Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Ach, it’ll be Lewis, he has a way wi’ the lassies.’

  ‘Never mind the McKenzie lads. I might have a try at her myself.’

  Lorn swung round but the boys had moved over to several giggling young maidens who had arrived on the scene. Then Shona came marching over to speak sternly to her young brother. ‘What’s this, Lorn McKenzie? Lewis dancing with Ruth? I thought she was your partner.’

  ‘Go on, man,’ Niall urged. ‘Once you’re on the floor it doesn’t matter if you have three left feet. Look at Tam and the others. They canny dance two right steps but they’re still enjoying themselves.’

  They whirled away. The dancers were really warming up with the Laird and his wife ‘hooching’ as loud as anyone. The laughter began to get through to Lorn, excitement surged in his veins – one more drink and he would be ready for anything. Angus McKinnon grinned at him. ‘A dram or a beer, son?’

  ‘A dram – a big one.’

  ‘Coming up, I’ll make it a treble seeing it’s you.’

  Lewis was strangely aware of Ruth’s femininity as he held her slender waist and felt the heat of her body. Her head came only to his shoulder, the fragrance of roses filled his nostrils – but it wasn’t Ruth he wanted. His eyes continually strayed over her head to the door.

  Ruth sensed his inattentiveness and some of her confidence left her. She had forgotten her limp, forgotten the earlier remarks directed at her. Lewis was cool, assured, she felt herself floating in his arms like thistledown. He had paid her flattering compliments, whispered silly things in her ear that made her laugh – but now his restlessness came to her. She looked round for Lorn and an odd feeling of foreboding filled her heart when she spotted him over at the bar drinking, his dark head thrown back as he laughed with Angus. Misery engulfed her. Was he drinking to give himself courage to dance with a lame girl – a white virgin – a virgin bride? She stumbled as the dance came to an end. Lewis put a steadying hand under her arm and was leading her back to her seat when a buzz went round the room. Rachel was standing under one of the archways. She had just arrived and if she had meant to make an entrance she was certainly succeeding. She was sensational-looking in a long rich red evening gown with a low-cut front. A sheen of blue lay over the silken black of her hair, which was swept over one ear and pinned with a diamanté clasp. She moved across the room, a statuesque figure, her tilted head and slow measured step suggesting supreme self-confidence. The sensuous sway of her hips caused women as well as men to turn and stare.

  ‘A Jezebel if ever there was one,’ Elspeth said to Behag, who tightened her lips and shook her head in extreme disapproval.

  Jon, who had been watching the door as anxiously as Lewis, started to walk towards Rachel, but Lewis was there first, taking her hand, leading her away. But Rachel had spotted Ruth, and with a seductive sidelong glance at Lewis, she broke away and went to greet her friend who received her with quiet pleasure. Physically they were completely opposite. Rachel was the picture of elegance in her red gown: her golden skin glowed, the dark eyes smouldered with life, her lovely body taunted every young red-blooded male in the room. Ruth, however, with her pale hair and milky skin, was a startling comparison. In her flowing white dress she looked fragile and vulnerable; her feminine appeal was subtle, faintly suppressed, yet there was about her small-boned body a faint sybaritic quality that was strangely, movingly sweet, ensnared as it was in a young woman who was still a child in so many ways. She and Rachel not only looked different, they lived in different worlds. Rachel had moved into a sphere of sophistication, her sights set firmly on a career as a solo violinist; Ruth was able to pursue her writing yet still remain on Rhanna. In every way she was a girl of the islands, yet the friendship, nurtured in the two from childhood, had never wavered. Though Rachel’s chosen career had taken her away from Rhanna, she was at heart the same free spirit who had roamed barefoot over the moors and bays, and she was always glad to be home. In a mixture of vocal and sign language the two exchanged news and gossip and commented eagerly on one another’s dresses.

  ‘Dance with me, Rachel.’ Lewis’s hand was on her arm, holding it in an urgent grip. With a provocative smile lifting her mouth, she allowed him to sweep her away. Her body was pliant in his arms, moulding to each of his movements. He said nothing, he couldn’t, he was too conscious of her mouth, the exciting sway of her limbs, the enticing swell of her breasts.

  The other girls watched and none of them liked Rachel McKinnon that evening. She had never been one of them; she had always been remote, untamed, cool, passionate – different from ‘normal’ girls. To some degree Ruth came into this category as well, but unlike Rachel she wasn’t considered a threat, a competitor in the ring of eligible females. No one could imagine Ruth tempting Lewis into her arms; the looks that had been cast at her earlier had been merely amused. Lewis had taken pity on her, that was all – but it wasn’t pity that flushed his face now, nor was the brilliance in his blue eyes the result of too much drinking. And so his entourage of female admirers and conquests past and present, glowered long and hard at the oblivious Rachel.

  Lorn had witnessed the exchanges through a blur. His head was swimming and he felt sick. He knew he shouldn’t have gulped down that last drink so quickly. He watched Ruth limping back to her corner, dejection slowing her steps. Perhaps if he went to sit by her, explained to her that he couldn’t dance, had never danced, she would understand and be content just to sit and talk . . . The lights merged and swam; the room turned upside down. Teasing remarks came to him but barely penetrated the fuzz in his head. A group of boys sniggered as he swayed past, and some of the older men came forward to take his arm, but he shook them off and made his unsteady way up a long dim corridor to a side door, which he wrenched open.

  The cold night air washed over him, the sweat dried on his body, making him shiver. Falling to his knees in the snow he was violently sick and in the midst of his misery, he hated himself: Ruth would never forgive him; she would think him a drunken coward. He felt degraded, cheated and ill, but above all he ached with humiliation and self-loathing.

  Lewis danced Rachel to the side of the hall. She looked cool, but her heart was racing madly. How often she had dreamed of a night like this – music, dancing, laughter, the arms of Lewis Fraser McKenzie enfolding her, holding her close.

  Without a word Lewis took her hand, and they slipped away. He had often been to Burnbreddie with his father and knew the lay-out well. He led her through the silent corridors to a room well away from the main hall. This was the Laird’s study, an untidy, comfortable den with worn leather armchairs and a huge oak desk. A connecting door led to another room, full of cubbyholes, a filing cabinet, and a plush velvet sofa scattered with plump chenille cushions, and it was into this room that Lewis led Rachel and bolted the door after them. She didn’t draw back, nor was she shocked at the boldness of the venture. Like him she was a daredevil; convention had never cluttered her life. He went forward to switch on a shaded wall light, then turned to her. Her lustrous eyes were dark with laughter – and something else: passion, smouldering, beckoning to him, taunting him. He came to stand by her. His eyes, a startling blue in his flushed handsome face, travelled over her face to her body, lingering on the curving swell of her breasts. The mellow light spread over her, deepening her dress to blood-red, her skin to golden-rose. He gazed at the arch of her throat, the graceful curve of her shoulders, then he focused again on her mouth: the red parted lips, the pearly teeth, the pink tip of her tongue showing between them. Slowly he bent and kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips laying a trail of fire up to her mouth. Over and over their mouths met in swift, breathless kisses that made them tremble.

  ‘I got you a present, Rachel.’ His voice was hoarse with desire, and with shaking hands he took the small parcel from his pocket and gave it to her.

  She tormented him by slowly peeling off the wrapping paper. She smiled at sight of the nightdress and teased him by holding it against herself, moulding it to the cu
rves of her body. With one hand she propped it against her shoulders, with the other she traced the shape of it – over her belly, her waist.

  He could contain himself no longer; roughly he pulled her to him and claimed her lips, pushing them apart, his tongue probing, searching for hers.

  She was in the arms of an expert lover, but she wasn’t afraid; she had gained plenty of experience with men over the last year or two and knew how to handle them. She knew that playing the field was a dangerous game, and even at the height of desire one half of her always remained alert, aware of the price she might have to pay if she allowed herself to relax completely. She wanted Lewis – for a very long time she had wanted him, and she wouldn’t rest till she had experienced the delights that she knew an affair with him would bring. She would take it all, and she would take it now, because later – later she had to give her all to her music and she would have no time to spare for the Lewis McKenzies of the world – except perhaps – occasionally . . .

  His hands were on her thighs, pulling her in ever closer to him. With a little shiver of anticipation she heard the slow unzipping of her dress. Together they sank onto the couch. He was moving, lost, groaning with pleasure. She wanted him to go on, never to stop; she was burning, beating, pulsing with the need for him . . . With a supreme effort of willpower she tore herself free and began to pull her dress over her shoulders. She was trembling, panting, fumbling behind her back for her zip. It stuck. Darting to the door she threw open the bolt, wrenched the door open, went through, shut it, and with her back to it found the zip and began pulling it up. She heard him scrambling up, cursing her, and a triumphant smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. For years Lewis McKenzie had made her wait – now it was his turn. Just for a little while would she make him sweat it out – her legs trembled again – for a very little while. She began to run, through the corridors, tidying herself as she went. Lewis pulled open the door of the cubby room. Little bitch! Cruel, flaunting little bitch! He gritted his teeth, rage replacing passion. Snatching up the nightdress from the floor he was about to tear it apart but stopped. No! By God, no! Damned if he would ruin the thing. He had bought it for her and he meant to see it draped round that lovely body of hers if it was the last thing he did. His head was pounding as hard as his heart, and he passed a hand over his hot brow. Fresh air, he needed fresh air, had to cool down.

  Stuffing the scrap of oyster satin into his pocket he went up a short passageway to a side door, opened it – and found Lorn sitting on the steps. His skin was clammy, he was shivering uncontrollably and he smelled of vomit. ‘Lorn! God Almighty!’ Lewis cried. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lorn whispered miserably. ‘I took a few drinks, came out here – and was sick.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘I don’t know – about an hour – I couldn’t go back in.’

  Lewis hoisted his brother to his feet and put a shoulder under his armpit. ‘Hold on,’ he ordered, ‘I’ll get you home. I’ll take Lachlan’s car. I’ll explain when I bring it back; he won’t mind.’

  ‘What – about Ruthie?’

  ‘Ach, I’ll take her home later. Oh, don’t worry, I’m no’ going to steal her – I’ve had enough of lassies for one night – now hold on and shut up.’

  Jon watched Rachel’s departure also and his brown eyes were dull. He felt foolish and angry with himself. It wasn’t right for him to feel this way about a young girl . . . Yes! Dammit! It was right! Love could never be wrong and he would go on loving, caring, protecting this beautiful child as long as there was breath in him. He was also concerned for her. He knew she’d had boys before, that was natural; but her time with Lewis McKenzie had come, and somehow he knew it was what she had waited for. He knew that their affair would be a tempestuous one. Anton came over and touched his arm, his keen blue eyes full of understanding as he said, ‘My friend, you love her very much, I watch you and I feel your pain. Am I not right?’

  Jon flushed and nodded and Anton went on softly, ‘She will come to you in the end, Jon. You and she were made for each other . . .’ Jon opened his mouth to protest but Anton held up his hand. ‘Ah yes, it is so. Age makes no difference with love to bridge the years. She is very young, and she is sowing the wild oats. Rachel is a very clever girl – she is sowing them quickly, because she knows that her kind of ambition will take all her concentration. There will be no time later for frivolous love affairs then – and that is when you must step in and be ready to take over.’

  Babbie came over, lovely that evening in a green dress that matched her eyes. ‘You haven’t danced with me tonight, Jon Jodl. Why don’t you ask me now?’

  Jon shook his head, his thoughts were with Rachel and he couldn’t bring himself to enter into the jollity of an evening where everyone in the gay whirling crowd seemed to have a partner. ‘Thank you, Babbie, you are very kind, but I think I will go and keep company with the little maiden sitting over there in the corner. Like me she seems not to have a partner, and she looks as if she would like to curl up and die.’

  Anton and Babbie watched him walking away. The former took her husband’s arm and murmured, ‘Poor Jon, I hope he finds a happiness as great as ours. He’s so nice and deserves only the best.’

  ‘He will get it, liebling.’ Anton gazed into her eyes and smiled. ‘Take it from a great philosopher. Jon will have his wish; all he needs is patience and understanding.’

  Ruth watched Jon approaching. She liked this kindly German who had integrated so well with the community. He had done a lot for it, but mostly he encouraged the island children to take an interest in music. He had succeeded so well that many had discovered hidden talents under his guidance. She knew he was in love with Rachel. From the beginning he had devoted himself to her unstintingly – he had encouraged her ambitions, had gone to endless trouble to help her fulfil her dreams – and now – like her, he was tortured by a love that seemed out of reach. She stood up, and when she spoke she sounded slightly breathless. ‘Jon, are you enjoying yourself?’

  He reddened again and smiled wistfully. ‘Not very much, jungfräulich.’

  ‘Then – will you take me home please? My father’s van is outside – I – I don’t feel very well.’

  He put a steadying hand under her elbow, the trembling of her delicate young body came to him. ‘I will be honoured to accompany you home, jungfräulich. Take my arm and we will walk to the archway there – no one will see us slipping away – they are all too busy enjoying themselves.’

  It was later than usual when Ruth came into the kitchen next morning. Her parents were seated at the table and Morag raised her head to say somewhat sharply, ‘You’re late at table, Ruth. What happened last night to make you oversleep?’

  ‘Nothing happened, Mam.’ Ruth’s voice was flat and lifeless. ‘I’m still a virgin, if that’s what you mean.’ Ignoring her mother’s shocked gasp she went on, her voice rising a little, ‘There’s not a lad in the whole of Rhanna who would dance with the white virgin for fear of being laughed at. That’s what they call me behind my back, only last night it was worse – they called me the virgin bride instead. You’ve got what you always wanted, Mam, an untarnished daughter. You’ve labelled me, you’ve made folks laugh behind my back and call me names, you always tried to make me believe that boys were dirty-minded and wicked – and now you’ve got a daughter who will one day be known as the virgin spinster.’ At the door to the hall she turned. ‘I’ve told a lie – someone did dance with me – Lewis McKenzie – because he felt sorry for me.’ Her face was very pale as she went out of the kitchen, her limp more pronounced than it had been for years.

  Dugald looked at his wife with contempt. When he spoke his voice was tightly controlled. ‘Satisfied? You’ve used the innocence of that lovely young life to ease the burden of your own ungodly guilt. I saw bitterness in her just now, Morag, for the first time I saw bitterness and it was an ugly expression to see in my Ruthie’s face.’ He stood up, tall, over-thin, white with anger and sadn
ess. ‘I’m going up to her. You pray a lot to the Lord to save your soul, but you might remember that your family have souls too. I think the time has come for you to pray for us as well – if it isn’t too late to mend the damage you have done.’

  After a sleepless night, passing solitary hours thinking about Ruth, Lorn decided he must go to her and explain the reasons for his behaviour at the dance, and soon after breakfast he went over to Morag’s cottage to ask to see Ruth. But Morag was outraged by his request.

  ‘You leave my lassie be,’ she told him through tight lips. ‘A fine mess we are all in because of you! What kind of laddie are you anyway? Asking a lass to a ceilidh, then creeping away to a corner to drink yourself stupid. Oh, ay, folks are talking right enough, news of that sort travels fast.’

  ‘Ay, you’re right enough there.’ Lorn’s voice was ominously quiet. ‘Folks do talk. Has it ever occurred to you that folk might be talking about you? Or do you think you’re so saintly there’s nothing that anyone can find bad to say about you!’

  Morag’s face flamed red. ‘How dare you speak to me like that you – you McKenzie upstart!’

  ‘I dare because it’s true – just as I’ve dared to come here this morning and ask to see Ruthie. I just want to explain something to her.’

  Morag thought about Ruth upstairs in tears, and a fresh upsurge of guilt made her angrier still. ‘Indeed you will not. You’ve done enough damage to be going on with. Fancy her coming home here and laying all the blame on me!’