Mr. Gilchrist commented proudly on her progress: “I’d like to see Lord Farquhar’s face now,” he said with a warm smile.
She did meet Farquhar again, and his wife, and many other visitors from time to time. Most found her refreshing, although there were those who wondered why the vicar’s wife continued to mix with such “common” elements. For her part, Jamie preferred to remain about the manse and its grounds. She was too absorbed in her studies, and too content in her friendship with the Gilchrist family, to have much chance or desire to socialize beyond those visitors who came to the manse to see her guardians.
Reading in Finlay’s Bible one day, as had become her daily custom, her mind wandered to the other book that had remained tucked away among her possessions. She had continued to think of it from time to time, but had not yet opened it since her arrival in Aberdeen. She had thought of it upon occasion, but as her reading skills had increased, something within her seemed consciously to avoid a confrontation with the words she had once so desperately wanted to understand. For nearly a year now the goal of reading that book and its inscription had been her passion. Yet there had remained a fear, a fear of the unknown past, a fear of what emotions the words might raise in her, a fear that reading it might somehow cause this new peaceful life she had found to crumble.
But on this particular day, as she again thought of the book, the fears were gone. Something within her seemed to be saying that the time was right, that the moment had come, like the silent nod of approval old Finlay had given in her dream—approval which had led her down the mountain, to Robbie, to Sadie, and finally to the Gilchrists.
She rose slowly from where she sat and walked toward her bureau. Opening the second drawer, she withdrew the book, her heart pounding. In that moment she knew she must read it, but she also knew she did not want to be alone when she did. She sought out Emily, and at last found her reading in the rose garden.
“Mrs. Gilchrist,” she called, timidly approaching the secluded bench where Emily sat.
“Hello, Jamie.”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Come and sit down.”
Jamie sat down on the stone bench, finding herself now unsure of how to express the strange mixture of feelings she had about the book.
“Is something troubling you, dear?” asked Emily.
“This,” Jamie replied, holding up the volume, “is the book I told ye aboot, the one that belonged t’ my mother.”
Emily nodded and smiled encouragingly.
“I think ’tis time I read it. But I’m a little fearsome. ’Tis a mite silly, I know.”
“It’s easy to be afraid of the most joyous moment of our lives—there’s nothing at all silly about that, Jamie.”
“I didn’t want t’ be alone when I read it, mem.”
“I’m honored that you felt you could come to me for this special moment. Go ahead,” she prompted. “Read it aloud if you like . . . or to yourself.”
“My reading’s still a mite poor, mem, though Mr. Avery says I’m doin’ right weel. So I think I’ll read it t’ myself, an’ then ye can read it when I’m done.”
The volume was a small collection of poetry by Wordsworth. Slowly Jamie opened the cover to the title page, opposite which the handwriting appeared in fine old script. Tears had already begun to gather in her eyes, but as she read, they overflowed their bounds and streamed down her face.
My dearest daughter Jamie,
I am writing this to you because I will soon be leaving this world. There were so many gifts I wanted to give you, so much love I wanted to share with you, but this book will be the only one I will have time to impart. It was given me by my own mother, so it is fitting that you should have it now. This book speaks of some of the gifts I want you to have—love, kindness, honesty, and faith. Your father is a good man; he will teach you these things. He has many grand dreams, but remember, my dear daughter, if you find love you will have attained the greatest dream of all. Whatever in life you become, never forget that the person you are will be determined by the character you allow to grow within you, not by what others, or by what the world may think.
Your Loving Mother,
Alice MacLeod
Jamie did not speak for some time and silently handed the book to Emily, who read it, not without shedding tears also. She put her arm around Jamie and the two sat silently for some time.
“I wonder what might hae been different had I read this sooner,” said Jamie at length.
“God has His perfect timing in everything, Jamie.”
“But—” she began, hesitated, then continued, “—but what about my father? What about—he had such dreams . . . his last words . . . sometimes I get so confused wonderin’ what I’m supposed t’ be!”
“Let God make of your father’s words and dreams what He will. Who knows what might come of them, and what is in God’s greater plan? Since the moment I saw you I sensed that there was something special in you. Your father must have known this, too. Who knows what he might have actually meant by those last words?”
“Do ye think, Mrs. Gilchrist, that in some way he might have been speakin’ God’s plan?”
“No one will be able to answer that until it comes to pass, Jamie,” answered Emily, giving Jamie a tight hug.
“I guess the one thing I can be sure of is that ’tis best t’ try t’ live accordin’ t’ God’s ways.”
“And let the rest of life’s questions fall in line behind that,” concluded Emily with a smile. “You’re right, Jamie. That is one thing we can be sure of.”
In that single moment Jamie took a great stride toward maturity, perhaps a greater stride than in all the preceding years of her life. She clutched the book to her heart and knew with the faith that was growing inside her that somehow her mother’s words and her father’s dream would intertwine, harmonizing together into God’s perfect plan for her life.
20
Another Change
Dora Campbell set down her china cup on the fine walnut table, taking care to use the saucer which had been provided.
The Gilchrists’ parlor is elegant, she thought, tastefully decorated but warm and cozy. Not unlike its mistress. Dora was perhaps more attuned to such things than most persons. She was a housekeeper and could not keep from scrutinizing her surroundings. Although she was in most matters an equitable sort who sincerely tried not to judge others except by compassionate standards, she did possess a weakness where the mechanics of another’s household was concerned, no less than a groom would be interested in a man’s horses, or a lawyer in his portfolio.
She was a short, round, florid woman with brown, kinky hair which she tried to control by pinning it into a bun on the top of her head. She had been endowed with boundless energy, at this moment most readily evident in the movements of her quick dark eyes which never missed even a carelessly overlooked speck of dust. She would have traded a portion of this nature for a temperament which could have disregarded such things, particularly in other people’s homes, but it was simply not to be. Some called her compulsive, and she had to agree. Yet that very trait, so disturbing as she now sat in the Gilchrist home, was precisely what made her so invaluable to her employer, and was the reason behind the great responsibility he gave her. Though technically a servant, she was now in fact acting on his behalf, as his emissary with full power of decision in a matter about which the laird himself did not want to have to think.
Emily refilled the delicate teacup, and Dora could not help but note the loveliness of her hostess. What it would be like to serve in such a house! she thought. She had heard that Mrs. Gilchrist was the daughter of a baron but had married beneath her station for love and devotion. It was a sweet story, certainly one that seemed perfectly suited to the character of the gracious woman. Dora thought fleetingly of her own unhappy and cheerless household, and reflected whether such a sunny, zestful atmosphere might someday be in store for her employer and his home again. She doubted it, for one must sow t
he seeds of such things before reaping the rewards of them. And for two years nothing but grief had been sowed at Aviemere.
“I’m so glad you decided to pay us a visit while you were in Aberdeen,” Emily was saying.
“My pleasure completely,” Dora replied in her rather high-pitched tone, which always seemed somewhat breathless, as if she had just flown up a flight of stairs. “You’ve been so kind to my sister since her illness.”
“She is one of our flock and we love her. You don’t know what a relief it is to hear she is growing stronger every day.”
Emily offered her guest a dish of scones as she spoke.
Dora accepted one and began to spread it with a thick slab of butter. She was as energetic about eating as she was about everything else.
“Well, it was a comfort to know someone was looking out for her, since I couldn’t be here myself,” Dora said, then bit into the tender scone. “It was impossible to get away until now, for almost immediately after I received word of Clair’s illness, we lost three servants.”
“Dead!” said Emily with some shock. “All three?”
“No, no!” Dora laughed. “Just up and quit, they did. The groom and the parlormaid—rumor has it they ran off to be married—and then the nurse. We were finally able to fill the first two positions with local folks, though I’m not sure the new parlormaid is going to work out. You know how it is with a place like Aviemere. The estate so dominates the minds of the local people that it’s all but impossible to find qualified help from the village or surrounding country. And we still are in desperate need of a nurse, and that’s why I was able to come to Aberdeen. The laird gave me leave to come visit Clair and to look for someone here.”
“It must be difficult to care for the child without a nurse—how old is he now?”
“Almost two, he is.”
“It was dreadful about his mother.”
“And just as bad about the lad’s father.” Dora uttered a long drawn-out sigh, as if the problem was not even one to be discussed with words. “Why, in all this time,” she continued, “he is still no closer to accepting her death than the week after she left us. I begin to wonder if he ever will.”
“At least he has his child to console him.”
“That’s the worst of it! He will have nothing to do with the child. Days on end pass before he even sets eyes on the little fellow. I have never once seen him pick up the child and hold him, even for just a moment. It just breaks my heart, Mrs. Gilchrist. The two of them together, father and son, are going to pine away to nothing if something isn’t done!”
Emily shook her head sadly, the dismay she felt in her compassionate heart mirrored in her soft eyes.
“That’s why the first nurse left,” Dora continued. “She couldn’t take the dispiriting silence around the place and the mournful look in the baby’s eyes. It’s as if the child can feel what’s happening around him, Mrs. Gilchrist, even though he is too young to understand it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” returned Emily. “God has endowed children with extra senses we know nothing of. I’m sure the poor young fellow feels perfectly well the loss of his mother and his father’s depression.”
“Well, we’ve been through three nurses already. The second took the laird to task about spending more time with the lad. He flew into such a rage that he fired her on the spot. But it hardly mattered. She was about to give notice anyway. She had as much as told me so herself. But poor Mrs. Gordon—she’s the one who just left, as sweet and soft-spoken a woman as you’d hope to find. She was moving things about in the nursery—she had purchased a larger wardrobe, you know, and was having the old one removed. The laird came upon the commotion and fairly exploded. You see, everything in the room had been just as Lady Graystone had planned it, and I suppose he was incensed at seeing it tampered with.
“She was all atremble when she packed her bags and walked out—hardly knowing whether to give way to her anger or her terror of the man. Left without even waiting for severance pay.”
“I shall remember to keep Aviemere in my prayers,” said Emily.
“Of course that is greatly appreciated,” Dora returned, helping herself to another of the sweet scones. “But I was hoping you might be able to do something else for us besides.”
“Whatever is in my power to do,” Emily replied solemnly.
“As I said,” Dora proceeded, “I came to Aberdeen in hopes of locating someone who might fill the position of nurse at Aviemere. My sister mentioned in passing that you had a young girl staying with you who—well, who might possibly be suitable.”
“You mean our Jamie?” said Emily, not a little stunned. “I—I don’t hardly know what to say—she’s never had experience in that sort—I mean, she’s but a child and we only just recently—”
“Experience is not the first necessity,” broke in Miss Campbell. “How old is the girl?”
“Just eighteen.”
“A trifle young, perhaps . . .” mused the housekeeper.
“And but a child herself,” added Mrs. Gilchrist. “Why we’ve only just begun to—”
“ . . . but not necessarily a disqualifying attribute,” her guest went on as if she had not even heard. “I have known cases where an inexperienced young maid, for instance, works out better in the long run than an older woman with many references.”
“To speak truthfully, Miss Campbell,” said Emily, “I had not even begun to think of Jamie’s leaving us.”
“Oh, perhaps I misunderstood. I thought you were looking—so you are close to the young girl then, is that it?”
“Very close. She has been as one of the family.”
“Hmm,” reflected Dora. “Then it seems I could hardly think of splitting you up.”
“On the other hand,” said Emily, as if reasoning with herself rather than discussing the question with her guest, “what else have we been grooming her for, except to find some way in the world, or rather to find God’s way for her? I would enjoy keeping her here forever, but that would not be in her best interests. Perhaps this is God’s way of opening a door into her future that would make a life possible for her which I could never provide her.”
“Are you saying, then, that you would consider it?”
“It would be a painful parting for me. But in the end it would, of course, be up to her.”
“Might I meet the girl?”
“She is out with the children at the moment. Perhaps if you could stay for luncheon, you could see her then.”
Dora accepted the invitation gladly, hardly cognizant of Emily’s subdued mood throughout the remainder of the morning, and in an hour and a half found herself seated in the Gilchrists’ parlor once more. This time the slender figure of the dark-haired Jamie rescued from the backstreets of Aberdeen, sat before her.
She is young, Dora thought, and rather rough around the edges. After hearing her speech she wondered how she could ever have even considered the idea. Dora herself would certainly never have held the girl’s mountain brogue against her, but she was, after all, hiring for one of the most prestigious families in all of Aberdeenshire. The boy would inherit the vast estate and the earldom besides. He would have to be prepared for a society that was obviously foreign to this rough-hewn country girl.
If she could only have known how much improved Jamie’s tongue already was, her initial thoughts might have centered more about the girl’s quick receptivity and ability to learn. And as she accustomed herself to the sound of the girl’s voice, there wasn’t such a vast distinction, after all.
She observed as the girl reached over to help cut young Kenny’s bread and dried fish into manageable-sized pieces. There was a tenderness in her movements, and it was clear the boy was much taken with her. She got on with each of the other children equally well.
She is sincere and genuine with them, Dora thought. She loves them, that much is obvious. If only she can learn to be firm when it is demanded of her, too. Her thoughts strayed back to the lonely little boy at Avie
mere who had no one to love him or even care for him. She cared, of course, but she had so many other duties she could not devote to him a fraction of the time he needed.
Someone who cares, who can love him, that’s what he needs, thought Dora. And from what she had heard about the orphaned background of this girl at the table with her, she might be just the person who could understand the plight of a lonely two-year-old child. Her heart might be able to reach out to him, from her own experience of pain and loneliness, and give him what no one else—with all the experience anyone might ask for—would be able to. Yes, Dora concluded, she just might be perfect. Notwithstanding her unpolished mannerisms and the twang of her speech, if she could arrange it satisfactorily with Mrs. Gilchrist, this young Jamie MacLeod would be her new nurse!
———
Painful partings by now seemed a way of life for Jamie. For the first time in her life, she had found a friendship that went beyond the bounds of blood and kinship. These were, therefore, in certain ways among the most grievous days of her life. But it was a pain not inflicted by death as in times past, but by deep bonds of love, and thus a pain from which growth would emerge.
She had been on the verge of turning down Dora Campbell’s offer when young Kenny had burst into the room, all smiles at his latest accomplishment and eager to show it to her. What child could possibly know as much love as he, with such attentive parents and brothers and sisters? What a contrast he made with the lonely baby Miss Campbell had described, the son of an earl! Was it possible she could do something for such a child? Certainly she could care for him and love him as she did Kenny. Might not that be what he needed most, even as she had needed love so desperately when Mrs. Gilchrist found her? Might not this be the Lord’s way of allowing her to pass that love on to another?
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