ‘I suppose we should really call this a forest,’ he smiled as they penetrated deeper into a closely packed mass of tall straight conifers, ‘but I’d like you to get to know every bit of the estate and love it as much as I do.’

  ‘I love it already,’ Marianne sighed, picking up one of the cones that were lying about. ‘I love the smell, I love to feel my feet sinking into the pine needles, it’s like a thick carpet, isn’t it? And it’s so dark in here I can imagine wolves circling all round us, waiting to snarl out on us when they’re hungry.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be scared of wolves?’ he grinned.

  She chuckled like the child she really was, for she wouldn’t be eighteen for four months. ‘I’d be terrified, but it’s fun to pretend they’re there, and I’d have you to protect me, wouldn’t I? Any road, the sun sometimes flickers through between the leaves so I know it’s a lovely summer’s day outside.’

  Her bridegroom took her hand. ‘Are you happy, Marianne?’

  She looked up into his now serious face. ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘You don’t regret …?’

  ‘I don’t regret anything. Mind you, I am a bit worried in case your father’ll expect too much of me, but I’ll do my best to run the house as good as your mother.’

  He smiled at the grammatical error; she only made these slips when she was excited or worried, and she would probably grow out of them, yet he hoped she would always retain some of her naïvety and not turn out like all the other girls he knew.

  ‘This really is a big forest,’ she observed presently. ‘Would you say we’re halfway in yet?’

  ‘I’d say we were more likely to be halfway out.’ He tried to keep a straight face but it was difficult when hers was so earnest.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked in all innocence. ‘What’s the halfway mark when you’re coming out?’ The truth suddenly striking her, she pulled her hand out of his indignantly. ‘Ach, you’re making fun of me. Halfway in and halfway out’s exactly the same.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t have teased you, but I couldn’t resist it.’

  When they emerged into the open air again, they carried on uphill for some time until they chanced upon a wide flat boulder. ‘I think we have come far enough today,’ Hamish remarked. ‘I don’t want to exhaust you, so perhaps we should take a seat here for a few minutes before we turn back.’

  While they rested, he pointed out items of interest in the glen below. ‘That’s the doctor’s house. Robert Mowatt is a good friend of mine, and Flora, his wife, is in her middle twenties, I’d say. She is a sensible girl and would be ideal if you needed someone to talk to.’ His finger moved a little to the right. ‘The manse is next to the church, there, but you can’t see it for the trees. I don’t know what to make of Duncan Peat. He’s quite dour at times although he is a splendid preacher. But you must make up your own mind what you think about him.’

  ‘He was very good about having the funeral and the wedding on the same day,’ Marianne reminded him, ‘and Miss Edith always used to say we should take people as we find them.’

  ‘That is probably best, and I am sure you will like his wife. When Duncan is with her, Grace behaves as befits the wife of a minister of the Church of Scotland, but she can be great fun if he is not around, which is surprising in view of the fact that her father was also a minister. Robert and Flora are exactly the opposite. She is the quiet one – Robert has more go – yet she and Grace Peat are very close.’

  ‘What about the dominie and his wife?’ Marianne could not see the school from where they were sitting, but she knew its approximate position.

  ‘Will Wink is much older, a bit over fifty, and he often comes to talk things over with Father. They sit in the study, with the smoke from their pipes curling out into the hall, and discuss which pupils have the ability to carry on their education. They look on it purely from that angle, not whether or not the parents can afford the fees, because Father takes care of the financial side of it for them. He says that it would be a disgrace if any child could not take full advantage of the brains God blessed him with.’

  ‘That’s very kind of him.’

  ‘Well, it usually works out to his benefit in the end. Once they get their degrees, he knows he can get a man he can trust if one of the professional posts here falls vacant. As for Agnes Wink, she keeps herself to herself.’

  This surprised Marianne. ‘Doesn’t she mix with the doctor’s wife and the minister’s? That’s what usually happens in small places – they all stick together.’

  ‘Agnes’s father, who sadly passed away last year, was a professor at Aberdeen University before he retired, so she considers herself better than either Flora or Grace – better than her own husband, if it comes to that, because his father was just one of my father’s crofters.’ Hamish shrugged his shoulders. ‘Apparently, when she first came to Glendarril, she was most put out that my mother kept her distance, and for over twenty years she has resented being buried in this backwater of a glen, as she has been heard to describe it. However, if you want to be friendly with her, I shall not object.’

  ‘I’ll see how things work out,’ Marianne smiled. Even having known Lady Glendarril for only a few weeks, she could visualize her reaction to Agnes Wink if she’d thought the woman was trying to insinuate her way into the castle.

  The bleating of sheep made them turn round, and coming towards them Marianne saw a man with a black and white collie keeping the sheep together. The dog hesitated, obviously wondering if he should take a closer look at the strangers, then decided to ignore them, but the man tipped his flat bonnet and called, ‘A braw day, Maister!’

  Hamish responded in the manner of the glen. ‘It is that, Fenton. You’ve met my wife, of course? Marianne, this is Fenton, one of our shepherds.’

  Overcome with shyness, the man whipped off his flat cap. ‘I saw you at the …’ he mumbled, stopping short of mentioning the funeral, and began again. ‘I saw you at your wedding, and I’m verra pleased to meet you, m’Leddy.’

  Embarrassed at being given the title, but unwilling to make things worse by putting him right, the only thing she could do was to hold out her hand. ‘I�
�m very pleased to meet you, and all, Mr Fenton.’

  This served to panic him altogether. His fingers hovered briefly over hers, then he gave a sharp nod and turned, sprinting away from them to catch up with those with whom he felt most comfortable, his dog and his sheep.

  ‘Did I do something wrong, Hamish?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Should I have told him …? I shouldn’t have let him call me m’Lady, should I?’

  Her husband smiled patiently. ‘What do you want them to call you? Mrs Bruce-Lyall is quite a mouthful, and they want you to be their Lady, even if I’m not the Lord … the laird, as they say. There is no Lady Glendarril now … Let them call you Lady Marianne if they want to.’

  ‘He was shocked at me for wanting to shake hands with him, though. Did your mother never …?’

  ‘My mother was a stickler for protocol and she considered that our workers and their wives were on this earth for the sole purpose of serving her. She would have died rather than shake hands with any of them.’ He paused, realizing the irony of what he had said, then went on, ‘They respected her and held her in awe, but I believe we should not set ourselves above them, for we are all the same in the eyes of God. I do think, however, that we will have to be careful not to let them be too familiar with us, Marianne. Not only would they lose their awe of us, we would lose their respect as well. We shall have to walk a very thin line.’

  She gave him a nodding smile as if she understood, yet she had not quite grasped his meaning. It was going to be difficult to know the difference between being friendly and being too familiar.

  On one of their morning rambles, they came across a small hut in the depths of a dense mass of trees. Marianne was intrigued by its position, almost hidden from view. ‘Would this be where the charcoal burners live? I’ve read about them in history books.’

  Hamish gave a gurgling laugh. ‘As far as I am aware, there never were any charcoal burners here. This is a still. For distilling whisky,’ he explained, seeing her puzzlement. ‘My grandfather used to tell us stories about the tricks his workers got up to to save the excisemen from finding their stock of illicit whisky. He always said his men were doing no wrong, for they were not making the spirits to sell, only for their own use – and for his, he always laughed – so they should not have to pay tax or duty on it. It hasn’t been used for years.’

  ‘It would be against the law these days, wouldn’t it?’

  Hamish guffawed this time. ‘It was against the law in the old days, too. If they had been found out, the men could have been hanged, or at least dispatched to Botany Bay for ever.’

  ‘Yes, the penal colony,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve read about that, too.’

  The days passed agreeably, and Marianne found herself if not exactly happy, at least settled.

  In spite of his father’s professed wish for the next heir to be born before he died, Hamish had still not attempted to make a son, but Marianne was quite content with the way her life was shaping, and she was certainly getting to know Hamish better, his likes and his dislikes.

  By the end of that first week, her husband had introduced her to most of the folk in the glen, smilingly accepting the title they bestowed on her. It was as if they had discussed it together and decided to so honour her, although they were bound to know she wasn’t a ‘Lady’ in the true sense. Carnie would have told them how little she’d had when she arrived here, or if not Carnie – Marianne had the feeling that he’d be fiercely loyal to the Bruce-Lyall family – certainly the railway employee at the station. They had probably tumbled to the fact that she didn’t speak like gentry and maybe that was why they were so warm towards her. She was one of them.

  What pleased her most, was when Hamish began to confide in her about how he would like the mill to be run. ‘Father’s so old-fashioned he can’t see that we need to change things. Our spinning machines and looms must have been there since machinery was invented, and the new models are faster and easier to work, so they would pay for themselves in no time. But he won’t listen. “What’s the point of getting rid of things that still work perfectly well?” That’s his attitude. And I keep telling him we should enlarge the buildings so that we can increase our output, but he can’t see that either.’

  ‘Maybe he feels you don’t have enough people to cope with the extra work,’ Marianne ventured, a little timidly because she knew nothing of the workings of a woollen mill.

  ‘We could build more houses and employ more workers. He is well known all over Scotland for being a fair man, a good master paying decent wages, not like some owners, so there would be dozens of men wanting to be taken on. And their women would help the shepherds’ wives with the hand-knitted garments. Plus, if I had my way, I’d install running water in every cottage – not that Father ignores the upkeep of the houses. All the workers, and even the crofters, are encouraged to let the factor know if anything needs to be repaired, but they need to have some sanitation. It can’t be very nice not to have an inside WC, and in some cases not even one outside.’

  Having been brought up in an old cottage in the last category, Marianne knew that those who were accustomed to it thought nothing of having a dry lavatory, and her thoughts took a different turn. ‘You know, Hamish, it might be a good idea to employ somebody to look after the very young children so women who wanted to earn some extra money could work in the mill.’

  Hamish shook his head. ‘My father would never countenance that.’ His sigh was deep and long. ‘Anyway, Marianne, I was just being silly, building castles in the air …’

  ‘Not castles,’ she laughed. ‘Just houses to go with the castle.’

  He ignored her attempt to cheer him. ‘It’s no use. He will never agree to that, either, nor any of the other things I want to do.’

  The assurance which sprang to her mind that he would be able to do what he liked when he was laird remained unsaid, but it hung in the air between them for the rest of that day.

  Their ‘honeymoon’ over, it was time for Hamish to start work again, and once he and his father left for the mill, Marianne thought she had better get to know the layout of the castle as her father-in-law had said, looking at things in more detail. She had been so scared of upsetting Lady Glendarril that she hadn’t dared to take more than a cursory glance at any room until now. She decided to start with the ground floor, and went into the entrance hall, but she just had time to notice the row of hooks above the oak chest opposite the front door when the housekeeper came out of the dining room. Miss Glover, whom the new mistress found quite intimidating, was a wraithlike figure dressed entirely in black. She seemed to glide as if she were on casters, silent and unsmiling, terrifyingly forbidding.

  ‘The hooks are for hanging overcoats, ma’am,’ she said, her thin mouth forming each word in a way that made her prominent teeth even more prominent. She bent over and lifted the lid of the chest. ‘Overshoes and boots are kept in here … and the guns, of course, in the grouse season.’

  ‘I see, thank you.’ Marianne guessed that the house-keeper had been instructed to show her round and explain things to her, and even if she would have preferred to look at things on her own, it wouldn’t be policy to antagonize the woman. ‘The kist’s the same wood as the door, isn’t it?’ she asked, for the sake of something to say.

  ‘The chest is oak, ma’am, the same as the door … which is restricted to his Lordship, his family and their guests,’ she added, in a hushed tone, as if she were speaking about God and His angels.

  Marianne determined not to be needled, though the woman evidently didn’t include her new mistress in the hallowed company by the tone of her voice. ‘The white painted walls give a nice welcome to guests, and the sanded floor’s so highly polished …’

  ‘The floor has never been sanded, ma’am.’ There was a ring of pride in what she was saying now. ‘It was recorded by his Lordship’s grandfather that it had been scraped with broken glass until it took on this fine sheen. Do you see how it reflects the colours from the windows on the staircases, ma�
�am?’

  And so it went on. The secrets of the huge sideboard in the dining room – it took up the whole of one wall – were laid bare to Marianne; the delicate bone-china dinner and tea services and where they had come from; the beautiful silver cutlery in one of the drawers, some with the family crest on the handles, some monogrammed with just a fancy letter L, which, Miss Glover revealed, meant that they had been in the Lyall family even before Marjorie Bruce married into it.

  ‘That was about the middle of the eighteenth century, and she was a direct descendant of King Robert the Bruce, and was named after his daughter, which is why the king of the time granted the family the right to be known as Bruce-Lyall, and the Lord Lyon, King of Arms, approved a new crest.’

  Another drawer held silver serving utensils, and a third contained starched damask napkins with the initials B and L embroidered in white to match the tablecloths in the fourth drawer.

  The housekeeper reeled off details of the furniture next, the oval table and ten high-backed chairs with tapestry seats, and the carvers to match, one at either end. ‘It took three generations of Bruce-Lyall women to finish all the stitching,’ she divulged.

  ‘They’re absolutely wonderful, though,’ Marianne murmured, hoping that she wouldn’t be expected to fill her spare time in the same way. Surprisingly, considering how long she had lived with the Rennie sisters, she hated sewing and had never been any good at it.

  ‘As you can see, ma’am,’ Miss Glover continued, ‘there are numerous small tables, all darkest mahogany like the rest of the furniture in here, for trays to be set down on, or platters of vegetables to be rested on if the dining table is full.’

  While the housekeeper gave details of the portraits on the walls, Marianne, having already studied them while having meals here when Lady Glendarril was alive, turned her attention to the Indian carpet square on the floor. It was almost threadbare in places, the pattern scarcely showing. That would be the first entry she would make in the notebook she was intending to keep, she thought – ‘See about new dining room carpet.’