Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Mr Kinkell is free to go as soon as he pleases.’

  ‘Should he not be given some refreshment?’

  ‘If he wishes.’

  But Kinkell did not wish. ‘Thank you, my lady, but I would prefer to leave at once.’

  ‘Very well. I wish you safe journey and godspeed.’

  With a bow to her and then to her father, Kinkell hurried from the room.

  She saw the guards look at her father who gave a slight shake of his head.

  She went over to the window, where she would be able to see Kinkell ride down the driveway. She felt like crawling into a corner to weep but she resisted it, she would weep, but later, when she was alone.

  At last there he was, mounted on a grey horse, cantering down the driveway. He might be arrested when out of her sight, but surely her father would not be so dishonourable.

  In a few hours he would be reporting to James, her husband. Surely she should have gone with him. But she was not able, through illness and, in any case, her father, anxious not to offend the Estates, would have prevented her. Worst of all, James would not have been pleased to see her. He thought that she had been disloyal to him and so, perhaps, she had been. But to whom or to what should she have been loyal? She had not known before the war began and she still did not know now that it was being fought. She should remember that she was not alone, many mothers were mourning their sons. When she wept, she would be weeping for them all.

  24

  AFTER JOHN’S DEATH, Magdalen withdrew into herself. She had been hurt too much, poor lady, they whispered. Her infant son, David, was put into her arms in the hope that his happy gurglings would at least make her smile, but she stared at him as if he was a corpse too. When seven-year-old Robert asked her tearfully if he would ever see John again, she just stared at him. When her father asked if she would like James to be brought from Old Montrose, she shook her head and seemed on the point of speaking. Trying to encourage her, her father was far from guessing that, if she had spoken, it would have been to say that she no longer trusted him. He had gloated at Francis’s death and the destruction of Mintlaw, and, if she had not shamed him, would have ill-treated Mr Kinkell.

  Mr Henderson was sent for. Though sorry for her, he felt obliged to scold her for not seeking consolation in the Lord. He did it as gently as he could, which wasn’t really gently at all, for he was too accustomed to castigating backsliders. He conceded that it was natural to mourn, especially for a mother. God was not heartless. But grief should be expressed in words, not in obdurate silence, like animals; and after it should come Christian gratitude and joy. Lord John’s body was rotting in the graveyard at Bellie, beside the Spey, but his soul was singing with angels on the banks of a far grander river, in heaven. It had to be remembered, though, that he had died while in the service of the anti-Christ: it would be entered against him in the celestial ledger, for the Lord demanded His due. However, since he had been only fourteen and was under the malign influence of his father, the traitor-rebel, God would make allowances.

  He said all that on his knees on the hard floor, with a few involuntary sighs.

  He would have been greatly discomfited if he had known that Lady Magdalen was noticing how grubby were the white sleeves of his sark, how the knees of his breeks had been patched more than once, how the hairs in his nostrils and ears were whiter now than they had been at her wedding, and how his performance had become mechanical, having been done too often to have any genuine feeling left in it.

  She broke her silence then. ‘Where is heaven?’ she asked.

  He paused in his prayer to glower at her. He wasn’t sure whether the question was stupid or mischievous.

  It was really one of the guileless questions she had asked as a child and to which she had never got answers.

  In one of Francis’s paintings there had been a picture of heaven, as the artist had conceived it. White buildings with shining towers. Flowers. Butterflies. Winged angels. Pink clouds. Musicians with happy faces.

  She had thought it beautiful but there were no mysteries explained, no revelations, no marvellous fulfilments.

  Meanwhile, Mr Henderson was gnashing his gums in vexation. ‘In a bairn,’ he said, portentously, as if in a pulpit, ‘such a question might be pardonable, though not permissible. In an adult, it is blasphemy. For implicit in it is the implication that heaven does not exist and, therefore, that God does not exist. Men, and women too, have been justly burned at the stake for such blasphemies. Your mind, Lady Magdalen, is disturbed by grief and, therefore, I make allowances, as God does to unhappy sinners who have temporarily lost their way.’

  ‘Yes, but where is it?’

  Minutes later he was solemnly telling her father that her condition was very serious, grief and sundry disappointments had made her a child again, with the typical childish characteristic of not listening to answers but simply repeating questions.

  25

  THE EARL WAS unfair in suspecting Mrs Witherspoon of having an intrigue with his nephew, Malcolm. It would have been more accurate to say that Malcolm was laying siege to her virtue and she was not repelling him as wholeheartedly as she might: tepid water instead of boiling oil. In spite of certain drawbacks, he would do admirably as a husband, being heir to an ample estate. At 22, he was at least ten years her junior. He frequently laughed: a sign either of perennial good humour or weak-wittedness; not that it mattered. He was very amorous: lecherous would have been a truer word, for he had already, so rumour said, bairned two maidservants. One afternoon, this lively young gentleman, finding her alone in the music room, had fondled her bosom from behind and thrust himself against her. She had repulsed him but not instantly, and reproached him but not very angrily. He had gone off humming.

  That night, while she was getting ready for bed, indeed while she was once more admiring her soft white rounded body and seeing it through his eyes, the door opened and in he crept. There was no lock, only a defective sneck. In a trice, he had her tumbled on to the bed, with himself on top of her. He said nothing, nor did she. What could she have said? That she hoped he understood this was more binding than a formal betrothal? She had heard before of a ravisher, a nobleman too, having to marry the woman he ravished. So, in the next two or three minutes, she suffered him to do what the late asthmatic Mr Witherspoon had never managed in five years of marriage; that was, inject his seed into her. If he got her with child, he would certainly have to marry her. Thus reassured, she found it quite pleasurable.

  The moment he was spent, he leapt up, turned his back, pulled up his breeks, and rushed off, pausing at the door to blow her a kiss . . .

  She went to sleep with a satisfied smile. The deed of marriage had been signed, not with a pen, but with a more authoritative instrument.

  Next day, she sought him eagerly but he was not to be found. He had gone hunting, she was told.

  That night, he came again to her room. She had omitted to have the sneck repaired or the bolt oiled. Intentionally? She smiled at herself in the mirror. She put on perfume, lingered over her undressing and spent more time than usual in brushing her hair, which came below her navel and was the same alluring hue as that on her body. She kept expecting him to enter.

  An hour later, she was in bed, alone, seething with annoyance, when the door flew open and in he sprang, dressed in white sark and pink hose. Before she could protest at his recent tardiness and present impetuosity, he was in bed beside her, making love, not at all like a lover, more like a woodman axing a tree. He wasted neither breath in speaking nor energy in fondling. It was like an urgent visit to the privy. Before she could have counted to 30, he was done and gone.

  She felt insulted and degraded. She had been used like a whore – no, worse than that, for with a whore he would have taken longer, getting his money’s worth.

  Next day, she was told he had left Kinnaird and returned home, to prepare for his marriage to the youngest daughter of Lord Linton.

  There was no one she could complain to or vent
her anger on. She was more deserving of pity than Lady Magdalen, yet everyone went out of their way to be considerate to her ladyship, while all that Mrs Witherspoon got were malicious smiles, as if those visits to her room, and their purpose, were not as secret as she had hoped.

  She did have one offer of help. After praying with Lady Magdalen, Mr Henderson came sneaking into Mrs Witherspoon’s room and offered to pray with her. At first, she thought he must have found out about her fornication. He had prayed with her once before, at Kincardine, both on their knees facing each other. His breath had stunk. To her astonishment, for he was old as well as reverend, he had paused in his rantings to liken her breasts to ‘two young twin roes which fed among the lilies’; a quotation, he had informed her, from the Song of Solomon.

  This time she declined and he went off in a sanctimonious huff.

  26

  SOME THREE WEEKS later, Lady Magdalen was in her room sewing, attended by Mrs Witherspoon who was supposed to be sewing too, but whose fingers frequently turned into claws, and on whose face appeared now and then grimaces of fury.

  Lady Magdalen noticed. Since her recovery from the shock of John’s death, she had been more solicitous than ever about other people, too much so, thought Mrs Witherspoon, ungraciously.

  ‘Is your toothache bad again, Margaret?’ she asked.

  Mrs Witherspoon had given toothache as the explanation. The truth was she had already missed her monthly and feared that she was pregnant. Also, she was suffering from an intolerable itch in her tenderest part, so that she could scarcely sit still. Therefore to be asked in that meek martyr’s voice if her toothache was bad was most exasperating, especially as her teeth were better than her mistress’s. Moreover, two days ago, the Earl had summoned her to his office. Anticipating a proposal of marriage to his nephew – her state of mind causing her to indulge in wild expectations – she was shocked to be told curtly that she must look for another situation. Lady Magdalen’s companion should be a lady of rank, not a promoted housekeeper. She would, of course, be compensated. He would be obliged if she gave Lady Magdalen to understand that she was leaving of her own accord.

  She had almost blurted out that she was carrying his nephew’s child but it would have been inopportune, considering that she was not yet sure. She had instead given a display of good breeding and dignity, which had noticeably impressed him, particularly as she was wearing a red velvet dress that showed off to their best advantage her ‘two young twin roes which fed among the lilies’.

  Inwardly, she had been screaming with pique.

  These painful reflections were interrupted by the pounding of horses’ hooves outside, many horses, many hooves. There was jingling of harness.

  Mrs Witherspoon’s first thought was that soldiers had been sent to arrest her. She would be dragged off and publicly whipped, as was often done to fornicators. It would be held against her that her partner was ten years younger. They would say that she had led him into sin. Mr Henderson would say it loudest of all. She had made a mistake in rebuffing him. She should have let him make pets of the twin roes.

  Crying out at the injustice of it all, she had to pretend that she had pierced her finger with the needle.

  Lady Magdalen, that withered leaf, looked up sympathetically. ‘What is the matter?’

  Mrs Witherspoon rushed to the window. Yes, they were dragoons, but far too many surely for the arrest of one woman. More likely, they had come to arrest Lady Magdalen or the Earl. She knew they were Covenant troops, for the Royalists had few cavalry.

  Look at them, conceited brutes, in their fine uniforms. Their horses looked nobler. All men wanted from a woman was one thing and, when they had got it, they threw her away like an apple core.

  ‘They look very pleased with themselves,’ she said. ‘They must have come from a victory.’

  It occurred to her that they might have the Marquis with them as a prisoner. She would enjoy seeing him in chains.

  But she needed to hurt someone, to ease her own torments, of body and soul. She went back to her sewing and imagined that she was pushing not one needle but a hundred into that part of young Carnegie’s anatomy, so soft and yet so rampant.

  ‘Dragoons, my lady,’ she said. ‘Dozens of them, a whole army. Do you think they can have the Marquis with them, as a prisoner?’

  Lady Magdalen shuddered. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘They could be taking him to Edinburgh.’

  ‘But why would they bring him here?’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to see you.’ Before they hang him, she added, but to herself. There would be many hangings. With luck, young Carnegie’s would be one.

  What was making Mrs Witherspoon more and more vindictive was the need to scratch. Twice already she had had to leave the room to do it and put on more salve. If she had caught the pox or was pregnant, it would vex her a great deal more than if a thousand Royalists were hanged.

  Heavy footsteps were heard outside the room. Spurs clanked.

  ‘My God,’ cried Mrs Witherspoon,’ they’ve come to arrest me.’

  ‘Why? What have you done?’ asked Lady Magdalen.

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and in strode the Earl, looking very grave in his black clothes. His beard was white. It looked as if it had been newly washed.

  ‘I wasn’t to blame,’ cried Mrs Witherspoon, hysterically. ‘He forced me.’

  Southesk gave her a frown of disapproval and surprise. Evidently, he did not know what she was talking about. The great man, who knew all the secrets of the State, did not know what went on in his own house.

  ‘Magdalen, my pet,’ he said,’ you have a visitor.’

  She gazed bravely at him. ‘Did it need all those soldiers to bring him?’

  ‘It is not your husband.’

  They did not know but she thought for a moment that it might be Francis Gowrie, who had not after all perished with his paintings.

  ‘It is James, your son. They are taking him to Edinburgh as a hostage. Do not be alarmed. He will come to no harm.’

  ‘But why are they taking him? What harm has he done? He is only a child.’

  ‘He is now his father’s heir.’

  There was then a hearty bang on the door and in swaggered an officer in a red tunic and blue breeches. His sword and spurs threatened to trip him up in the small room. He had a swarthy spotted face, with a black moustache and long black hair.

  He gave Mrs Witherspoon a boldly lustful grin.

  He bowed to Lady Magdalen. ‘Major-General Sir John Hurry at your service, my lady.’

  Everyone had heard of Sir John Hurry. He had once fought on the Continent as a mercenary, then for the army of the Parliament in England, then for the King, who had knighted him, and now he had changed sides again and was fighting for the Estates.

  He was looking at Mrs Witherspoon as if she had no clothes. She returned the compliment. His legs were bandy and hairy, his thighs muscular from gripping a horse’s flanks. He would make love at a gallop. Would he take time to remove his spurs?

  Lady Magdalen was staring at him in horror. It grieved her that this brash and unprincipled adventurer who loved war for its own sake should be persecuting her sensitive son.

  ‘Why have you arrested my boy, Sir John? He is only a child.’

  ‘Orders, my lady. Nothing personal. He is to be taken to Edinburgh where he will be lodged in the Castle with some kinsmen and friends. I give my word no harm will come to him. He asked to see his mother and damned if I saw any reason why not. Two hours, my lady. Then we must push on. May I say, though I am in the opposite camp, that I have enormous respect for your husband. Damned if I don’t regard him as the finest soldier in all Europe, with only one exception.’ He roared with laughter. ‘Mind you, he can’t win. Odds against too great. If I have the honour of grabbing him, I assure you I shall see that he is treated like the gallant gentleman he is.’

  Then Sir John clattered out, with a last urgent glance at Mrs Witherspoon. He was inviting her to spend t
he two hours with him.

  She smiled as if tempted but she was thinking that what he deserved was a bullet between those insolent eyes or better still a dose of the pox. He wouldn’t sit so proudly on his horse then.

  On her way to her room to put on more salve she passed soldiers. Young James was among them, pale and frightened, but she was in too great a hurry to greet him.

  Magdalen waited for her son to come in. ‘Will he be in chains?’ she asked.

  Her father smiled. ‘No, no. He is not that kind of prisoner.’

  James then entered, looking very like John, thought his mother, though she had never noticed any resemblance before. He was trying to be brave and grown-up. He smiled at his mother but kept his distance. He was waiting till they were alone.

  Southesk prepared to withdraw. ‘I shall come back later,’ he said, ‘and hear your story.’

  ‘I have nothing to tell Grandfather. They just came and took me and Mr Forret.’

  ‘Have they treated you well?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Yes. When they are not killing one another, soldiers are very kind.’

  Southesk smiled at that and left.

  Immediately James rushed to his mother and knelt by her chair. He burst into tears. She knew they were not for himself. She stroked his fair hair, remembering that other beloved head with the dark hair. James had accused John of saying cruel things to him; for that reason, he had loved him only sometimes. But now he wept sorely for his dead brother and she wept with him.

  27

  MAGDALEN HAD NEVER been taken in by Margaret Witherspoon. She knew her to be vain, ambitious, and selfish but, against that, she was very fond of little Robert, whom she made a fuss of and who liked and trusted her. When he hurt himself, it was Mrs Witherspoon he would run to to have the place kissed better, and she would clasp him to her ample breasts, of which she was so proud and which she boldly displayed, wearing dresses more suitable for dissolute ladies of the court than a Presbyterian minister’s widow. Magdalen did not love her as she had loved Janet but she was sorry for her and admired her. She carried herself so well, whereas Magdalen stooped; was red-cheeked, so that she didn’t need rouge, though she used it, while Magdalen was irremediably sallow; and she had a mass of auburn hair, so much more beautiful than Magdalen’s own, which was thin and grey.