Alarmed by her sudden eerily wailing screeches, he kneeled at the side of her chair and put one arm round her waist. ‘You’re bound to feel that way just now, Mother. I feel exactly the same, but we’ll come to terms with it … some day.’
She burrowed her head into his shoulder, her tears running down his neck and under his collar, and he felt an upsurge of love for her that made tears come to his own eyes. It was several moments before she sat up and said, ‘I don’t know why you weren’t jealous of Rannie. You must have known I loved him best.’
‘I loved him, too,’ Ruairidh said simply.
‘I feel ashamed of myself,’ she muttered. ‘It wasn’t right of me to make more of one than the other. I did love you, you know.’
‘I know, Mother, so don’t be ashamed. A woman often feels more for one of her children, so I’ve heard. And likely a father, as well, though I don’t think ours had any great love for either of us.’
She looked outraged. ‘Oh, don’t think that! Your father’s a man who can’t show his love properly, not even to me, but I swear he loved both of you very dearly.’
‘Do you mean … he doesn’t love you?’ Ruairidh asked wonderingly.
‘No, I don’t mean that. He does love me, but I wish he would tell me sometimes. And he’s never here when I need him.’
Mother and son sat silently until Thomson tapped at the door and carried in a tray laden with home-baked scones and cakes. ‘Excuse me, m’Lady,’ she announced, ‘but Cook says you and Master Ruairidh must eat something. “Tell them a full belly keeps the back up”, was the way she put it.’
The suspicion of a smile crossed both white faces, and when Marianne shook her head, her son lifted the teapot purposefully. ‘You must eat, Mother, to maintain your strength.’
At that moment, there was the sound of another arrival, and before Ruairidh reached the window to look out, his father was inside the room.
Too distraught to notice anyone else, Hamish went straight to his wife, who had tottered to her feet. ‘Marianne,’ he moaned, taking her gently into his arms and stroking her hair. ‘Marianne, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you …’ Overcome, he broke off, but not before a large teardrop spilled down his haggard cheek.
Clearly embarrassed by this, he would have drawn back, but Marianne wouldn’t let him. ‘Hold me, Hamish!’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to hold me.’
At this point, Thomson crept out, but Ruairidh was fascinated by the sight of his normally erect father caving in and kissing his wife as if he had been in London for years instead of days.
‘I love you, Marianne,’ Hamish whispered hoarsely. ‘The trouble was, I was brought up not to show my feelings – Mother said it was unmanly – and I wish I’d let my sons know I loved them, too.’
His heart full, Ruairidh tiptoed out, leaving his father and mother in a passionate embrace.
Chapter Eighteen
It hadn’t taken long for the bad news to wing its way round the glen; in fact, most of the inhabitants had known about Ranald Bruce-Lyall’s death before his mother did. Mima Rattray – wife of Dougal in whose small general store the post office had a counter – was not by nature a gossipy woman, but by dint of her occupation she had first-hand information on things she felt should be public knowledge; not aired in public, of course, but divulged on a one-to-one basis with the stricture that nobody be told that it was she who had passed it on. Although she also warned her eager listeners that it was to be kept secret, Mima knew that, human nature being what it was, the titbit would be told in whispers whenever two or more women got together. But she considered that her undercover tactics in no way broke the confidentiality of her position as a trusted civil servant. She was only keeping the community abreast with local news, after all.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ she had begun every time on this tragic day, leaning towards each woman and murmuring the words in her best English as befitted her position, ‘but the young Master’s been killed in France.’
And each reaction had been the same. ‘Ranald? Oh, no!’
‘It’s true, as sure as I’m standing here. The word came this morning and Ruairidh’s home and his Lordship, though they didn’t arrive till long after the telegram was delivered.’
‘Poor Lady Marianne.’
‘Yes, it’s her I’m sorry for. She’s not like old Lady Glendarril, she wasn’t brought up to face up to death and things like that. She was just a shop-girl before she married, if you remember?’
Her listener on one occasion, however, was a former maid at the castle, known as little Rosie then but now a hefty lump of womanhood. She had information to divulge to the postmistress that she certainly wouldn’t have heard before, so she, too, leaned across the counter until their two heads almost touched. ‘She wasna aye in a shop, though. She was once a skivvy!’
‘A skivvy?’ Mima’s eyes were as big as soup plates. ‘Surely not!’
‘God’s honest truth! She stole some money an’ ran awa’.’ Rosie stopped to savour the bemused, practically agonized, expression on the other woman’s face. It wasn’t often anybody could tell Mima Rattray something she didn’t know already, but this …!
The eyes narrowed. ‘Who tell’t you that?’ The refined voice was forgotten in her disbelief.
‘I’m tellin’ you. I was there when her stepmother come to say her father was deid.’
‘An’ what had her father’s death to dae wi’ her bein’ a skivvy an’ stealin’ money?’
‘It jist come up, like.’ Rosie went on to relay all she had heard at the time of Moll Cheyne’s visit, but ended, ‘I dinna ken if she did put a stane on his grave, though, for she wasna pleased aboot the wumman bein’ there.’
‘Whit wey did you never tell me this afore?’ Mima said angrily.
‘Mrs Burr said she would sack the lot o’ us if we as much as said a word to onybody.’
‘I wish I’d ken’t.’ Mima was relishing the idea of turning this titbit over, and over, and over.
‘No, no! You must promise never to say onything. My God, I wouldna like to think what would happen if you did. We’d get thrown oot o’ our hoose, but you’d be worse. You’d lose your fine job, an’ all.’
This reminder was enough for Mima, and Rosie, satisfied that she had got the better of the postmistress for once, went happily on her way.
It was fortunate for Esmerelda Mowatt, who had gone to Arbroath for the day since Mackie Academy was on holiday for the summer, that she met no one on her way back from Laurencekirk station; to have learned on the road that Rannie had been killed would have been unbearable. As it was, when she arrived home at half-past six and was told by her mother, she had to temper her horror and shock. For well over a year now, she’d had the feeling that her friendship with the Bruce-Lyall boys was frowned on by her father as well as Lady Glendarril – it was almost as if her Ladyship had said something to him, goodness knows why … or what.
Nevertheless, Melda could not hide her sorrow for her old playmate altogether. ‘Poor Rannie!’ she gulped. ‘And the poor laird and his wife. And what must Ruairidh be feeling? They were always so close.’
Flora could not help giving a sigh of relief; she had dreaded her daughter’s reaction, yet she had used practically the same words herself when Robert told her. ‘Yes, it’s very sad, and I’m not surprised that Marianne has made it known that she wants no callers. Mind you, as her friend, I’d have liked to let her know that we’re all thinking of her. His Lordship wasn’t back, the last I heard, and I doubt if Ruairidh will get home. There must be a lot of brothers … soldiers … oh, you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean, but surely …?’ Her voice breaking, Melda came to an agonized stop. ‘I’m going for a walk.’ She had to get away before she lost control of her grief.
‘I kept your tea hot for you.’
‘I’m not hungry.’ She dashed out, knowing and not caring, that her mother would see how deeply she had cared for Rannie.
/> She ran into the woods, stumbling over stones and rotting old tree stumps in her haste to get to the ramshackle hut, the scene of their last meeting, when she had refused to give in to his pleas.
Feeling unwanted, as he had so often felt before, Ruairidh took the old track through the trees, thinking idly that these silver birches, tall and almost straight, had been there long before he was born. How many of his ancestors, he wondered, had also trodden this path in the throes of sorrow or guilt? People would say his sorrow was natural, that any man would mourn the sudden death of his brother, but what would they think if they knew the truth? His was not a natural sorrow. Oh, there was sorrow there, a gut-twisting sorrow for the boy who had come from the same womb, the boy who had been his constant companion until they went into the army, but there was also overwhelming guilt at how quickly he had realized that with Rannie gone, there was no rival for Melda. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when Nobby hinted at it, but it had come to him on the train home from Inverness that he no longer had cause to be jealous.
The combination of emotions was so potent that Ruairidh stopped to give himself the consolation of a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked before being in the Fusiliers, but finding himself the odd man out in the officers’ mess, he had succumbed to the pressure. Leaning against a tree trunk, he inhaled deeply, his mind forming a picture from the past: two very young, fair-haired boys playing cricket with a dark-haired, chubby-faced girl who never demanded a turn of the bat. The scene changed again: the boys, a little older, were playing tennis, the girl quite content to retrieve the ball for them.
Then had come the split, Ruairidh recalled. Rannie and he had been sent to boarding school, and that was when things started to change between the three of them. As a child, Melda had only shown the promise of being a real beauty, but it was soon plain that Rannie was attracted to her as much as he was. The metamorphosis was gradual; they probably wouldn’t have noticed if they had still been seeing her every day, but on each vacation, they saw a different stage of her development. First, her cheeks lost their chubbiness, and her facial bones formed into a perfect oval. Next, her eyes grew a more pronounced blue, her eyelashes lengthened until they swept her cheeks when she blinked. Highlights appeared in her wavy black hair, so long now that it reached past her waist.
Her body lost its childish flatness and her hips broadened just a little, giving curves enough to make any man’s heart-beats quicken. But it was on their last visit home together that they’d seen the greatest change, the change which set brother against brother to a certain extent. Her chest had swelled into an upturned bosom, and they could tell by her rounded stomach that she wore no corsets yet. He had felt shy with her, Ruairidh recalled, and even Rannie had been taken aback, but being Rannie, he’d soon got over it.
‘My, my, Miss Melda!’ he’d grinned. ‘Aren’t you the young lady?’ His tone was light, but Ruairidh had seen that his eyes were fixed on her breasts.
She had coloured becomingly. ‘Stop teasing, Rannie,’ she’d smiled, but she’d clearly been pleased at the compliment. Then she’d turned to him. ‘What about you, Ruairidh? Do you think I’m grown up?’
He’d felt tongue-tied. There were so many things he’d wanted to say to her, but not in front of his brother. ‘You’re really p-pretty, M-Melda,’ he’d stammered.
Now, stamping on the stub of his cigarette with the heel of his highly polished boot, Ruairidh made sure it was properly out before walking on. There had been a long dry spell and the slightest spark amongst the old pine needles, yellowed moss and bracken could start a raging inferno. He caught sight of the old shack after a few moments, the site of so much of their play, when the three of them would act out the stories they’d read, Rannie always taking the hero’s role. Was that the onset of his jealousy? Rannie rescuing the fair maiden who rewarded him with a kiss? Not a loving kiss, of course, for she’d only have been around twelve at the time, though they’d been about fourteen and fifteen, old enough to feel the stirrings of manhood.
He couldn’t remember properly, Ruairidh mused. He hadn’t really recognized the pangs in his heart as jealousy until he was sixteen. He could recall that day very well. It had been during a summer vacation, and fourteen-year-old Melda had met them at the old hut as usual, her long legs bare, her thin dress rather skimpy in length, the bodice, obviously too tight, opened halfway down.
Rannie had suggested that they act out the story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian, and surprised Ruairidh by graciously allowing him to be Robin. He’d had an ulterior motive, of course. ‘I’m Will Scarlet,’ he had laughed before disappearing.
Melda had looked at Ruairidh. ‘What are we supposed to do?’
‘I don’t know, but didn’t Robin make Marian his wife?’
‘I can’t remember, but we can easily pretend to be married.’
That was when love had hit him, straight between the eyes. Until then, he’d liked her, had wanted to be with her, had even thought he loved her, but it had been nothing compared to what he felt in that instant. That was a love that would have made him lay down his life for her if necessary, or jump to his death from the top of one of the surrounding mountains, if she asked him to. It had also been a love that he was too young to show, and when she told him to put his arm round her like a husband, he had the devil’s own job to keep from trembling. ‘No, just link arms,’ he mumbled. ‘That should do.’
He had ambled along with her for a few minutes, his brain so fogged by the touch of her arm that he’d forgotten what they were actually doing, so he got a proper shock when Rannie stepped out from behind a tree, and grabbed Melda. ‘Come to me, my Lady Marian,’ he boomed.
‘You’re not supposed to do that,’ she exclaimed, struggling.
Taken unawares, Ruairidh could only watch them grappling.
‘I want you for my own,’ declaimed Will Scarlet. ‘It is my right as –’
He came to an abrupt halt, his face scarlet. ‘I’m sorry, Melda,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’
‘I know you didn’t.’ But she whirled away from him and ran off.
Rannie had turned to his brother then. ‘I didn’t mean it, truly.’ He looked apprehensive, as if waiting to be castigated.
Puzzled, Ruairidh said, ‘What did you do? I didn’t see.’
‘Just as well.’
This roused further curiosity in Ruairidh. ‘Tell me!’ he demanded.
‘I touched her … it was an accident!’
‘Where did you touch her?’
‘A button must have come off her frock with us wrestling, and I took hold of one of her tits by mistake.’ Rannie grinned suddenly. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing it again, though. It gave me … you know …’
He had wished Rannie dead at that moment, Ruairidh recalled. Not that his brother had actually made love to any girl at that age; it was just the thought that he might be … first with Melda. That had worried him, still worried him. When Rannie was home last time, he’d been alone with her, and he could easily have charmed her into …
Almost at the shack, Ruairidh heard someone inside weeping quietly. It could only be Melda, but was she just crying for an old playmate, or breaking her heart over the death of a recent lover? He stood for a second, trying to make up his mind whether to go in to comfort her or to leave her to mourn in private, but the need to share his own mixed feelings decided him.
‘I hope you don’t mind me intruding …?’ he began.
‘Oh, Ruairidh!’ She jumped up, tears streaming down her face and hurled herself at him in her misery. ‘I’m so glad to see you!’
Wrapping his arms around her, he shushed her, patted her, kissed her hair, and when his own tears started, he squeezed her against his chest, wishing that he could build some sort of barrier to protect her from the buffetings of fate. ‘Oh Melda,’ he groaned, ‘I loved him, too, you know.’
‘But you don’t know …’ she sobbed. ‘You don’t understand …’
‘I think I do. You loved him, and
you let him –’
Her head jerked up. ‘No, Ruairidh, that’s just it, that’s what’s so awful. He pleaded and pleaded with me, and I wouldn’t! I knew he was going to France and could be killed, but I couldn’t let … decent girls don’t do that … but I wish I had!’
With her lovely eyes looking sorrowfully into his, tear-drops still dangling from her lower eyelids, all he could do was bend to kiss her quivering lips, a kiss that opened the floodgates and made them forget everything but the craving for the ultimate solace. No words were needed as they lay down on the cushion of old pine needles the winds had blown in through the broken door, and their passion, generated by the conflicting emotions in each young breast, was a revelation which had to be repeated several times before they separated, exhausted, and reality reared its ugly head.
Chapter Nineteen
At daybreak, Melda was still wide awake, unable to sleep because of the questions in her mind.
Why had God let Rannie be killed?
Why had she sent him off to war without proving she loved him?
Why hadn’t she stopped Ruairidh?
But that last wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Ruairidh’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. They had been locked in each other’s arms, seeking desperately for the strength to accept the death of someone they both loved, and what followed had been a natural progression.
But should she, could she, excuse it so easily? How could they have thought that it would ease what was champing at the very core of their hearts? Of course, they hadn’t been capable of logical thought at the time; they couldn’t foresee the weight of the guilt that would descend on them later, crushing them like ants under a tackety boot – for Ruairidh must be feeling the same.
Was it Rannie she truly loved? He had been most fun, an extrovert whose charm could have persuaded any girl to do whatever he wanted … yet she had withstood him. Ruairidh, on the other hand, whilst not exactly an introvert, had a quiet appeal about him, an appeal which had succeeded in rupturing more than her morals.
The House of Lyall Page 28
