by Emma Fraser
‘Busy as always. It keeps him in London, I’m afraid. Our eldest son, Charles, is here and my daughter Dorothea too. Her twin, Simon, and our other son, Richard, are occupied in England.’ She looked around as if expecting one of her children to appear at her elbow. ‘There are other young people too, Isabel, so you shouldn’t be bored.’
‘I am rarely bored, Lady Glendale,’ Isabel replied.
‘Bored? Did someone say they were bored?’ A man appeared at Lady Glendale’s side. Isabel recognised him immediately. It was Charles.
As he greeted her parents, Isabel studied him surreptitiously from under her lashes. He was even more handsome than he had been when they had first met and a lot taller, topping her father by at least six inches. He wore his blond hair a shade longer than was fashionable, and Isabel suspected he knew it gave him a reckless, devil-may-care look. Unlike his contemporaries he was clean-shaven and a smile played across his narrow mouth.
He bent over her hand and she was aware of the faintest pressure of his lips through her silk evening glove.
‘How do you do, Miss MacKenzie?’ He raised his pale blue eyes to hers. She read admiration in his gaze and her heart cartwheeled. ‘We have met before, I believe.’
‘You threatened me with the dungeon, Lord Maxwell,’ she said, with a smile, pleased that her voice didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.
‘I know. I was unkind to you, and you must promise to forgive me.’ With a quick glance at his mother, who was introducing Isabel’s parents to a man with a well-oiled moustache, he leaned towards her and whispered, ‘If I’d known you were going to turn into such a beautiful woman, I would never have risked your anger.’
She knew she was blushing and, for the first time she could remember, she was speechless. Was she beautiful? But men said that all the time, didn’t they? She had no idea. The only men she knew were her father, her brothers – and Archie. And they weren’t suitors.
She turned away to hide her consternation. ‘This is a charming room, and this…’ she stepped over to a painting of a woman with a mischievous smile holding a small child’s hand, ‘…is truly a beautiful woman. Is she related?’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished them back. She might as well have called him beautiful to his face.
The implication clearly didn’t escape him. He grinned. ‘She was the wife of one of the lairds and was considered a beauty, although she had, shall we say…’ he dropped his voice again, ‘…a reputation.’
He widened his eyes theatrically and she had to laugh. ‘I like the sound of her,’ she said. ‘I confess I feel an affinity with women who do not conform.’
‘You are your own person, then,’ he said. ‘I, too, prefer those who can think for themselves. It’s so dull always to be doing what is right, don’t you agree?’
‘I do.’ She found she wanted to impress him with her sophistication. ‘Society is too rigid, some might say stifling. Too many believe that women exist only to be admired and looked after.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘I would like to be free of convention. Indeed, I have decided to follow my own way.’
‘And what way would that be?’
Before she had a chance to answer she heard the rustle of silk as someone came to stand next to them.
‘Speaking of women who spurn convention, have you been introduced to my sister, Dorothea?’
If Charles was good-looking, his sister was exquisite in a way that took one’s breath away. Her hair was a deep red that seemed to glow in the light from the candlelit chandeliers. She was wearing an emerald dress that complemented her colouring, and the neckline of her pearl-studded bodice – lower than was normal in polite society – exposed the swell of her creamy breasts. Her mouth was wide, her nose straight, and she had an impish look in her blue-green eyes.
‘Don’t believe a word my brother says.’ She laughed, holding out her hand. ‘How do you do? You must be Miss MacKenzie in whose honour we’re holding this ball. My only regret is that we haven’t met sooner. I don’t come to Skye very often, I’m afraid.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I find it a little tedious, don’t you?’
For a second, Isabel was tempted to agree. It would make for a more amicable exchange. But fiddlesticks! When had she ever cared about making herself agreeable?
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘although Edinburgh has its charm, I feel most at home here on Skye.’
Dorothea lifted a perfectly shaped eyebrow and smiled. ‘You don’t miss the balls and the operas? I find Edinburgh less to my liking than London, but at least it has some entertainment. Apart from dining with the other families from the Houses, and riding one’s horse, there’s simply nothing here to keep one occupied. Don’t you like to be occupied, Miss MacKenzie? But I have heard you plan to be a doctor. I could scarcely believe it. You must be very clever.’
Isabel was feeling increasingly gauche and wrong-footed. But she would not let this woman treat her as if she were an eccentric blue-stocking.
‘I enjoy my studies,’ she said stiffly. ‘As much, I suspect, as you enjoy balls.’
‘Please, Miss MacKenzie,’ Dorothea responded, ‘don’t take offence. I admire you. I sometimes wish I had something to feel passionate about, although I do find passion rather draining.’
‘My sister is easily bored,’ Charles put in. ‘She changes her mind from one day to the next as to what amuses her.’
Isabel didn’t care for the derision in his voice, but it didn’t appear to annoy Dorothea.
‘Would you excuse me, Miss MacKenzie? I have other guests to welcome. Perhaps you will come for luncheon one day. I should very much like to get to know you better.’ The glint in Dorothea’s eyes suggested she would be more interesting company than most.
‘Unfortunately,’ Isabel replied, ‘I shall be returning to Edinburgh shortly to take up my studies.’
‘Then we must meet there. My parents have a house in Charlotte Square and we stay there frequently in winter.’
She smiled again and left Isabel with Charles.
‘I thought the castle belonged to the MacLeods, but your sister resembles the woman in the painting so much that I feel certain you must be related to them.’
Charles pretended to glance around to see if anyone were listening, then bent to whisper in her ear, ‘It’s all kept quiet. The woman in the painting divorced the laird. She then went on to have a child – my maternal grandmother. Some say that the child was the result of a relationship with royalty. My mother can’t make up her mind if she wants it to be true or not.’
Isabel laughed, but before she could respond a hand cupped her elbow and she looked around to find her father standing beside her.
‘My child, we monopolise Lord Maxwell. I believe he has other guests to attend to.’ Although his voice was light, there was an undercurrent in his tone that alerted her: he wasn’t best pleased to find her talking to Charles. She wondered why. It wasn’t as if they were alone. ‘Will you excuse us, sir?’ her father said and, taking Isabel by the arm, steered her towards the other side of the room. ‘Would you care for some lemonade, my dear?’
‘Yes, please, Papa.’ She was perplexed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘if I did something wrong.’
He beckoned to one of the servants holding a tray. ‘You did nothing wrong, but you’re still very young,’ he said. ‘There are things I cannot tell you, but I would prefer you not to spend time with Charles Maxwell.’
‘I shall soon be nineteen, Papa. Many women are married when they’re younger than I.’
They took drinks from the tray and waited until the servant had moved away.
‘My dear, as you’re always telling me, you have no ambition to be married. Or have you changed your mind about your medical studies?’
‘I’ll never change my mind about that, Papa. Perhaps one day I will choose to marry, but that day is such a long way off, I can barely conceive of it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m not yet ready to lose my da
ughter to another man – if I ever shall be.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Dearest Papa. You shall never lose me, no matter how hard you try. Don’t you know that?’
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. When the dancing started, a mix of waltzes and Scottish country, Isabel was never short of partners. Usually she preferred the rhythm of the swirling reels and schottisches to the more sedate pace of the waltz, but when Charles claimed her for a dance and she placed her hand in his, it was as if she had entered a different world. Until now, most of her dancing practice had been with other girls at her school in Switzerland, but instead of the soft palms and curved waists of her friends, Charles’s hand was firm, his body hard and masculine. He smelt different too, his cologne musky and faint but no less appealing than the perfume women used.
As they moved together Isabel’s heart was pounding. ‘There’s a shooting party tomorrow. Will you join us?’ Charles murmured.
‘I don’t care to watch the slaughter of innocent animals,’ she said.
‘Not even birds? They hardly count, surely.’
‘I don’t wish to see anything killed just for sport.’
He twirled her around and the other guests faded into the background.
‘If you cannot be persuaded to join the shooting party may I call on you and your mother?’
She hesitated. Papa had made it clear that he wouldn’t like her to associate with Charles, even if he was the earl’s son. Nevertheless it was time he realised she was grown-up and able to make her own decisions. Yet she couldn’t ask Charles to the house in direct opposition to her father’s wishes.
‘I go out walking most days. I suppose if we should chance upon each other…’ She shrugged her shoulders, terrified but excited by her own daring.
His eyes held her gaze. ‘I don’t walk for the pleasure of it, although sometimes I ride out to look at my father’s estates. Happily they are near where you live and it might be that I shall ride that way on Monday.’
‘Then if we chance to meet, I shall not ignore you.’
The string quartet brought the dance to an end. It was almost midnight and time for the guests to depart. Charles released her and bowed.
‘I look forward, Miss MacKenzie, to seeing you again,’ he said. ‘Soon.’
Chapter 9
‘Jessie, hurry up and get ready. It’s her first, so it’ll take a while to arrive, but her mam says she’s been labouring since this morning.’ Flora’s baby was coming a little early and Jessie had been out on the far croft when her mother had whistled for her.
‘You go on, Mam. I’ll follow when I’ve finished here.’
After she had left, Jessie laid aside some cold mutton and potatoes for Archie when he came down from the fields and covered it with a cloth to keep off the flies. On another plate, she put a slice of clootie dumpling she’d made the day before and covered that too. Then she wrapped a shawl around her head and went out into the wind.
The McPhees still lived in a blackhouse, one of the few remaining on the island. Unlike their home and most of the other houses, it had no windows and the open fire was in the centre of the room, with only a hole in the ceiling to let the smoke disperse. The arrangement didn’t work as well as a proper chimney and the house was so filled with smoke it was almost impossible to see, even with the light from the oil lamps.
Although the wind was driving the rain in horizontal sheets, Jessie’s mother had cleared the house of the remaining six children and Jessie guessed they would be taking shelter in the byre. They would be cold and damp but there was no room for them inside as well as Jessie, her mother, Flora and Flora’s mam. Happily, Flora’s ill-tempered father was nowhere to be seen. Men didn’t stay about the house when a baby was being born – not if they could help it.
Flora was cursing under her breath. ‘I don’t want this baby. Get it out of me!’
‘Now, Flora, all women say that when they’re giving birth,’ Mam said mildly. ‘You’ll feel different when you’re holding it.’
‘I won’t,’ Flora grunted, through gritted teeth.
‘Hush now. Save your strength for what’s ahead.’ She leaned over the bed and, using her hands as Jessie had seen her do so many times before, felt for the baby. ‘The baby’s on its way, Flora. It won’t be long now. Could you open your legs so I can have a wee look down below?’
When her mother raised her head, Jessie saw alarm in her eyes.
‘Now then, Flora, you just lie there for a minute.’ She stepped away from the bed and beckoned Flora’s mother to her. ‘Jean, we need to get the doctor.’
‘What is it, Mam?’ Jessie asked. For all the babies she had watched her mother deliver, she had never seen such a look of fear in her eyes.
‘The afterbirth is lying in front of the baby.’
Jessie’s heart lurched. When that happened, it often caused massive bleeding that couldn’t be stopped. Her mother had told her that this very thing killed women and their babies.
‘I don’t know what that means!’ Jean cried.
‘It means she needs more help to deliver this baby than I can give her,’ Mam replied, her voice calm. ‘We need to send for the doctor.’
‘The doctor! We don’t have money for the doctor!’
‘Never mind about that now, Jean. He’ll come whether you have money to pay him or not. Now, who can you send?’
‘Hector will go.’
‘Tell him to run as fast as he can. He must tell the doctor to come straight away. Will he do that?’
Jean shouted for her son, and a scrawny boy with sad eyes hurried into the house. After a few curt words to him, his mother gave him a none-too-gentle shove out of the door.
Flora was writhing in pain, but her lips were clamped together as if she were damned if she’d let Jessie see how much it was hurting. Jean returned to the bed to sit by her daughter’s side and, taking a damp cloth, pressed it to her forehead.
‘What can we do, Mam?’ Jessie whispered.
‘I didn’t want to tell Jean but Flora’s bleeding badly. All we can do is keep her comfortable until the doctor gets here. She asked to get up and walk around, but I said no. This is one time I don’t want to hurry the baby along.’
‘How far apart are her pains?’
‘Three minutes and getting stronger. If the doctor doesn’t come soon…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I can do this for much longer, Jessie. I have little heart for it any more.’
Jessie took a deep breath to quell her rising panic. Although she and Flora had never got along, she wished her no ill. She had never seen anyone die before and she didn’t know how she would cope if it came to that.
Jean had set a pan of water over the fire to heat. Jessie found a bowl and tipped some in. She washed her hands thoroughly, using the carbolic soap her mother always carried with her, then dried them with the clean towel she had brought too. Jessie knew that this time her mother needed her help more than ever, and if the doctor didn’t arrive soon, they would have to do the best they could.
But as she laid aside the towel, the door opened and the doctor entered, bringing with him a lash of rain. Isabel was with him. Jessie hadn’t seen her since she had last been home on Skye and was taken aback by how much she’d changed. There was no sign of the schoolgirl who had once tramped the moors. Instead, with her hair up and her long dress of deep blue silk, she looked every inch the young lady. Jessie felt more in awe of her than ever.
She bobbed her head at Isabel, who smiled back.
The doctor peeled off his greatcoat and placed it over the chair. ‘Can we have more light in here?’
‘Thank God you’ve come, Doctor,’ Jean said. ‘I’ll light another lamp for you.’
‘You should go and see to the other children, Jean,’ Mam said softly. ‘You could take them to our house. Perhaps you could give them a bite to eat. Archie will bring you back later.’
Jessie suspected she wanted Flora’s mother away from what might happen.
Jean hesitated, but then, with a final whisper to her daughter, left the house.
‘What do we have, Mrs MacCorquodale?’ the doctor asked.
Jessie liked the respectful way he addressed her mother.
‘The afterbirth is lying in front of the baby,’ she said. ‘As soon as I realised, I didn’t touch her.’
‘Placenta previa,’ Jessie said, using the correct term. She couldn’t help showing off, especially in front of Isabel.
‘Well done, Jessie.’ The doctor rewarded her with a smile, then turned back to her mother. ‘You did the right thing. Many a woman has suffered from interference born of ignorance. Isabel, what do you know about the condition?’ As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the basin of clean hot water Jessie had placed by his side.
‘When the mother bleeds heavily it can be difficult, if not impossible, to stop it. I have read that delivering the baby through a cut in the uterus is the only way to prevent this,’ Jessie said eagerly, before Isabel could answer.
‘That’s right, Jessie.’ Dr MacKenzie gave her another nod of approval before bending to examine his patient.
Flora was so immersed in her pain, Jessie doubted if she’d been aware of a word they’d said. She hoped not, for her sake.
‘Open your legs, Flora, and let the doctor have a look,’ Mam said, helping her to spread her knees apart. Jessie took the lamp and held it high so that the doctor could see. She was conscious of Isabel’s perfume as she leaned over her shoulder.
Dr MacKenzie straightened and placed a hand on Flora’s abdomen.
‘The pains are coming two minutes apart,’ Mam told him.
Dr MacKenzie nodded. ‘I’m going to have to deliver this baby by Caesarean section and unfortunately I shall have to do it here. I’ll need help. Mrs MacCorquodale, if you could get everything ready for the baby – warm towels and so forth. Jessie, you can help with the anaesthetic. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you as we go along – it’s really quite straightforward. Isabel, you will be my assistant.’
‘Very well, Papa.’
‘I can’t operate on her on this bed. Let’s have her on the kitchen table with as much light as possible. We’ll also require as much boiled water as you can manage, Mrs MacCorquodale.’