By Eastern windows (2 page)

Lachlan pushed back his chair and stood up to leave. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry you were so quick to make your plans for me, Murdoch, but I’ll decide my own future and my own employment.’

Murdoch stopped chewing and stared. ‘You’re not refusing me now?’

Lachlan nodded. ‘Aye, I am.’

Outraged, Murdoch swallowed the food in his mouth and blurted, ‘Listen, me laddie, you were nothing more than a harum-scarum youngster when I paid to have ye sent to school and educated. Good money I paid out, but I’m not the Bank of Scotland. I expected some return long before this. I didn’t expect ye to go running off to America. But now that you’re back, ten years later, you surely must give some repayment to the business that supported you in those early years –
and that wa
s me
and
this
estate of Lochbuy!’

With a sudden sense of fairness, as well as deep resentment, Lachlan realised that he did owe something to Murdoch and the estate of Lochbuy – but neither was getting the rest of his life in return for five years of schooling.
 

‘The money you paid for my education I will repay you, one day, as soon as I possibly can,’ Lachlan said finally, `every penny of it.
 
I know the exact amount because you’ve written and told me often enough.’

‘Repay it? One day? Some day?’ Murdoch sat back in his chair. ‘Och, that’s an easy thing for any man to say. I wish I could say it to my bank!’

‘I’ll not run the estate for you,’ Lachlan said determinedly, ‘but I will help you out for a time, a short time, until I get some other paid employment.’ He looked steadily at Murdoch. ‘Now that’s my offer, take it or leave it.’

Murdoch Maclaine was canny enough to know it was the best offer he would get this day, but given time, he was sure he would be able to talk Lachlan round to his way of thinking.

Damn and blast, Murdoch thought angrily, why had he not married sooner? He needed a
son
, a few sons to run this estate. In the meantime he needed his nephew to sort out his accounts and collects the rents. When it came to money, he held no trust for strangers.

Murdoch sighed and stood up from his chair, holding his hand out. ‘Well, there it is, laddie, there it is – your offer and my acceptance. Give me your hand and we’ll shake on it.’

Lachlan hesitated for a moment, and then took his uncle’s hand. ‘Part time, for a short time, agreed?’

‘Agreed … aye, agreed.’ Murdoch shook his nephew’s hand vigorously, not meaning a word of it. ‘Now, I’ll need you to start as soon as tomorrow. No point in wasting time, not with a big estate like this to run – and
me
with a marriage to arrange!
 
Did I tell you the cook was leaving?’

2

On the morning ferry from Oban to Mull, Elizabeth Campbell lost her hat while throwing biscuits to the gulls, but she didn’t care – she was more bored than she feared she would be, and tired out from listening to her older sister Margaret prattling on about the man she hoped to marry, Murdoch Maclaine of Lochbuy.

Elizabeth couldn’t see the attraction at all. Murdoch Maclaine had visited their home in Airds on the mainland quite a few times now, and on each occasion he had struck Elizabeth as being very plain, very boring, and very old.

‘That’s because you’re only thirteen,’ Margaret had responded good-naturedly. ‘A man of forty-six is not old at all.’

‘But
you
are only
nineteen
!’ Elizabeth had replied. ‘And you’re pretty while he’s plain, and you’re funny while he’s dull. How can you be in love with him?’

`Love? Oh, that’s all blah and nonsense,’ Margaret had sniffed. `Papa told me that and I’m inclined to trust Papa in all things, as
you
should too. And you should also hold your tongue instead of lying about me being pretty, because you know I’m not. I’m roly-poly fat with a face as round as the sun itself.’

‘No, you’re just a wee bit plump’ Elizabeth had insisted, although in truth Margaret had always been round and robust, displaying not only a disparity in age between the two sisters, but also in their looks. Margaret was tidily comfortable under her matronly bun of black hair, whereas Elizabeth was long-legged and skinny with a mane of copper-gold hair that hung round her shoulders in a mass of unruly curls.

Elizabeth had enough of the screeching gulls, left the deck, and returned to her seat next to her sister.

`You
do
know, Margaret,’ she said, continuing their conversation, `that Papa doesn’t know
everything
. He just wants you to marry Murdoch Maclaine because he’s the Laird of Lochbuy and has lots of money.’

‘And a fine thing it will be for a girl like me to become the
mistress
of an estate like Lochbuy,’ Margaret said happily. `And Papa says the house is very big, almost baronial
 
’

Elizabeth gave up the fight and sat back as Margaret prattled on about the benefits of marrying Murdoch Maclaine, parroting their father’s every word about how
lucky
Margaret was, as plain as she was, as uneducated as she was, to have the chance of rising to the position of becoming the `Mistress’ of an estate like Lochbuy….

The ferry was approaching the dock, and now the two sisters stood in readiness for their first visit to the Isle of Mull, so that Margaret could take a look at the estate that may become her future home.

The coach journey from the Ferry Port across the countryside to Lochbuy had been pleasant for Elizabeth Campbell, banishing most of her boredom. She had not expected the island of Mull to be so beautiful, so lushly green.

‘There it is!’ Margaret’s head had been stuck out the carriage window for over ten minutes and now she cried in triumph. ‘Oh, look – look at it, Elizabeth! Mr Maclaine’s house!’

Elizabeth stuck her head out and looked …
  
in size the house was indeed big, and must have contained at least twenty rooms … clearly the home of a Laird.
 

‘Here we are then,’ Margaret’s voice was high with excitement. ‘And here is dear Mr Maclaine coming down the steps to greet us!’

When Elizabeth stepped down from the carriage she still thought Murdoch Maclaine just impossible to like, and despite her bests efforts she could manage no more than a sullen response to his greeting.

`She’s only thirteen,’ Margaret said quickly to Murdoch by way of excuse, `still learning her manners.’

Elizabeth did not hear Murdoch’s reply because a young man had come through the open front door and was running down the steps towards them. He was tall and slender and agile, his light-brown hair flying gallantly behind the collar of his brown fitted jacket.

Elizabeth stared at him, spellbound. His sudden appearance was like sunshine on a winter’s day, a young man in an old world, handsome and full of life and health – and when he smiled at her, Elizabeth’s young heart jumped with an emotion she had never before experienced.

Murdoch had already started the introductions to Margaret.
 
‘ … My sister’s son, and my new estate manager – educated from the age of nine and the expense of it all paid for by me.’

Finally, briefly, almost as an afterthought, Murdoch introduced Elizabeth to his nephew, but Elizabeth was incapable of any response. While she stared up at him mutely with wide eyes, he smiled at her again, almost tenderly, as if deciding she must be a shy and simple child, then he quickly moved on, repeating both his welcome and apologies to her sister, in a hurry to leave.

In the days and weeks that followed, Elizabeth began to see Murdoch’s nephew frequently on the estate, simply because she spent every moment of her days searching him out … then standing in the shadows watching him like an unseen ghost.

She once followed him as he meandered through the gardens at the back of the house, concealing her presence by moving stealthily and hiding behind bushes, her blue eyes watching his every move. He paused in his strolling and leant with a melancholy grace against a tree, lost in his own thoughts, moving his gaze upwards to a row of windows on the top floor of the house. In her mind and eyes, misted by adolescent romance, he looked like a soulful Romeo waiting for his Juliet to appear at one of those windows.

Elizabeth was filled with an unfathomable longing, and in the days and weeks that followed her desire to see him as often as possible developed into an intense obsession. She craved to speak to him, to have a proper conversation with him, but following his arrival in the afternoons he never seemed to stop working, usually in the library, and he had never once accepted Murdoch’s invitation to stay for dinner, always eager to be off.

So Elizabeth had no choice but to spend each evening sitting at the table in silence as Murdoch and Margaret prattled endlessly about the plans for their wedding, whilst she gazed wistfully out of the window, her eyes focused on the darkening trees and the last limpid light of day, wishing for time to fly until the next afternoon when she hoped she might see him again.

And she always did, she made sure of it. In fact, she made sure that they were always encountering each other, here, there and everywhere, and although he never delayed at length to speak to her, he always smiled and greeted her politely before moving on.

She began to love that smile, and hated the catastrophic day when Margaret told her it was time to leave Mull to return to their home on the mainland. They had spent a full two months on the estate of Lochbuy during which time Margaret had got to know all of the house-servants and many of the land-tenants, and they in turn seemed happy enough with their future mistress.

Home seemed bleak in comparison. Elizabeth had always enjoyed life on their small estate at Airds, the beautiful gardens and the comfortable house, but now she wandered around it in lost loneliness, obsessed in her thoughts of a young man who had once been a soldier.

An eternity later, although in reality only a month, when Margaret announced that they would be returning to Mull, Elizabeth squealed with delight.

Margaret beamed. ‘I’m so glad that you like Murdoch now.’

‘Oh, I do, I do,’ Elizabeth lied passionately. ‘I like him very well now.’

‘And do you still believe he is too old for me?’

‘No, not a bit!’ insisted Elizabeth, conscious that her own hero was twenty-four and therefore eleven years older
 
than she was. ‘Who cares about a difference in age at the end of it,’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s the man that counts, Margaret, the man!’

‘I agree,’ Margaret replied, `but the man is never as important as the home he provides, nor the children
 
that follow him. Mama told me that and I was always inclined to trust Mama about such things.’

‘When do we leave?’ Elizabeth asked impatiently.

`Soon,’ Margaret beamed again. `The wedding is to take place in four weeks time, in the drawing-room at Lochbuy.’

Although more than three months had passed since his return to Mull, Mrs Macquarie was filled with worry. She watched as Lachlan kept himself busy at work and also managed to enjoy an active social life in the evenings with his friends and cousins, but she knew he was not happy. What he needed was some true contentment in his life to help him settle down here at home. What he needed was a wife.

She decided to wait until Sunday to broach the subject, because Sunday was the only day he did not have to ride over to Lochbuy.

On Sunday she waited until Donald had gone down to the shore’s edge to do a bit of fishing, then turned her eyes apprehensively to Lachlan. He was sitting at the table, head bent, writing steadily and quickly over a thick sheet of paper. She watched his intent, handsome face, wondering to whom he was writing the letter and marvelling that he could write with such ease. She herself could not read nor write a word. All she had ever been taught was every method needed to cook and run a household.

‘Lachlan,’ she said finally.

‘Aye,’ he replied, but kept on writing.

‘I was thinking
 
… you do know, don’t ye, Lachlan, that ye are now twenty-five years old?’

‘Of course I know.’

‘So mebbe it’s time you started thinking of a wife. Is there no young lassie, out of all the lasses you're friendly with, that's maybe taken your fancy?’

He stopped writing, but remained silent for so long she wondered if he had heard her.
 

‘Lachlan, did ye hear me speaking to ye now?’

He had heard her, but her question merely depressed him. She still did not understand that he had changed, that he had travelled far beyond Mull’s horizons and had seen new parts of the world and lived through experiences that she would be unable even to imagine. The island of Mull was too small for him now. He could not settle here, not yet, not until he was older, much older. The world out there was big and wondrous and strange, and he craved to see more of it, be a part of it.

Yet he knew that to his mother the world was just some place ‘out there’ beyond the islands and the ocean, and as removed from her needs and understanding as the sky and all of its stars.

He laid down his pen, knowing that even if he had wished to stay here, and settle here, he could not … and now he must tell her why. He turned his head to look at her, and this time his mother’s voice was almost pleading. ‘Surely there must be some young lassie that’s taken your fancy?’