Finally, briefly, almost as an afterthought, Murdoch introduced Elizabeth to his nephew, but Elizabeth was incapable of any response. While she stared up at him mutely with wide eyes, he smiled at her again, almost tenderly, as if deciding she must be a shy and simple child, then he quickly moved on, repeating both his welcome and apologies to her sister, in a hurry to leave.
In the days and weeks that followed, Elizabeth began to see Murdoch’s nephew frequently on the estate, simply because she spent every moment of her days searching him out … then standing in the shadows watching him like an unseen ghost.
She once followed him as he meandered through the gardens at the back of the house, concealing her presence by moving stealthily and hiding behind bushes, her blue eyes watching his every move. He paused in his strolling and leant with a melancholy grace against a tree, lost in his own thoughts, moving his gaze upwards to a row of windows on the top floor of the house. In her mind and eyes, misted by adolescent romance, he looked like a soulful Romeo waiting for his Juliet to appear at one of those windows.
Elizabeth was filled with an unfathomable longing, and in the days and weeks that followed her desire to see him as often as possible developed into an intense obsession. She craved to speak to him, to have a proper conversation with him, but following his arrival in the afternoons he never seemed to stop working, usually in the library, and he had never once accepted Murdoch’s invitation to stay for dinner, always eager to be off.
So Elizabeth had no choice but to spend each evening sitting at the table in silence as Murdoch and Margaret prattled endlessly about the plans for their wedding, whilst she gazed wistfully out of the window, her eyes focused on the darkening trees and the last limpid light of day, wishing for time to fly until the next afternoon when she hoped she might see him again.
And she always did, she made sure of it. In fact, she made sure that they were always encountering each other, here, there and everywhere, and although he never delayed at length to speak to her, he always smiled and greeted her politely before moving on.
She began to love that smile, and hated the catastrophic day when Margaret told her it was time to leave Mull to return to their home on the mainland. They had spent a full two months on the estate of Lochbuy during which time Margaret had got to know all of the house-servants and many of the land-tenants, and they in turn seemed happy enough with their future mistress.
Home seemed bleak in comparison. Elizabeth had always enjoyed life on their small estate at Airds, the beautiful gardens and the comfortable house, but now she wandered around it in lost loneliness, obsessed in her thoughts of a young man who had once been a soldier.
An eternity later, although in reality only a month, when Margaret announced that they would be returning to Mull, Elizabeth squealed with delight.
Margaret beamed. ‘I’m so glad that you like Murdoch now.’
‘Oh, I do, I do,’ Elizabeth lied passionately. ‘I like him very well now.’
‘And do you still believe he is too old for me?’
‘No, not a bit!’ insisted Elizabeth, conscious that her own hero was twenty-four and therefore eleven years older than she was. ‘Who cares about a difference in age at the end of it,’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s the man that counts, Margaret, the man!’
‘I agree,’ Margaret replied, `but the man is never as important as the home he provides, nor the children that follow him. Mama told me that and I was always inclined to trust Mama about such things.’
‘When do we leave?’ Elizabeth asked impatiently.
`Soon,’ Margaret beamed again. `The wedding is to take place in four weeks time, in the drawing-room at Lochbuy.’
Although more than three months had passed since his return to Mull, Mrs Macquarie was filled with worry. She watched as Lachlan kept himself busy at work and also managed to enjoy an active social life in the evenings with his friends and cousins, but she knew he was not happy. What he needed was some true contentment in his life to help him settle down here at home. What he needed was a wife.
She decided to wait until Sunday to broach the subject, because Sunday was the only day he did not have to ride over to Lochbuy.
On Sunday she waited until Donald had gone down to the shore’s edge to do a bit of fishing, then turned her eyes apprehensively to Lachlan. He was sitting at the table, head bent, writing steadily and quickly over a thick sheet of paper. She watched his intent, handsome face, wondering to whom he was writing the letter and marvelling that he could write with such ease. She herself could not read nor write a word. All she had ever been taught was every method needed to cook and run a household.
‘Lachlan,’ she said finally.
‘Aye,’ he replied, but kept on writing.
‘I was thinking … you do know, don’t ye, Lachlan, that ye are now twenty-five years old?’
‘Of course I know.’
‘So mebbe it’s time you started thinking of a wife. Is there no young lassie, out of all the lasses you're friendly with, that's maybe taken your fancy?’
He stopped writing, but remained silent for so long she wondered if he had heard her.
‘Lachlan, did ye hear me speaking to ye now?’
He had heard her, but her question merely depressed him. She still did not understand that he had changed, that he had travelled far beyond Mull’s horizons and had seen new parts of the world and lived through experiences that she would be unable even to imagine. The island of Mull was too small for him now. He could not settle here, not yet, not until he was older, much older. The world out there was big and wondrous and strange, and he craved to see more of it, be a part of it.
Yet he knew that to his mother the world was just some place ‘out there’ beyond the islands and the ocean, and as removed from her needs and understanding as the sky and all of its stars.
He laid down his pen, knowing that even if he had wished to stay here, and settle here, he could not … and now he must tell her why. He turned his head to look at her, and this time his mother’s voice was almost pleading. ‘Surely there must be some young lassie that’s taken your fancy?’
‘No,’ he deliberately kept his voice gentle, ‘but, Mother, if there was someone, and I did wish to marry, how would we live?’
‘Live?’ She blinked in puzzlement. ‘What do ye mean?’
‘This small farm can barely sustain the three of us. It's only the money I earn at Lochbuy that's keeping us going. For the past four months I've been working at Lochbuy as well as managing the accounts of this farm here – but despite what you and Murdoch say about my skill with figures, I can't work magic. I can't produce money from a box that is empty. Mother, you do realise that you don’t have a penny to your name?’
‘Not a penny, I know, I know,’ she said guiltily. ‘But it's no' my fault, Lachlan! The last few years were hard years for Scotland. Everyone suffered badly. Everyone fell into bad debt.’ She looked at him defensively. ‘At least I didna do that - fall into debt.’
‘Only because of the money I sent home from my Army pay.’
‘Aye, oh aye,’ she agreed, ‘only for that coming regularly I wouldna have been able to manage at all.’
He sat silent for a long moment, looking at her hopelessly. ‘Mother, can't you see there is no future here for me. No future here for any of us ... unless I go away again.’
She jerked on her seat in alarm. ‘No, son, no – there's no need for ye to go away again. I couldna bear it … could ye not ask Murdoch to pay ye more money?'
‘I wouldn’t ask Murdoch for anything,’ he said grimly. ‘And anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘Murdoch is in debt up to his neck. It took me only a few days of sorting through his estate papers to realise that. He's just about keeping his chin above the water. None of his accounting figures make any sense, yet he wants me to “balance” his books in any which way I can - cook them, fry them, lose them – just enough to satisfy the tax inspector, you understand? His financial situation is dire and if things get any worse, h
e will have to sell Lochbuy.’
‘Sell Lochbuy?’ His mother frowned prodigiously. Before her marriage she had been a Maclaine and had been born and raised on the Maclaine’s family estate of Lochbuy. As the oldest child the estate should have fallen to her, but no, the law forbade her to inherit it because she was only a woman, and so it had gone to Murdoch, the son and legal heir. And now Murdoch was running the estate badly, wasting all of its income, constantly blabbing about the pittance he had spent on Lachlan’s education and now he was clawing it back as a debt - whilst she had spent all her married and widowed years living on a farm rented from the Duke of Argyll.
‘Murdoch already has a huge mortgage on Lochbuy,’ said Lachlan, ‘but from next week, he will have two huge mortgages on it.’
‘Two huge mortgages! From who?’
‘The Duke of Argyll.’
‘The Duke of Argyll?’ Mrs Macquarie tutted angrily. ‘By, that man must own half of Mull now. And he must be fair rich from all the rent we’ve paid him on this place.’
‘I’ve told you about the mortgages,’ Lachlan said, ‘simply to help you understand why no financial help is to be sought from Murdoch … and why I’ve decided to write this letter … to the War Office in London.’
Mrs Macquarie fussed with her apron and struggled with the blast of her emotions. ‘So that’s it … ye want to leave us again … and go back to the Army.’
‘It's the only way,’ he said honestly. ‘The only way I can continue to support you and Donald. The only way I can continue to pay the rent on this farm each quarter day. I have no other choice but to go away and earn enough money to send back to you regularly.’
‘And … to get that money,’ she faltered miserably, ‘I must lose my youngest son again?’
‘No, to get that money means that you will be able to keep on taking care of Donald, without fear or worry. We both will.’
She saw, dimly, that Donald had come into the kitchen, carrying a box of rich green cabbages he had grown from seeds to full heads, the triumph and delight in his innocent eyes touching her heart to the core as he held them out for her approval.
‘Aye,’ she said huskily, smiling at him, ‘aye, ye did well, Donald.’
A moment later she looked at Lachlan and nodded resignedly, giving her agreement. If his going away provided the rent to keep her dear Donald safe and happy on this farm, then so be it.
The following morning Lachlan made the long ride over the hills to the town of Tobermory to post his letter to London. He did not expect a speedy reply, but he received one three weeks later, offering him a lieutenant’s commission in a new Scottish regiment which was being raised to serve in India.
‘It will be known as the 77th,’ Lachlan told his mother, his eyes on the letter. ‘I’m ordered to report to Colonel Balfour in London as soon as possible and be ready to depart for Bombay on the sixteenth.’
‘That soon?’
He looked at her, apologetically. ‘Aye, that soon.’ He folded the letter. ‘I’ll have to send a letter over to Murdoch informing him of the reason for my sudden departure. I wonder how he’ll take it?’
Badly.’ His mother nodded positively. ‘He’ll be ranting and raging for a week.’
Lachlan smiled. ‘Aye, I suppose he will.’
He had no smile later that evening when he saw Donald’s tears. Poor Donald just could not understand why Lachlan had to go away again. His eyes filled up with more tears as he implored Lachlan to tell him why he had to go.
‘Why, though, why?’
Lachlan looked helplessly at his brother. ‘It’s a matter of necessity, Donald. It’s a job I have to do. Nothing more than that, just a job of work that will take me away for a while.’
‘So when will ye be coming back then?’
Lachlan did not know.
‘But I will come back, Donald, I promise. Wherever I go, I'll always come back to Scotland. You know that, don't you?’
Donald looked unsure. ‘Is India as far away as America?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Lachlan lied.
‘Not nearly ten years away?’
‘No, just a few months on a ship.’
It was three days before Jamie McTavish arrived at Lochbuy to deliver Lachlan’s letter, only minutes after Murdoch and the Campbell family had sat down to luncheon, the day before the wedding.
Murdoch was so upset by the letter he glared at Margaret. ‘I don’t believe it! He’s gone – again! Gone back to soldiering! Only it’s a heathen land he’s gone to this time. All the way to India no less!’
Elizabeth’s face turned as pale as paper. She drew in her breath and realised the only place she wanted to be was upstairs in the privacy of her room and she ran to it, throwing herself down on the bed and crying noisily like a small child.
Margaret entered the room, full of concern. ‘What’s brought this on? I can’t have you puffing and reddening up your eyes with all this bawling – and you to be bridesmaid at my wedding tomorrow!’
In the pain of her heartbreak, Elizabeth could not stop herself from sobbing out to Margaret the truth of her loss.
‘Oh, my wee hennie …’ Margaret crooned. ‘What you felt was nothing more than a girlish fancy. It’ll be gone in a week.’
‘No. I loved him, I truly loved him!’
‘Love? Oh, that’s all blah and nonsense!’ Margaret sniffed. `You should know that by now, I’ve told you often enough.’
Elizabeth did not answer, too engulfed in sobbing to argue. All she knew for certain was that her first true love affair had come to a bitter, bitter end.
PART ONE
INDIA
Where the hedges drop pink rose-petals,
And the bulbul sings love songs in Persian,
And the Sahib lives in a little white house
In a garden which is, almost, home.
ONE
The heat was unbearable. The marching feet of the men sent up clouds of dust, columns of soldiers in scarlet coats soaked with sweat, marching monotonously while their officers sat elegantly astride their mounts.
The march ended on a hill about fifteen hundred yards from Fort Avery, one of the enemy's crucial positions defended by a large garrison and a few small cannon. From the distance the soldiers could hear the screaming commentary of the enraged enemy as they watched the oncoming British.
The soldiers halted and formed into line. Immediately they were pounded with cannon balls that had no hope of reaching a distance of fifteen hundred yards. From the fort walls the enemy then sent out gunpowder rockets, but all fell too short.
General Sir Robert Abercromby surveyed the battle-ground before him and then looked up at the sun. It was after three o'clock, the sun had past its zenith, and only a few hours of daylight left. He turned to his staff officers. `Well, gentlemen, we are somewhat late, we have missed tiffin, so I think we should console ourselves with an early dinner.'
The General and his staff retired to the shade and accepted drinks from their servants while keeping an occasional eye on the enemy through their spyglasses. A large white tent was erected, a table unfolded, a white linen cloth draped over it. The silver and crystal were unpacked, bottles of Madeira uncorked, and the general and his staff sat back in preparation for a long campaign conference over an even longer dinner.
Except for the piquet lines, the rest of the soldiers were thankful enough to be given a stand-easy and drank thirstily from their water flasks.
Lachlan had flopped down under the shade of a tree beside Lieutenant Grant, who sat for a moment looking around him bleakly. ‘Why the hell did we ever come to this place anyway?’
Lachlan removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair. ‘Because we wanted to be soldiers, Edward, part of the great British Army.’
Grant shrugged. ‘Well, intrepid daredevil I may be, but I never thought I'd be expected to get involved in anything so extreme as an all-out battle.’ After another doleful moment, Grant sighed. ‘I thought we were certain of a very cushy l
ife here in India.’
Cushy? For the past two years Lachlan had found life in India unbearably cushy, utterly dull and monotonous. Apart from the regular drills and parades and afternoons spent in language lessons with a native Munshi in order to learn Hindustani, there was little else for an officer to do. And with little to do, military life had lapsed into an endless round of regimental dinners and socialising.
As for India itself, the 77th had quickly discovered that India was a mish-mash of territories ruled by different governments; parts of the sub-continent were ruled separately by the British and Dutch, and the remainder by princes and maharajas of the Hindu, Mohammedan, and Afghan dynasties – the latter three always being at war with each other.
At least, that's how it was, until three weeks ago, when Tipu Sultan, the maharaja of Mysore, declared war on the British, threatening to reduce Madras and Bombay to ashes and drive every red-coated Angrezi out of India.
‘The impertinent bugger is clearly begging to be pole-axed!’ Lord Cornwallis, Governor-General of British India, had responded to Tipu Sultan's threat with fury. And now here the British Army were, in Cananore, before Fort Avery, preparing for battle with Prince Ali Rajah, a staunch ally of Tipu, who had also declared war on the British.
The enemy ceased its bombardment, clearly bewildered by the British who were blithely ignoring their cannon-fire and preparing to dine. Tents were being pitched on the hilltop while coolies and servants rushed around preparing cooking fires.
As evening approached, Lachlan received a summons to report to the tent of his commanding officer.
‘Sir?’ Lachlan saluted Colonel Balfour, a blue-eyed, fair-skinned man of robust build and a pleasant face that suggested a kind and genial disposition.
‘Ah, Lieutenant Macquarie!’ Balfour smiled warmly. He greeted all his junior officers as if they were his adopted sons. ‘A hot and busy day before us tomorrow, my boy.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘However, we do have to sort out a few problems beforehand,’ Balfour said in a low voice, as if confiding a great secret. ‘General Abercromby would dearly like to destroy the enemy's fort around dawn, but he is of the opinion that from fifteen hundred yards our fire is sure to fall short. Would you agree?’
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