Jamie MacLeod

by Michael Phillips

  There stood Jamie, with a repressed smile, which even the anxiety over her face could not altogether hide.

  “Miss—Miss MacLeod . . . Jamie!” he stammered. “You—you’ve come back!”

  “Yes,” she laughed and cried at once.

  “But how—how did you know?” he asked stumbling over his words, amazed and bewildered all at once.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied with a tremble in her voice. “Please forgive me. Dora wrote, and I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t—”

  “Forgive you!” he interrupted. “I’ve prayed—”

  But he caught himself. Yes, he had prayed for her without even knowing it himself, or knowing why. And suddenly he felt strangely reticent and awkward.

  “I’m—I’m glad you’ve come,” he said at last. “I would have written myself, but . . .”

  “I know,” she said when he paused to search for a reason he wasn’t even sure he had. “May I see him?”

  “Of course,” Edward replied. He turned to Cameron, who had been patiently waiting as if he heard nothing, and said, “Cameron, please take Miss MacLeod’s things to a guest room near the nursery. And inform Miss Campbell of her arrival.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take the baggage up,” said Cameron. “But Miss Campbell already knows about Miss MacLeod, and she’s rushed off in a perfect dither—to find you, sir.”

  “Well then, tell her I’m found, Cameron. And tell her we’ll be in the nursery.”

  Then Edward turned to Jamie and led the way up the stairs.

  “Is he any better?” Jamie asked as they reached the third-floor landing.

  Edward only shook his head. He could not even repeat the doctor’s grim pronouncement of earlier in the day.

  “Then we must pray,” said Jamie.

  “I have been trying.”

  “It’s in His hands, then.”

  “I know,” Edward said in despair. “I know,” he repeated, as if he wasn’t sure that was enough.

  “He loves that dear little child, Lord Graystone,” she said earnestly, turning and laying her hand momentarily on his arm. “We can trust Him!”

  He nodded, but could say no more for the variety of emotions stirring within him.

  They reached the nursery door and Edward opened it. A woman was seated by the bed. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, trim, with brown hair pinned back into a neat bun. She looked up at the two as they entered and made an attempt at a smile.

  “Miss Clark,” Edward said to her. “This is . . . a friend of the family—Miss MacLeod. We’d like to visit with Andrew. You may go and have a cup of tea if you like.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the nurse as she rose and exited.

  Jamie had scarcely taken any notice of the woman who had taken her place. She rushed to the bed and knelt down beside it.

  “Andrew, look who’s come to see you,” said Edward, assuming a bright countenance and cheerful voice.

  “Jamie!” said the child in a soft voice, and though he smiled, his eyes remained glassy and dull.

  “Hello, my wee bairn,” Jamie said, reaching out and taking his hand. What changes had come upon him in the past year! Boyhood had begun to encroach upon the babyish demeanor she had known before. There was more of his father in him now, a certain solemnness, though what she saw may have been from his illness. Perhaps there was more of his mother in him too, but it would have been difficult for one to tell who had not known her, and doubly difficult in that his face was pale and drawn from the illness, and not even a smile could light up his eyes. His hand was hot.

  “I got sick, Jamie,” he said weakly.

  “I know, dear,” she replied. “But you’ll be well soon.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “Oh, aye, Andrew,” Jamie said, struggling to control her voice. “And when you’re better we will go for a walk like we used to.”

  “We’ll find spring flowers!”

  “Yes, Andrew. Lots of flowers!” Jamie laughed, but turning her head away so he would not see her tears.

  They remained by his side for some time, until he fell asleep.

  Edward sat on one side of the bed and Jamie on the other. Edward felt strangely refreshed as if he had been awakened from a deep heaviness. It seemed hope had been rekindled in him. For the first time in days he could actually visualize another spring scampering with his son about the meadows for the treasures hidden in the grass.

  “You must be exhausted after your trip,” said Edward at last. “Come, you’ll want to rest.”

  Jamie rose and followed him out into the hall.

  “I did not mean to presume upon your hospitality,” Jamie said. “I left Aberdeen without thinking. But I have been working. I have money, and I can stay in town—”

  “I won’t hear of it,” said Edward, and in his eyes was that implacable firmness that had once so intimidated Jamie.

  “But I’m afraid I spoke out of turn to Andrew about staying. I was merely trying to—”

  “And you must keep your promise!” Edward broke in. “You saw how he needs hope. He would be heartbroken if you did not stay.”

  “I don’t know what I could do.”

  “I’ve already seen what you can do . . . for all of us around here. I haven’t seen the boy’s eyes light up like that in days. You are welcome to stay as long as you want, or need bids you. For Andrew’s sake.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I only hope I can help him.”

  He had led her down the hall some distance until he paused by an open door. “I believe this is the room Miss Campbell has had made up for you. There are your things.” He made ready to take his leave, but after he had taken three steps back down the hall, he turned and said, “You will join me for dinner this evening?”

  “Oh, Mr. Graystone, you need not—”

  “Jamie, you are no longer a servant here, but a guest. I insist.”

  “Well . . .” she seemed to hesitate. “I suppose, then, I shall be there.”

  40

  Thoughts

  Edward Graystone sat at his desk in the library and tried to concentrate on the mounds of paperwork before him.

  Since Andrew’s illness he had definitely let things go. George Ellice had tried to keep the estate in order, but there were some things only Edward could do. Every day he had attempted to set his mind to the work at hand, but each day his brain quickly fled to the more immediate fear for his son.

  His mind was wandering now, but the direction of his thoughts was somewhat different. In the four days since Jamie’s arrival, Andrew had begun to take a decided turn for the better, although the doctor was still guarded in his prognosis. But there was visibly more color in his white cheeks and the hint of a spark in his once-lively eyes. He had also begun to eat a little.

  Yes, there was good reason to hope. Thus it seemed he ought to be able to focus his attentions on the work before him. But something else had gradually begun to overtake his thoughts and distract him from his work.

  Andrew was recovering. Soon there would be no reason for Jamie to stay. When she had left a year ago, he had hardly realized how greatly he had missed her. Life had settled back into its previous routine, and except for a certain hollow echo about the place, he had re-accustomed himself to how it had been before. There were a few times when he would forget himself and listen for the sounds of her laughter as she played with Andrew. But the laughter did not come. When spring had arrived that year, Andrew had asked to go hunting for flowers, and together they had made their search. But something had been missing, though neither of them had voiced their thoughts.

  But then suddenly when he saw her standing inside Aviemere’s front door four days ago, it was as though a light had gone on, illuminating the whole last year in all its stark emptiness!

  Whatever the thing all meant he hardly dared consider. Almost to his relief, at that moment there came a knock at the door.

  “Sir, you have a caller,” said Cameron. “Miss Candice Montrose.”
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  His relief was short-lived. Why now, he thought?

  Toying with the fleeting idea of telling the butler to make some excuse for him, he looked up to see the tall, attractive figure of his caller sweep past the butler without waiting for any further word.

  “Do forgive my liberty,” she said rather breathlessly. “I didn’t want to pull you away from your duties so I followed your man. I hadn’t seen you for some time, and heard only this morning about your son. I simply had to come straightaway and offer . . . well, to tell you how sorry I am. You know how fond I am of the boy.”

  Edward rose from his chair. “Thank you, Candice. We appreciate your concern.” Curious, he thought, she has never taken the least notice of Andrew in the past.

  “I must chide you on not informing us sooner. We are neighbors, you know, and what else are neighbors for but to share in these times of distress? I know the comings and goings between Montrose Manor and Aviemere have grown rather infrequent of late, but we mustn’t allow that to continue.”

  Though Edward had shown a mild interest in Candice, she had at last taken his lukewarm demeanor to heart and had begun expanding the vistas of her search. She had reportedly gone to the Continent during the winter where an Italian viscount was said to be courting her. However, the rumors still circulated through the village and among the staff that a marriage was, if not imminent, certainly inevitable. At any rate, she was the last person he wanted to see just now and hoped she had not come planning to be entertained for the afternoon.

  “Now, how is the boy? Is there anything I can do?”

  “Actually, he seems to be getting better, though our prayers have by no means ceased for him. Thank you for your offer, but we have been managing very well.”

  She cleared her throat daintily. “I wondered about the boy, because on my way here to the library I saw that old nurse of yours and, well, naturally I was curious, thinking what dire straits you must have been in to call upon her after being forced to let her go.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Candice,” he replied tersely. “I did not let anyone go, as you say. And I did not call upon Miss MacLeod; she came of her own accord.”

  “I see you are in a vulnerable state just now, Edward. But you must be firm. Don’t allow her to take advantage of you. Her kind always does, you know.”

  “Miss Montrose, I wonder that you feel at such liberty to meddle into the affairs of Aviemere. I do not recall having asked your counsel.”

  “Please, Edward. Surely you know that I speak only out of my deep affection for you and your son. And I can assure you, a girl like that only means to bring—”

  “Have a care, Candice, at how you speak of my guest and friend!” said Edward icily.

  At this Candice drew herself up haughtily. “Lord Graystone,” she said, her voice matching his glare, “I have known men in your position ruined by such riffraff.”

  “You may be interested to know,” he answered, “that I am not Lord Graystone. That dubious distinction belongs solely to my absentee brother. Thus I have neither estate nor position to be ruined. But had I both, I would sooner choose to take my chances with this riffraff, as you have chosen to call the best person ever to walk into this house, than with a common gossipmonger like yourself, Miss Montrose!”

  Candice stood like a grim statue, looking as if the air had been struck from her by one swift blow, hardly knowing whether to humbly submit to such treatment with diffidence or to give vent to the self-righteous indignation which was already beginning to brew within her. For several moments she said not a word.

  “Now, Miss Montrose,” Edward continued, “as you seemed to find your way up here so easily, I will not bother calling for the butler. You can find your own way out.”

  She continued to stand and stare for another moment, then turned on her heel, not smartly but in still a rather dazed fashion, and left the room.

  When the door closed behind her, Edward sank into his chair. He was shaking with anger. But more than that, he was trembling because the realization which had subtly been closing in on him had suddenly become brazenly clear—at last he knew what he must do.

  ———

  He found Jamie walking in the garden. She did not see him approach and he paused a moment just to watch her. He recalled the times long ago when he had hidden similarly to watch her and Andrew playing on the lawns or strolling together on a warm afternoon among the roses and azaleas. A knot formed in his throat at the memory.

  Now, here he was feeling quite differently than he did then. As he watched, the scales fell from his eyes and he saw clearly for the first time how lovely she was. It was the simplicity of her beauty that was so striking, how she smiled as a butterfly winged across her path. But the tilt of her nose, her delicate neck, the shimmer of her hair, the sparkle of her emerald eyes—these were but the alabaster box containing the richest, purest ointment he had ever seen.

  He almost laughed aloud at his thoughts. He was ten years too old!

  He had gone in search of her impulsively, but what would he say? How could he? He turned in the confusion of his thoughts and was about to leave when all at once she spied him.

  “Mr. Graystone!” she called, interrupting his thoughts abruptly.

  “Oh—hello, Jamie.” He tried to smile, but it was difficult to assume even the most pathetic imitation of naturalness.

  “Andrew is asleep,” she said, “so I thought I’d come out and pick some flowers to surprise him with when he wakes up.”

  He noticed then that she held a basket in one hand and a pair of shears in the other.

  “He’ll like that,” he replied. How awkward this was!

  “Are you well, Mr. Graystone? You look pale,” she asked.

  “No—I’m . . . that is, Jamie—what I wanted—”

  He stopped. What a fool he was! Fumbling about for words like a nervous schoolboy!

  “It must be the strain of the past weeks,” he finished lamely.

  “Thank God he is finally better.”

  “Yes—yes, thank God! I think I would have died myself had anything happened to him.”

  “God would have given you the strength to bear it,” she said. “But thanks be to God! It seems in this case we need only bear our joy!”

  He smiled, but inside his heart still pounded. Couldn’t she hear it? His pulse echoed aloud in his very ears!

  “Had you come looking for me?” she then asked. “Did you want me for something?”

  “No!” he answered, rather too quickly. “No . . . I mean, yes—that is—nothing specific. I only wanted to thank you for all you have done.”

  “I have done so little.”

  “Even Miss Clark has commented on the wonderful effect you have had on Andrew. God has done the healing, Jamie, but He has used you. You came back, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. But how could I not?”

  “Then it’s true. We have both taken strength from your faith—” He paused, then blurted forward, “—and from you, Jamie. I—”

  Suddenly he grasped her hands impulsively, but then just as suddenly, once he realized what he had done, he dropped them again. “I’m just so glad you’ve come,” he said.

  “That means a great deal to me, Mr. Graystone.”

  “Well,” he laughed nervously. “I best let you return to your flower gathering.”

  He turned hastily, and, almost stumbling, hurried away.

  It was preposterous! The whole thing was turning him into a bumbling fool. But this was the most alive he had felt in years!

  41

  A Surprise Visit

  Jamie clipped several yellow roses and held each to her nose before laying it carefully into her basket. Was there something about the air at Aviemere that made these the sweetest she had ever found?

  But her thoughts did not dwell long on the glories of the garden. The recent interview with her former employer was still strongly on her mind. Of all the odd interviews with Edward Graystone she had
had in the past, this one had without a doubt been the most curious. She had never seen him so awkward and flustered.

  But the most peculiar thing of all was that from the moment she saw him in the garden, her heart had been thudding like a hammer against an anvil in her chest. She had felt the same thing the day she arrived when he raced into the entryway to find her standing there. But she had thought little more of it. She had merely attributed it to the strong sense of . . . of—could she say it after all this time? Coming home.

  At dinner on that first evening they had talked so easily, once she had overcome the initial discomfort she felt at sitting at the table with, if not the laird of the estate, at least the lord of the house. She told him of the Gilchrists and about her training under Mr. Avery and of what he and Emily had taught her. She spoke freely of her grandfather and Donachie and what those years had meant to her. Edward had been more taciturn, but when he did speak, his words came from the heart and touched her the more that she knew him to be a man of few words when it came to matters of the heart. While he was telling her about the days before Olivia’s death, days of eager anticipation of the arrival of their child, he suddenly stopped abruptly.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I seem to have forgotten myself. I’ve burdened you enough with the woes of my family.”

  “I feel no burden,” she had replied. “I’m honored—”

  But she too stopped, all at once encumbered with awkwardness. Men and women just did not speak of such personal things to one another. She and Robbie had never spoken like this. He had never bared his soul to her, nor she to him, though at times she had wished she could have shared some of her innermost thoughts. But Robbie seemed more traditionally conscious of the bonds of propriety which were supposed to exist between a man and a woman.

  Such bonds seemed suddenly to have fallen away as she and her former employer spoke. It was as if age and gender and breeding and station were all forgotten and they were simply—friends.

  But how could such a thing be?

  He was a gentleman and she a peasant girl! How could friendship—or anything!—exist between two persons from such vastly different backgrounds?