The House of Lyall (26 page)

The expressions of the ladies in each of the first two houses she visited that day gave further proof of her
faux pas
, and she wished that she had not worn such a frivolous hat. She had the distinct impression that her hostesses and their friends were inwardly laughing at her, but at least their breeding did not let them ridicule her openly like the girls in Aberdeen who had hurt her all those years before.

She was waiting for Thomson in the hallway of her last call in Guildford Street when she realized that her gloves were still on a small table in the drawing room, and with no warning to the young maid who was seeing her out, she turned and walked back. The door was slightly ajar, enough for the muffled hilarity from inside to reach her ears.

‘Oh my, wasn't she awful?' someone was laughing. ‘And some of the things she said, I didn't know where to look. Verity Chambers says she was only a shop-girl before she married Hamish Bruce-Lyall.'

‘That explains it!' giggled another. ‘That hat! Did you ever see anything like it? Her taste must be all in her awful mouth.'

‘And her accent!' gushed a third. ‘I could hardly understand a word she said.'

Cut to the quick and desperate to retaliate, Marianne threw back the door and marched straight to the occasional table to retrieve her gloves, and not until she reached the door again did she deign to look at any of the young women regarding her silently with their mouths agape. Holding the knob, she said, enunciating each word slowly and with staccato precision, ‘I hope you can understand what I am saying now. Yes, I was a shop-girl when Hamish met me, and I was just a skivvy before that, but I was taught manners, something you three obviously weren't.'

Speeding up, she went on scathingly, ‘I would never, ever, speak about anybody behind her back the way you were speaking about me.' She opened the door wider, but could not resist a parting shot before going into the hall. ‘Let me tell you, I hardly understood a word any of you spoke, either, with your marbles in your mouths and your noses in the air. If you're a sample of London society, I'm glad I live in a wee glen in Scotland.'

Slamming the door, she sailed past the goggle-eyed servant and went down the front steps just as Thomson came up from the basement area. The young groom jumped down hastily to help her into the carriage, and Marianne's dark face warned her maid to ask no questions.

When Hamish and his father returned from the business meeting they had been attending, Marianne told them what had happened, keeping a grip on herself to avoid bursting into tears. Hector had a good laugh at how she had dealt with the situation, but her husband tried to soothe her ruffled feelings.

‘Never mind them. They have nothing else to do all day but find fault with others. Is that the hat?' He looked at the offending object which had been thrown in rejection on the seat of a chair. ‘Maybe the feathers
are
a teeny bit garish, but that was no reason for them …'

Catching the gleam of moisture in Marianne's eyes, her father-in-law said, ‘Take her upstairs, Hamish, and see she goes to bed. All the excitement of coming to London has been too much for her.'

Overcome with self-pity, anger at herself for ignoring Thomson's silent criticism, and especially with sharp resentment against her tormentors, Marianne allowed Hamish to guide her to her room.

‘Shall I get Thomson to come and help …?' He got no further. The burning tears refused to be contained any longer and burst from her in a torrent which alarmed him. ‘They are not worth upsetting yourself over, my dear,' he murmured. ‘They are not worthy of licking your shoes.'

He drew away when her sobbing eased, and looked sadly into her face. ‘I shall have to leave you again, I'm afraid. I promised to go with Father to see a potential new customer in Brighton. Will you be all right, or should I fetch Thomson?'

‘No,' she sniffed, ‘I don't want her to see I've been crying.'

‘We may not be back until tomorrow, and you need someone. She is very discreet. You can trust her not to tell the other servants.'

When she came in, Thomson clicked her tongue solicitously. ‘Would you rather I went away for a wee while, Mrs Hamish … till you come to yourself?'

Marianne shook her head. ‘It's all right. It's just … there was a bit of … unpleasantness in that last house I called at. Oh, I might as well tell you.'

The older woman listened to the sorry tale with increasing anger and, when it ended, she said, ‘The cook told me her mistress and her two sisters spend most of their time criticising other women, and I think they'd been jealous that none of them has such a distinctive hat. Even if they had, I doubt they could carry it off like you.'

Marianne had to smile at Thomson's staunch loyalty. ‘No, I could tell when I put it on you thought it was awful and you were right. I'll ask your advice before I buy any more hats … not that I'll need any. I'll never come back to London to be made a fool of. Now, you'd better get me out of this costume, and the corset, for it's killing me.'

She stood patiently while her maid undid buttons and unfastened hooks and eyes, turning obediently when instructed to do so, and at last her nightdress was pulled on over her head and she was helped onto the high bed. ‘Thank you, Thomson,' she murmured, lying back gratefully.

Left alone again, Marianne's thoughts returned to the glen, and she wondered if her two little darlings were missing her as much as she was missing them. It was the first time she had ever been away from them for any length of time, and the last, if she had any say. Her grasshopper mind jumped now to something else she would be missing in Glendarril, and she smiled as she recalled the way in which she had learned of the two impending happy events.

It had been Flora's turn for the weekly ‘afternoon tea', and immediately she had filled the cups and handed round the plate of home-made scones, she burst out, ‘I was afraid to tell anybody till after the dangerous third month, but Robert says it's safe now.'

‘Oh, Flora, you're pregnant? I'm so pleased for you!' Marianne had exclaimed.

But she had been in for a second surprise, because Grace gave a little cough and got to her feet, tapping on the table in the manner she used as president of the WRI to get the attention of the members before she made an announcement. ‘It falls to me,' she declaimed solemnly, ‘to express delight at the statement given by our secretary, and to add some news of my own.' She looked at the other two for a moment and then burst out laughing.

Flora's face had screwed up with perplexity, Marianne remembered, and it had been left to her to say, ‘Don't tell me you're expecting, as well, Grace? Wonders will never cease, and when are you due, both of you?'

She had been pleased that both confinements would be in early August, because she should have been home by then, but, as Robert Burns so wisely said, ‘The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley.' Because of King Edward's appendicitis, she was stuck in London. Still, finding out which sex her friends' babies were was a treat for her to go home to, though she would pray every night now that both would be safely delivered.

Robert was cock-a-hoop about becoming a father, but it was difficult to tell with Duncan. He wasn't as forthcoming as Robert, but he was bound to be pleased. Maybe he hadn't cared for the idea of children before – though that might have been another of Grace's jokes – but surely when the infant arrived, he would look on it as a blessing from God.

That was one thing about Hamish. He was a good father, and Marianne did not, and never would, regret marrying him. He loved her as much as she loved him, and as far as the glen folk were concerned, she was a goddess, someone they looked up to and admired for not putting on airs with them. On her first trip to Edinburgh to supplement her wardrobe, as soon as she mentioned that she was the daughter-in-law of the late Lady Glendarril, she had been given honoured treatment, and on the next two occasions she had been recognized immediately she walked in, which had given her a tremendous glow of gratification.

Before she surrendered into the arms of Morpheus, it occurred to her that the only people who had openly not accepted her were the three females (she wouldn't grant them the dignity of thinking of them as ladies) in the house in Guildford Street. She couldn't recall any of their names, except that they were all Honourable Somebodies and probably none of them lived permanently in London. Just the same, they must have known it was her first visit, so what they did was inexcusable.

Let London and all its glories go to the devil, Marianne thought. Hector had been right: she didn't like it, and she would never come back.

Her husband and father-in-law did not return from Brighton until the following day, and she tackled them as soon as they came in. ‘I'm going home. I'm not giving anybody else the chance to insult me, and besides, I'm missing my boys.'

Both men were utterly thunderstruck, and it was Hector who rallied enough to say, ‘I can understand how you feel, but what about the Coronation? You may never have another chance to see a spectacle like this, and it was the reason you came to London in the first place.'

‘Well, I've had enough of it! I just don't want to –'

Hamish interrupted here. ‘I know you've been hurt, my dearest, but once you get over it, you'll be all right.'

‘No, I won't! I'm sick to the teeth of London and all the stuck-up pigs in it. Look, I'm not expecting you to come with me – I'll manage fine by myself as long as I've got Thomson with me.'

‘Well, well!' Hector grinned. ‘You've lost none of your pluck, I'll grant you that, and if that's what you're determined to do, I'll book seats for you on the last train tonight. You won't need to worry about your baggage, because Hamish will see to it at this end, and I'll send a wire to Carnie so that he will be at Montrose to take it out of the carriage when he picks you up tomorrow.'

The rest of the day was, therefore, taken up with packing, or rather, Thomson did the work while Marianne paced the floor as if she were champing at the bit to be gone. Every piece of luggage ready at last, the exhausted maid sat down heavily and, her conscience smiting her, Marianne said, ‘I'm sorry, Thomson. I know I'm not being fair, trailing you away when I'm sure you're dying to see all the people in the streets on the big day, but –'

‘No, ma'am, I've had enough commotion to last me the rest of my life, and all, and I'll be glad to be back home again.'

And so Marianne's dreams of making a good impression and being welcomed into the ranks of the nobility came to nothing. The only impression she made had been much less than favourable – had even been, it could be said, downright ridiculous.

After a hot and exhausting overnight journey, Marianne could not help bursting into tears when her two young sons launched themselves at her in exuberant greeting. ‘Oh, do be careful,' Nursie warned them, stepping forward to restrain them. ‘Mother is far too tired to be bothered with you just now.'

‘Let them stay with me for a little while,' Marianne pleaded.

Thomson, knowing exactly how her mistress must feel, said, ‘I know you missed them, Mrs Hamish, but you really should have a rest.'

‘Ten minutes … please?'

Left alone with her boys, she sat down and lifted them on to her lap. Ranald, always more demonstrative, flung his chubby arms round her neck and covered her face with slobbery kisses, while Ruairidh held on to her fingers as if he were afraid she might go away again. Her seven-week absence had seemed a lifetime to them.

By the time the nurse came for them, some twenty minutes later, Marianne was glad to relinquish them, and went up to her room. ‘I was just going to lie down on top,' Marianne protested to Thomson when she saw the bed turned down.

‘You'll take a proper rest, Mrs Hamish, or you'll be no use for anything. Come on, let me take off your things for you.'

‘Oh, yes, that's much better,' Marianne sighed, in five minutes. ‘I can't understand why women have to be tightened in so much during the day.'

‘It's to give us a decent shape,' Thomson said, frowning at the alternative. ‘Now just lie back and shut your eyes, and I'll bring your lunch up …'

‘Take a rest yourself,' Marianne ordered, so near to sleep that she slurred the words slightly. ‘I won't need any lunch …'

Thomson was smiling as she pulled the curtains together to stop the sun streaming in. She would wake her mistress in time for ‘Mother's Hour', when she spent time in the nursery while Ranald and Ruairidh had tea, then played guessing games before settling them down for bed by reading them fairy tales. Nursie, of course, did not approve of this – she was one of the old brigade who felt that mothers had no business interfering in the upbringing of their children – but Mrs Hamish didn't care.

Barely ten minutes later, Thomson burst into the room and ran straight across to let in some light. When she turned round, her mistress was alarmed to see that her face was chalk white. ‘What is it? What's happened?'

‘Oh, Mrs Hamish, it's awful! Mrs Peat died ten days ago, and the funeral's past and everything! And they say the minister's near off his head with grief.'

Her hand on her palpitating heart, Marianne exclaimed, ‘Poor Grace! What did she …? She never looked very strong … I'll have to go and see Duncan, he must wonder why I haven't been to offer my condolences.'

‘He'll have known you were away. I'll fasten your stays for you, and it'll not take me a minute to get myself ready …'

‘No, Thomson, it's best that I go myself. He'll not want anyone else seeing him if he breaks down.'

Pushing away the proffered corset, Marianne pulled on a thin skirt and a lawn blouse, then hurried out. To get there quicker, she decided to cycle, although it wasn't far to the manse and walking would have given her time to think what to say. This was the only one out of all of the duties she had to undertake that she didn't care for and she knew Duncan hadn't cared for it either. It was heart-rending to see the sorrow in the eyes of a man who had lost his wife, or a woman who had lost her husband. It was worse when a child died, although women usually bore up better than men.