Mistress Cummins eyed him shrewdly and sighed. He had always been a shy laddie.
‘You make haste, now. I’ll busy myself in there and find ye a blanket or two frae Mary’s chest. Ye look ready to drop. Food and a sleep will put some life into ye.’
‘But Mary…?’
‘She’ll be all the better when she can stop worrying about you.’
‘Mistress Cummins is right, Billy,’ Mary called weakly from the box bed. ‘The pains have eased. I’ll be fine in a wee while. You get warm and dry.’
‘Aye, be quick and get out o’ your wet clothes, laddie!’ Mistress Cummins urged again, bustling away into the other room. She was a hardy woman but the room struck chill in spite of the fine spell of weather, which had just deserted them. Most of the cottages near the shore were inclined to be damp and the small windows did not let in much sunshine. Tonight the rain was finding its way down the wide chimney onto the hearth, bringing spots of black soot with it. She was sure Billy’s weak chest would be the worse for this night’s work.
The following morning, it was her own patient who was causing her more concern than Billy. She was tired herself and she knew Mary was exhausted. All night, the pains kept coming but they seemed to be leading nowhere. Things were not as straightforward as Agnes Cummins had expected. She suspected the fall had set the baby on its way before the passages were ready.
Lucy Hughes looked in from next door.
‘I’m pleased to see ye, lass. Could you send one of your bairns to fetch my Polly? I was at a birthing on the other side o’ the glen before Billy came for me. Polly will sit with Mary for an hour or two while I snatch a wee rest. I’ll be needed later.’
‘You think it’s going to be a long haul, then?’ Lucy asked in concern. Agnes Cummins nodded gravely, but she put a finger to her lips, nodding warningly towards the box bed.
‘I’ll take wee Andrew to my ain hoose for now,’ Lucy offered, ‘but when Billy wakens ye’ll not be wanting him under your feet either. Send him off to the dominie’s house. He can take the wee laddie with him. Then I’ll come in and sit wi’ Mary while ye take your rest.’
Agnes bit her lip, hesitating. Lucy was not the cleanest of women, but she was always willing to help. Her own daughter, Polly, had plenty to do with five bairns of her own. Reluctantly she agreed.
‘Just an hour will see me right. ’Twas a big day yesterday and I hadna expected to be up all night as well.’
Billy had spent a restless night shivering and tossing on the hard sofa, his thoughts on Mary. He dressed and went into the other room.
‘Nothing yet,’ Mrs Cummins greeted him wearily. ‘Mary is resting a bit now. I’ve made ye some porridge. Will ye take wee Andrew to see his grandfather?’
‘But Mr McWhan will be teaching in the schoolroom….’
‘Aye, but his housekeeper will likely be there. She would make ye both a bite o’ dinner. It would get Andrew out o’ the way, ye understand. He’s playing next door but I fear it will be nightfall again before I’ve any news.’ Billy’s face paled at her words. She was experienced enough to attend the women in the big houses dotted around the area. He had faith in her judgement.
‘So long?’ he whispered fearfully, trying to read the expression in her eyes.
‘Long enough, I’d say.’
‘Then I must let Mr Cole know I’ll not be in to work. I’ve no appointments for suit fittings today. I think he’ll understand.’
‘I’m sure he will. He’s a good man. But I know how it is, laddie: no work, no pay and we all need a wee pickle silver.’
Billy nodded and glanced longingly towards the alcove and the bed he and Mary had shared since they were married.
The day seemed to go on forever. Billy paced the dominie’s house and garden and tried to keep his young son occupied. Mary’s father had insisted he would walk back with them after school was over. He promised to give Andrew a ride home on his horse. Billy knew Mr McWhan loved his daughter dearly. Mary was all he had left. They were drawn together in their anxiety for her.
When they reached the little cottage, Lucy Hughes met them at the door, her face unusually pale. She ushered them firmly away.
‘Mistress Cummins says not to come back for at least another hour or two.’
Billy opened his mouth to protest but the dominie said quickly, ‘We’ll call in on Mr Cole.’ He had seen the anxious look on Lucy’s face. ‘Send any news to his house.’
‘Can’t I see Mary?’ Billy pleaded. He had suffered several bouts of violent coughing during the day and he felt wretched and exhausted. Worry about his beloved wife was draining what little energy he had left.
‘Better not.’ Lucy shook her head. The dominie took his arm and turned him from his own cottage door.
Mrs Cole, the tailor’s wife, was a motherly soul and she knew the dominie well. She washed Andrew and improvized a nightshirt for him. Before she had finished telling him a story he was sound asleep.
‘He can stay here tonight,’ she said. Her husband agreed and Billy accepted his employer’s offer gratefully.
Mary’s baby was born late that evening, a sturdy wee girl with a lusty cry. Mistress Cummins’s concern was for Mary.
‘If ye dinna mind, Dominie, I would feel easier if ye would call on Doctor Carr on your way back to the schoolhouse. Tell him,’ she looked uncertainly at Billy’s white face, ‘I’ll stay with her tonight. Ask him to come first thing.’ Her eyes met those of the dominie. He nodded silently, his own face drawn with worry. He knew Mistress Cummins would never ask for the doctor unless she had a serious concern.
The following evening, Lucy Hughes was trying to persuade Andrew to snuggle down in his crib, but the little boy sensed there was something wrong. There were so many people in his house. His mother was tossing wildly in the alcove bed, never speaking to him. She was not cuddling the new baby either. It kept crying and crying until Andrew felt like crying too. He wanted to cuddle it in his crib but Mistress Cummins said it was too small. Grandfather McWhan had come again, but he had no stories tonight. His face looked stern and white. Andrew trembled with fear.
Doctor Carr was talking to Mistress Cummins. He shared her fears of the birthing fever. It claimed the lives of many a healthy young mother, but rarely one who had been attended by Agnes Cummins. Billy was huddled beside the fire, shivering and coughing, paying the price for the soaking two days ago.
Mary’s father could not settle in his own house. He had ridden down as soon as school was out, anxious for news. He knew the slightest chill could make Billy ill. Tonight two bright-pink patches on his cheekbones accentuated the hollows of his thin face. Doctor Carr understood his concern as he watched Billy, head in his hands, trying not to cough.
‘Mary has developed a fever,’ he told them gravely. He swallowed hard and reached his decision. ‘She is unable to feed the baby.’ Billy’s head jerked up. ‘Ye need to be in bed yourself,’ the doctor said gruffly. ‘Dinna worry about the babe. I know a young woman who has lost her own infant. She will mother your bairn and give you and Mary peace until you both get your strength back.’
Billy stared up at the doctor, his eyes burning. ‘No,’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘No.’ He looked towards the alcove bed but Mary did not even hear the doctor’s suggestion.
‘She’s too ill to know, laddie,’ Dr Carr shook his head sadly. ‘It’s for the best – for all of you. Have you anybody to care for wee Andrew?’
‘I’ll look after the wee fellow,’ Lucy volunteered.
‘Who is the woman who would nurse the babe, Archie?’ Dominie McWhan asked.
‘Peggy Baird. She was a pupil of yours once. She lives in one of the cottages at Crillion Keep. Her mother is cook there for young Josiah Saunders.’
‘Ah yes, I remember Peggy well. She stayed with us at the schoolhouse during the winter terms.’ The dominie nodded in relief. ‘She and Mary were friends. Her mother is a fine woman – clean and respectable.’
‘Aye. She was widowed young, bu
t she married again. Her husband is Jacob McLauchlan, coachman at Crillion Keep. They have a young son. A bit late in life maybe, but they count him as a real blessing. He’s a fine wee laddie, young Fingal. He’s about the same age as your grandson.’
‘Yes, I remember now. So Peggy, the wee lad’s half-sister, will nurse the babe?’
‘Aye. She adores bairns. Young Fingal spends a lot of his time with her when his own mother is up at the Big House, but Peggy is taking it hard, losing her own bairn.’
The dominie nodded and looked at his son-in-law. There was no response.
‘Billy, have I your permission to take the babe there?’ Doctor Carr asked, frowning at Billy’s bowed head. ‘Peggy Baird will take good care of her.’
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t go on without Mary. I can’t….’
‘We’ll get you to bed, and I’ll give you a draft to ease your cough and help you sleep. We’re not going to lose your wife if Mistress Cummins and I can help it,’ Doctor Carr added with determination. He was a good doctor, considerably younger than Dominie McWhan. ‘You get to bed and get well yourself so you can help when Mary needs you.’
Dominie McWhan was deeply troubled during the weeks which followed his granddaughter’s birth. He never neglected the welfare of his young pupils, but as soon as school was over, he divided his evenings between his granddaughter at the Bairds’ cottage and his daughter’s. They were at opposite ends of the parish.
‘Mary is putting up a valiant fight,’ Doctor Carr assured him. ‘Mistress Cummins is determined she will not slip away from us.’
Silently they all acknowledged that Billy’s chance of a long life was slim. Mary’s survival was vital but her recovery was slow. Billy never complained, but as she regained her strength Mary realized how ill he had become. He needed her. He was her main concern. She was the only one who could help him in his fight for life. She remembered little of her baby’s birth and showed no yearning to see her. It was her father who insisted on taking her in his pony and trap to visit baby Janet at the Bairds’ cottage. She was a beautiful baby with wide, smoky-blue eyes and thickly fringed lashes, but Mary felt no urge to hold the little one in her arms. She didn’t feel any maternal tug at her heart. When Janet snuggled into Peggy, searching for milk, Mary felt no pang of jealousy. The dominie was concerned. It was unnatural. He knew his daughter was a loving mother with strong emotions.
‘Surely you want to take the bairn home now, Mary?’
‘I could not feed her,’ she said dully, ‘and Billy needs all the care I can give him. He needs me, Father.’ She turned her gaze to Peggy. ‘You will care for her?’
‘Of course I will,’ Peggy said softly, cradling the baby closer. ‘I think ’twill break my heart when Janet has to leave us. I reckon it might break Fingal’s too,’ she added in a husky whisper. Mary nodded. She felt drained, permanently exhausted. In her heart she knew she would not have her beloved husband for long. Their time together was precious and she vowed to give him all the care and attention she could. There would be time enough to care for her daughter. As she put Janet to her breast later that evening, Peggy turned to her husband, her gentle face troubled.
‘I think, subconsciously, Mary Scott blames this wee mite for her husband’s illness. She didn’t show any motherly feelings towards her.’
‘She canna blame the babe,’ Donald said, looking down tenderly on his wife’s bowed head as she suckled the babe. ‘Billy went fishing and got drenched. Rumour has it Mary went to meet him and tripped on the merse, bringing on the birth of the baby.’
‘Aye, this wee mite is as innocent as the dawn, but Mary seems indifferent.’
Weeks passed into months, and Janet Maria Scott continued to spend them in the loving care of Peggy Baird. The family was close and affectionate and four-year-old Fingal was delighted with the tiny mite who had come to stay with his elder sister and had made her smile again. He spent his time bobbing between his mother’s cottage and the house next door. Even young Mr Saunders, now the owner of the estate, called to visit. He brought the baby a silver spoon engraved with her name – just like the one he had given Fingal. His mother kept it in a cabinet and he was not allowed to use it.
Mary scarcely left Billy’s side as month followed month, but in spite of her tender ministrations his strength ebbed away. Janet Scott never knew the earnest young man who had been her father, nor was she ever to catch more than a glimpse of the merry, carefree girl who had been his wife.
Mary accepted her loss as God’s will, but the light had gone from her life. Only her promise to Billy that she would give his young son the best education possible gave her a reason to go on living. She was numb with grief. Her father took charge, acting as he believed best. He persuaded her to give up her rented cottage near the shore and move back to her childhood home at the schoolhouse. She obeyed without argument or enthusiasm. Her options were few with two fatherless children and little money. It was to be a long time before she realized the folly of giving up her own home.
Her father was not a man of wealth but he had a secure home and a regular income of one hundred pounds a year, four times what most labouring men earned. Mary knew he had been a benefactor to several boys whose parents could not afford to continue their education. Occasionally, he had managed to persuade his fellow elders to contribute towards fees and one of his students had gone to university in Edinburgh; the parish looked after its own. Collections in the parish box sufficed to keep the poorest from starvation without the English Parliament’s plan to introduce the Poor Laws to Scotland. Mary shuddered at the thought of depending on the Poor Box and agreed to take over the running of the schoolhouse from her father’s elderly housekeeper.
In winter, those families who could afford it paid the schoolmaster to board their children during the week. In summer, they walked several miles to school each morning from distant parts of the parish. Mary seized every opportunity to earn whatever she could and keep up the meagre savings in the Trustee Savings Bank in accordance with Billy’s dream to educate their son. Mr Cole, the tailor, offered her a few hours’ work. He knew she had helped Billy with the orders for lengths of tweed and thread, buttons and buckles. She had a neat hand and a good head for figures. On winter evenings, she spent hours spinning and weaving the locally grown flax to make fine linen.
During their second winter at the schoolhouse, Fingal McLauchlan became one of the young boarders. He was the same age as Andrew and the two quickly became friends. They both regarded Janet as a younger sister and were happy to entertain her when lessons finished for the day. She was a lively toddler and Mary was grateful for their help.
Dominie McWhan often gave extra lessons to his young grandson in the evenings and Fingal joined in eagerly.
‘They’re both bright laddies,’ he declared proudly.
‘Father, they are only five years old!’ Mary reminded him.
‘I can recognize a diamond long before it’s polished,’ he insisted. ‘Fingal now, he’s already strong in character, as well as in body. I’ve noticed how he protects Andrew when older boys would bully him.’
‘Aye, he’s a kindly laddie,’ Mary agreed, thinking how gently he treated Janet.
As time passed, a close friendship developed between the two boys, but it did not prevent a healthy competition, something the dominie encouraged for their mutual benefit.
‘I can just about afford to pay the fees for Andrew to go to university,’ Dominie McWhan told Mary when the boys approached their fourteenth birthday. ‘Fingal is preparing to leave and follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps as coachman at Crillion Keep but it’s a waste of his ability and hard work. He is better than Andrew at the English and Latin, though Andrew has the edge with the mathematics and science.’
‘Are you thinking both boys should go to the university, Father? You know the McLauchlans could never afford it, and they would never accept charity.’
‘I know that, lassie.’ The dominie s
ighed. ‘The laddie has more than his share of pride and independence already. But….’
‘What’s worrying you, Father?’
‘Andrew being away from home. He’s a delicate laddie. I’d feel happier if he had a good friend beside him when he leaves us. His cough gets worse every winter.’
A chill of fear struck Mary but she replied sharply, ‘Well you can’t send Fingal as a nursemaid.’
A fortnight later, Dominie McWhan was sitting in church when his eye fell upon Josiah Saunders. Josiah was not a son of the parish. He had inherited the small estate and the house at Crillion Keep from his great-uncle. He was in his early twenties but he looked older due to a weak heart which had kept him in poor health since boyhood. He was a reserved man who kept his own council, but the dominie respected him as a man of integrity, with a fine intelligence and he was exceptionally well read. There were some who resented him. He had declined an invitation to become an elder of the kirk, but the Reverend Drummond, the doctor and the dominie knew he contributed to the parish Poor Box more regularly, and more generously, than most of the elders who considered themselves staunch pillars of the kirk. His workers considered him a fair employer, compassionate, even generous, when they or their families were ill. This aroused jealousy and resentment in his mean-spirited stepsister, Mrs Eliza Ross.
It occurred to the dominie that Josiah might be responsible for Fingal carrying on at school after the usual leaving age of twelve. Would his largesse stretch to financing a university education for Fingal McLauchlan, only son of his own coachman?
The dominie sighed. It had taken a lot of persuasion on his part to get the fees from his fellow elders to send young Charlie Nichol to university but now that he was soon to be ordained as a minister, they all claimed it had been their greatest pleasure to help him on his way.
Beyond Reason Page 2
