‘Don’t you ever listen to your father?’ Alice burst out in exasperation.
When a horse was brought in, it stood patiently on three legs while the smith unclinched the nails which held on the old shoe. Clementina winced when the new shoe, hot from the fire, was nailed into place, but the horse didn’t seem to mind. Soon it was clattering away over the cobbles with only the hair of its fetlocks singed.
Sometimes, instead of going to the village they would walk through the fields, but Clementina didn’t like doing that because it reminded her of Henny and made a terrible sadness drag at her heels. Then Alice would say, ‘What’s up with you? Cat got your tongue?’ Or, ‘Cheer up, you’ll soon be dead!’
Often Clementina had wanted to die so that she could be with Henny again. ‘Kill yourself! Kill yourself!’ she had often repeated in her mind. But when it came to the crunch, as Alice would say, she just didn’t know how.
She was never sure which was her worst time—night or day. Night-time, lying alone in bed listening fearfully for ghosts. Or daytime when she was hungry.
Then one day Alice said that there was going to be a dinner party downstairs and it was a damned disgrace that more food would be left on plates and wasted than was allowed for the nursery for a week. A lot better food too, because of course nursery food was never anything like what was eaten downstairs—even by the servants.
‘It’s all that Mrs Musgrove’s fault,’ Alice grumbled. ‘It’s her that says what we’ve to get. Or what we’ve not to get more like. I think she hates us and wants to starve us to death.’
‘Couldn’t we somehow take what’s left on the plates?’ Clementina suggested, trembling at the enormity of her suggestion.
‘You mean steal it?’ Alice said with alarming plainness of speech.
Horror struggled with hunger in Clementina and prevented her from saying any more, but Alice quickly warmed to the idea.
‘The best time would be after the ladies go into the drawing-room and the gentlemen go through to the library to smoke their cigars. And you must do it—just cram whatever you can into your pinny and run back upstairs with it.’
‘Why can’t you come with me?’
‘Because I’d get the sack, I would, if Mrs Musgrove caught me and I’d never be able to get another place as long as I lived. Then I really would starve. She couldn’t put you out now, could she? You’re the young lady of the house. You’ll never need to find a place, so you’ll always be all right.’
So it was arranged and when Alice thought it was safe, Clementina tiptoed down the tower stairs and out into the reception hall. Then, mouth dry with terror, she approached the dining-room door but before she could touch the handle, the door suddenly opened and she nearly fell in against her father’s legs. She would never forget the horror and then the cold fury in his face.
‘You have been eavesdropping!’ he accused. Then, turning to the two grey-bearded men at his back, he said, ‘Just go on to the library, gentlemen. I will join you there in a few minutes.’ After the gentlemen had passed along the library corridor he pointed in the direction of the oak room and Clementina walked across the hall towards it, cold and shivering from head to toe.
Her father’s study or oak room had originally been the principle apartment of the sixteenth-century tower house and Clementina guessed the nursery apartments must be somewhere high above it. Not immediately above, though, because Henny had once told her that first of all a secret passage led from behind one of the window shutters in the far corner, up a mural stair to a room above. This secret chamber was equipped with a listening hole or spy-hole through which, in the olden days, conversations in the room below could be overheard. Then above the secret room was a floor of apartments which had originally been used as a schoolroom when Gilbert and Malcolm had been young and for their governess’s accommodation. Now they lay empty.
Immediately her father shut the door behind them he said, ‘Prepare yourself for punishment.’
Clementina awkwardly bunched up her dress, pinafore and petticoats and fumbled with the buttons of her knickers. Her father was looming so closely over her in such eye-twitching impatience that she was beginning to panic and her fingers were shaking so violently and her skirts and petticoats were so much in the way that she was finding it difficult to accomplish the feat. Upstairs, first Henny and now Alice always helped her with her knickers.
‘Do as I say!’ her father said. ‘Do as I say!’
‘Yes, father.’
The colour had completely gone from her face and she was nearly fainting. Then suddenly the buttons came loose and she was able to pull the knickers down and stand, ankles pinioned by them, arms clutching the bunched-up skirts obediently high to show her nakedness. This was the part of her punishment that she dreaded as much, if not more than, the pain of the thrashing. This terrible, long-drawn-out humiliation of standing there exposed while her father walked round and round and round, examining her.
13
Round and round went the reaping machine, pulled by two hefty black Clydesdales with snowy fetlocks and gently jingling harness. The machine’s long arms were like red windmill-sails and added a splash of colour in the golden field. The glistening grain slowly shrank to a square and then an oblong and as she watched, a summer hum of bees and insects surrounded Lorianna. The day hung hazed with warmth as she stood, her flower basket over her arm, her mauve silk dress with its green pleated train making her look like a flower herself.
Following the machine were crowds of women with weather-beaten faces and hooded bonnets, their long skirts kilted up with safety-pins to reveal striped petticoats. They were busy making bands of straw which they laid at intervals on the stubble beside the row of mown corn. Men came after them, each collecting an armful of corn from the row together with its band of straw; then they twisted the band deftly round the armful, the ends twisted together and tucked down inside the tight band. After that the sheaf was thrown down and another made. Behind them came other men who picked up a sheaf in each hand and, as though knocking two people’s heads together, brought the heads of the sheaves close, at the same time propping the stalks on the ground at an angle of about thirty degrees so that they leaned against each other.
In a nearby field a similar procedure was going on, except that here there was no machine. Instead, a row of men were whetting their scythes and mowing by hand in powerful, rhythmic sweeps. When Lorianna strolled nearer she saw that the leader was Robert Kelso and he was smiling to himself, obviously revelling in the gruelling pace he was setting, enjoying the sheer hard physical work. He did not see her, so intent was he on his labours and she hastily moved to the shade of a tree, its dipping branches hiding her from view as well as affording her a cool respite from the sun.
In the field with the reaping machine, men were waiting with their ash sticks, dogs quiet at their feet. Then suddenly rabbits—driven into the centre of the field by the noise of the swirling red-armed machine—raced out. Men and dogs immediately fell on them and very few escaped. Soon a pile of grey-brown twitching bodies grew by the gate, waiting to be shared out among the helpers when the reaping was completed.
In the shade of a tree near the gate of the other field, Robert Kelso’s horse was tethered. Lorianna turned her attention on the grieve once more. As she stood motionless, the hot slumbrous melody of harvest-time floating in the air, she sensed a great joy about him, a celebration of strength and virility and the freedom and beauty of the countryside. This filled her with a wistfulness that moved her almost to tears and she forced herself to walk, tipping her green parasol to one side to hide her face in case he should turn in her direction and see her.
She had already collected a beautiful variety of flowers and berries, including golden rod, campanula, white roses, purple heather, red poppies and sweet-scented honeysuckle, but every now and again she stopped to gather others. It was when she was passing the farmhouse that an idea came into her head which she could not resist the impulse to put into pr
actice. Going up to the farmhouse door, she lifted the latch and went in.
How dark and still it was compared with the bright yellow world outside with thistledown and butterflies floating in the air. The kitchen was clean and tidy, but so depressing with its dark woodwork, dark grey stone floor and black-barred cooking range. The whole place cried out for a woman’s touch, something to brighten it and make it look more special. He had shown her kindness, indeed had saved her life. It would be little enough to create a floral arrangement to make his home more tasteful and attractive. So great was her pleasure in arranging the flowers into a delicate and artistic shape that she felt she had never enjoyed such a happy few minutes in her life.
It was not until she had finished the job to her satisfaction that she realised exactly what she felt and what she had done. She was standing back admiring her transformation not only of the old stone jar she had found in a cupboard in the scullery but also of the corner of the room where she had placed it—opposite the door over at one side of the window, where misty beams of light were caught and colour shimmered. The flowers shone gently through the light, beautiful and peaceful in their intertwining relation to one another. She had created with such generosity of spirit, giving all of herself with such devotion that the dark corner, the stone jar, the flowers—everything seemed to have taken on an aura of love. All at once she was embarrassed; shocked and surprised too. She just wanted to leave the farmhouse and hurry away home.
All the way back Lorianna chastised herself. Foolish, silly woman! What on earth had possessed her to do such a thing? Goodness knows what Kelso would think. He would be justified in feeling resentful and angry, to say the least. After all, even servants were entitled to some privacy and she had had no right to enter his home when he was not there.
The more she thought of what she had done, the more horrified she became, until nearing Blackwood House she was almost running in her desperation to hide herself away in her bedroom. Even Gemmell, normally efficient but never solicitous, remarked how hot and flustered she looked and after divesting her of her hat, gloves and parasol, suggested that she might be wise to lie down for a few minutes to recover from the heat. Lorianna took her advice and lay back on the gold silk cushions of the pink damask settee that stood against the foot of the bed. It took her a long time to relax but eventually she recovered her composure, helped by the glass of Cook’s delicious home-made lemonade which Gemmell brought up.
On the surface she was able to assure herself that her action had constituted the merest token of appreciation to the grieve. She kept reminding herself that after all, he had saved her life, and that what she had done had been in no way unladylike nor overstepped the bounds of proper circumspection. Yet all the time in her heart of hearts she knew it had been terribly wrong and in the secret core of herself she shuddered.
Lorianna ventured no further than the croquet lawn next day, where she enjoyed a leisurely game with Gilbert’s young brother, Malcolm, who had recently arrived home after staying with a friend, Alistair Geddes, since the University term had finished. Alistair’s father had done missionary work in Africa and Malcolm had been interested to hear about Mr Geddes’s experiences.
‘Do you think you would like to do missionary work eventually, Malcolm?’ Lorianna asked after their game when they were enjoying a stroll round the garden.
‘I used to think so before I went to Edinburgh.’ Malcolm shook his head. He was a smallish, delicate-boned young man with the same neat features as his father, but with spectacles instead of a pince-nez and black hair parted in the centre. Apparently his mother had been dark-haired. ‘But oh, after what I’ve seen in our capital city, Lorianna, I realise that there is more than enough missionary work to do here.’
‘Really?’ Lorianna was intrigued. On her few visits to Edinburgh it had seemed to her a very civilised and respectable place.
‘I couldn’t tell you what sin goes on in that city.’
‘Oh, Malcolm, and I thought Gilbert was the tease of the family.’
‘It’s not fit for a lady’s ears, Lorianna.’
‘Oh pooh! Just between us and in strict confidence—where’s the harm? You have aroused my curiosity, Malcolm. Oh, do tell me about this sinful city of yours!’
‘Well …’ Malcolm bent his head nearer to her like a gossiping girlfriend. ‘There are certain areas where crowds of women mill about and quite shamelessly accost men. They … they …’
A blush reddened his ears and neck and lowered his voice. ‘They lift the fronts of their skirts. Lift the skirt hems slightly you understand, but this constitutes a proposition.’
The thought of women inviting the unleashing of men’s dangerous passions in such an indiscriminate way appalled Lorianna.
‘How dreadful! The foolish, ignorant creatures!’
‘I would have thought sinful was the more appropriate word.’ For a moment she detected a slight echo of his father’s tone in his voice. ‘And there are so many of them, Lorianna. Do you know—of course you don’t, how could you. But I do assure you that it is a fact that there are no fewer than eight hundred full-time professional prostitutes in Edinburgh.’
‘Eight hundred? Oh, surely not, Malcolm.’
‘Indeed, that isn’t all. It will shock you even more, Lorianna, to learn that in addition—in addition—there are no fewer than three hundred servants working part-time at the same trade.’
‘Servants?’ She was truly horrified now. ‘You mean servants actually employed by ladies in respectable houses?’
‘Indeed yes. It just goes to show that one cannot be too careful.’
‘I can understand now why you say there’s plenty of missionary work for you to do in Edinburgh, Malcolm. I never realised that such awful things went on.’
‘Oh, it’s a wicked world, Lorianna. A wicked world.’ He shook his head and it occurred to her how old and serious he was for his nineteen years.
They walked in silence for a few minutes and then suddenly she asked—she didn’t know why, ‘Do you remember your mother, Malcolm? You’d be—what—nine when she died, about Clementina’s age now?’
He nodded as he walked along, eyes concentrating on the ground in front of him, hands gripped behind his back.
‘Yes, she was very small and frail.’
‘That’s how I remember her too. Poor woman!’ Lorianna sighed. ‘It’s strange but I often think of her you know. I do hope that in some small way I was of some comfort to you.’
He patted her hand. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I was young myself of course. And very unversed in the ways of the world. I’m sure I must have made many mistakes, Malcolm.’
‘I have always held you in the highest regard. Indeed, I used to boast about having such a beautiful young step-mamma.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you, my dear. By the way, have you seen your beautiful half-sister yet?’
‘No, what with all of us dining at the Drummonds last night … and then when I called up to the nursery this morning, she was out with her nanny for a walk.’
‘Your father still hasn’t decided on a governess. He has interviewed quite a few, but hasn’t seen yet anyone who would be good enough. He’s so very conscientious about the child’s welfare.’
‘Is she as sturdy as ever?’
‘Yes, she’s keeping very well. Tait is doing a splendid job as nanny; she’s a solid, reliable person, but alas not of very high intelligence and certainly not qualified to tutor Clementina.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure Father will find someone eminently suitable.’
‘I hope so. Anyway, you will see her when she’s brought down to the sitting-room tonight. I hope you won’t tease her like Gilbert does.’
‘I’m not a bit like Gilbert.’
She laughed again. ‘No, of course you’re not!’
And they turned, still arm in arm, to go into the house. Lorianna was relaxed and happy now, her earlier embarrassment over the floral arrangement in the farmhouse f
orgotten, although it would return to her unexpectedly from time to time in little shivers of disbelief. Nevertheless, she was sufficiently confident to venture out as far as the Drumcross Road to meet Gavin the following day, and had just turned on to the rough, stony road, when, to her consternation, she saw Robert Kelso, not Gavin, approaching. He was on foot, his hat tipped jauntily back on his head. His collar had been tugged open at the neck, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his suit jacket was hitched over one shoulder. He had obviously been to Bathgate for some reason or another. She stood transfixed to the spot until he reached her, her mind a blank, panic-stricken.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Blackwood,’ he said in the voice that never failed to surprise her with its deep, rich timbre.
‘Good afternoon, Kelso,’ she managed faintly.
His silver-grey eyes always surprised her too. Against his black brows they were most unusual and compelling. Thoughtful, knowing eyes. There could be no doubt of course that he knew who had done the floral arrangement. Apart from anything else, he had seen her talents in this art displayed often enough in Blackwood House. But it was his eyes that convinced her that he knew. The few seconds during which she waited in agony for him to remark on her foolish indiscretion and shame her, seemed like an eternity. Of course she would make light of it, brush it aside with a nonchalant remark.
‘Oh, that?’ she would say. ‘I had forgotten all about it. Just a little thank-you for coming to my rescue the other day.’
But those eyes, so cool, so calm, so penetrating, would know.
To her indescribable relief, however, he said nothing but merely smiled and passed on. She could hardly believe it. A wave of gratitude nearly brought tears to her eyes and it was only with difficulty that she was able to compose herself when she heard the sounds of horses’ hooves in the distance. Gavin, she discovered when he came into view, was on horseback and so she couldn’t get a lift as she expected. Gavin didn’t believe it was ladylike for her to ride, not even side-saddle. Although many a horse she had enjoyed riding when she had been young on the farm and her father had given her a pony of her own when she was younger than Clementina. There had been a time when she had pleaded with Gavin for a pony for Clementina, but he had always stubbornly refused.
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