The Laird of Lochandee (5 page)

‘Come on, sit beside me, Rachel. You will soon dry in this heat.' He reached up and tugged her hand, pulling her onto the grass. She wrinkled her nose at the feel of the wet material under her thighs. Propping herself on one elbow she struggled to spread her skirt more comfortably but Ross pulled her off balance. She landed breathlessly across his chest. He chuckled and cupped her face in his hands, savouring each kiss as he covered her features one by one.

‘I love this wee dimple best of all,' he murmured huskily as his lips settled at the corner of her mouth. Gently, he eased her onto her back and looked down into her face. His eyes moved to her bare toes, still glistening with water. ‘Every bit of you is perfect.' He reached down to cup one foot in his hand, rubbing it dry, then moving to the other one.

It was a natural progression to wipe away the droplets from her legs but as his fingers moved to her knee and back again, up and down, he was aware of the smooth white skin, the firmness of her limbs. Involuntarily his hands moved to the softness of her thigh, the pad of his thumb automatically massaging its silken skin. He heard her sharp intake of breath and looked down into her face, seeing her parted lips, the twin patches burning in her cheeks, her blue-green eyes fixed on his face, as trusting as a child's. But the swift rise and fall of her breasts told him she had all the feelings of a woman, all the passion he himself had been striving to control each time he held her in his arms. He buried his face against her neck, feeling the pulse in the soft hollow of her throat. Her cap had fallen off and he longed to loosen her hair from the confines its braids. Instead he kissed her again, and again, over and over.

His hands sought the places he had barely dared to dream of. Rachel had neither the strength nor the will to stop him. In the dim recesses of her mind she knew she should, but the desire to please Ross, the longings he had aroused in her, were beyond reason.

They were waiting at the boundary when Meg joined them. She seemed too preoccupied to notice Rachel's creased dress with the patches of damp. She was vaguely aware of the aura of happiness which seemed to surround both Ross and Rachel, but it only added to her own misery.

None of them wanted supper. Gertrude assumed they had eaten with Ruth and Willie. In the dim light of the kitchen she did not notice anything amiss and the girls hastened to their attic room, neither of them ready for an inquisition.

Rachel soon feigned sleep wanting only to relive the moments of ecstasy she and Ross had shared. Mentally she hugged herself with joy, hearing again the words Ross had breathed against her warm skin – over and over.

‘I love you, I love you. Now you are mine. I love you, my own Rachel.'

Her half-waking, half-sleeping reverie was disturbed by Meg's trembling body. Gradually she became aware Meg was trying to stifle her sobs. Rachel lay still, afraid to move. She sensed Meg did not want to share her troubles but her sorrow dimmed her own happiness a little. Meg was so kind and caring, surely she deserved to be happy too.

Meg knew she could be happy with Peter and his little family, but her mother was so vehemently opposed to the idea. She was wise enough not to criticise Peter outright but instead she reminded Meg of the burden of having an invalid in the house, of the extra work, of her own aging body. Her father never grumbled, rarely asked for attention and he had never lost his whimsical smile. His eyes still crinkled with humour and Meg wondered how a man could ever be a burden if you loved him. Did her mother love her father? Did she love any of them, Meg pondered with a bitterness which was alien to her nature. In her heart she knew her mother was trading on the love and loyalty she had always shown towards her father. He had always been a kindly, caring parent and she would never neglect him now that he was the one who needed care. Meg felt torn between loyalty to her parents and her love for Peter but as she sobbed into her pillow she knew she was reaching the limit of her endurance.

Chapter Six

W
ILLIE
'
S FATHER-IN-LAW
, John Landell, often brought a bundle of newspapers and magazines when he came down from the city. Cameron Maxwell and Ross liked to read them, even though the news was often old. Towards the end of July Ross looked up from one of the papers. There was a challenge and defiance in his blue eyes.

‘It's fifty years since the first Bank Holiday. I think we ought to have a holiday too'

‘Holiday?' Gertrude exclaimed, ‘I never heard of such a thing!'

‘Mr Landell's hiring a charabanc. He's taking Ruth and the children and two of his friends to the coast.'

‘Is he?' Cameron looked up with interest. ‘What about Willie?'

‘Mr Landell wants him to go too, but Willie didn't think he could leave us to do the work. Of course he wouldn't feel guilty if he thought we were having an afternoon at the fair.'

‘John Landell might have bought himself a bit of land but he doesn't understand anything about farming,' Gertrude muttered. ‘There's always work to do.'

‘Well I think it would be good for Willie,' Ross insisted. ‘I told him we could manage the milking. But it would be a pleasant change if Meg and Rachel and I could go to the Bank Holiday Fair. We could take the pony and trap. We would be back for milking.'

‘I shall be at the butter churn while you are idle. And who would look after the hens and pigs, and take care of
him
?' She glowered at her husband. Meg winced at her disparaging tone. How could her mother talk about her father and the hens and pigs in the same breath?

‘I will stay at home and look after father.'

‘Eh, lassie I don't need a nursemaid. Just leave me a bite to eat and pull the table a bit nearer. A change would do you more good. You look pale and wan these days. Are you well enough, Meg?'

‘I'm well, Father,' Meg assured him but her smile was forced. Rachel knew Meg was often restless at nights and she looked pale and weary in the mornings.

‘You would like to go to the Fair, wouldn't you Rachel?' Ross asked anxiously. ‘You're very quiet.'

‘I don't think my best black dress would be very suitable for the Fair,' she said diffidently, unwilling to disappoint him. ‘And it is much too soon to wear my muslin dress. Besides ...'she hesitated, reluctant to say she had no pennies to spend on the rides and coconut stalls and all the other pleasure of the fairground.

‘You can wear my grey silk dress,' Meg offered at once. ‘It was always a little tight and it does not fit at all now. In fact you may keep it.' Gertrude scowled. Meg pretended not to see. The grey silk dress was the one her mother had insisted she should wear after they came out of mourning for Josh. If Gertrude had had her way they would all have worn black for the rest of their lives.

So, despite clouds of disapproval, Ross and Rachel took the pony and trap and set out for the annual Bank Holiday Fair promising to be back for milking. Meg had no heart for celebrations but her mother was not placated by her presence.

The sky was overcast but nothing could dampen their spirits, just being alone together was enough. Ross did not have much money to spend either and for the first time he understood why Willie and Ruth kept their own cow and a few hens and a pig, why John Landell had insisted his daughter should have her own cottage and a bit of land. It was just as well that Ruth's father had enough money to be generous to his daughter and his grandchildren. They would have had few pleasures otherwise.

No one had much money these days but the holiday atmosphere and the music would have cheered all but the most melancholy hearts. After a couple of rides on the gaily coloured horses, Ross won two ribbons for Rachel's hair. Eventually they came to a stall selling sticky buns and one next to it with large savoury pasties.

‘Shall we buy something to eat and find a quiet place to ourselves?' Ross asked. His eyes met hers and Rachel saw the desire in them. Her colour deepened. Twice more he had loved her and each time was better than before. Her stomach seemed to turn upside down as her own desire quickened. She nodded, her eyes bright, her colour high.

It was a day to remember and they sang softly together as they jogged along the narrow leafy lanes back to Windlebrae. It was the first time Rachel had been away from the farm, other than the walk to the kirk. She was completely lost as the narrow roads turned and twisted and crossed over but Dolly, the pony, seemed to know instinctively which way to go and Ross claimed Rachel's attention as they jogged along with his arm around her waist.

All too soon the corn was ripe and the field of oats was cut and stooked. It was vital that it had wind and sun to dry it out and harden the grain so that it would keep until it was thrashed in winter. Several times in the next fortnight the rain came down in torrents. All the carefully erected stooks had to be moved to dry ground like so many Indian wigwams. Rachel felt lethargic. Her limbs seemed leaden. It was an awful effort to gather up the cows from the meadow and bring them in for milking, but at last the corn was safely gathered into two round stacks.

Two days after the harvest was finished Rachel suffered a bout of sickness. Meg rose before anyone else in the mornings to gather in the cows ready for morning milking. On this particular morning at the beginning of October she had just left the bedroom when Rachel swung her legs over the bed. The wave of nausea came as a shock and she reached for the chamber pot. She soon felt better. She was not one to make a fuss.

The next few mornings she felt slightly dizzy but she decided the mild illness had passed so it was a shock the following morning when a sudden wave of sickness came over her. She ran to the midden. She was thankful no one had witnessed such indignity – or so she believed. The same thing occurred the next morning but this time she managed to gain the privacy of the closet. It took her a little while to recover. Ross and Meg had almost finished milking their second cow when she returned to the byre. Ross grinned.

‘Hello, sleepyhead. Did you curl up and go back to sleep?' he teased. Rachel gave him a wan smile and got on with the milking. She felt much better by breakfast time, though her stomach was still doing minor somersaults. She ate her porridge slowly unaware of Gertrude's watchful stare.

Later in the day Gertrude harnessed the pony and yoked it into the trap, her mouth pursed into grim satisfaction.

‘I expect she has gone to the Manse to see the minister,' Cameron said in reply to Meg's query. It was rare for Gertie to leave the farm except on market day. That evening, when Ross and Meg and Rachel had gone to bed, Gertrude reached for the stand which held her pen and ink bottle and drew out two thick sheets of writing paper. She seated herself at the kitchen table and drew the oil lamp close.

‘Why are you writing letters at this time of night?' Cameron asked sleepily. His voice was more slurred than usual. Gertie did not answer. She had given him twice the usual amount of medicine which Doctor Jardine had prescribed. She knew he would sleep soundly until morning, and he would probably be drowsy well into the day. She proceeded to write two letters, stopping every now and then to consider. One was for Ross, though she had no intention of letting him read it until he was many miles from Windlebrae. The other was to her half-cousin, Jim MacDonald, a further explanation of the telegram she had sent him that afternoon.

Since the first morning she had heard Rachel vomiting in the room above, her mind had been in a ferment of speculation, her eyes sharp, her ears alert. Cameron had foisted two unwanted people on her. Now they had both played into her hands. Her brain schemed furiously in preparation for one final step to banish them from her life forever.

Gertrude was up early. As soon as Ross and Meg had gone to the byre she hurried up the narrow stairs to the attic room. She tapped on Rachel's door but she did not wait for a reply. Rachel was startled at her entrance. Her stomach was churning with the dreadful nausea. She was beginning to dread wakening. She could not understand it. All her life she had been healthy.

‘A-am I late for the milking?' she gasped in alarm.

‘No, no.' Gertrude crossed to the other side of the bed. The autumn morning was still dark and the tiny window shed little light. She held up the lamp and looked down at Rachel, hiding her malice behind a sympathetic tone.

‘I've noticed you have been a bit pale lately, lass. Maybe you are too young for so much work …'

‘Oh no,' Rachel protested. ‘I am used to working.'

‘Then maybe it's something else that ails you? I've noticed you're a mite sickly, especially in the mornings.' Rachel stared at her in amazement. The soft voice was so unfamiliar.

‘I hope I did not offend you, if you saw …'

‘I've seen bairns o' my own being sick before. I've come to tell you to take a rest. I will go to the milking this morning in your place.'

‘Oh, but I couldn't possibly do that!' Rachel made to swing her legs over the bed. The awful nausea made her head swim. It was a relief when Mistress Maxwell's hand on her shoulder pressed her back against the pillows.

‘Now you stay there until I come and tell you to get up. We don't want you falling sick with the winter coming on, do we?'

‘N-no,' Rachel stammered in bewilderment, but she was thankful to sink back against her pillows. Gertrude nodded.

‘Remember, you stay here until I tell you to get up.'

Gertrude closed the door firmly behind her. Rachel did not hear the key turn in the lock. She felt exhausted enough to sleep for a week. Gertrude crossed the narrow space to Ross's door and reached for the leather case from the back of the cupboard. She packed a night shirt and a change of clothes from Ross's chest. She took his tweed suit and a clean shirt over her arm and carried them all to the kitchen, then she added the letters and locked the case. She hurried out to help with the milking.

‘Where's Rachel?' Ross asked immediately.

‘I'm taking her place today. The poor lassie is not very well.' Ross was surprised at her apparent sympathy. He smiled warmly.

‘She was a bit pale and quiet yesterday morning.'

‘Yes, she has not been her usual self,' Meg agreed. ‘Perhaps she has been working too hard with the harvest taking so long to bring in.'

‘We had better get on with the milking,' Gertrude said briskly. ‘I have a lot to do today. Meg, I want you to take a basket of eggs over to Mrs McNaught straight after breakfast. She's going to send me a sitting of duck eggs in exchange.'

‘But I thought you were getting them ready for next week.'

‘No, you must go today. They are all ready. Go straight after breakfast.' Meg nodded resignedly. It was no use arguing with her mother, but she knew for certain that the exchange of eggs had been planned for next week.

There were still three more cows to milk when Gertrude followed Ross to the dairy. She watched him empty his pail of milk over the ridged water cooler.

‘I've a surprise for you, Ross – a telegram. You remember Jim MacDonald, my second cousin, who farms near the Border?'

‘Yes, I remember him,' Ross frowned, ‘Is he coming back to visit?'

‘No. There's a farm on his estate to rent. He wants you to go and have a look at it. It's a fine opportunity for a fit young man. It's being offered rent free for the first year.' She hoped it was still vacant. ‘He will meet you at Lockerbie station today.'

‘Today?' Ross echoed in dismay. ‘I can't go today.'

‘Yes, you can. If you take the milk to the station instead of Willie you can travel on the milk train to Kilmarnock. Jim travelled from there down to Dumfries, and then to Lockerbie.'

‘But who will bring back the pony and trap from the station?'

‘Ach, you know as well as I do that Dolly could find her way home from the station blindfold.'

‘We-ell that's true, I suppose,' Ross agreed slowly.

‘I have not said anything to your father. You know Doctor Jardine said he should not get upset or too excited. Time enough for that when you have seen the place and had time to consider. Jim will give you lodgings. I've packed the suitcase with a few things for you. Your suit is in the kitchen. You can change in the wee back room as soon as you've had your porridge. That way you will not disturb your father or waken poor Rachel.'

‘Rachel. I must talk to her …'

‘You can talk when you return. She will be better by then. Don't dally or you'll be late.' Gertrude reverted to her usual abrupt manner. She was tense with the effort of planning.

Ross was astonished by her encouragement. He had believed she would thwart any opportunity he might ever have to farm on his own. Excitement rose in him but he wished he could tell Rachel. She was too young to marry yet, but if he could establish himself as a tenant farmer he could take a wife sooner than he had dreamed possible. He wanted her at his side more than anyone else in the world. She had dispelled the isolation he had often felt, even within his family. They laughed together and talked together, they were friends as well as lovers. All his thoughts were on Rachel and their future as he blindly followed the plans Gertrude had made for him.

Cameron was still sound asleep when Meg came for her breakfast.

‘Is Father ill too?' she asked in concern.

‘Just a bad night,' Gertrude mumbled. ‘If you've finished eating you can get away with the eggs. It's a long walk across the fields and you will have to go carefully and not chip any.'

Meg shook her head, her mother talked as though she was still a little girl of three instead of a grown woman. She sighed. She was getting old. Her thoughts were melancholy as she set out across the fields, pulling her shawl closer against the October chill. There was a damp mist in the air. She was certain it would turn to rain long before she returned.