Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  She had no real idea of what she was coming to, because although Bethya’s letters were glowing and enthusiastic about her faraway life, she had always been prone to exaggeration and her family took her descriptions of the glories with a pinch of salt. She couldn’t really be a lady with all those fine houses, could she? Not their Bethya.

  On the drive to London, Miriam’s tongue was loosened by Sydney’s affability and she talked about this and much more as they drove along. She had a very marked singsong Eurasian accent and a way of saying things that he found amusing, so he laughed at her sallies, which encouraged her even more. The sight of the Berkeley Square house, however, silenced her.

  Staring at it and then at him, she asked, ‘Is this your house? Do you live in all of it? Don’t you share it with other families?’

  Highly entertained, he escorted her inside. ‘It’s all ours, but you’ll have your own apartments. Bethya’s had a lovely time picking the furnishings for them.’

  ‘Arrey, glory be!’ said Miriam, eyes round with amazement as the butler opened the door and revealed the glories within.

  Sydney felt for her as if she were one of his children. ‘Your sister likes to live well, but then she’s a very rich woman,’ he told her.

  She looked questioningly at him and it struck him that Bethya’s family may not be fully aware of how kind fortune had been to her when Anstruther died. His wife, he knew, had a secretive streak and it amused him to think that she’d kept her family in the dark though she was generous to them, sending crates of expensive gifts to Bombay three or four times a year. He wasn’t going to be the one who broke the news that she possessed a magnificent country estate; enough silver to fill a vault; paintings by Tilly Kettle and George Chinnery, Alfred Stubbs and even a couple of Raeburns; not to mention capital of more than half a million pounds. He’d let Bethya do that herself if and when she chose. Miriam had endured enough excitement for one day, he decided.

  The sisters’ meeting after more than sixteen years was affecting. Bethya stood up from her place on the sofa and wordlessly held out her arms. Miriam rushed towards her and they clasped each other tightly, heads bent together and weeping so hard that it was impossible for either of them to speak for a long time. If one recovered herself a little, the other would start crying again and they clutched each other close once more. Sydney was embarrassed at the sight and walked out of the room, firmly closing the door and leaving them to their reunion.

  He did not return till he heard Bethya ringing the bell for the butler. ‘Send the children down to meet their aunt,’ she told him. Miriam’s artless delight won the younger members of the family over as well, though Sydney could see from the expressions of his older children that they were surprised by the Indian appearance of their aunt.

  They soon mellowed to her, however, as she knelt on the carpet and showed them the simple wooden toys, jumping jacks and rattles she’d brought for them from India. She was like a child herself, full of wonder, unabashed in her praise of everything she saw, obviously devoted to Bethya and eager to help her in any way she could.

  For the next couple of days, the sisters spent all day together in Bethya’s boudoir gossiping and giggling as they used to do long ago. When Sydney interrupted them, they looked up startled as if he were an intruder. That made him feel less guilty about his adventures with Lucy, which he told himself he was not going to repeat. But, of course, he did. He could not stay away.

  He tried to be uxorious, however, and when Bethya was too tired to go out because she had over-stretched herself in her enthusiasm at seeing Miriam again, Sydney took his sister-in-law on sightseeing tours during which she gasped and enthused over everything from Trafalgar Square to St James’s Palace.

  Encouraged by her enthusiasm he took her to art galleries, to the pleasure gardens along the river and even to the theatre, choosing Shakespeare’s King Lear, a more respectable play than the Haymarket farce and not frequented by the demi-monde, so there was no danger of seeing Lucy there. Lear moved Miriam to tears and she sobbed all the way home in the carriage.

  Next morning, when they were alone at breakfast, Bethya seemed to be brooding. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked, seeing her downcast face.

  ‘It’s Miriam,’ she said.

  Ah, he thought, the problem of her colour has struck Bethya at last. What’s she going to do about it?

  ‘You mustn’t let it worry you,’ he told her.

  She stared at him, her lovely eyebrows raised. ‘Why not? Shouldn’t I feel a little jealous because my husband is spending so much time with my sister?’

  ‘My dear girl, I’m only taking her out to help you,’ he protested.

  Her eyes were swimming with tears. ‘I know I’m being silly but I can’t help being jealous. I’m not able to go out and you’re off jaunting with Miriam every day.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he told her. ‘Your sister is a sweet person and it’s a pleasure to entertain her, that’s all. I thought you were worried about prejudice.’

  ‘What prejudice?’ he asked.

  He felt that he had wandered into a dangerous area. ‘The prejudice people might feel about her colour… our daughters… you…’ For once he faltered.

  She was watching his face intently and nodded slowly. ‘I know. I’d forgotten she was so dark. It’s unfair if people think less of her for it.’

  ‘I know it’s wrong but people are strange, especially in society,’ he told her.

  Bethya stood up and walked to the window. ‘I think I’ll take Miriam and the children to Bella Vista for a while,’ she said without looking round. He knew that she was removing her sister from her London circle and he knew why.

  ‘That might be a good idea. You like it there and you can rest more easily than you can in town. Dr Robertson from Maddiston will look after you and if you want any other doctors, one could travel up to you,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do,’ she said, turning round and smiling at him. Then she added, ‘I hope you behave yourself while I’m away.’

  He looked outraged. ‘Of course I will. What do you mean?’ he asked.

  She was touchingly anxious not to annoy him. ‘I only meant that I hope you don’t go gambling. I know you’ve been doing a lot of that recently. Your steward down in Shropshire wrote to me about you telling him to sell off three farms. Those farms are part of our girls’ dowries. You mustn’t sell them!’

  Relief overwhelmed him that this was all she meant. ‘I’ll not gamble. I’ll go to Shropshire and sort out the farm business and then I’ll join you at Bella Vista for the hunting season,’ he promised.

  When at last he waved his family and Miriam off from the station on their way to Scotland, he told himself that he would stand by his promise. More than that, he would not go near Lucy. It took a day before his resolution snapped and he once more found himself at her front door.

  This time she very sweetly asked for five hundred pounds, which he gave her.

  Chapter Nine

  Marie Benjamin was in love, very much in love, but she harboured no real hopes of being loved back by the object of her affections. It was delightful just to feel love because its influence made the whole world look different; the sun shone more brightly, every morning dawned full of promise; her work improved; even the scowls of her brother failed to spoil her happiness.

  The object of her affections was Amy’s second brother, Murray. Since the night of the snowstorm when Amy had taken her back to Murrayhill, Marie had become a pet of the Roxburgh family, particularly of Mrs Roxburgh, who told her daughter to bring her friend home as often as possible. She enjoyed examining Marie’s work, noting the improvements in it and making suggestions about what she should do next.

  On several occasions Marie had been persuaded to spend the three nights between Tuesday and Friday at the Roxburgh home so that she need not make the tiring journey between Edinburgh and Camptounfoot. On these days Murray was usually at home and Marie thought sh
e had never seen anyone so handsome or so charming. She hung on every word he spoke, cherishing it like a jewel so that she could lie in bed later and think about him, going over what he said, remembering his opinions on the matters discussed at the family dining-table. She cherished every scrap of information she could glean about Murray like a magpie picking up glittering baubles. Her devotion to him shone from her eyes and she was unaware that all the family noticed it and teased him about it.

  She lived for the time when Amy would come up to her as classes finished on Tuesday afternoons and say, ‘Don’t go back to Camptounfoot tonight. Why waste money on so many train fares when your bed’s waiting for you at Murrayhill?’

  There were weeks, however, when this invitation was not offered, weeks when the Roxburghs were going away or entertaining and then the days dragged for Marie until she could see Murray again. Yet when she did, she was barely able to utter a word to him and feared that he would be able to spot her confusion, for her legs turned to water and she felt the colour flood into her cheeks. Fight as hard as she could to control those reactions, they always overwhelmed her when he was nearby.

  As well as loving Murray, she was besotted with the whole family and their magnificent home. Though she was ashamed of her feelings, going home to Camptounfoot was an anticlimax after Murrayhill and though she tried to hide how she felt, her abstraction and dissatisfaction with the way of life she had always known was growing obvious to those who loved her.

  To Tibbie, the cottage seemed very empty on the nights when Marie stayed in Edinburgh. Once more her only companions were the cat and the parrot and ruefully she remembered how she’d agonised about taking in David and Marie in case her life would be disrupted by them. Now she missed Marie’s chatter and longed to have someone to care for. Having another person in the house had made her feel useful and when Marie was not there, the ticking of the little clock on her mantelpiece seemed very loud in the empty room.

  ‘Eh dear,’ she sighed and walked out into the garden to survey her vegetable plot. She was standing there, staring up at the mist-wreathed hills, when a voice hailed her over the garden gate.

  ‘Mrs Mather, aren’t you going to say hello to an old friend?’ it asked.

  A man in fashionable and expensive clothes was standing with his arms on the top rail of the gate, smiling at her. On his head was a tall hat and his gloved hands carried a cane.

  Tibbie blinked in surprise and said, ‘My word, it’s Robbie Rutherford! It’s a long time since I’ve seen you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m home on a visit to see my father and mother. I’ve been away working in Italy for the past few years but it’s grand to be back!’ cried Robbie, who had not lost his Border accent and whose grin was as wide and infectious as it had been when he was a cheeky little lad running messages in the village.

  Tibbie remembered that he had been the best message runner of all the little lads, for he never forgot anything you sent him for. It had been no surprise to her to hear from his proud mother that he’d become a great success in business and worked as a chief engineer with a big company that built tunnels.

  She held her gate open and welcomed him in. ‘Come inside, Robbie, come in and tell me all your news.’

  As he walked in she noticed that he still had the limp caused by the breaks in his legs when he was working on the Camptounfoot bridge with Emma Jane.

  ‘Are you married yet, Robbie?’ she asked as she bustled about getting out the best teapot and china cups.

  He shook his head. ‘Not me, I’m not ready for marriage.’

  She smiled at him. ‘But you’re over thirty, lad. Most men are married by the time they’re that age.’

  ‘I’ve never met the right woman, or if I have, she’s married to somebody else,’ said Robbie very solemnly and she remembered that he’d been badly smitten with Emma Jane though she was several years older than he was. I hope he’s not pining after her still, thought Tibbie.

  ‘Your mother must be pleased to have you back,’ she told him.

  He laughed. ‘Yes, she is. She’s never stopped talking since I arrived yesterday. I’ve heard all the gossip of the past few years in one go. This village has been as busy as ever, it seems… all those new bairns born, all the same men getting drunk and running after other folk’s wives, the same scandals. Joe’s still up to his old tricks, frightening the women at night I hear, and Bob’s lassie, Bella, is setting her cap at the new schoolmaster. When I left the village Bella was only a wee thing in pinafores.’

  Tibbie laughed. ‘She’s a madam is Bella. Mr Arnott hasn’t a chance if she’s got her eye on him.’

  Robbie looked at her over the edge of his cup. ‘What news is there of Craigie Scott, Tibbie?’ he asked. He’d been there the day that Craigie shot the navvy called Bullhead. He saw it happen, he saw Bullhead’s skull explode like a smashed apple and he never forgot it.

  She shrugged. ‘Just the same. He’ll never be let out. Big Lily went up to see him a while ago. She was very quiet and subdued when she came back but she told me that he was fine.’

  ‘My mother told me Wee Lily’s married to Jake and hates him. I didnae think she was fit for marrying,’ said Robbie.

  ‘Neither is she,’ agreed Tibbie. ‘Big Lily should have left her alone but they needed another hand on the place and that was one, way of keeping Jake I suppose… It’s a terrible business. Many a night Wee Lily runs out of the bothy and sleeps in the haystack or the cowshed because of the rows that there are over there! It’s something awful.’

  ‘What happened to her bairn?’ asked Robbie, who remembered seeing Wee Lily going out to work in the fields with her baby tied into her shawl.

  Tibbie brightened. ‘You mean Kitty? Big Lily sent her over to Falconwood to be bondager to Tom Liddle. She’s growing into a big strong lassie, a fine-looking girl, but she and her granny are like flint and tinder, they strike sparks off each other. Kitty could go to the bad or she could turn out all right… It’s in the balance at the moment, I think.’

  ‘Her father was bad enough. He was the cruellest man I ever knew and I’ve met some rough ones since then, believe me,’ said Robbie slowly.

  ‘Dinna blame the lassie for her father,’ said Tibbie, surprised that Robbie should show such prejudice.

  ‘It’s just that Bullhead’s hard to forget,’ said Robbie uncontritely.

  When he’d drunk his tea he walked across the road to his parents’ cottage that sat in the middle of a lovely walled garden on the other side of the street from Tibbie’s. He was opening the gate when a terrible din started up in the steading next to the cottage garden. A woman’s shrill scream rang out followed by a man’s rumbling bullying.

  ‘Hey woman, come here woman, come when I tell you, dinna run awa’ frae me like that!’ he was shouting.

  Curses and obscenities followed this, and the man could be heard slapping the woman, who kept on pleading with him to stop. Robbie was a chivalrous fellow and he could not turn away from a woman in such trouble so he ran in his awkward gait to the shed that the din was coming from and burst in through the door.

  Jake, both fists clenched, was hammering away at Wee Lily’s body while she cowered with her arms up over her head and her back half-turned to him. She was sobbing and gulping pitifully.

  ‘Stop it, stop it, you brute,’ yelled Robbie and threw himself onto Jake’s back. He was bigger than the labourer and though he was lame in one leg, he was far from being a cripple.

  Jake was sent flying. His head collided with a wooden pillar holding up one of the roof beams and he slid to the ground with a surprised expression on his face. Then he toppled over silently and lay still.

  Robbie dusted his hands with satisfaction and said, ‘Lily, go home to your mother and lock the door. He’ll not bother you any more tonight. Go on now like a good girl.’

  Surprisingly she remembered who he was. ‘Thank you, Robbie, you’re a good laddie,’ she sobbed and ran away without as much as a glance at her unc
onscious husband, whom Robbie pulled up and set on his feet.

  ‘Come on you. I’m going to stick your head in the water trough and try to talk some sense into you, though I don’t suppose it’ll do much good,’ he said angrily.

  Jake’s head was ducked in a trough of cold black water and he emerged spluttering and swearing, ‘Hey, what d’ye think you’re doing. That wumman’s my wife. I can do what I like wi’ her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t beat her like that. You’re a man and she’s a woman. That’s not the way good men behave,’ Robbie told him severely.

  Jake wiped his face with his hand and attempted to exonerate himself. ‘But she’ll no’ let me fuck her. She runs awa’ frae me every night and screams like a stuck pig if I get on top of her. It’s no’ fair,’ he complained.

  Robbie sighed. He’d grown up with them and knew that any child born of an association between them would almost certainly be subnormal. He wondered why Big Lily was so anxious to bring another one of that kind into the world. Then he started talking patiently to Jake. ‘Listen, if Lily doesn’t want you, there’s not much sense forcing yourself on her. It won’t make her feel any better about you and it’ll be no fun, if you know what I mean. Why don’t you go into Rosewell and find yourself one of the women that hang about the square at night? Here’s two shillings, that’ll buy you one tonight and another one tomorrow.’

  Jake seized the money with delight, crying as he ran off, ‘Thanks, Robbie, you’re a good laddie.’

  Robbie laughed. It was the second time he’d been called a good laddie in five minutes and he felt as if the clock had been turned back and he was wee Robbie Rutherford, the village message boy, again. That night he was rewarded by the peace of the steading being completely unbroken.

  Next day he walked from house to house calling on old friends and talking about his life in distant places. Although what he said was true, he was afraid that he sounded unbearably boastful, as if he were deliberately rubbing in that he had got away and they were all still in Camptounfoot.