by Anne Hampson
Gail looked at her. Heather was furiously angry and saying things she would never have uttered in ordinary circumstances. But her anxiety was all for Gail-she was far more afraid than was Gail herself. In fact, Gail knew no fears at all. Some strange instinct told her she had chosen the right path, and she trusted that instinct.
'I'm not heroic, as I told Beth a short while ago. No, I'm very human and this step is as much for my own benefit as for the children's. This is the only way I can be a mother; the opportunity came to me right out of the blue and I'd be a fool to cast it aside.'
'If only I could put the clock back-you'd never have met him!'
'We all would like to put the clock back,' returned Gail significantly. 'But that is something none of us can do. I have met Andrew, and I intend to marry him, no matter what any of you say.'
'Beth and Harvey will have plenty to say, I warn you of that.'
And they did. Gail went through it all again the following day when she went home to collect her be-longings. Roger drove her, the only one of her relatives who had said no word of dissuasion. 'You've only to wait,' Beth argued, 'and you'll have someone who'll love you.' She could lead a normal life, Beth went on, and she and her husband could adopt children. But although the matter was not allowed to rest for one single moment while she packed her things, Gail remained adamant. Yet she did at times wonder at her composure. She visualized no flaws or difficulties. The children would be hers; Andrew would not interfere so long as she did all that was right. He wanted nothing more from her and she did not wish it otherwise. She would run his home, of course, just as any real wife should. He would expect that of her, naturally. No, Gail could see no flaws in the arrangement, and to the disgust of all except Roger she married Andrew the following Tuesday and later the same day they left in the car for his estate in Perthshire.
He did not speak much on the way and neither did Shena. Several times Gail tried to draw her out, but she remained distant. Robbie on the other hand was delighted, finding no difficulty in calling her Mummy, in obedience to his father's order. Shena seemed absolutely determined not to do so, but Gail was not un-duly troubled by this; her optimism was such that she felt confident of winning the child over in the not too distant future.
'Have you been in Edinburgh before?' inquired Andrew as they entered the capital. 'When I was small. We came to Scotland for a holiday.' With a shock she realized she had no idea where her husband lived. 'Is your home far from here?'
'We live in the Highlands,' Robbie informed her at once. 'But we have another house a long way off, don't we, Daddy?'
'Yes, Robbie. It's a hunting lodge,' he then told Gail.
'But it's big,' said Robbie. 'Yes, it's big.'
They were passing through the city; the famous castle was outlined against the sky, the castle where Mary, Queen of Scots gave birth to the king who was to unite the thrones of England and Scotland.
'What do you shoot?' Gail wanted to know.
'Deer.'
'I'm going to shoot them when I'm big.' Robbie leant forward over the back of his father's seat. 'You wouldn't take us with you before when you went shooting, but can we come with you now we've got a mummy?'
'Perhaps. I'll think about it later.'
'Will Mummy shoot?'
'No, Robbie, I will not.'
'She wouldn't be a good enough shot.' Andrew stopped at the traffic lights, but they changed almost immediately and he edged forward again, following a long line of traffic.
'It seems a shame to shoot them.' Gail spoke frowningly, thinking of the beautiful red deer she had seen in the zoo.
'It's part of our way of life,' he said. 'You'll get used to it.' He turned his head for a second, and noticing her expression he added, 'Culling is necessary for the good of the animals themselves. Were they all allowed to live and multiply they would eventually starve. Also, I allow only marksmen on my land, if that's any consolation to you.'
'But one could miss,' she said frowning.
'One had better not,' came the grim rejoinder as Andrew pulled up once more behind a line of traffic.
'You mean, the animal is always killed outright?'
'If it isn't then the man responsible must follow it, however long it takes, and then make sure he does kill it. However, as I've said, I allow only marksmen on my land. We never shoot unless we're sure of a swift kill.'
Gail allowed the matter to drop; it still seemed wrong to kill the deer, even though Andrew had explained that it was necessary to do so for the good of the animals themselves. They crossed the magnificent Forth Bridge, proceding up through the Ochils, heading northwards all the while towards the Highlands. As they reached Perth, ancient capital of Scotland, Gail's thoughts wandered to such people as Robert Bruce and Montrose, John Knox and the brave and handsome Stuart Prince. So many famous names were associated with the city immortalized by Sir Walter Scott with his great novel, The Fair Maid of Perth.
After stopping in Perth for refreshments Andrew surprised Gail by making a detour so that she could see the view from Kinnoul, a spur of the Siddlaw Hills. 'We came once before, didn't we?' Shena, silent for so long, spoke to her father, at the same time putting her small hand in his. 'Can't you see a long way?' Beyond the wide green valley of the Tay rose the hills, the Ochils through which they had driven, with the Bens to the west and the mighty Grampians to the north. 'It's a fantastic view,' breathed Gail, feeling excited about the new life upon which she was entering, and still enveloped in that sublime state of optimism for the future. She looked down. Robbie's hand was in hers, warm and small, and somehow conveying his affection for her.
They made their way to the car again and were soon taking the historical road familiar to Bonnie Prince Charlie and his Highlanders, following the valleys of the Tay and Tummel up to Pitlochry, almost in the heart of Scotland. The mountains rose to a clear but darkening sky; the quartzite summit of Mount Schiehallon, touched by the rays of the lowering sun, changed from dazzling white, to milky pearl and then to a soft rosy pink. The road wound and climbed, with the massif of Ben Vrakie on their right and the famous Pass of Killiecrankie just ahead. It was an awe-inspiring landscape of grey-capped mountains, wild and lonely heather moors and pine-clad foothills. Ahead rose the heights of BenyGloe, the Mountain of the Mist, and just to the north-east was the River Tilt, tributary of the Garry. It ran through Glen Tilt, one of the most beautiful glens in the whole of Scotland.
At last Andrew turned off the main road; they climbed steeply, coming to a high wrought-iron gateway flanked by massive stone towers, below which stood the lodges, one either side of the gateway. The mile-long drive, with a bubbling burn running along-said it, was bordered by pine trees and larches, with primroses and sorrel clustered round their bases. Blackface sheep grazed on the hillsides, with highland cattle in the distance, merging with the shadowing landscape. Sweeping lawns surrounded the house, above whose door was the crest of the Clan MacNeill, chiselled into a sandstone plaque.
Andrew swung the car on to the forecourt and his factor appeared from out of the gloom.
'You had a good journey, sir?'
'Very pleasant, thank you, Sinclair.' Andrew slid from the car as Sinclair opened the door at Gail's side, faint surprise on his tough-skinned, deeply- lined face. The children ran off towards the front door as Andrew said, as imperturbably as if he were remarking on the weather,
'Meet my wife. Gail, my estate manager.'
'Your-?' Sinclair made a swift recovery, extending a hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacNeill,' he said, giving her a wooden stare. 'You've brought beautiful weather with you.'
'Thank you.' She laughed, amused. 'It's nice of you to say so, but I suspect you've had the mildest winter for years up here.'
'True, madam. We've had only autumn and spring.'
'Up till now.' Andrew reached into the car to take a briefcase from the shelf under the dashboard. 'We could still have our winter, so don't be carried away by optimism.'
Servants appeared a
s they entered the great antler-hung hall; more introductions were made and more expressions of welcome were accompanied by wooden stares.
'Gossip will be rife for the next hour or so,' remarked Andrew calmly. 'Marie, show Mrs. MacNeill up to her room, please.'
The room was next to Andrew's, and Gail wondered if anyone had slept in it since Andrew's late wife. She supposed not, and somehow she had no desire to sleep in it herself. But she could not very well tell her husband this. How little she knew of him, the noble Laird of Dunlochrie. And she supposed all she ever would know would be superficial, it being most unlikely the day would come when he would take her into his confidence.
'You like the view, madam?' Marie was middle-aged, dark and smiling. Her accent was decidedly pleasant. 'It's wonderful. Leave my things for the time being, please. I'd like to be alone.'
'Certainly, madam.'
Gail looked out on to the mountains and moors, bathed now in shadows and tinted with crimson and ochre by the last dying rays of the sun. She could just make out a tumbling burn and a loch; closer to a backcloth of pines sheltered the terraced garden and over to the right of the house a swimming pool could be seen.
She turned into the massive room; it was pleasantly warm, being centrally heated, as was the rest of the house. Off the bedroom was a modern bathroom, also a dressing-room. Cream satin curtains reached the floor; on the colourful Persian carpet stood magnificent Queen Anne furniture and in one corner, standing on an inlaid mother-of-pearl table, was an exquisite Chelsea group. As she remained there, pensively looking all around, the full impact of what she had done was felt for the first time. Was all this splendour really for her? Could it be a dream?-or was she really married? Her eyes wandered to the great oaken door, studded and trimmed with ornate wrought-iron hinges and handle. Rising, she tried it. Locked. She stooped down; no key in the other side. The servants would talk, of course, and the truth might just reach Andrew's friends.
A soft knock on the outer door brought her over to it.
'Dinner will be served in one hour, madam,' the young girl informed her, smiling.
'Thank you.' The girl smiled again and walked away.
What was she supposed to do? Gail wondered. Her main duty was to see to the children, but they had disappeared immediately they entered the house. What time did they go to bed? And would they want supper-or did one of the maids see to that?
Should she go down to Andrew for her instructions? It was the only thing to do, but as she opened the door she heard him moving about in the next room. Hesitating a moment, she knocked. 'Yes?' sharply, and impatiently, or so it seemed to Gail.
'I was wondering what to do. Must I get the children ready for bed?'
He tried the door.
'Is the key there?'
'No.'
'Then come round.'
She did as he asked; his door was ajar and she knocked and entered. 'I felt I should be seeing to the children,' she began, a nervousness descending on her for the first time since her unhesitating decision to marry him. 'Normally you'll give them their tea-much earlier than this, of course-and put them to bed. But tonight one of the girls will be doing it, as usual, for I've been without a nanny for some weeks.' He looked at her searchingly. 'Is your room all right?' Why was he looking at her like that? she wondered. Did she appear tired-or -? Instinctively she put up a hand to her head. No, the scar was not visible. 'It's very nice, thank you.'
'It hasn't been used since my grandmother's day,' he said, as if sensing her thoughts. 'I renovated this wing, and moved in here, only last year.' Gail said nothing and he continued, 'You must be comfortable, Gail, so if there's anything you want you've only to ask.'
'I will; thank you.' He made to close the door; it was a gesture of dismissal and she went back to her room. It seemed pleasanter now and she had to smile to herself. But she supposed it was natural not to want to use the room occupied by his late wife. Morag was away visiting friends and Gail had only Andrew for company as she dined with him in a room far too large for cosyness. Slowly a sense of unreality possessed her; this was like a dream from which she must soon awake. The stranger sitting there, his dark face harsh and set in the candle glow, the rather dour-faced manservant waiting on them ... and the silence. Yes, it was the silence more than anything which took away any tangible reality from the situation. Here she was, a new bride, facing a husband who had neither the inclination nor the patience to converse with her.
For Gail the meal was a strain, lasting an unconscionable length of time. 'We'll take coffee in the lounge,' were the only words Andrew spoke when at last the meal did come to an end. The lounge was a beautiful room, with a great stone fireplace in which logs were burning, showering the whole place with warmth. The lower half of the walls was panelled in oak while on the upper half exquisite tapestries and paintings hung beneath a ceiling beautifully decorated with cherubs and flowers and birds. Andrew picked up a magazine, while Gail just sat there, feeling rather lonely and lost. Had she acted too impulsively? Should she have listened to her sisters' advice?-stopped to think, and tried to visualize what her life would be like? Surely no woman had ever taken such a step as she with less regard for the future. Heather had asserted that she was making a hash of her life. Would her words eventually prove to be correct? 'I think I'll go up to my room,' she said immediately on finishing her coffee. He glanced at the clock. 'It's early, but I expect you're tired after the journey.'
'I am, a little.' Awkwardly she rose and, bidding him good night, left him sitting there, reading his magazine. A wife and a mother... . Gail stood on the hillside, her hair blowing in the wind, her gaze pensive and a little afraid. It was a month since her arrival at Dunlochrie House and she was still as
complete a stranger to her husband as on that first evening. A wife and a mother. Heather had said she'd be neither-and it would seem that Heather was right. True, Robbie was now very close to her, but Shena was, as her father had said, a difficult child, and she remained cool and withdrawn. And as for Morag.... A bitter curve of Gail's lips revealed her thoughts.
Morag hated her and made not the slightest effort to conceal that hatred. Nor did she show any respect for her stepmother; before the servants she derided her, declaring outright that her father had married for convenience and that there was not even friendship between him and Gail. Yet strangely Gail had not lost the respect of the servants; on the contrary, they had become warm and understanding, and many small things were done to make her path a little more pleasant.
Of Morag she had been warned, but Gail was totally unprepared for Andrew's mother-in-law who, naturally having access to the house in order to see her grandchildren, visited them at least once a week. Tall and angular, with hard features and jetblack hair, Mrs. Davis was a formidable and thoroughly objectionable specimen of womanhood. On every possible occasion she demonstrated her dislike of Gail and Gail did wonder just how long it would be before she was driven to retaliation. She hated, trouble, being of a placid disposition, but she did have a temper which, though kept for the most part firmly controlled, certainly made itself felt when on occasions it was aroused.
'How long have you known Andrew?' had been Mrs. Davis's first question when, after a brief introduction, her son-in-law had left them together, only two days after her arrival.
'Not very long,' had been the evasive reply.
'How long?' Dark arrogant eyes raked Gail contemptuously.
Gail looked straight at her, cheeks burning.
'I had known him only a few days when I consented to marry him.'
'So it was his money and position, obviously.'
'I married Andrew, Mrs. Davis, because he asked me to, and because I personally believed I would be able to help his children.'
'My daughter's children!' There was nothing to say to this and Gail remained silent. 'And are you able to help the children?'
'I've only just arrived here. Time alone will prove whether or not I'm good for Robbie and Shena.'
'And Morag?' A faint sneer hovered on the thin hard mouth. 'What are you expecting to do with her?'
'Morag is difficult, but I hope we'll eventually be friends.'
That was a month ago, and already Gail was admitting the truth of Andrew's statement that Morag was beyond redemption.
The girl suddenly came into view over a low rise; she was astride a beautiful horse, handling it with ease and skill as she came down the rise, her golden hair streaming behind her, long and untidy and not very clean. Instinctively Gail put up a hand, patting into place her own hair which had blown away from her forehead, revealing the scar.
The girl halted, but remained astride the horse. Arrogant she looked, and lawless, her face flushed and somehow giving the impression that it had not received a wash that day.
'And how is my new stepmother this afternoon?' she sneered, faint humour in her eyes.
'I'm well, thank you, Morag,' replied Gail with dignity.
The girl's face darkened.
'Quite the lady, aren't we! Little jumped-up wife of the Laird of Dunlochrie!'
Carried on the west wind came the pungent smell of burning heather and Gail glanced across to watch for a second or so the thick pall of smoke rising against the clear blue of the sky. Andrew's gamekeeper was destroying the old heather in order to encourage new growth, for only in this way could the grouse be kept on his moors. Gail turned again, and looked up at Morag.
'Tell me,' she said quietly, 'what satisfaction does it give you to adopt this insolent way with me? We could be friends, you know.'
'Friends with you?' The girl's fair brows shot up. So different in colouring from her grandmother-and yet how alike in features. Although decidedly beautiful now, Morag possessed the sort of bone structure which would eventually rob her of this beauty and give to her face the coldness so strongly portrayed in the features of her grandmother. 'I'm not that hard up for friends, thank you very much 1 ' Nimbly she sprang from the horse as a Land-Rover appeared round the bend of the road which wound its way through the vast estate: 'Sinclair, tell someone to take Rusty away.'
