‘And why not?’ Annabella said. ‘He always wore it.’
‘Aye, he did a lot o’ things he shouldn’t have done. Hurry up and eat your cake and drink your whisky. It’s time we were getting him under the clay. If we wait much longer the whole town will be out and gawping.’
‘Let them gawp.’
Letitia ignored her.
‘Big John, nail him down. Come away, Ramsay. Are you going to put a shoulder to the coffin along with the other men? Grizzie, stop your snivelling. You too, Phemy.’
They carried him, not without some difficulty and jostling, down the stairs and into the waiting carriage. The women hailed sedan chairs and followed in single file up Saltmarket Street, along Trongate Street to the Westergate. Then in the open countryside beyond it, they chose a place under a rowan tree and buried him there.
‘Come away now. Come away,’ Letitia said, swishing her skirts over one arm and signalling to the chairmen. ‘It’s time we had a meal inside us.’
Annabella was thankful to be away. She felt harrowed and exhausted and did not wait long at Letitia’s house. Her father decided to stay until evening and she left him drinking steadily along with Letitia and Griselle and Phemy and the old Earl of Glendinny. She doubted if he would be fit to return to his own place by evening. But Big John would either carry him back or make sure that he was comfortably settled in Letitia’s for the night.
Mungo was being looked after by Betsy and Annabella was glad of the chance to relax when she reached her bedroom.
Cunningham, who had escorted her home, untied the ribbons of her hat and helped her off with her cloak.
‘You look tired, Annabella. I think you should go to bed.’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘My dear …’
‘Stay with me. Hold me close.’
‘I want you to be with me for always. I want to take you back to Virginia as my wife.’
She shook her head
‘No, I couldn’t leave Papa. Not now.’
‘I refuse to take no for an answer.’
‘I am afraid, sir, you have no alternative. In a few weeks’ time I am moving with Papa to his new house in the Westergate.’
‘If you cannot or will not marry me, I will come again next year. By that time your father will be properly settled and recovered from the grievous shock of your brother’s death. You will have no excuse for refusing my offer.’
‘I cannot look that far forward. I can only offer you tonight.’
He took her hand and kissed it.
‘It will be a memory I shall treasure, dear lady, during the lonely year ahead.’
They moved into Mungo House at the earliest opportunity and, as Phemy said, it was a blessing that they had the house to move to and all the work the moving entailed.
‘It has been the saving of both of you,’ she insisted. ‘The colour has come back to your face, Annabella, with all your exertions and running around. And even your father is more like his old self.’
Certainly her father had regained much of his strength and was back working as usual in his counting-house. Yet he had aged. Once his back had been like an iron rod. Now the iron had melted, causing him to stoop a little and to use his cane more for support than display. His face, once dour and rigid in its expression, now had creased into lines that gave it a look of fatigue and suffering. He was still a stern taskmaster as his clerks at the counting-house well knew and he still insisted on a God-fearing routine in his home of readings and prayers.
But he drank a lot more than he used to and it was a common occurrence now for Big John to have to carry his master home from the tavern. And he did not seem to have as much strength of will or even interest in thwarting many of Annabella’s ploys and plans. For instance, she had managed to purchase a spinet and have it installed in the drawing-room of Mungo House with surprisingly little trouble. Already she was taking lessons and practising diligently and with much enjoyment.
The gentleman who had kindly agreed to teach her was a most refined and accomplished personage by the name of Mr Craig. He was a leading connoisseur of the fine arts and played the fiddle as well as the spinet. He had made a visit to Italy and had the rare accomplishment of being able to speak a little Italian. He had assured her that she had a natural talent for music and that she was able to master difficult pieces with incredible speed and ease. She looked forward to the day when she would be able to entertain guests to a musical interlude, perhaps to a duet with Mr Craig playing the fiddle. As yet, she had not managed to do any entertaining. Apart from the fact that it was too soon after her brother’s death for her to feel like gay parties, there was still such a lot to do to the house.
They had moved in before the painting and decorating was finished and she had had to wait until that job had been done and the paint was dry before beginning to put up the curtains. In the living-room she had hung rust-coloured curtains to match the two new upholstered chairs. The other chair was her father’s old winged arm chair from their Saltmarket home. Her red silk velvet easy chair she had put upstairs in her bedroom because it didn’t match the living-room colour scheme and she wanted everything new in the drawing-room. The living-room walls were panelled up to the window sill and the rest of the walls and the ceiling were painted a restful beige, and the centre of the polished wood floor was covered with a beige and rust and brown coloured carpet. She had put her little tea-table with its scalloped corners for candles in this room and the mahogany highboy with the gold handles on the drawers and a slope-fronted desk. The japanned pier glass with its raised figures of peacocks and flowers was on the opposite wall from the window and reflected the rust curtains and glimpses of the colourful sedan chairs in the keeper’s yard across the narrow road at the front of the house.
It was not a large room but it was comfortable and homely. Both she and her father could relax there in the evening; he could read his Bible at the open desk or sit by the fire with a newspaper and she did embroidery or other sewing, or she wrote letters.
During the day when her father was out at work she liked to go upstairs and sit at the spinet in the drawing-room. She had furnished this room with a tall clock, a cherry red settee and chairs and gold damask curtains. Although it had the same size of window, it was a bigger room than the living-room and had white wood panelling with raised ovals decorated with the beautifully painted landscapes that were her pride and joy. She adored this room and never tired of admiring its artistic elegance.
When she wasn’t admiring the interior of the house, she was gazing happily out of the window. From her bedroom she had a peaceful view of the little garden in which she had already planted herbs and roses. Then there were trees and banks of yellow broom and rolling green fields as far as the eye could see. Sometimes she could hear the cowherd’s horn and the distant mooing of cows, but otherwise it was a scene of rural peace and quiet. From the living-room or dining-room windows the front looked peaceful too. There were occasional movements and sounds from the sedan-keeper’s yard but the lilting Highland voices of the keeper and his chairmen proved little disturbance. Some days there would be a horse and rider gallop by, or a clanking coach and whinnying team of horses, but they were exciting diversions in an idyllic scene.
In the two cottages that flanked Mungo House lived elderly couples, respectable folk who eked out a living by selling the vegetables they grew in their back gardens. Annabella sometimes passed the time of day with them when she was out tending her herbs. It was very pleasant to potter in the garden in her wide-brimmed straw hat with the smell of flowers sweet in her nostrils and the buzz of bees and the song of birds keeping her happy company.
And of course she could be in the centre of town in no time at all if she had a fancy to do a bit of shopping or to visit Phemy or Griselle. That is, if she went by horse or sedan. By foot it was not so easy and took much longer.
Griselle had given up her house in Gibson’s Land and was back in Trongate Street living with her mother. She had,
by all appearances, completely recovered from her initial distress over Douglas’s death and looked cheerful and well. Annabella told Phemy that she wouldn’t be surprised if Griselle married again within the year. She had continued her connections with the landed gentry and still attended the games of cards and stayed overnight in the stately homes of Lord and Lady Knox and others.
She had introduced Annabella to various members of the gentry and Annabella was very excited at being included in the next weekend on the Kibbold estate.
Griselle said she was trying to persuade Letitia to agree to having a mansion built for the Halyburton family. Her brother Andrew was willing but Letitia was a stubborn woman.
‘Tuts, there’s nothing wrong with the home that you and Phemy and Andra were brought up in,’ she kept saying. ‘I don’t know what’s got into young folks nowadays. Your father and I were gey proud of this place when we got married and moved into it.’
‘Times change, Mama,’ Griselle explained. ‘Everyone who is anyone now is leaving the tenements and building mansions. We’ll simply need to move eventually.’
‘Would you listen to that?’ their leathery old maid, Kate, croaked. ‘Oor Grizzie’s getting above hersel’. What she’s needing, if you ask me, is a skelpet bum.’
‘Oh, be quiet,’ Grizzie snapped irritably. ‘Nobody’s asking you.’
‘Aye, and I’m no’ too old or frail to skelp your bum either. I’ve done it before when you were a wee bairn and I can do it now if I’ve a mind to.’
‘Mama, will you tell her to be quiet?’ Grizzie appealed. ‘This is the sort of thing I mean. There’s just no peace or privacy in a cramped flat like this.’
‘Tuts, Kate,’ Letitia scolded, ‘will you hold your havering tongue? The quicker you’re away to the other side the better.’
‘I’ll go and meet my Maker when I’m good and ready, mistress, and no’ one meenite before.’
Letitia snapped open her fan.
‘Is it no’ terrible what folk have to suffer from vexatious servants?’
Annabella agreed.
‘I have prodigious problems with Betsy. The lazy good-for-nothing creature simply refused to wash. The other day I chased her all the way to the burn, knocked her in and flung a ball of soap after her. You might have heard her howls and yowls in the town.’
Phemy and Griselle tittered behind their fans but Letitia said,
‘Tuts, Annabella, you’ve always had terrible wild ways. Age has done nothing to mellow you or douce you down.’
‘Heaven forbid!’
‘It’s time you were marrying again. Has your Papa anyone in mind?’
‘Mistress Letitia, I’m a mature widow woman and I’ll choose my own gudeman this time.’
Phemy said,
‘Oh, Annabella, I hope you’re not planning to leave us again. And your lovely mansion too. You’re not still thinking of your Virginia planter, are you?’
‘Mr Cunningham?’ Annabella sighed. ‘He is a charming man and I am catched by him, of course, but I made him no promises and I doubt if I ever will. If he resided here in Glasgow …’ She sighed again. ‘Who knows? I dare swear I would not be able to resist him. But, as it is, I am wondrously happy the way I am.’ She suddenly giggled. ‘Did you see the way my Lord Gilmour ogled me the other day?’
Old Kate, the hunchback servant who was still leaning on the bedpost listening intently to the conversation, let out a sudden cackle.
‘That birkie’s got a head like a turnip and just as thick.’
‘Kate,’ Letitia snapped, ‘will you stop that clitter-clattering tongue of yours and away and make the tea.’
Kate shuffled from the room muttering darkly.
‘I’m no’ the only one with a clitter-clattering tongue, if you ask me.’
‘I’m thinking of having a dinner party soon,’ Annabella announced. ‘A housewarming party, you could call it. You must all come, of course. Don’t forget to tell Andrew.’ She giggled again. ‘Tell me, what other men can I invite?’
Letitia’s drawstring mouth tightened.
‘This isn’t a respectable way to go about things. It should be left to your father to invite the men. You’re asking for trouble, m’lady.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Annabella said.
11
‘HOW’S the glass, captain?’ Cunningham asked. He had climbed to the poop deck of the Mary Heron to have a word with Captain Daidles. He had felt singularly depressed since setting out on his journey from Glasgow. Naturally he was low in spirits at having to leave without Annabella but he suspected it wasn’t only that. Perhaps the ominous weather signs had something to do with his calamitous apprehensions.
The gaunt-faced, hook-nosed Captain Daidles did nothing to cheer or reassure him.
‘Dropping fast, Mr Cunningham,’ he said, like a preacher at a deathbed. ‘Dropping fast.’
Cunningham took a pinch of snuff.
‘Then we must try and keep our spirits up, sir.’
The captain solemnly lowered his head and pointed with an upward roll of his eyes to the implacably advancing army of black clouds.
‘A gale’s nigh upon us.’
‘Ah well, no doubt you have survived many a gale before.’ He was determined at least to put on a front of cheerfulness, despite the fact that the captain was enough to depress anyone.
Captain Daidles shook a reproachful head at him.
‘A severe gale, Mr Cunningham.’ He swivelled slowly round to the mate and intoned sadly, ‘Shorten sail, Mr Kerr. Put up the deadlights. Batten down the hatches. Take in the jib. Bend on a storm jib. Put a double reef on the main sail.’
But already the edges of the sails were cracking like pistols in the wind and humps of waves were colliding and spraying up white plumes. The ship was nervously plunging and bucking and Cunningham decided eventually that it might be wisest to return to his cabin. He found it in almost total darkness because of the wooden shutters, or deadlights as the sailors called them, that were now covering the cabin windows. A lantern hung from a hook on the low ceiling and gave a feeble light that fluttered and swooped with the movement of the ship.
With a sigh, he flopped down onto his bunk. He had been in many storms before and normally he found them stimulating and exciting. This time, he felt sad and uneasy. He tried to view his emotions objectively, to analyse them in an honest and sensible manner. It wasn’t fear he was succumbing to. He had fought too many duels and indulged in too many other reckless and dangerous acts for anyone, even himself, to believe that he was a coward.
He supposed he was simply lovesick. He was sad at leaving Annabella. He had been in love many times before but he had never loved anyone so deeply and completely as he did his golden-haired, bright-eyed Glasgow girl. Somehow, without her, his vast plantation, his huge mansion, all the comforts and pleasures that his wealth provided, meant nothing. Even his gambling had become a bore. He wanted Annabella by his side to share everything with him. He realised that he could have had any unmarried lady in Virginia for the asking, indeed, many a married one as well. Virginia mothers were continuously plying him with eager invitations and hopeful introductions to their daughters. The daughters ogled him shamelessly and left him in no doubt of their availability. He was not nearly so sure of Annabella. And here, he decided, was the root of his present melancholia and apprehension. If Annabella really loved him, would she not have come back with him to Virginia in spite of everything? Or would she, should she, not have tried to persuade him to stay? He had pleaded with her. She had made no attempt to plead with him. He had made promises to her. She had made none to him. He felt that he would never see Annabella again. He sensed that her love for him was not strong enough to stand his absence. Some other man could and would steal her affections and capture her for his wife.
Panic alerted him and made him swing his legs from the bunk and sit up. If only he could get back to Glasgow. It had been madness to leave without Annabella. There were many business matters back in Virginia th
at needed his attention and he had been away too long already. But business was of secondary importance to securing Annabella’s hand in marriage.
The ship shuddered against the impact of solid green walls of water crashing down on its decks. Then there were the angry, seething sounds as the sea spewed out through the scuppers. The cabin tipped sideways, forcing Cunningham to grab onto his bunk to prevent himself from sliding down the steep incline of the floor.
With agonising creaks and groans the ship righted itself, but another roll burst the cabin door and allowed the sea to tumble in and swish about. Swaying and staggering about like a drunk man, sometimes slipping and falling, Cunningham managed to reach the door, put his shoulder to it and secure it shut again.
Back in his bunk, he tried to ignore the pitching and rolling of the ship. He tried to concentrate on willing the storm to calm. Eventually, after what seemed endless uncomfortable hours, the weather soothed and quietened. He climbed on deck and enjoyed a few deep refreshing breaths before looking around. The captain was standing nearby morosely viewing the damage the storm had done to the sails.
Cunningham decided that it would be better not to disturb or irritate the older man with idle talk. He gave the impression, with his withdrawn moody appearance, that he was a man who preferred his own company. So, leaving the captain to brood alone, he took a stroll along the deck, picking his way between piles of rope and groups of sailors patching sails. Stopping for a while he watched with interest how neatly the men stitched with their heavy three-sided needles. They sang cheerily while they worked, their song gusting in the breeze. The wind also tugged playfully at Cunningham’s plum-coloured brocade coat and lace jabot. A couple of times he had to grab his tricorn hat to prevent it from flying away.
For a time the singing and the exhilarating sea breeze lightened his spirits but it was only a temporary respite. Soon Annabella wafted back to his mind to haunt him. He thought of how long it would be before he would be able to see her again and his depression returned. Sighing with the weight of it, he went over and leaned his elbows on the bulwarks.
The Tobacco Lords Trilogy Page 74
