The Shadow of the Sycamores (9 page)

‘But … what if he won’t let me go?’

‘Unthinkable but, should the worst happen, you will have to send my groom away and I shall welcome you with open arms when you arrive next month, all ready to take over in my kitchen the following morning.’

As Innes had foreseen, Jim Legge was sympathetic to Janet’s request, her trembling voice and fearful expression (both a result of her guilt at deceiving him) lending authenticity to the fiction. ‘Yes, of course you must go to be with your mother. It
was providential that The Sycamores’ cook left when she did. Now, you say you want to leave tomorrow. How will you get there?’

‘Mr Ledingham’s sending a carriage in the afternoon.’ Even as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. He could be angry at Innes’s presumption.

The farmer, however, was amused, not angry. ‘He takes things for granted, doesn’t he?’ he grinned. ‘Though I suppose it’s a compliment to me.’

Janet’s conscience kept her awake that night. Not only had she told a dreadful falsehood to Jim Legge, she’d had to repeat it to Maidie, who kept wanting details of her mother’s illness, so she’d had to concoct a few more untruths. It was awful. She had never sinned her soul in all her forty years, and now the lies came tripping off her tongue.

Not only that, she was having sinful thoughts. No matter what Innes had said, she knew he would make advances to her once he got her there and she didn’t know if she had the strength to refuse him – or even if she wanted to refuse him. The way he had looked at her that afternoon had stirred emotions that would be better undisturbed. She was remembering how she had felt with poor Tom Aitken – how his caresses and kisses had taken her to the point where it hadn’t been a case of not wanting to refuse him but of longing for him to get on with it.

The circumstances had been different with Tom, though. He had loved her and she had loved him. They had both been in their teens and he had been going off to war. There was an excuse for what she had done on that wonderful, special night but there would be no excuse if she fornicated with a married man – for that’s what it would be, not an act of love. Even an act of love would be a sin for them … in other people’s eyes.

Flooding with shame at the imagined copulation, Janet sent up a prayer for her own salvation.

She stopped, brought up short by what she was thinking. She wasn’t pure. She wasn’t untouched. Even if, heaven knew how, she was ever in a position to marry Innes or any other man, she couldn’t pretend she was pure. In any case, would it matter all that much? Did all men expect their brides to be chaste? What would happen if they found out that the woman they had chosen was not what they thought?

She gave herself a shake. What rubbish she was thinking. There must be a lot of women and girls who had gone down the slippery slope before their marriage. Letting a man prove his love was a natural thing, wasn’t it? And it couldn’t be unusual for that man to die or go away or transfer his affections to somebody else. So … there must be a lot of men whose brides were not pure.

This did not make her feel any better, though, and the following forenoon was an ordeal, too. Saying goodbye to all the decent folk who hoped that her mother would recover and wished her well in her new job, made her feel thoroughly ashamed but, at last, it was over. The trap arrived to take her away and she climbed up beside the driver because she couldn’t bear to be alone with her thoughts.

A month short of his sixteenth birthday, Henry Rae knew that he couldn’t hold out for much longer. He had made it quite obvious to everybody at The Sycamores that he didn’t want to get over-friendly with any of them – even Janet. Although she always took time to speak to him if they met, a rumour was going round that Mr Ledingham was smitten with her and he didn’t want to spoil things for her. It was a pity that Ledingham was married, of course, but his wife had left him and why shouldn’t he and Janet find some happiness together?

He, himself, had reached a stage where his evenings and night-times were becoming preoccupied with thoughts of the
girls he saw during the day. He hadn’t settled on a special one yet but he likely would. Which one, though? That was the question.

Gladys wasn’t too bad but, as always when he met a girl he quite liked, she was far too tall for him.

Daisy was a real bonnie wee thing with a sweet, heart-shaped face, wide baby-blue eyes, soft mouth – but long, flaming-red hair with a temper to match, not that she ever lost her rag with any of the folk she was looking after. Just the same, life probably wouldn’t be easy if he took her for a wife – yet maybe it would be fun?

Poll was about his own height but quite dumpy. Her hair was dead straight, usually tied back with a blue ribbon that was always in danger of sliding off. She had dull grey eyes and a mouth that was often gripped together at being teased. It was a shame the rest of them tormented her about her shape – the poor lass couldn’t help it. Maybe, if he chose her, he could make her stop stuffing herself at the table and her figure would slim down? Maybe all she needed was to know that somebody cared for her?

Nora was quite nice but just a bit too old – or was three years not that big a difference? She was couthy in her manner to them all, she laughed a lot, she didn’t fuss about her appearance though she was always neat and tidy – mousy hair tied back so that no strands could work loose, cheeks shining with cleanliness. Being older than the others, her bosom was more rounded, her waist more slender, her bottom trimmer, her legs more shapely.

Stopping to draw in his breath, Henry became aware of a new unaccustomed warmth inside him and he resolved to concentrate on Nora. He would court her for a good few months before he told her what was in his mind for he was sure she would make him a good wife and give him just the son he wanted. Then he wouldn’t touch her in that way again for he could easily have inherited his father’s … he couldn’t find one word for it but ‘ability to make babies’ fitted the bill. He had no intention of making his wife have thirteen babies or
even half of that – minus the half, of course, for you couldn’t have half a baby.

But, even if he knew several families with five or more children, he also knew some with only one or two so what did the fathers do to stop having more? There must be a way so how could he find out? Happy at having chosen Nora on whom to lavish his attentions, Henry fell into a deep sleep.

His high hopes were shattered about an hour after breakfast while he was mending the broken posts in the fence round the vegetable garden. Seeing the girl in question coming towards him, he tried to think what to say. She smiled pleasantly as she came closer but his tongue seemed to be fixed to the roof of his mouth.

She broke the ice herself.‘Aye, Henry. You’re busy, I see.’

‘Aye.’ He couldn’t leave it at that and suddenly he found himself laying down the heavy mallet and saying, ‘Not so busy I canna give you a hand.’

‘I’m nae needing a hand. I just need a puckle sprigs o’ parsley for the cook.’

He still couldn’t let the opportunity slip. ‘Would you like to meet me after supper the night? We could go for a walk.’

She let out a great roar of laughter.‘Me … walk wi’ you?’

Stung, he demanded, ‘What’s wrong wi’ me?’

‘You’re nae even the height o’ tuppence and you’re still a bairn.’ Having cut a bunch of parsley, she drew her skirts away from him and stalked off, still chuckling.

Henry resumed his task, bedding the new posts in all the quicker because of the force behind the mallet strokes. Only his pride had been hurt, however – he’d had no deep feelings for the girl – so he didn’t take long to calm down but he was soon to get a shock that put everything else out of his mind.

Mr Ledingham waited until the last straggler was seated at the supper table before saying, ‘I am sure that you have all been wondering what was going to happen about George Reid. He has been off work for almost eight weeks now and I am very grateful to every one of you for helping out in the gardens
when the need arose. I know that I was expecting too much of you with your own work to keep up to date as well but I was prepared to let the situation carry on until George was fit to come back to work.’

He stopped, looking round the puzzled faces. ‘Unfortunately, he came this afternoon to tell me that he wants to retire. He is almost seventy, after all, and his wife has persuaded him to sell their cottage and go to Glasgow to be near their son and daughter. Thoughtful to the last, he gave me the name of a young man, his wife’s nephew, who is willing to step in to the breach and save me the worry of finding someone. Lennie, you, of course, will take over as head gardener, with Bob as next in line and young Maxwell taking up the rear. That is all I have to say so you may carry on with supper.’

He sat down and there was a buzz of conversation as the others discussed this unexpected development. Henry was the only one who remained silent. He went through the motions of supping his soup and eating his skirlie and tatties but, in reality, he had no idea what he was shovelling into his stomach. He was hoping against hope that the Maxwell who was coming wasn’t Maxwell Dalgarno. If Maxie came to The Sycamores, Henry Rae would stand no chance with any of the girls.

Maxie – or Max as he preferred to be called now – was seventeen. He had grown much more than Henry over the years and now towered above him. His face was leaner and his muscular body was evidence of the hard farm work he had been doing since he left school. He had let his hair grow longer, making Henry envious of the blonde curls that lay on his shoulder. His eyes held a mischievous glint and seemed a darker blue than before, with a jet-black centre, but Henry was pleased to see that Max’s hands were quite large and callused. Girls wouldn’t like rough hands.

Before Max had been at The Sycamores for a fortnight, however, it was quite obvious to a saddened Henry that the roughness of his hands didn’t discourage the girls. Even Nora, who had spurned
him
and mocked
him
, was flirting with Max
and they made a striking pair, he had to admit. The man was about six inches taller than the girl – which was as it should be, not the other way round.

Even with that faint tinge of jealousy ever present, Henry still considered Max as his friend. They’d relive their schooldays and laugh at the fight they’d had over a girl which had resulted in seven of the best each from the dominie. It wasn’t long before Henry’s spirits rose. Max was there with him every single evening, from suppertime till time to rise in the morning, so he wasn’t walking out with any of the lassies.

Janet had been looking in to see her mother every day – quite glad, in a way, that there was no change for she had something else on her mind. Innes Ledingham had been a proper gentleman for weeks after she started as cook, letting her join him in his sitting room in the evenings but never saying one word out of place. They would discuss the patients – residents, he preferred to call them – or the weather or people they had both known in their young days or the failings of one of the staff. She had felt easy with him – she could laugh with him and it was good. But another element had crept in that made her feel quite uncomfortable – little hints here and there. Then the hints grew more specific and he made so bold as to suggest she should share his bed.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he went on. ‘I know you want to as much as I do.’

She was more than shocked. Her legs were shaking, her very teeth started to chatter and it took a tremendous effort to speak. ‘No, Innes,’ she managed to get out, ‘I thought you understood there couldn’t be anything like that.’ Her voice strengthened. ‘My mother always said a woman should never give herself to a man until he marries her. Oh!’ She broke off in confusion, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t. Not with her being so close.’

The moisture gathering in his eyes was evidence that she had seriously wounded him and his voice was low. ‘You know I would marry you if I could, my dear Janet.’

‘That’s just it! You’re a married man.’

‘In name only.’ He paused, then added, ‘Think about it, please.’

Sorely tempted, she had thought of nothing else but she knew that she could never overcome her horror of taking such a step – however deeply she felt about him.

Innes shook his head sorrowfully the following day when she repeated her refusal. ‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear,’ he murmured, gripping her hand and staring into her eyes as if trying to hypnotise her into agreeing. ‘I love you, Janet, with all my heart, and I foolishly thought that you loved me.’

A strange ache started deep inside her – he had never before said that he loved her. ‘I do love you,’ she whispered, ‘but I … I just can’t. Don’t ask me again, please.’

Dropping her hand, he said, perhaps more sharply than he meant, ‘Not until the two obstacles are out of the way?’

Because she had hurt him, she could excuse him for being so blunt.

It was Henry Rae who made the discovery – just two days later. After fixing a window blind that had been sticking, he decided to nip into the next room to find out how Mrs Emslie was. He hadn’t had time to visit her much lately and had heard that she had a very bad cold so he wasn’t surprised that she was lying down. Then it dawned on him that she should have heard him coming in. Her door groaned and creaked annoyingly no matter how often he oiled it yet she hadn’t even stirred.

Running out, he searched for a nurse and, when the death had been confirmed, he made for the kitchen and it was Janet who took him in her arms and comforted him when he sobbed out the dreadful information. ‘She was old, Henry,’ she whispered, ‘and she hasn’t had much of a life for years.’

‘Don’t you feel anything?’ he asked. ‘You’ve just lost your mother.’

‘Oh, laddie, it’s not that I don’t care. When you get to my age, death doesn’t have the same effect on you. She has been well cared for since she came to The Sycamores. I’ve no regrets about sending her here and I’m sure my brother will feel the same.’