The Chieftain (14 page)

Before John could reply her mother gently intervened. ‘You see, my dear, that is why it would be better for the child to be sent away. Better for everyone.’

Isobel stared at her. Better for her parents, she acknowledged, for they would not then have to face the shame of having a bastard growing up under their roof. For herself, too, it might arguably be better, in spite of what she felt, for she would be able to start a new life. But for the child—

Even with her limited experience of such matters she knew that to put a child out to nurse as her mother had suggested was often a tidy, discreet way of conniving at its death. Unwanted babies born to erring but respectable mothers were often despatched to wetnurses in the full knowledge that half-hearted care, neglect even, would generally quickly rid them of the embarrassment. Better far, Isobel thought, that her baby should have the care of a woman such as Mairi MacLean, honoured to be trusted with the upbringing of a son of her chieftain.

She shook her head with renewed vehemence. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You will not send my child away. I am his mother, and his place is with me.’

John reached out and took her hand in his.

‘Isobel,’ he implored earnestly, ‘your feelings do you credit. You have a good, kind heart, and it is natural that you should want to do the best for your unborn child, however unhappy may have been the circumstances of its conception. But think, I beg of you, if it would indeed be the best, even for the infant, to rear it as your own among your own people. Remember who the father was - though I know it must pain you to have that brought to mind - remember what blood it is that will run in your infant’s veins. The child comes of tainted stock, Isobel.

‘Do you indeed want to rear the latest in a line of lying, murderous cattle thieves? For blood will out, my dear, believe me. Do what you will, the evil strain is there. You know a little of what my own line has suffered at the hands of a MacLean of Ardshee. But we are not alone. There have been many before and since who have cursed the fate that caused their path to cross with some scion of that evil house. No, the truly kind course is to harden your heart and let the line end with you. Root out the evil, destroy it, let the name of MacLean be lost to Ardshee, as dust in the wind.’

The light blue eyes gleamed with a cold light that sent a shiver down Isobel’s spine. John was suddenly a stranger, no longer the kindly friend who had counselled and supported her through many anxieties and troubles. She recoiled, drawing her hand from his, repelled that he should so callously urge her to murder her child. For that, she knew, was what his words implied.

Even her mother evidently thought he had gone too far, for Isobel saw her touch his arm, murmuring ‘John—!’ as if in gentle protest.

‘Do you not think my blood is more than a match for any MacLean infusion?’ Isobel demanded indignantly.

All at once John looked confused, his colour rising a little.

‘Of course, but—’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘No matter. There will be time enough for us to decide what to do before the child is born. For now you need only concern yourself with the annulment of your marriage. It should not require a great deal on your part: a brief court appearance at the most, and no judge would look on you with anything but the deepest sympathy. Then, the formalities over, you may call yourself Isobel Carnegie once again and you will be free. And able, of course—’ He paused, recollecting himself, and then went on smoothly: ‘But that can wait. The wheels are already set in motion. It should not take long—’

Isobel felt dazed and bewildered. She felt as if she were being pushed inexorably into some course of action she did not want to follow. Yet it was, surely, what she wished above all?

‘I need time,’ she faltered. ‘Let me have time to think.’

‘To think of what?’ John asked in surprise. ‘There is no difficulty that I can see. A slight formality, as I said—’

‘I don’t know...’ she returned hesitantly.
 

Her mother broke in. ‘I think Isobel is still very tired. She is not herself. Come and talk it over again tomorrow, John, when she is a little more rested. I think that would be best.’

With obvious reluctance, John abandoned the subject and began to talk of the weather. Isobel relapsed into a relieved silence, and let the talk circulate about her confused brain, taking in nothing that was said. For the first time in her life she was thankful when John took his leave of them.

She felt inexpressibly weary by the end of the morning, as if the effort of talking and listening and explaining had all been too much for her. She ate little at midday, and was grateful when her mother suggested she should lie down.

‘In your condition,’ observed Margaret Reid, ‘you cannot expect to be as active as you once were.’

Isobel remembered how she had walked at Ardshee, and how confinement had chafed her. She had been energetic enough there. But of course there had been the long journey since then, and the excitement, and the many demands on her emotions. She allowed her mother to tuck her into bed and pull the curtains around her and leave her alone with her thoughts.

One thing only was clear, as it had been since her mother had first broached the subject. She wanted this child. No one, she determined, should ever succeed in shaking her resolution to cherish and love him as if his conception had been entirely normal and happy.

But of course, she realised suddenly, his conception had indeed been happy! Eyes closed, she brought that last night with Hector to mind. Until now she had only remembered its ending, his calculating demands on her, his savage anger, his vindictiveness in making her a close prisoner.

Now she thought of the moment when he had come home, and a new warmth had seemed to spring up between them. It had been a delusion, she knew that now, for he had acted the part of the ardent lover to win her to his will. But that did not make her own feelings the less real because he had so coldly used them.

No, she had been happy then, for those few sweet hours. Happy as she had not thought it was possible to be, completely, ecstatically happy. This unborn child within her had been conceived in joy, at the moment when her whole world had been suffused in a golden light. It was, she thought now, as if for that little while she had been whole and complete as never before nor since. In Hector’s approval, in his seeming warmth, in his arms, she had, fleetingly, found her home.

That then, she understood, as her heart beat faster, was why Hector’s deceit, and his anger, had hurt her so much. That was why her pleasure in being at Ardshee had been so shattered by his going. That, above all, was why this place where she now lay could never be home to her again.

Everything fell into place, neatly, inexorably.
 

She loved Hector. Whatever he had done, whatever he was, she loved him. And without him, whether at Ardshee or in the parlour downstairs, she was lost and alone, for in his arms that one night she had found her heart’s desire.

She knew, too, with relentless clarity, that until she could win her way back to that lost paradise she would never truly be happy again. It was an impossible dream, but it was her only hope.

And then she remembered the child - Hector’s child - growing within her, and she felt a leap of joy. For surely, surely, Hector must come to care for her, once he knew? Surely he must learn to love the woman who was to bear his child? Somehow she must go to him, and tell him the news, and let him see her pride and happiness in it.

For that, she knew, she would need all her strength.
 

Stubbornly, full of new determination, she set herself to empty her mind of all thought, and to relax, and so drift slowly into healing sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Isobel had to admit next morning that all was not well. Despite the long hours of rest she felt draggingly tired, and her back and limbs ached unbearably. She would very much have liked to stay in bed all day. But she had no intention of allowing her parents to know how she felt. Full of determination, she dressed and went downstairs and dismissed any comments on her grey face and general air of exhaustion. She knew that today, as soon as possible, she must make them all understand what she meant to do.

Her determination was not strong enough for her to broach the subject before John came, earlier than usual, to talk to her. And she found herself alone with him at the parlour fireside almost before she had time to collect her thoughts.

He stood leaning one arm against the mantelpiece, waiting for her to sit down before he began. But she remained standing, ignoring her weary protesting body, and drew a deep breath.

‘Mr Campbell,’ she said quietly, but with such a note of deep gravity that she had his full attention at once. ‘I think I should say first of all that I do not wish to have my marriage to Hector MacLean set aside.’

She waited for his outburst, but her words were met with a blank stare, as if their meaning must lie hidden beneath the apparent clarity of what she said. After a moment he sighed, rather as if he were a long-suffering adult faced with a much-loved but particularly trying child. Then he took her arm.

‘Sit down, my dear, and let us talk about this calmly. You look as if you were expecting to face a firing party.’ He smiled gently, and she allowed him to lead her to a chair and to take his seat facing her, holding her hands in his. ‘Now, my dear,’ he went on, still in that kindly tone, ‘tell me what troubles you about our proposal. It is the child, I suppose? You cannot bear to have your infant made a bastard?’

‘No,’ said Isobel. ‘It’s not that.’

John frowned, genuinely puzzled.

‘But what then? What other possible objection can you have? I am supposing, of course, that you have some firm objection, and that this is not just a sudden whim due to your present delicate condition?’
 

She looked down at his hands as they held hers: long hands, pale and a little puffy, the hands of a man who passed much of his time indoors and worked with his brain. Not like those other hands, lean and strong and brown…

She realised that John was still waiting for her answer, and coloured, trying to remember what she had meant to say.

‘I... I... No—’ She broke off, and began again with renewed firmness. ‘No, it is not a whim, Mr Campbell. And it is not just the child, though I think that must be a part of it. But even if I were not in this condition I should still feel the same way, I am sure of that.’ She raised her eyes to his and caught their expression of patient and affectionate bewilderment, and found that she could not go on as she had intended. ‘Just believe, please, that I have my own reasons for not wanting to take my marriage before the courts. It can make little difference, after all.’

She hoped he would believe that, for she knew that it was not true. In reality she hoped that it would make all the difference; that she might soon return to Hector. But John Campbell must surely be expecting her to remain at home now, living quietly with her parents to the end of her days.

She was not prepared for the vehemence of his reaction. His hands tightened about hers, and his eyes held hers with a light she had never seen in them before.

‘It makes all the difference in the world,’ he retorted fiercely. ‘For you will be tied as long as Ardshee lives, his wife in law—’
 

‘But surely I am already ruined in the eyes of the world?’ she argued. ‘No man would want me after all that has happened.’

Even as she spoke she knew with an inexplicable sinking of the heart what John’s reply would be. And it came, spoken in a low voice vibrant with intense feelings rigorously held down.

‘You are wrong, Isobel, wholly wrong. For I had hoped - longed—Isobel, if you follow this path, you will be alone but for your parents, with no husband to stand beside you through the years to come. But if you were once free, your marriage set aside, then, Isobel—Then nothing would make me happier than to offer you the protection of my hand and my name.’

‘You do me great honour,’ she said gravely, ‘but I am not seeking the protection of any man.’

‘It is not simply protection I offer, Isobel,’ John went on. ‘It is my heart too. You know, I think, that I have always cared for you—’

Her eyes now were warm with affection; and pity, because she knew that she must tell him everything, and that it would hurt him.

‘John, don’t say any more! Just listen to me. I am greatly honoured that you should make me such an offer, and as your friend I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I cannot accept your hand, though I hope I shall always have your friendship. Once... before... Soon after James died... Then, if you had asked, I might have said yes. In fact I think I would have done so. Because, you see, I had never known then what it is to love. When you don’t know what you are missing, then I think you are quite happy to think that friendship is enough. But now I do know what I missed then—’

‘So there is another man!’ he exclaimed. ‘But who—where—?’ Clearly, to John Campbell, the truth was going to be beyond his understanding.

‘I am married to him,’ Isobel told him quietly. ‘I bear his name.’

For a moment he gazed at her blankly, outright disbelief giving way slowly to a growing horror.

‘Ardshee?’ he whispered incredulously. ‘You love
him
—
?
Hector MacLean?’ She said nothing, steadily returning his gaze, and he burst out: ‘No! I will not believe it. You’re playing with me, Isobel—I don’t know why, but that must be it—’