But when the mild caressing became forceful fondling, the kisses more demanding, Melda knew that she had to stop him before he went too far. ‘No, Rannie,’ she gasped, as his hands strayed towards an intimate part of her. ‘Please don’t!’
‘You must let me, Melda,’ he begged. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you in case you got upset, but we’re being sent to France when I go back.’
She drew in a ragged breath. ‘To France? Oh, Rannie, no!’
‘I didn’t think we’d have to go so soon,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ve got to do what I’m told. I don’t want to scare you, my dearest, but … well, to put it bluntly, I … might be killed, so you have to let me …’
She struggled against his insistent hand. ‘No, Rannie, I can’t.’
He looked at her accusingly. ‘You don’t love me?’
‘I do! I do! But … decent girls don’t … let men …’
‘They do if they love them.’
She was thankful when he leaned back from her. If he’d kept on, she might have forgotten her principles, or at least pushed them aside. As it was, she wouldn’t have to despise herself for being weak. It was better this way.
To take his mind off his biological needs, Ranald began to talk about their childhood, about their schoolfellows in the glen, about those men and women they had thought of as ancient when they were young but some of whom could only have been in their thirties or forties, about those who had passed on. ‘There’s hardly any what I call “characters” left,’ he remarked at one point, and they laughingly recalled the eccentrics of bygone days, the men who had made whisky in the still – Rannie looking sheepish as he recalled his own experience of the raw spirit – the women who, when their husbands were occupied elsewhere, had kept open house – and open legs – for the itinerant tinkers who came to the glen looking for casual work before they went to the Blairgowrie area to pick strawberries and raspberries for Keiller’s jam factory in Dundee.
‘D’you remember Pattie Raeburn?’ Melda giggled, all restraint between them forgotten already. ‘She used to hang a pair of red bloomers on her washing line to let that big Highlander know the coast was clear.’
‘I remember that,’ Ranald gurgled, ‘and we bairns timed how long he took to get there and how long he stayed with her. Ruairidh and I once saw him running out at the back when her man was going in at the front.’
Mention of Ruairidh made awareness creep back to Melda. How would she face him when he came home on leave, after what she and Rannie had been doing? How could she tell him it was his brother she loved?
‘I think it’s time I went home,’ she said, her voice a fraction unsteady.
‘Must you?’ Ranald groaned. ‘I’m sorry for what I did earlier, but I’m glad we’ve had time to get back to a normal footing.’
She looked away. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t –’ She broke off.
‘No, you were quite right, but don’t forget, Melda, I do love you, and I will marry you when the war’s finished … if you haven’t fallen in love with somebody else before that.’
‘I won’t,’ she assured him.
‘Not even Ruairidh?’ he murmured, then immediately cried, ‘No, that’s not fair of me.’ He held out his hand to help her to her feet.
She couldn’t have answered his question truthfully, she was well aware of that. It had always been Rannie and Ruairidh, together not singly, that she had played with, laughed with, thought of, and she had the feeling that, if Ruairidh were to kiss and fondle her when he came home, as his brother had done, she might tell him she loved him, too.
She didn’t protest when Ranald took her hand as they walked towards the path, there was nothing binding in that, and when they came within sight of the road, she let him draw her behind a tree and kiss her. It was a friend’s kiss, nothing more, before he took her face in his hands and looked earnestly at her.
‘Melda, I shouldn’t have tried to make you commit yourself, so don’t say anything until after Ruairidh’s been home, and if you’d rather spend the rest of your life with him, I’ll understand.’
‘Maybe he wouldn’t want that,’ she whispered.
‘He told me he loved you, and we agreed to let you decide which of us you wanted without putting any pressure on you.’
She swallowed a lump which had risen in her throat. ‘What if I can’t decide?’ she wailed. ‘I feel awful about it, Rannie, but I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to choose between you.’
‘Don’t feel badly about it, Melda. We knew it would be hard for you since the three of us were always together, but we’ve agreed to abide by your decision and the loser will take himself out of your life.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I’d better warn you, though – I’m not a very good sportsman.’
His eyes darkened again. ‘Melda, won’t you please let me …? I could be killed, remember.’
Struggling against his tightening arms, she managed to gasp, ‘I could easily give in, Rannie, but I mustn’t. I don’t want to spoil … my wedding night.’
The words ‘whoever it’s with’ hovered in the air between them, and he heaved a long sigh. ‘I know you’re right, my dearest girl, but I did hope you’d send me off to battle a happy man.’ He let her go abruptly, almost pushing her from him. ‘I’m not being fair, to you or Ruairidh, so you’re at liberty to tell him when he comes home that his brother’s not to be trusted.’
Melda felt the tears spring to her eyes. She knew why he was acting like this, and who could blame him? It must be difficult for him to be natural when he knew he’d soon be facing the Huns.
‘Please don’t cry, Melda,’ he said. ‘I’m making an unseemly fuss, and I promise I’ll dance at your wedding. Come on, I’d better get you home.’
The sun disappeared behind the distant Cairngorms as they walked, and the sky was shot with red, long streaky patterns that changed with every minute that passed. ‘I love the sunset,’ she said shakily.
‘Then I’ll think of you each sunset from now on,’ he smiled.
Chapter Seventeen
With Ranald in France, Ruairidh Bruce-Lyall was champing at the bit to be in the heart of the fighting, too, and wishing fervently that his furlough at the end of July would be embarkation leave. Never a great letter writer, he sent no word to his mother of when he would be home and was counting off the days until he could surprise her and Melda by just turning up. With only a week to go, he was called to the CO’s office, and sure that this was it, he hurried there with a spring in his step, his blood racing with an excitement which held just a trace of apprehension at what might lie in store for him once he was across the Channel.
A mere ten minutes later, he retreated to his billet to be alone, dismissing his batman with a curt, ‘I won’t need you today!’
He sat down awkwardly, even his bones rebelling at being forced to support him in such circumstances. But it couldn’t be true. There must be some mistake. Rannie … oh no! Not Rannie!
‘Nobby’ Clark, a veteran of the Boer war, had seen the same blank eyes, the same stony face, in other men he had served, men whose father or mother had died, or whose sweetheart had just thrown them over, but the mail hadn’t arrived that day, so Lyall couldn’t have had a letter telling him anything like that; besides, he had never mentioned having a sweetheart. Certain that some dire trouble had befallen the normally cheery young man who had always treated him as a friend, the batman did not move away from the door, and in just seconds, the sound of anguished sobs reached his ears. He steeled himself not to intrude on what must be a truly private grief, but he was a compassionate man who couldn’t bear to hear anyone suffering.
Giving a light tap, he walked in, his throat constricting when he saw the huddled figure sitting, head on arms, at the table, a picture of abject misery. ‘Go away … please?’ came the muffled voice.
Nobby came to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘Please leave. There’s nothing you can do.’
Ignoring this, the older man moved nearer and laid h
is veined hand on Ruairidh’s shoulder. ‘No, sir, you’re wrong there. Whatever’s wrong, you need somebody to help you through …’
‘Nobody can help me through this.’ Ruairidh lifted his ashen face and regarded his batman sadly. ‘The CO just told me … my … brother’s been killed in France.’
‘Oh, sir, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Ruairidh’s bottom lip quivered again and his next words were most unsteady. ‘He’s only been over there … less than a month.’
Nobby was almost as shocked as his officer. There was a small framed photograph of the brothers propped on top of the military chest in the corner, proud of the new uniforms they were wearing, probably why the picture had been taken, and he had often thought how alike and full of life they looked … and now, one of them was lying dead in a rough grave in some French field.
He pulled himself together. ‘Do you want me to pour you a spot of brandy, sir?’
‘All right … please.’ Ruairidh didn’t think it would do any good, but he did feel glad of the other man’s presence after all.
In a minute, Nobby handed him a half-filled glass. ‘Get that inside you, sir, and you’ll feel better.’ He stood holding the bottle as he watched the young man forcing the spirits between his frozen lips, and then murmured, ‘Another, sir?’
Ruairidh shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Nobby. Oh God, I don’t know how my mother … She’s not one of those flappy women who can’t cope in an emergency, but she thought the world of Rannie … I’m glad he got home before he … she’ll be grateful to have seen him so recently.’
Thinking that it would do him good, Nobby let him talk about his glen, about his parents, but it was only when he began to reminisce about what he and his brother did in their childhood that the name Melda cropped up. Melda? Nobby thought. It was a funny name, and it could be anything – a dog, a beloved horse – but it soon transpired that Melda was a girl. He gathered that she had been regarded almost as a sister years ago, the only playmate they’d allowed to join their childish games, but they’d both come to care deeply for her, to love her, most likely. He wondered when it would cross the lieutenant’s mind that he’d have a clear field to court her now, but after toying with the idea of offering that as a sort of consolation, he thought better of it. It would be insensitive at this time.
When Ruairidh stopped talking, he eyed his batman mournfully. ‘I’m sorry, Nobby. I’m ashamed of myself, babbling on like a child.’
‘That’s all right, sir. It usually helps to talk about it, and I didn’t mind. How d’you feel now, sir? There’s a bit more colour in your face.’
‘Yes, I do feel slightly better. I should have told you when you came in first, but I …’ Ruairidh paused, looking away briefly to compose himself. ‘The CO’s given me permission to go home tomorrow. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ll have everything packed ready, sir. I’m sure your mother will be glad to see you.’
‘Possibly, but I’m dreading it. How can she forget him when he was the one with the charm, the one who had only to smile at her to make her overlook all his naughtiness?’
‘I don’t suppose she wants to forget him,’ Nobby ventured shrewdly, hastily adding the forgotten ‘sir’.
Ruairidh shot him a grateful glance. ‘I don’t suppose she does … and neither do I.’
Encouraged, Nobby said, ‘And the young lady, sir? Melda?’
‘Ah, yes! I didn’t mean to bring her into it, but … well … Melda’s two years younger than me, three years younger then Rannie.’ He heaved a shivering sigh. ‘We spent a lot of time with her when we were at the glen school, then we … Rannie and I … were sent south to boarding school and only saw her during vacations, always the three of us together. We both fell in love with her, and last time I saw Rannie, he said we’d have to let her choose between us. He was home before he was sent to … and he must have seen her, but I don’t know … maybe he didn’t say anything to her.’
‘She won’t have to make a choice now,’ Nobby said softly.
Ruairidh either didn’t hear, or didn’t understand. ‘She might have made her mind up already and if it was Rannie, she’ll be … God, I’ll be afraid to ask.’
‘You shouldn’t say anything, sir,’ the batman advised. ‘Not yet. It’s too soon for you and her to be sensible about it.’
‘Should I tell her I’m going to France, too?’
‘That’s up to you, sir, but I think she’d want to know. For one thing, maybe it’s you she –’
‘Maybe it’s me she likes best?’ Ruairidh’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘I doubt it, but you’re right – she will want to know.’
Even crouching over the roaring fire, Marianne could feel no heat. She didn’t think she would ever feel warm again. Ranald was dead! Her dearest Rannie! She had always loved him more than Ruairidh, though she had tried not to show it. He’d been just that wee bit more mischievous, more affectionate, more outgoing. She had always been glad that he was the elder, that he would inherit the title from his father. His father! Oh, when in heaven’s name would Hamish come home to her? He was never here when she needed him.
The woman sitting at the back of the room had been watching her mistress for any signs of distress, and thinking that she could detect a slight change in the stony expression, she leaned forward ready to offer more comfort. But the tears didn’t come again.
Marianne’s thoughts were still on her errant husband – errant in the sense of not fulfilling his duty as supporter or comforter; he had even been away when his second son was born. Ruairidh’s birth had been the worst, two whole days of sporadic pains that escalated in strength and left her drenched with perspiration. Thomson had only allowed the hired nurse to take her temperature and assess the stage of the labour, and had taken upon herself the task of sponging her mistress, changing her nightdress and gripping her hands while her body was bucking in agony.
As if that hadn’t been bad enough, Marianne mused, it had been followed by four solid hours of pain so excruciating that she had longed to die, and at its height, Robert Mowatt, summoned by the nurse at the onset of this last stage, had to shove Thomson out of the way to extract the infant. With Rannie, she’d had twenty minutes of discomfort, slight enough to let her have a degree of rest, and hardly any real pain before he slid out with no help from anybody. It was no wonder that she had always felt more drawn towards him, not that Ruairidh could help what he had put her through … nor could he help what she was going through now, even if he did get home.
Her barely audible catch of breath was heard by Thomson, who said, ‘Do you want anything, m’Lady? A cup of tea?’
Marianne sighed. ‘If I drink any more tea, my skin’ll turn brown. Are you sure you sent that telegram to the right address, Thomson? His Lordship should have been here by now.’
‘He hasn’t had time yet, m’Lady. He’d only have got the wire about dinnertime, and he’ll catch the overnight express, so it’ll be …’
‘… tomorrow morning before he gets here? But that’s so long …’
The sound of a horse’s hoofs and the swish of carriage wheels made Marianne sit up straighter. ‘This’ll be him, thank God. He’s caught an earlier train.’
Thomson pulled back the edge of the heavy curtain. ‘It’s not his Lordship, m’Lady. It’s Master Ruairidh.’
Marianne rose shakily, and was holding both hands out when her son strode in. ‘Oh, Ruairidh!’ she moaned, sagging against him as he swept her into his arms.
Satisfied that she was leaving her mistress in safe hands, Thomson went down to the basement, to let the cook and the housekeeper know the young Master was home. Mrs Carnie had retired at the same time as her husband, three years ago now, and had gone to live in Perth to be near her sister. Miss Glover had left not long afterwards to look after her mother, who was over eighty and not in the best of health. The new holders of these posts were nice enough women, Jean Thomson reflected, but they weren’t the same a
s the two she had worked with for over twenty years and who had become good friends.
‘I’m right glad for her Ladyship,’ Mrs Ross observed when she heard the news. ‘She was needing one of her own to be there with her. Oh, I know she’s had you, Jean,’ she added quickly, ‘and you’ve looked after her as well as anybody could, but it’s not the same as family, is it?’
‘I suppose no’.’
In the drawing room, Ruairidh was feeling inadequate. The only family death he could remember, vaguely, had been his grandfather’s, and he had been an old man, so it wasn’t such a tragedy for any of them. And his arm was getting cramp with holding the weeping woman, the woman who had never been in his arms before, nor he in hers since he was a very small boy.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Mother?’ he murmured.
Drawing comfort from the feel of his arms, the strong young bones, she said, ‘I’ve been sitting all day, ever since the telegram came.’
They were her first coherent words to him, and believing that her quiet weeping had eased her grief, he took hold of her by the elbow and guided her back to her seat. ‘When did the telegram come? I heard late last night.’
‘The boy delivered it first thing this morning, as soon as he started work, I suppose. Knowing what was in it, he was ill at ease with me and said the postmistress had told him to make sure I had someone with me before I opened it.’
‘Father’s not here, I take it?’
‘He’s in London, but Thomson took care of me.’ Marianne gulped suddenly, and held a damp handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Like she took care of you when I was giving all my attention to your brother. I did love you, too, Ruairidh, but I couldn’t show it … I’m sorry. My only excuse is that Ranald was a name I chose, and Ruairidh was what your grandfather wanted … though that shouldn’t have made any –’
‘It’s all right, Mother. I understood. Rannie was the bright one, he always got on better with people than I did.’
This was too much for her. ‘Oh God, Ruairidh. I can’t bear it! I can’t! You don’t know how I …!’
The House of Lyall Page 27
