by Sara Donati
“Aye,” said Jennet. “They were hard at it when we came doon the brae.”
“Ye see. And nivver a day did I miss except when ma lads came intae the werld, and when ma guidman left it.”
“And sae was it,” said Granny Laidlaw, reaching over to grasp Gelleys by the forearm.
The old lady laid her own hand over Granny’s. “We’ve seen a thing or twa, ha’ we no’, Leezie?”
“That’s aye true.” Granny Laidlaw turned her face toward Hannah as if she could see her. “Ye’ve come tae ask aboot Lady Isabel, have ye no’?”
Hannah glanced at Jennet, who simply shrugged a shoulder in surprise.
“How did you know?”
“Why, it’s Isabel wha broucht ye and yer family here, when aa is said and done. Isabel, and ma own dauchter Jean. It’s nae wunder ye’re curious.”
“Ye canna find a soul at Carryckcastle tae tell it,” said Gelleys, scowling into her bowl. “But auld carlines like us ha’ naucht tae fear frae the truth. Set ye doon, lassie, and hark.”
“On the morn my Jean turned ten years old, Isabel came intae the world,” began Granny Laidlaw. “It was Lady Marietta’s fourth confinement, ye ken—three sons she gave the earl, and aa stillborn. Ye can weel imagine what celebratin’ there was at Carryckcastle that day—a healthy bairn, with her mother’s bonnie face and her faither’s brawlie constitution. And frae the moment oor Jean saw the wean, there was a bond between them.”
“As close as sisters ever were,” said Gelleys.
“Aye, that close,” agreed Granny Laidlaw. “As soon as Isabel could walk she took tae followin’ Jean aboot. She spent so much time belowstairs that she was mair at hame in the kitchen than she was in the drawing room. I couldna bring mysel’ tae send her awa’, sic a bonnie lass she was and sae cheerfu’. But the day came—the summer she was four—that the laird decided that it wadna do for his lass tae be spendin’ aa her time wi’ the servants.”
Jennet was following this story with as much interest and concentration as Hannah. “And that’s when the lady made ma mither Isabel’s nurse,” she volunteered.
Granny Laidlaw’s eyes seemed to be following some scene only she could see. “Sae it was. At fourteen, imagine. Nurse and nursery maid, too. It was a verra great honor, wi’ Jean sae young. Some wad ca’ it foolish tae give a lass sae much responsibility, but Isabel wad ha’ nae other and it suited the laird as weel—he didna like the idea o’ a strange nurse comin’ intae Carryckcastle.”
Hannah had been raised to respect the storyteller’s rhythm and not to interrupt, but she was confused now and she had to ask. “And her mother? Wasn’t she there to raise Isabel?”
“She was,” said Granny Laidlaw, quite firmly, but Gelleys wrinkled her nose in disagreement.
“She was there in bodie, aye, but she wasna there in spirit.”
A fine tension rose between the two old women, both of them silent for a moment. Jennet pursed her mouth, impatient and curious and unable to hide either of those things.
“Will ye no’ tell the whole story, Granny?”
Gelleys sighed, rubbing the side of her nose with one red knuckle. “It’s no’ easy tellin’ the truth aboot the people ye love best. Come, Leezie,” she said in a companionable tone. “Shall I tell it?”
The old lady shook herself out of her daydream. “I’m no’ sae auld that I canna tell a tale, Gelleys. And though I dinna like tae admit it, Leddy Carryck was no’ the mither she should ha’ been.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “Now, as young as the baith o’ ye are, ye’ll ken the truth o’ it when I say this: no’ every woman makes a mither. Most can bring a bairn intae the world, but wi’ some it gaes nae further. And sae it was with Leddy Carryck. The sweetest and maist generous leddy wi’ the servants and the tenants and wi’ any puir soul wha micht come tae the door wi’ an empty kyte—but she couldna take her own wean in her lap tae noozle her, or sing tae her, or tae blether and laugh as aa women do wi’ their bairns. And they baith suffered for it.”
“It was losin’ the lads, aa three,” said Gelleys. “Every time they buried a son, the guid leddy put a piece o’ hersel’ in the grave wi’ him. And there was naucht left ower for wee Isabel.”
Granny pushed out a great sigh. “And sae Leddy Carryck was glad tae gie the raisin’ o’ her tae Jean.”
“Aye, and Jean had a way wi’ the lassie,” said Gelleys. “Isabel was willfu’, but for Jean she’d do anythin’. And aa was weel until—”
“Gelleys Smaill,” interrupted Granny, frowning. “Wha’s got the tellin’ o’ this tale?”
The old washerwoman grimaced. “Then get on wi’ it, Leezie. Ye’re gettin’ verra langsome in yer auld age.”
Granny sniffed. “As I was sayin’. Aa was weel until Ian Hope took note o’ Jean one summer morn, and she o’ him.” The small head in its white cap turned toward Jennet, and when she smiled this time a dimple made itself clear on a deeply lined cheek. “One day, hen, ye’ll ken what it is tae ha’ a barrie young man look at ye the way Ian Hope looked at yer mither. As if the mune hung in the sky just tae shine on her face.”
“Yer worse than Rab Burns wi’ yer poetry,” said Gelleys impatiently. “Can ye no’ say it simple? Ian Hope was the richt guidman for Jean, and she the richt guidwife for Ian, and aa could see the truth o’ it.”
“Ye say it as ye like, and sae will I,” said Granny peacefully. “It was a guid match, that’s aye true. Ma Roddy was muny years in his grave, but it wad ha’ pleased him tae see his lass married tae the son o’ Alasdair Hope, just as it pleased the laird and the leddy and me. Aa were seifu’ but Isabel.
“The day o’ the wedding she went intae the fairy wood and wadna come oot, no’ when her faither spake sharp words, no’ when her mither spake soft ones. And sae Jean and Ian were joined wi’oot Isabel’s blessing or fellowship, and sae far as she was concerned, there had nivver been a wedding, and Ian Hope was naucht but a nuisance tae be ignored. It pained Jean at first tae see the lass sae unhappy, and wi’ time it made her mad, and then, why then, Simon came alang—”
“My brither,” supplied Jennet.
“When Jennet’s brither Simon was born … noo, ye can weel imagine that Isabel was jealous, and I suppose the truth o’ it was she had cause. For a guid while Jean had nae time for the lass at aa—that was the year ma ees started tae fail, ye ken, and between takin’ ower for me and caring for Simon she was runnin’ aa the day lang.
“And in her anger and pyne Isabel marched aff tae her mither and announced that a young leddy o’ fifteen doesna need a nurse, and perhaps Carryckcastle could do wi’oot Jean Hope aategither. But the leddy wad ha’ nane o’ that, and sae it was that Jean came tae me as underhoosekeeper, just when I needed her most. It was a hard year,” she said with a sigh.
“A dark year, ava,” said Gelleys.
Granny Laidlaw’s hands were resting in her lap, fingers twitching slightly. The room had gone silent but for the sound of the dog’s snuffled breathing, the whisper of the floor rushes, and the crisp snap of beans as Gelleys continued her way through the great bowl in her lap. This time she did not rush her friend’s story, but she watched her closely, as a mother might watch a frail child.
Granny cleared her throat and began again.
“That Janwar Lady Carryck took a fever and slipped awa’, so sudden that there was nae time tae—” She paused and closed her eyes. “Tae take leave o’ her. And that was the start o’ the sorrows.”
“In the village ten died o’ the same weid,” said Gelleys. “And the rains came that spring and wadna stop. And meece got intae the corn, and—”
“And the Campbells,” prompted Jennet.
“Aye, the Campbells.” Granny’s voice rasped with anger or sorrow, Hannah could not tell which. “Every spring the laird sends his men oot tae see that the tenants are gettin’ on, and that spring he did the same. Ian Hope and his brither Magnus went west, but Ian nivver came hame again. I had ma guidman for thirty year, but Jean
had Ian for less than three, and the losin’ o’ him stole her youth awa’.”
Hannah had lost her own mother when she was very young; she had seen death come suddenly to Elizabeth’s brother Julian and more slowly to her own great grandfather, all in the last year. She knew sorrow and she understood how loss cut deep and left traces that would never fade, but she knew too that something was not right about the story being pieced together for her. She thought suddenly of Curiosity, who had asked Jennet so many questions in the garden. And here was a question she had not thought to ask:
How was it Jennet’s father had died three years before she was born?
Jennet was watching her closely, and the two old women listened and watched, too, willing to let this part of the story be told by someone else.
“Ian Hope was Simon’s faither,” said Jennet. “But he wasna mine. When ma mither had been widowed for mair than a year, she took anither.”
“The earl,” said Hannah, seeing now how it all fit together, seeing the way Carryck put his hand on Jennet’s head as she bent over a tulip, and hearing his voice, patient and responsive and affectionate. As my father talks to me, she thought.
Granny Laidlaw was moving ahead with her story. “Ye’re oweryoung tae understan’ how sic a thing micht come tae pass,” she said, as if Hannah had been thinking critical thoughts. “But Jean was a widow, strugglin’ with a young son and bent low by sorrow. And the laird was in mourning for his guidwife, and baith o’ them in need o’ comfort. Even half-blind I saw it comin’.”
“They didn’t marry?” Hannah addressed this question to Jennet, but it was Gelleys who answered her.
“Carryck marry his hoosekeeper? It wadna do.”
Jennet frowned into her lap, but Granny Laidlaw spoke up clearly. “Stranger things ha’ passed, and worse matches ha’ been made.”
“Och,” said the old washerwoman with a real look of distress. “I didna mean tae hurt yer feelings. I canna deny that Jean wad make a fine mistress. But if the truth be tolt—dinna make sic a face at me, we said we’d tell the whole tale—yer Jean was ever an independent lass, and she likes bein’ hoosekeeper better than she wad like bein’ Leddy Carryck. Ye’ve nivver seen sic a bodie for hard work.”
Granny inclined her head in grudging agreement. “Yer forgettin’ the point o’ the story. It was Isabel we were talkin’ aboot. Noo.” She turned her blank eyes toward Hannah again. “Ye mun understan’ that young Isabel had lost her mither, and she turned back to Jean wi’ aa the unhappiness aboot Ian Hope set aside. And sae she was nivver tolt aboot Jean and her faither.” She paused, her mouth set in a grim line. “Lookin’ back, it’s clear that it was a mistake. It wad ha been far better tae tell her, and tae let her greet and screech tae the heavens. Better a few tears than what passed later when the truth was kennt.”
“Did she find out when Jennet was born?” Hannah asked.
Granny Laidlaw seemed to be studying her hands where they lay on her lap. “Ne,” she said thoughtfully. “Isabel nivver asked aboot Jennet’s faither. I’ve thoucht it through ower the years and it’s come tae me that she didna ask because she didna care tae see. And what Isabel didna care tae see, she couldna see, and was it richt before her face.
“And sae they went alang, and sae wad it ha’ stayed, but for Lammas Fair five years syne, when Isabel met Walter Campbell o’ Breadalbane.”
The door opened suddenly, letting in a great rush of wind and Jennet’s auntie Kate. Her face was flushed and she thumped down her basket so forcefully that they all jumped in their seats.
“The minister is comin’,” she said, pulling her cap from her hair. “I couldna put him aff, and though I tried ma best.”
Gelleys heaved herself up from the chair with a great groan, clutching the bowl of beans to her generous middle. “Ye ken I luve ye dearly, Leezie, but I canna take tea wi’ the minister the-day. It wad put me aff ma parridge for a week.”
“But what about the rest of the story?” Hannah asked, looking between them. “What about the Lammas Fair?”
Granny Laidlaw smiled. “That I canna tell ye, lass. Onlie Simon and Isabel were there that day, and Simon was deid a month later. Aa I can say is this: Isabel ran aff wi’ a Breadalbane, and she’s nivver been hame agin, nor wad she be welcome were she tae come. The Campbells ha’ nae place at Carryck, nor will they ever.”
“No word for her father?” Hannah asked. “No explanation?”
“She sent Jean a letter,” said Granny Laidlaw. “It came a week after she disappeared. I recall it weel, for it was the last thing I ever read for masel’ before the blindness came doon hard. She wrote ‘As ye sow so shall ye reap. Betrayal begets betrayal.’ ”
“I canna bide, Guidwife Laidlaw,” the minister announced repeatedly as he ate his way through the ginger nuts. “I’ve come tae make sure ye’ll be at the kirk at four—promptly at four, mind—when Gaw’n Hamilton rides the stang.”
The minister was as long and thin as a stickbug, with great red-rimmed pop-eyes and a mouth that twitched constantly at one corner. Although he looked very different, something in his expression reminded Hannah of Adam MacKay, and she sat very still in the corner near the hearth.
Jennet had come to sit beside her, and she whispered in Hannah’s ear whenever the minister’s attention was on the plate before him.
“He’s called Holy Willie,” she whispered. “For he likes tae pray as loud as ever he can whenever anybodie is near tae hear him.”
Hannah gave her a pointed look but Jennet shrugged, unconcerned. “There’s naucht tae worra aboot. He’s aye deef.”
There was a tight, irritated expression on Granny Laidlaw’s face, but she listened without interruption as the minister lovingly detailed Mrs. Hamilton’s sins: a loud voice, a forward manner, and an irritating and inappropriate interest in men’s affairs. Mr. Hamilton’s inability to exert the proper authority could not be tolerated; public humiliation was the only solution.
“‘He that loveth his son causeth him oft tae feel the rod, that he may ha’ joy of him in the end,’” he intoned, wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth with his little finger. “And I depend on your presence, Guidwife Laidlaw—God-fearin’ woman that ye are and aaways ha’ been—tae show Guidwife Hamilton the error o’ her ways. Jennet Hope!” He turned toward the corner with a sudden snapping motion of his head.
Jennet stiffened. “Aye, Mr. Fisher?”
“You were no’ in kirk the Sunday past. Wheest! Excuses wi’ do ye nae guid when ye stand at the gates tae have judgment passed upon ye. Woman is the weakest vessel, and ye must be ever vigilant.”
Jennet bristled darkly at this, but she held her tongue, to Hannah’s amazement.
“… ye’ll come tae the riding o’ the stang this day, and ye’ll bring the Indian, for we are aa God’s creatures. It will do her guid.” He drew in a deep breath, warming to his work. “Ye’ll bring her alang tae kirk. The laird willna want her in his pew, but we’ll find a spot.” His great bulbous eyes were flat gray, and they fixed on Jennet, who looked back at him furiously.
“Aye, sir. But she’s a guest o’ the laird’s, and she’ll sit wi’ him.”
Hannah might have said that she had no intention of coming to his kirk at all, but the struggle was between Jennet and the minister, and she would not get in her friend’s way.
Mr. Fisher’s nostrils trembled and his mouth jerked at the corner. “We shall see,” he said finally. “I’ll take it up wi’ the laird.”
“Aye,” said Jennet, ignoring her auntie Kate’s distressed look. “That wad be best.”
As soon as the ginger nuts were gone, the minister put back his head and prayed loudly to the ceiling for a good five minutes. He was no sooner out the door than Auntie Kate’s sober expression gave way to a grimace. “‘And the locusts went up over all the land of Egypt,’” she quoted. “ ‘And rested in all the coasts of Egypt: very grievous were they; before them there were no such locusts as they, neither after them shall be such.’ ”
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Granny Laidlaw snorted. “Why is it that the locusts always ramsh ma ginger nuts? Why canna they be content wi’ guid Scots oat cakes? And Jennet, hen—tell me this, why mun ye always provoke the mannie? Does he no’ glower and fuss enough?”
Jennet wrinkled her nose. “I canna help masel’, Granny. He makes ma tongue gae aa kittlie, and oot comes what I shouldna say.”
“One day that kittlie tongue o’ yours wi’ cause ye sair trouble,” said Granny, but it seemed to Hannah that she was more proud than worried.
“Come on, then.” Auntie Kate smiled, helping her mother up from her chair. “It’ll soon be four.”
“Aye, perhaps we can gie puir Marjorie some comfort. But the lasses needna bide, and should it give Holy Willie the watter brash. Awa’ tae Carryckcastle wi’ ye baith. Geordie will be waitin’.”
Jennet went up to her grandmother—the two were 1exactly the same height—and kissed her on the cheek.
Granny Laidlaw put her hands on Jennet’s shoulders. “Bless ye, ye’re sae much like yer mither. As willfu’ as the day is lang. Tell me this, hen—ha’ ye shown wee Hannah the kitchen window?”
Hannah’s ears pricked up at this, but Jennet’s whole attention was on her grandmother and she did not look in her direction.
“Ne.”
“Then do it, and nae delay.”
The goats had found another home, and so Hannah and Jennet sat shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the cart with their feet trailing in the dust. They were out of the village before Hannah could think of a way to ask her question.
“Do you miss her? Isabel?”
Jennet shrugged. “Aye, at first I did miss her. She used tae let me comb her hair—sic bonnie dark hair, heavy and sae soft. Naethin’ like mine.” She shook her curls to make her point. “I thoucht she looked like an angel. I used tae dream that she’d come hame agin and we’d sleep in the same room, the twa o’ us, and talk aa the nicht through, as true sisters.”
