A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee)

by Kirkwood, Gwen

  Polly still clung tightly. Her eyes looked doubtfully into his. It was clear that his child was more certain of retribution from Eliza than she was of his own ability to protect her. His first inclination was to stride along the passage and confront her with Johnson. He had thought his young manager was a trustworthy fellow with a wife and a family of his own. He felt thoroughly disillusioned and despondent. He needed someone to care for his children, and someone to help with the business. His father had started with a small grocer’s shop but together they had built it up into a thriving delivery business as well as the shop. He had concentrated all his energies on it, but I have neglected my children, he thought with self-disgust. He was just as much to blame as Eliza MacDougall.

  He bent to the fire and began to blow some life into it with the large bellows which stood beside the fender stool. There was a basket of logs which he had filled himself before he left that morning. It was untouched. When he thought about it the pile of logs in the shed had scarcely gone down at all, but the bags of dross, which he bought with his good coal, had almost disappeared. Did Eliza do this every day? How could she leave his children cold and alone?

  ‘Have you had tea?’ he asked. Polly shook her head, her eyes on the door. She was still apprehensive. He drew her to him with one arm while adding logs to the fire with the other. ‘We shall soon have a nice warm fire and we’ll make the kettle sing and have some tea and toast, shall we?’ Polly nodded and offered a tentative smile.

  ‘What did you have for dinner?’

  ‘Haven’t had any.’

  ‘What? No soup and bread?’ A shake of her head was Polly’s only response. ‘Did Eliza make potatoes and gravy today? Or pudding?’

  ‘No.’ Polly hung her head and looked guilty. ‘We drank the milk,’ she added in a frightened whisper. ‘Jane and Mary cried. They always cry. We were hungry.’

  ‘Then you were a clever girl to give them some milk,’ Peter reassured her and was rewarded by a relieved smile. ‘When did Eliza go out?’

  ‘She goes when we hear you drive Tommy out of the yard.’ ‘And when does she come back?’ Peter asked tensely.

  ‘When Mr Johnson shuts the shop. She unlocks the door and runs everywhere and shouts at us.’

  There was a tentative knock on the door. Peter had been so engrossed in his problems he had almost forgotten he had left Rachel out in the scullery. As she entered the dingy kitchen he marvelled at the difference in her appearance. Her face was clean and shining, her hair brushed and neatly braided around her head but there was a red mark down one cheek where the end of the whip lash had caught her. Her white pinafore was creased but it was clean and only the muddy hem of her skirt bore evidence of her ordeal.

  ‘Come in. The fire’s beginning to blaze and the kettle will soon boil to make a hot drink for all of us. Polly, this is Rachel.’

  ‘Hello, Polly,’ Rachel smiled and held out her hand but Polly hung her head and clung to her father’s leg. Peter bit his lip. He felt thoroughly ashamed of his home and the condition of his children. He was seeing everything through new eyes – ones which till now had been clouded by his own despair and his obsession with work.

  ‘Eliza MacDougal, my housekeeper, has been neglecting her duties. She will be surprised to see me home so early today.’

  Rachel nodded. She could not help wrinkling her nose at the smell from the two toddlers still lying lethargically on the rug together. It dawned on Peter they were barely aware he was their father. His heart was heavy as he looked down at them.

  ‘I’m afraid they need cleaned up before I do anything else,’ he apologised.

  ‘I will attend to them,’ Rachel offered.

  ‘You will? You can?’ Peter asked in surprised relief.

  ‘I loved to help when we had a new baby in the village where we lived,’ Rachel gave him a wan smile and he guessed she was wishing she was back there. Peter wondered again how Gertrude Maxwell could have treated her so cruelly. ‘Will you help me, Polly?’ she asked, holding out her hand again. This time Polly slipped her own small hand shyly into Rachel’s and they smiled at each other. ‘We shall need two clean napkins and something to wash them. A clean rag will do?’

  Polly bit her lip and looked anxious. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any clean nappies. Eliza has not done any washing for ages.’

  Rachel looked questioningly at Peter Sedgeman. He rolled his eyes heavenward.

  ‘It’s probably true. I’m beginning to think Polly knows more about my household than I do. I don’t know what I can do about it, but I must not neglect my children any longer, whatever happens.’ He rubbed a tired hand over his brow.

  ‘I will bring water from the scullery and perhaps we could have a little from the kettle to take away the chill for the poor mites.’ Rachel winced at her own pain as she knelt beside the twins. Gently she removed the filthy napkins. She gasped in horror at the sight of the raw and bleeding buttocks. Their whimpering had grown louder as soon as she touched them and now she knew why. Polly brought her a piece of soft flannel and a towel which Peter had found for her. As gently as she could she cleaned up the children but their restrained sobs tore at her heart. She looked up at Peter Sedgeman with troubled eyes.

  ‘They really need a warm bath. Perhaps we could use the kettle and have some tea later?’

  ‘Oh, I would like a bath too!’ Polly declared excitedly. ‘Eliza never lets us bath. She says it’s too much trouble emptying the water after.’

  Peter’s eyes widened, then narrowed angrily.

  ‘I am sorry I have brought you to such a house, Rachel.’

  ‘I shall feel happier if I can do something to repay your kindness. Can you show me where you keep the bath, Polly?’

  ‘I’ll bring it.’ Peter offered. ‘We fill the bath from this tap beside the fire.’ He indicated a brass tap at the side of the big black range. ‘This is a side boiler. The fire was very low but the water should be warm enough for the small bath which the children use.’

  ‘You can be first, Polly,’ Rachel told the little girl, then the twins can go in together and soak their little bottoms. A handful of salt would help. It will sting but they will feel much better afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll go through to the shop and get some while Polly has her bath,’ Peter offered. ‘And I will bring some towels from the store. Perhaps we could cut one to make napkins for the twins.’

  He was through the first store room when Cyril Johnson’s voice brought him to a halt. He had not meant to eavesdrop on his shop manager but he could not help but catch the drift of the conversation and it sickened him.

  He turned on his heel and moved silently away. He must make changes but he needed time. He ran a worried hand through his hair. He made his way back to the kitchen.

  Polly was chuckling happily as Rachel helped her from the bath and wrapped her in the grubby towel. The fire was glowing cheerfully now.

  ‘I will get salt from the larder,’ he said briefly.

  ‘But, Daddy, you didna bring towels for the twins either.’

  ‘How silly, I forgot!’ Peter summoned a smile for Polly. Rachel said nothing but she saw how troubled he looked. She guessed something had distracted him.

  The twins screamed when Rachel lowered them into the warm water but she persuaded them to sit in the bath and gradually the initial sting eased a little and the water soothed them.

  ‘I really will bring towels this time,’ Peter said as he headed for the door again.

  ‘And Vaseline too, if you sell that in your shop?’ Rachel suggested. ‘It would ease the soreness.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll bring a jar. Maybe you should use some of it yourself, lassie.’

  This time he went out through the scullery and entered the shop from the street. Eliza and Cyril Johnson could not have looked more startled if a ghost had entered. Eliza was immediately on the defensive but he sent her for milk from the farm at the other end of the village, deaf to her protests, blind to her sullen scowl.

  �
��I will speak to you later, Johnson, after you have closed the shop for the night. Open the new bale of towels in the upstairs store, if you please. Bring me three, quickly now. My children have been neglected enough already. I will get a jar of Vaseline and attend to the shop until you come down.’

  Rachel deftly cut a towel into napkins and dealt with the twins. They were chortling happily now. Peter heard Eliza returning with the milk. He met her in the scullery and took it from her.

  ‘I will see the children to bed myself.’ His voice was cold. ‘I will talk with you in the morning.’ He closed the door, silencing her arguments. He had no intention of allowing her to upset Polly tonight and he was glad he had made that decision when he saw her relief.

  Rachel boiled milk and made bread saps for the twins. They ate them hungrily and went willingly to their grubby cots. Eliza had made no preparations for an evening meal. Polly enjoyed holding the long toasting-fork to help her father make toast in front of the fire. Rachel felt too sore and weary and anxious to care what she ate. Peter went back to the shop and returned with butter and cheese and four eggs, as well as a jar of honey. She made a concoction of scrambled eggs with cheese and bread crumbs and they finished the meal with toast and honey and tea. When she had finished Polly got down from her chair and hugged Rachel.

  ‘You made the bestest tea I ever had. I am glad you came to live at our house.’

  Rachel gave her a startled glance but before she could contradict her a tap at the door heralded Cyril Johnson. He withdrew quickly at the sight of Rachel sitting at the table. Peter got up and accompanied him back to the shop where everything was clean and tidy, as usual.

  ‘I shall have to make changes around here,’ Peter announced grimly.

  ‘Please, Mr Sedgeman, please don’t dispense with my services. I need the work. We need the money.’

  ‘I have not decided what the changes will be yet but I have been neglecting my children, I can see that now.’ He looked directly into Cyril Johnson’s unhappy eyes. ‘You are a family man with children of your own. Why did you not tell me Eliza MacDougall was neglecting mine?’

  ‘I-I tried to tell her. I wanted to tell you b-but …’ he looked down at the floor shamefacedly. ‘I c-could not.’

  ‘Threatening you, was she?’ Peter suggested dryly. ‘Threatening to tell your wife you had been unfaithful?’

  ‘But I have not! Indeed I have not, Mr Sedgeman.’ His voice trailed away and again he stared down at the floor. ‘I-I did kiss her once. She almost begged me to do it. It was when she first came. She said she was lonely in a strange village. She had tears in her eyes.’

  ‘Yes. She tried that with me.’

  ‘She did?’ Cyril Johnson’s head jerked up in astonishment. ‘She is a – a …’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Peter muttered wearily. ‘I am not sure what other arrangements I can make yet, but I intend to put my children first from now on, even if that means taking care of the shop myself.’

  ‘You – you mean you will cut my hours?’ Cyril asked hoarsely. He looked such a picture of dejection Peter felt sorry for him. He was a good shopkeeper, clean and honest, and civil to the customers.

  ‘Well, we shall see. I don’t suppose you can think of a good woman in the village who might be willing to help with my children?’

  Cyril Johnson scratched his head thoughtfully.

  ‘Not that I can think of. Mistress Jenkins might be willing to do some washing and cleaning. You’ll recall Mr Jenkins died three weeks ago?’

  ‘Ah, yes, so he did. Mistress Jenkins was always a kindly soul, but she must be nearly seventy?’

  ‘Sixty-six, and short of money. She’s thinking of going to stay with her son and his wife in Ayr, but she doesna want to leave her own wee cottage, or her friends in the village.’

  ‘Would you call in on your way home and ask her if she would come to see me, please?’

  ‘Will do.’ Cyril smiled for the first time. ‘And thank you, Mr Sedgeman. I love my wife and children. I don’t wish ill to anybody, but I hope Eliza MacDougall goes back to the city as she keeps threatening to do.’

  ‘Maybe she will. I doubt if her aunt has been any better for her company.’

  ‘Indeed she has not. She told Miss Witney, she would be pleased to see the back of her niece.’

  Rachel and the three children were asleep upstairs when Peter answered a knock at his door. It was Mrs Jenkins.

  ‘Mr Johnson said you wished to see me,’ she said diffidently.

  ‘I do, but I did not expect you to come so soon.’ Peter ushered her into the dusty kitchen. ‘The fire’s low. I was just making my way to bed,’ he explained apologetically.

  ‘That’s all right. Mr Johnson said you might have work for me. I couldn’t have gone to sleep without coming to see you first.’

  ‘Strike while the iron is hot, eh? Is that your motto, Mrs Jenkins?’ Peter gave her a wry, if weary smile.

  ‘Well, I don’t mind telling you, Mr Sedgeman, it would be a lifeline for me if I could have a few hours’work to earn some extra coppers.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not only the money either. Time hangs heavily now I’m on my own. Well, you’ll know all about that. You’ve had your own sorrows.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact and Peter was relieved she was not going to ramble on in a maudlin fashion.

  ‘I have three young children,’ he reminded her. ‘They are my greatest concern at present. I had not realised until today how badly I have been neglecting them.’ He looked round the dirty room. ‘And our home,’ he added with a grimace.

  ‘Well, I like children,’ Mrs Jenkins said slowly, ‘But I’m not as young as I used to be.’ She slumped dejectedly. ‘Children are a big responsibility. I wouldn’t have minded cooking for the wee mites. As for cleaning and washing, I’ve done that all my life. Enjoyed it, I did.’ She sighed. ‘I’d welcome that occupation two or three days each week, but I couldn’t look after three wee lassies every day. I’m sorry, Mr Sedgeman.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do everything, Mrs Jenkins,’ Peter assured her quickly. ‘It would be a relief to me to know the children were fed and clean, at least until I can find a better solution.’

  ‘Well I could certainly help a bit,’ Mrs Jenkins offered, casting a swift glance around the grubby room. ‘I could come tomorrow? See how we get on?’

  ‘Very well. We shall take each day as it comes.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what the minister keeps telling me. “Take one day at a time and the Lord will provide.” I’ve found his advice a bit hard to accept these past three weeks, I can tell you,’ she wagged her head grimly, ‘But maybe He has answered my prayers after all.’

  Peter found it difficult to sleep that night. He had not known Polly was so frightened of Eliza MacDougall until today. He was convinced the bruises on her arms had not been caused by a fall. He resolved to keep the woman away from his family in future. But where was he to find someone reliable, and able to cope with three lively children? He could not neglect his customers entirely. They depended on him, and he needed them for his living. He could not afford to pay a full-time delivery man as well as paying Cyril.

  His mind went round and round. He heard the grandfather clock strike midnight and hoped it would not disturb Rachel O’Brian. The poor child had been exhausted. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. That was it! The obvious solution! Rachel O’Brian had been wonderful with the children tonight. She seemed to know instinctively what they needed. She was kind and patient. She needed work. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? It was true she was very young, but surely his family would be safe and cared for with Mrs Jenkins and Rachel together?

  At last he settled down to sleep. His mind was easier than he had believed possible a few hours earlier. He could not have guessed the further shocks awaiting him.

  Chapter Nine

  RACHEL WAKENED EARLY AS was her habit. As soon as she moved and felt the pain, the events of the previous day came crowding back, filling her with apprehension. Why had Ross no
t come to look for her? Had he really gone away? She must find work, a place to stay, and money for food. Should she go back to her own village? Tears threatened when she remembered there would be no Granny Ferguson to offer comfort or advice.

  She rose and washed in the cold water from the ewer she had carried to her chamber the previous night. The least she could do was go down and light the fire and prepare breakfast for Peter Sedgeman and his children before she set out. She knew he must rise early to load his van with groceries. Today he had to make up the deliveries he had missed because of her.

  The fire was blazing merrily, the hearth swept and the kettle was beginning to sing on the hob, but Rachel could not find oatmeal for the porridge. Indeed there seemed to be little food in the larder at all. Disconsolately she wandered through to the scullery and from there into the wash-house. The tin washtub and the wicker basket were both piled high with dirty washing and there was a heap of soiled baby napkins on the flagged floor. She suspected some of them had been there for several days. The smell was overpowering.

  She set about lighting the little fire under the brick-built boiler and filling it up with water. Some of the clothes would need more than a boiling and a good rubbing if they were ever to come clean. She bent to pick up the pile of nappies. She stood up sharply, holding her throat, trying to control her heaving stomach – but it was no use. She dashed outside, down the short path to the closet, unaware of the woman observing her from the scullery doorway.

  Eliza MacDougall had arrived earlier than usual, intending to wheedle her way back into favour with Peter Sedgeman. She had had no doubts about her success. He needed her to look after his brats.

  Eventually Rachel felt recovered enough to make her way back up the garden path but as soon as she entered the wash-house she heard angry voices in the scullery.

  ‘Now, I know why you came back early yesterday! You wanted to trap me!’ Several oaths followed. Rachel winced. She had heard men swear often enough at the smiddy, but even they had not used words such as this woman was using – and to her employer. She stood frozen to the spot, but the tirade which followed shocked her even more.