The House of Lyall

by Doris Davidson

  The business room, as Miss Glover said it was originally called, was used by Lord Glendarril as a study. To the right of and very close to the fireplace stood a beautiful desk which had belonged to his father, who had been inclined to feel the cold, and his own desk sat in front of the window to afford him more light. Near the door was a desk with four seats at it, which Miss Glover said was the ‘rent’ desk, where the tenant farmers came once a year to pay their ten-shilling rents to the factor. The floor here was of pine, deeper in colour than usual because of years, maybe centuries, of beeswax polish applied by perspiring young girls, and had a scattering of small rugs to protect it in the most used areas.

  The library fascinated Marianne, two of its walls completely lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, some filled with volumes covered in red leather, some with dark blue covers, some linen covers, all of which looked as if they had seldom, if ever, been read, though not one speck of dust could be seen anywhere. On the shelves on the other two walls, on either side of the fireplace and bay window, were books which had obviously been well-leafed – novels, biographies of the famous and not-so-famous, autobiographies, children’s and adults’ classics. She had never seen so many books and it dawned on her that here was a wealth of reading that would help her improve her still lamentably poor vocabulary – if she got any time to read, that was. She wasn’t too keen on the plaster – or alabaster or whatever – busts, which were placed haphazardly anywhere there was room for them.

  ‘The bronzes are celebrated composers,’ her guide supplied, seeing her looking at them, ‘and the ivories are famous authors.’

  Then they entered the Blue Room, most used of any of the public rooms, where the furnishing fabrics were all in some shade of blue, not really to Marianne’s taste because it made the room look cold. The chairs here were upholstered in a rough material which felt like hessian but the housekeeper said was hopsack made in the mill – ‘A not altogether successful experiment,’ she added. Noting the fading and the neat, but still noticeable, patches over what must be worn parts, Marianne could only agree with this, and make re-covering the chairs another of the early jobs to be done. As they left the room, Miss Glover drew her attention to three miniatures on the wall above a whatnot.

  ‘Lady Glendarril’s mother, grandmother and great-grandmother,’ she observed, pointing to each one in turn. ‘His Lordship did not like them and wanted to take them down, but she held out against him. I am surprised, though, that he has not removed them by this time.’

  Marianne had guessed that they were ancestors of Lady Glendarril; they all had the same sour faces and flared nostrils, as if somebody was holding a lump of dog’s dirt under them, and if her father-in-law didn’t take them down soon, Marianne would do it for him. Luckily, she kept her thoughts to herself. Whatever she did when she started making the alterations she wanted, she was bound to upset somebody, so this was another fine line she’d have to walk.

  There was also a Red Room – very overpowering with huge paintings of fire-breathing dragons and several luridly coloured urns, so tall that full-grown men could hide in them. Next to that, and probably because there had been too many items to fit into the Red Room, was a Chinese room with disgustingly fat buddhas brooding in every corner, and next to that again, an Indian room with the fire irons set into elephants’ feet at the side of the black marble fireplace, and tiger skin rugs on the floor.

  All these foreign artefacts, the housekeeper explained with pride, had been brought home by previous generations of Lyalls and Bruce-Lyalls after visits to the east, and Marianne resolved to do something about these rooms at some time in the future.

  Throughout this guided tour, conducted at almost break-neck speed and interspersed constantly by the stressed ‘ma’am’, she had been genuine in the interest she showed, and grateful for the information the housekeeper had imparted, but at long last, to her great relief, the woman said, ‘I hope you don’t mind … Mrs Hamish, but I shall have to leave you now. There are things I should be attending to.’

  The change of title told Marianne that the woman was thawing, was accepting her, thank goodness. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Glover. You shouldn’t have wasted so much of your time with me.’

  ‘Not entirely wasted, I hope?’

  What was surely a hint of laughter appeared in the housekeeper’s eyes, and Marianne suspected that she was not so forbidding as she would like to have people believe. ‘Definitely not wasted,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve learned me …’ Remembering Andrew’s teaching, she stopped to correct herself. ‘I’ve learned an awful lot. It would’ve taken me years to find out the things you’ve told me. Thank you very much, Miss Glover. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘So did I, Mrs Hamish. Now you’ll manage to look round upstairs by yourself? Not that there’s much to see, mostly bedrooms.’

  In Marianne’s next letter to the Rennies, she told them that the bedrooms, both in the east and west wings, were reasonably well appointed. ‘I just had a quick look in most of them whether they were being used or not,’ she wrote, ‘but I went through the cupboards in the passages thoroughly, so I would know where everything is, and I made a note of anything that needed mending or replacing. My notebook is full already, but I can leave most things for a few years. I do not want them to resent me as a new broom sweeping clean.’

  It was Miss Emily who observed, ‘Shouldn’t she think of converting one of the rooms into a nursery?’

  Miss Edith gave a small frown. ‘I would have thought there would be a nursery there already. She must have recognized it, because in these large houses there are usually bars across the nursery windows to prevent any child falling out.’

  Miss Esther smiled mischievously. ‘Maybe Marianne thought the bars were to stop the Nanny’s men friends from getting in.’

  A month after she first took over (or gave the appearance of taking over) the supervising of the household, Marianne knew that she was going to enjoy being mistress of the castle.

  ‘I must have been born to be a lady,’ she said to Hamish one night when Lord Glendarril had gone to bed. ‘All the servants, even the bootboy and the grooms and gardeners, even the Carnies, saluted or curtsied when I spoke to them, and I loved it.’

  ‘That’s what they are meant to do,’ her husband smiled.

  She screwed up her nose. ‘It gets a wee bit embarrassing after a while, though. Could I make it a rule that they just do it the first time they see me every day, and not any other times?’

  After considering for a moment, Hamish shook his head. ‘Not yet, I think. Give them time to get accustomed to their mistress being so young … and so beautiful.’ As if regretting this compliment, he went on hastily, ‘Get them used to doing what you tell them, but you must not order them about like slaves. They will respond much better to kindness and consideration – and you will have to earn their respect before you can relax any of the rules.’

  ‘I can understand that, but I feel awkward with Mrs Carnie; she’s old enough to be my granny.’

  Grinning at this, Hamish stood up. ‘It is time all good people were in bed.’ He held his hand out to help her out of her seat. ‘Um … Marianne, I have not asked before, I was giving you time to settle to your new responsibilities, but … will you allow me to come to your room tonight, or are you too tired?’

  She could feel her face grow as scarlet as his was. She had often wondered when he would make her carry out this part of their bargain, but surely he didn’t need to ask? She was his wife, after all. ‘I’m not tired,’ she whispered.

  Since the day she had agreed to become his wife, she had worried about how she would cope when this moment arrived, yet she felt a little put out when he said, as they went upstairs, ‘I’ll undress in my room to give you time to … get into bed.’

  It was a marriage of convenience, she reminded herself, but why did he have to be so … distant, about this? Nevertheless, she hastily cast off her clothes and took a clean nightdress out of a drawer. She had been wearin
g those included in the trousseau bought for her by Lady Glendarril in Edinburgh, but tonight was special, so she carefully chose one of the shifts made and embroidered by Miss Esther, no doubt with the creation of the new generation of Bruce-Lyalls in mind. Knowing that she was wrapped in the love of her beloved friend, Marianne thought, she would, hopefully, be more relaxed and … receptive. It should bring her luck!

  She had just got into bed when the door opened and she looked up apprehensively, watching Hamish enter and take off his long silk robe. He folded it neatly and draped it over a chair before sitting down beside her. ‘Do you normally go to bed with your hair pinned up?’ he asked, smiling.

  Even recognizing a hint of humour in his eyes, she felt flustered. ‘No, I usually … my mother used to tell me never to forget to give my hair a hundred strokes with my brush every night, but I thought … I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Will you allow me to do it for you … please?’ He rose to fetch a tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush from the dressing table, part of the set which had also been bought for her by his mother, and came back to where she was feverishly removing all her hairpins in readiness.

  Neither of them said a word until the required number of strokes had been completed, then Hamish let his hand run lightly down her shimmering coppery tresses. ‘You have such beautiful hair, it seems a pity to pin it up.’

  She turned to face him now, her face pink with embarrassed pleasure at the compliment. ‘Only young girls wear their hair down,’ she explained seriously.

  ‘It’s a crime to hide it away, especially when it suits you so well like this.’ Her deepening colour made him smile. ‘But you are right, of course. As lady of the castle, it is only fitting that you look dignified in front of others.’

  She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Dignified? Me? I don’t think I’ll ever manage to look dignified, but I’m willing to do my best.’

  ‘Given time, my dear Marianne, you will look every bit as dignified as the highest ladies in the land, although I wish that you could …’

  ‘That I could what?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘That you could remain as sweet and fresh as you are at this moment.’ He turned away abruptly to replace the hairbrush in its designated place, and when he came back, it was to the other side of the bed, where he slipped under the bedcovers beside her.

  ‘You are sure about this?’ he asked anxiously.

  Nodding, she wished that he would get on with it. This shillyshallying was worse than if he just jumped on her. She knew that was what he was going to do eventually, and it wasn’t against her will. His first tender kisses quickly became more urgent, his searching hands more insistent, until her body involuntarily rose to welcome him in.

  She had long been dreading it, but it was a wonderful, marvellous, exquisite experience which left her puzzling over why some married women hated it, or so she had heard her mother’s friends saying when they thought she couldn’t hear. And Hamish had seemed to enjoy it, too, for he had kept kissing her and whispering her name, and … Oh, dear God, if this was what it took to make a baby, she wanted to have dozens.

  He was sleeping now like a child himself, sleeping as though he was exhausted, and maybe he was. Looking at him, she felt a surge of fondness for him. He was a dear man – he’d been really gentle with her, guiding her over the initial pain so that she knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her. It had only been for a few seconds anyway, and he had assured her she would never have any more pain during intercourse. That was the word he’d used. He hadn’t said ‘making love’. He had never mentioned love, but she hadn’t expected him to. He didn’t love her, like she didn’t love him, though she had the feeling it might be easy for her to change her mind.

  When Thomson went in the next morning with a cup of tea for her mistress, Hamish had returned to his own room so that she knew nothing of what had gone on the night before. However, when the little chamber maid went up to make the bed after breakfast, she came charging back brandishing a blood-stained sheet. ‘He’d been wi’ her last nicht! Look at this!’

  Miss Glover frowned, but a scowling Mrs Carnie snatched the bed linen out of the girl’s hands. ‘It’s no’ decent to let folk see that, Kitty Bain!’ she stormed. ‘An’ it’s nobody’s business but theirs, so keep your tongue atween your teeth, an’ that goes for the rest o’ you, an’ all,’ she added, letting her eyes take in every last one of the trembling girls, who darted off to carry out their assigned duties.

  The cook and the housekeeper sat down one on each side of the big range, looking at each other with knowing smiles. ‘He took his time about it, though,’ Mrs Carnie said grudgingly.

  Marianne’s plans for refurbishing certain rooms were turned down by Hector. ‘I know you mean well,’ he said apologetically, having summoned her to his study one morning, ‘but I would rather not have the upheaval, and things are better left as they are. I do not take well to change, especially when it would leave me with hardly any memories of my dear Clarice.’

  She was contrite. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I wasn’t trying to get rid of the things your wife chose, I was only –’

  ‘I know, my dear,’ he soothed. ‘But bear with an old man. When I’m gone, you and Hamish can do what you like.’

  ‘But you’re not old!’ she burst out. In the mornings it was easy to forget how tired he often was in the evening, and how bad his colour could be. ‘You’ll be here for years and years yet, and we’ll be walking on bare floorboards if you don’t let me get a new carpet for the dining room soon.’

  ‘My grandfather – or maybe it was my great-grandfather – took that carpet home from Persia.’

  She had thought it was Indian, but what did it matter? ‘Please, Father?’ She had been invited to address him as Hamish did and had been highly complimented by this privilege.

  He succumbed to the pleading in her lovely young eyes. ‘All right. The mill has no dealings with Persia, I’m afraid, but I have an old friend who captains a merchant ship and trades with some eastern countries, so I shall ask him to get an oriental carpet for me.’

  ‘Thank you, Father!’ Marianne had to force the enthusiasm into her voice, because she still was not being allowed to choose. Still, whatever the sea captain took back was bound to be better than the carpet in the dining room at present. But she still had another favour to ask. ‘What about the pump for the bathroom? Did you look at the information I sent away for? It would save the poor maids having to hump up pails and pails of water.’

  ‘It is a recognized part of their duties,’ he frowned.

  The twinkle in his eyes, however, told her that he was testing her, so she went on hopefully, ‘We could take a bath at any time, not just when somebody’s free to fill it. My mother used to say, “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” even when she was bent near double filling the old tin bath we had to use.’

  Her father-in-law eyed her quizzically. ‘That’s the first time I have ever heard you speak of your mother. What happened? Did you quarrel with her or …?’

  ‘She died … and when my father married again, the woman didn’t like me. That’s why I ran away.’

  Hector could see by the set of her mouth that she did not want to talk about it. ‘I am glad you are a strong person, Marianne … you know why. And now I have got on that subject, may I ask … how are you finding my son?’

  It was an odd way of asking, but she knew what he meant. ‘I hope it won’t be long till I have good news for you.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Tell Hamish not to leave it too long.’ Hector was beaming as she left his study.

  She was positive that Hector was wondering if they were trying at all, and she herself couldn’t understand why she hadn’t conceived, because their couplings seemed to satisfy Hamish, though she did wish that he would do it more often and satisfy her. With time on her hands she began to brood about not yet being pregnant.

  Despite Marianne’s notebook of lists and the suggestions she had dared to voice, Miss Glover
had gradually taken over the entire management of the household again. It was done in such a way that it was some weeks before Marianne noticed what was happening, and she had to admit that the woman was more competent than she was. The housekeeper had had years of experience, of course, Marianne told herself, guilty at the relief she felt.

  With more time to fill, she asked her husband one morning if he would show her round the mill.

  Hamish smiled indulgently. ‘There’s not really much to see, but if that is what you want … Give me time to arrange for someone to explain things … get one of the stable lads to take you down in the trap in about an hour.’

  Not knowing what to expect, Marianne was quite impressed by what she saw, made all the more interesting when Mr Gillies, one of the overseers, allowed various workers to tell her what he or she was doing. One of the women at the carding machines told her that the process of teasing the fleece out into yarn had all been done by hand when she was a girl. ‘Some of the old women still do it at home,’ she smiled. ‘My ma thinks a machine cannae dae it as good as her.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Marianne asked.

  The woman shot a glance at the man, then said, somewhat defiantly, ‘I’d say she was right, but the machines are a lot quicker.’

  ‘Bella Simms is a widow, m’Lady,’ Mr Gillies told her. ‘His Lordship doesna employ a lot o’ women, just them wi’ no young bairnies.’

  ‘But is the men’s wages enough to keep a family?’

  ‘The wages here are the best in the country, m’Lady, and the shepherds’ wives – and any of the other wives that need to – get paid well for the hand-knitting they do.’

  ‘So it’s not just cloth, you make, then?’

  ‘Mercy, no! We’ve got tailors that make the different materials into men’s coats and suits …’ – and here the man’s pride in his workplace made him forget his careful mode of speech – ‘… and we sell them a’ ower the country. The best o’ stuff, mind – nane o’ your cheap dirt.’