A Maxwell Mourned

by Gwen Kirkwood

  It was the last gift the Laird would send to anyone. A few weeks later all the tenants on the estate assembled to pay their last respects. Many of the older tenants shared Alice’s foreboding.

  ‘There’ll be death duties to pay for a start,’ Murdoch Rogers muttered gloomily over Alice’s shoulder.

  ‘Aye, and some reckon the coffers are nearly empty already.’ Henry Mackay joined in. ‘Ever since the young Laird had his coming of age celebrations he has been spending money – horses, motor cars, gambling in London and abroad, or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well he’ll need a fat purse to go far in his motor cars now,’ another tenant muttered. ‘Petrol is going up to two shillings a gallon.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, Edward.’

  ‘Just repeating what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Aye, well I’m more concerned about Mr Shaw leaving. The Factor is the man that matters as far as the tenants are concerned. You can’t get anywhere if you can’t get on with the Factor. The Laird only watches over the money.’

  ‘Or spends it!’

  ‘Aye, well it seems the young Laird is doing that well enough. I’ve heard rumours that he and the Factor plan to sell some o’ the farms to raise money for the death duties. We are on the edge o’ the estate up at Nether Fauchan.’

  ‘Och, even the young Laird would surely have the sense to sell the land to the east if he has to sell any …’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. My family have been in Nether Fauchan for nearly a hundred years. It’s in good heart so it would fetch a better price.’

  ‘It might, if there was anybody daft enough to throw money away on buying a farm!’

  Ross listened to the conversations but at the mention of the new Factor he could not help himself.

  ‘Has a new Factor been appointed already then?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, laddie. Have ye not heard? Mr Shaw is moving out as soon as the funeral is over. He’ll be on his way north by tomorrow morning. They say he had some fine bits o’ furniture. It has all been packed and sent ahead by rail.’ The farmer looked keenly at Ross. ‘You must be new to these parts, are you? Takes time to hear the gossip …’

  ‘Och, this is the young fellow frae The Glens o’ Lochandee,’ another tenant joined the conversation. ‘Geordie Marchbank is the name.’ He thrust out a hand and shook Ross’s in an iron grip. ‘I’ve seen you putting the milk on the train at the station. You seem to be doing well enough, judging by the number o’ milk churns anyway.’

  ‘We are building up the herd again,’ Ross nodded.

  ‘Well you should be safe enough. Even a silly young Laird wouldna sell the farms nearest his own doorstep – at least not until he reaches the final fling – and he will if he doesna get himself killed first. You mark my words.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that! That would mean another lot o’ death duties to raise,’ his companion muttered morosely. ‘As it is I’ve heard the new Factor is a ruthless idiot. He’d sell his grandmother’s last pair o’ drawers if it suited him.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Ross asked curiously.

  ‘Bert Elder is his name. I take it you haven’t seen him around then?’

  ‘No.’ Ross shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘It would be better if none of us had,’ the man named Edward grimaced ominously. ‘He’s a big fellow, red-faced, big yellow teeth.’ He pulled back his lips in a toothy grin to demonstrate. He used to have red hair but he hasna’ much left. He still thinks he’s God’s gift to women though. I wouldna let him near my old lady, I can tell you – and she’s no spring chicken. Anything in skirts and he’ll give chase. Put a skirt on an old cow and he’d be after her, if you ask me.’

  ‘Whisht!’ His neighbour dug him in the ribs. ‘He’s over there. He’ll hear ye if ye dinna keep your boomer down.’

  Ross felt uneasy as he drove Alice Beattie back to Lochandee in the trap after the funeral. She was silent too, saddened by the passing of a well-respected landlord and an old friend. Mr Shaw had made a point of bidding her a final good-bye after the funeral. She knew she would miss his visits and the news he had brought her, as well as his wise advice.

  The weeks passed into months but neither the new Factor nor the Laird came to The Glens of Lochandee.

  ‘You will meet them both if you go to the tenants’ dinner when rent day comes round,’ Alice told Ross.

  ‘Oh, I’m not anxious to meet either of them from what I’ve heard so far.’

  ‘I think you and Rachel should attend the dinner. Such gatherings hold no attraction for me anymore. Rachel would enjoy seeing Valantannoch, the laird’s house. It’s beautiful and in a lovely setting. Yes, it would be good for you both.’

  Long before the Rent Dinner was due at the end of May, Rachel and Ross set out on their bicycles for a rare few hours of pure pleasure. Conan waved his arms excitedly to Alice and Beth as he perched in his bicycle seat behind Rachel. It was a beautiful spring day and Rachel’s heart soared as they bowled along the leafy lanes, down to the village and out again on the track bordering the loch. They aimed to reach a small wood on the very far side before they stopped to eat the picnic which Ross was carrying on his back. Some of the wild rhododendrons were beginning to open with splashes of purple amidst shiny dark leaves. Above them a delicate filigree of birch leaves trembled on graceful silver trunks. Here and there an ancient beech tree towered towards the sky and ash trees still held their sooty flattened buds. The sky was a backdrop of clear blue with a few white puffs of cloud sailing slowly before the gentle breeze.

  ‘I don’t know when I last felt so happy,’ Rachel said as they peddled leisurely along side by side. ‘It’s such a glorious day.’ Ross glanced sideways, returning her smile.

  ‘And a beautiful companion makes it perfect,’ he twinkled, and chuckled aloud when he saw the faint blush which still mounted her cheeks when he paid her compliments. Usually it was too dark to see her face when he held her in his arms at night in the big feather bed. Today was theirs.

  They found a grassy hollow to eat their picnic and Conan whooped with glee to find so many new places to explore while Rachel set out the food. It did not worry him when his short legs tripped on an unexpected stone or tussock of grass. He simply picked himself up and toddled on again.

  Ross stretched his long legs and walked to the side of the loch, peering down into the clear rippling water.

  ‘It seems quite shallow as far as I can see,’ he told Rachel, ‘but old Mr Pearson told me it’s just like a narrow shelf around the edges and then it falls steeply like an underwater ravine. He says it can be a dangerous place, even for strong swimmers, unless they are aware of the structure. Apparently the shallow edges and the pebbles get warm from the sun but the rest of the water is hundreds of feet deep and it’s icy cold all year round. Can you swim, Rachel?’

  ‘No, can you?’

  ‘No. I never lived near any water deep enough to swim in at Windlebrae – and as you know,’ he grimaced ruefully, ‘we didn’t get much spare time for walks to the river.’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel gave Ross a sympathetic smile before turning her attention to their son. ‘Conan! Conan, come and eat your sandwiches.’

  He came running as fast as his small legs would bring him, clasping a fat worm in one chubby fist and two small smooth pebbles in the other. He laid his treasure proudly in Rachel’s lap. He looked quite hurt when she tossed the worm away.

  ‘Mr Worm wants to go back home,’ she explained patiently. ‘He lives underneath the earth in a cosy little tunnel.’

  ‘Worm get dirty?’ he enquired, ‘like Conan?’

  ‘No, never as dirty as Conan,’ she laughed, wiping his grubby hands and handing him his favourite, an egg sandwich. He drank thirstily at the home-made lemonade made from a recipe belonging to Alice Beattie’s grandmother. It was deliciously refreshing. Afterwards Conan stretched out on his tummy on his own small blanket and began to play with the pebbles, tipping them from one hand into the other and trying to s
it one on top of the other. Lulled by the soft intermittent talk of his parents and warmed by the spring sunshine he fell asleep.

  Ross pulled Rachel to her feet and lifted their own rug a little distance away out of the hollow and out of Conan’s line of vision. He sank down onto it, holding his arms wide, inviting Rachel to join him. The desire in his blue eyes belied his innocent smile. Rachel’s heart skipped. It seemed so long since they had been alone together – really alone. She clasped his outstretched hands. He gave a gentle tug, pulling her off balance so that she fell on top of him. He laughed softly as his lips found hers.

  They lingered over their loving, savouring each precious moment, each tender caress. They kissed and touched and loved again, rising to the enchanted heights together. At length Rachel dozed dreamily, her head cushioned on Ross’s broad chest, his hand cupping the roundness of her breast.

  How long they languished in their private heaven neither of them knew. It was the stir of a cooler breeze through the grasses which made Rachel sit up, remembering Conan, thinking it was time to waken him and start on the homeward journey if they were to be back to begin the milking. She stretched luxuriously and dropped a light kiss on Ross’s parted lips. He seized her and would have held her close once more.

  ‘Conan,’ she murmured. ‘He will wake soon.’ She stood up and brushed her skirts, rearranging her clothes before she peered over into the grassy hollow. The blanket was there, the dimple where Conan’s small head had rested – but of the little boy there was no sign.

  ‘Oh my goodness. Conan has gone! He’s gone!’ Her voice rose in panic.

  ‘He can’t have gone!’ Ross jumped to his feet, fastening his braces as he did so, hurrying to her side, his feet hastily stuffed into his boots, laces flying.

  ‘He’s not here. He’s nowhere around!’ Rachel wailed. She stuffed her fist into her mouth. She had to stop the screams before they started. ‘Conan! Conan, where are you? Oh please come back to Mama. Please! Conan …’

  ‘Conan!’ Ross bellowed loudly. ‘Answer me!’

  ‘Oh please don’t be cross with him, Ross.’ Weeping now Rachel clutched his arm. ‘He’ll never come back if thinks we are angry with him.’

  ‘Conan!’ Ross shouted again, less fiercely. And again. There was no reply. He looked down into Rachel’s white face, her huge green eyes swamped with tears. ‘We’ll find him.’ He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly but Rachel shrank away.

  ‘If only …’

  ‘You search along the path that way,’ Ross instructed. ‘I will – I will walk along the edge of the – the water …’

  ‘The water! Oh dear God, the water. Please don’t let him be in the water.’ She began to sob.

  ‘Don’t Rachel! Control yourself now. Search for him. Keep shouting. Shout his name.’ He shook her, none too gently. He was struggling to contain his own panic. ‘His name, Rachel. Then listen. Do you understand me?’ She nodded dumbly and began to walk along the path, weaving in and out of bushes and small trees and ferns. The day which had seemed so beautiful was now filled with the darkest possible clouds – clouds of misery and guilt. She had forgotten Conan in the sweet ecstasy of Ross’s loving.

  ‘Conan!’ she called between hiccupping sobs. There was no reply. She began to run. She did not know why. She turned and looked back. Surely a small boy could never have strayed so far? He might have gone in the opposite direction. She turned to retrace her steps, willing herself to go more slowly, to search under every clump and tussock, however unlikely. There was nothing.

  She reached Ross, pacing along the edge of the loch, his eyes glued to its rippling surface.

  ‘There’s no sign of him,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  Only now did he appreciate the son he had sired. He had been jealous. Yes, jealous of the child who had caused Rachel to suffer. Jealous of the tiny person who had had her love and care during the long months he had yearned for her. What kind of man was he?

  ‘W-would there be – if he’s d-drowned, I mean? Signs?’ Rachel was looking up at him, her eyes huge and dark with terror.

  ‘We’ll find him. He can’t be far away.’ We must, he added under his breath. We must. He rubbed his temple, frowning. ‘I’ll go a bit further away from the loch. He may have wandered further into the trees and lost his way.’

  ‘He’s so small …’ Rachel’s voice wobbled.

  ‘You go in that direction this time. I’ll go the same way but twenty yards or so further in. We must search thoroughly.’ Ross said in desperation. Alice Beattie would wonder where they were when they did not return for the milking. Alice loved Conan too, and Beth adored him. ‘Dear God,’ he muttered aloud, ‘help us.’

  They had walked several hundred yards and Rachel was certain Conan would not have come so far without being distracted. He was always stopping to poke or push, to ask questions … She bit back a sob. Supposing those big enquiring eyes never gazed up at her again, so full of trust. How could she have let him down so cruelly. She put a hand to her brow and scanned the area. Further back, nearer to their picnic spot, and further into the wood there seemed to be a big dark hump and a sort of path into the trees. She made her way back to it without much hope. She dare not look at the water. She could not bear to think of her beloved child lying in a cold watery grave. She began to shiver, although it was still warm in the sunlight.

  As she drew nearer to the hump she realised it was an uprooted tree. It must have been ancient and massive judging by the crater its roots had left. The path she had hoped to follow was no more than the dark shape of the trunk lying across the broken bracken and undergrowth. She made her way disconsolately around the ugly upended root and glanced down into the hole.

  ‘Conan!’ she gasped. ‘Oh Conan!’ His tiny head was wedged against the knot of a smaller root still bound by stones and debris. Most of his small body was covered in loose earth. ‘Ross …. Ross …He is here!’ she screamed as she scrambled into the earthy pit, slipping and slithering in the loose soil.

  ‘Conan …’ she breathed tenderly. He did not stir. She knew instinctively he was not sleeping. He was so still. So white …Rachel dropped to her knees beside his inert body. She brushed back the earth which had half covered him. Her leaden heart seemed to stop.

  Chapter Nine

  ROSS RAN FORWARD. THERE WAS no sign of Rachel. Had he imagined her call?

  ‘Where are you? Rachel?’ He stared around the deserted woodland.

  ‘Ross … Down here. In the hole. Behind the tree roots. He’s dead! Oh, Ross, my baby’s dead.’ He peered round the side of the huge upended tree. Rachel stared up at him. Her eyes were twin pools, dark with despair.

  ‘He can’t be dead,’ he breathed incredulously. ‘Hold on Rachel. I’m coming round the other side.’

  Rachel was cradling Conan’s still little body in her arms now, rocking him back and forth, whimpering softly against the bump on his forehead.

  Ross knelt beside her and gently took the small body in his arms, brushing back the soft hair. He put his lips to the small tiny rosebud mouth. Rachel watched as Ross bowed his head against Conan’s narrow chest.

  ‘I-I think he’s still breathing! Rachel …?’

  ‘But he’s so still …’

  ‘Let’s get him out of here. Can you scramble back out of this hellish hole? Look I’ll wedge my boot into the edge to give you a foot hold. Hurry now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t drop him, Ross.’ Breathlessly Rachel scrambled on all fours out of the cavity. Carefully Ross held the child up to her outstretched arms. Then he heaved himself after them, swiftly taking Conan once more, pressing his ear to the little chest.

  ‘Is he breathing, Ross? Is he?’ Rachel was in an agony of impatience at his indecision. Conan seemed so lifeless.

  ‘I’m not sure … Let me carry him to the side of the loch. Could you wipe his face? Clean the wound on his temple …’ Rachel ran ahead. She had already dipped her handkerchief into the clear water as Ross laid Conan on the ground. She wiped away
the mud and Ross dipped his own handkerchief into the water and helped her.

  ‘Ross!’ Rachel’s voice was a strangled squeak. ‘His eyelid fluttered. I-I’m sure it did …’ Her voice faltered into silence. Had she imagined it? Ross bent down and carefully wiped Conan’s cheeks and hair. He scarcely knew what else to do, yet he could not believe that the child was dead. He had been so full of life and the joy of living … As he stared down at the white face the small lips parted slightly and closed again.

  ‘He did move, Rachel! Perhaps we should give him a drink?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean I don’t know … He might choke. Let me hold him, Ross. Please.’ She cradled Conan tenderly in her arms and pressed her lips against his petal soft cheek.

  ‘Ma-ma,’ It was no more than a whisper but Rachel knew she had not imagined it.

  ‘He is alive, Ross! He is, he is …’ She began to weep, her tears raining down onto her child’s face. ‘Bring the blanket. We must keep him warm.’ Ross obeyed.

  ‘Ma-ma …’ the little voice was clearer, more plaintive. Ross gave a huge sigh of relief. ‘Head hurted.’

  ‘Yes, oh yes, my darling babe, I know. Mama – and Dada – will make it better.’

  ‘We should get him to the doctor?’ Ross suggested. ‘Could we make a sort of sling for him?’ He sounded diffident. ‘Use the blanket and the bag we brought for the picnic. We ought not to shake him about …Will you cycle ahead and warn the doctor? We will go back the way we came. It’s shorter. You know the doctor’s house is the red sandstone one at the fork of the roads?’

  It was only when Rachel reached the village and saw people staring at her that she realised what a dirty mess she must look. She did not care. She did not stop, not even to greet Mr Pearson who was enjoying a Sunday afternoon rest outside his cottage door. Fortunately Doctor MacEwan was at home.

  Two days later, apart from a dark bruise and a tender cut at his temple, Conan seemed to be none the worse for his adventure. He would forget, but Rachel knew she never would. The shock and horror she had experienced that Sunday afternoon would remain with her. She had to prevent herself from being over-protective in the weeks which followed.