Jenny roused herself to be a good hostess. After dinner they had some music; Miss Lambert played well. The men talked politics, the ladies talked fashion, and by ten o’clock they were all ready to go home, for Galashiels kept early hours.
Archie Brunton had to linger. His gig had been put up in the stables and the horse unharnessed, so that there was a slight delay while Jenny’s groom got them ready. Archie took Jenny into her drawing room, drew her down beside him on the sofa, and said gently, ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Don’t lie about it, Jenny. You’re like a ghost these days, and even worse this evening than last time I saw you.’
‘It’s nothing, I assure you.’
‘If it’s business worries ‒’
‘No.’ As soon as she’d said it she was sorry, for it opened the way to questions about her personal life.
‘Is it about the little girl?’
‘Heather? Oh no.’
‘Are you ill? Is that it? Has the doctor ‒’
‘No, my health is excellent, thank you.’
‘Jenny,’ he said, taking both her hands, ‘please tell me. Please. I want to be a friend to you. I want to help you. Tell me what’s wrong so I can put it right.’
Silly, treacherous tears welled up at the kindness in his voice. ‘It’s nothing you can put right, Archie,’ she said.
‘So there is something, and it’s serious. Is it ‒ did you have word from Australia?’
She tried to smile. ‘News travels fast, doesn’t it. Yes, I had word from Australia.’
He made a guess. ‘It’s not business. Your husband?’
She gave a stifled gasp.
‘He’s ill? Been injured?’
‘No, no ‒’
Thirley came in. ‘Your carriage is ready, sir.’
‘Let it wait.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Thirley said, surprised at the sharpness of his manner.
As soon as the door had closed on her Archie tried to pick up the impetus of his attack, but he had lost his moment. Jenny had recovered herself.
‘You’re very kind to be so concerned, Archie, but I really must insist that though I have worries, they are my own business.’
‘I admit that, my dear. I don’t mean to pry. But when I see you look so wan and hear you sound so listless, I can’t bear it. If that foolish man of yours has done something to hurt you ‒’
‘Don’t speak of him like that!’
Archie grunted in exasperation. ‘How do you expect me to speak of him? He was never good enough for you in the first place, and now he’s gone cavorting off to the Antipodes and left you languishing here with a ‒’ He was about to say ‘dimwitted child’ but caught the words back. He resumed at once. ‘Everybody expected him back by now. What on earth is he doing out there?’
‘He’s … it’s business … you don’t understand …’
‘Then explain it to me. I only want to understand and to help. If you can prove to me it’s nothing of importance I’ll hold my tongue. But I only have to look at you to know ‒’
‘There’s nothing to know!’
‘Yes there is, and it’s something your husband has done ‒’
‘No, you’re wrong, you don’t know anything about it!’
His own experience led Archie to an answer that startled him so much he blurted it out. ‘It’s another woman!’
‘No!’
But the force of the denial told him the truth.
‘Ronald has taken up with some woman.’
Unable to speak, Jenny was shaking her head from side to side.
‘Good God, Jenny, that’s it! Nothing else would make you so miserable! That donnart man has taken a mistress.’
‘You mustn’t say that! I won’t let you ‒’
‘What’s he done, written to tell you? Or someone else has?’
This time she didn’t make any denial. She put her handkerchief over her face and wept.
‘Holy saints in Heaven! I never liked Ronald Armstrong but I never thought he was such a full-fledged idiot as this! Do you know how long it’s been going on?’
She made a muffled sound.
‘How long? Months, I suppose, because mail takes such a long time ‒ Jenny, is this what was troubling you last time I tried to get you to confide?’
‘No, not this, but …’
‘But this is worse. This is definite, I take it ‒ you could get proof if you wanted it.’
‘Oh, dear God, I don’t want proof!’ Jenny whispered. ‘I want it not to have happened.’
He put an arm round her in an effort to comfort her. ‘It’s no use asking for what can’t be. The man has betrayed you, my dear. And do you know what you should do now?’
She moved restlessly, to signify she was at a loss.
‘You should divorce him.’
‘Divorce him!’ Her reaction was shock, utter negation. ‘Divorce?’
‘Why not? I know it’s a big step, but for heaven’s sake, Jenny, he deserted you, he’s been gone over a year, and now he’s unfaithful. You have good grounds for a divorce. You could get an agent in Sydney to furnish an affidavit ‒’
‘But I don’t want a divorce!’
‘I understand, my sweet,’ he rushed on, ‘it seems a terrible step to take. But reflect ‒ it’s not such a blot on a woman’s reputation in Scotland as it is in England. Our laws are civilised, our view of the marriage tie is more reasonable. You could ‒’
‘I could never survive it ‒’
‘But no one need ever know about it, Jenny! Ronald is out there in the wilds, the proof for divorce could be sent by document, the hearing could be heard very quietly, it could all be arranged most discreetly. And then if you like you could give yourself out to be a widow ‒ who would be able to contradict you if you said Ronald had died in some accident?’
‘I could never do such a thing!’ she cried, aghast. ‘If I ever took steps to end the marriage, I wouldn’t want to lie about it! As to saying Ronald had died ‒’
‘But it happens, my sweet girl, it happens all the time. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, a Colonial funeral? The black sheep of the family is sent off to Africa or Australia, and after a decent interval he’s given out as dead ‒’
‘But suppose Ronald came back ‒’
‘Oh, we’d make it worth his while not to! It would probably end as a financial arrangement ‒’
‘But you’re racing too far ahead, Archie!’
‘No, I’m not! All at once I see how to set you free from that clod of a workman who trapped you into wedlock!’
‘He didn’t, Archie. You’re mistaken!’
‘Oh, you’re too scrupulous in your notions of justice to him. He’s betrayed you, Jenny, he doesn’t deserve any kind of defence from you. You should rid yourself of him once and for all. What’s he ever done for you? Made you unhappy, left you alone for over a year, and now he’s living out there with his light o’ love ‒’
She shook her head, attempting to free herself of his arm about her shoulders. ‘You’ve no right to say things like that about him.’
‘I’ve every right. I’ve seen you growing more and more unhappy for months. It makes me angry. If I had that man here I’d ‒ I’d ‒’ Archie jerked his head in anger. ‘Never mind, we’ll deal with him. I’ve lawyer friends who can help. We’ll shake him off once and for all. And then, Jenny my darling, you’ll marry me.’
‘What?’ she gasped in astonishment.
‘Marry me, Jenny. I love you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.’
‘But, but ‒ Archie ‒’
‘I know you think I’m a lightweight kind of a chiel. It’s true I’ve frittered a lot of my time away. But I’ve changed, dear, you must have seen that I’ve changed. And you’ve let us become friends.’
‘Friends, yes. But marriage; that’s an utterly different thing, Archie. I’ve never even thought of it ‒’
&nbs
p; ‘There was a time when you did, Jenny.’
‘Ah yes. Yes, but that was ten years ago, lad. And even then, if the truth must be told ‒’ She broke off, flushing painfully. ‘I didn’t love you. It was my duty to make a good marriage and everyone agreed you were the best man for me. So I worked for the match, I admit it. But there was never any love in my feelings.’
‘But there was something. You wouldn’t have thought of marrying a man for whom you felt nothing. You did like me, Jenny.’
‘I … well, I suppose I found you … pleasant, good fun, well-informed … But now those seem like a very poor basis for a marriage.’
He tightened his grasp about her shoulders, pulling her closer so that he could touch their cheeks together.
‘It’s enough, Jenny. And I’ll make it more ‒ I’ll make you love me. I’ll make you forget the unhappiness that’s come on you since then. Everything’ll be different. I understand you better now, I know how to be at ease with you, and you’ll learn to be at ease with me, dear heart, heart of my heart …’
Murmuring endearments, he turned her towards him and was about to kiss her on the mouth. She felt herself melting in the warmth of the moment, lips soft and yielding.
Then she felt him stiffen.
He was looking over her shoulder. His grasp relaxed. She turned to look at what he was seeing.
In the open doorway of the drawing room a small figure in a smocked flannel nightgown and bare feet stood watching them with sleepy eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
In the open doorway behind Heather, Baird appeared, hair in curl papers and dressing-gown dragged about her.
‘Mistress, I’m sorry ‒ her footsteps padding across the floor woke me but by the time I’d got out of bed she’d gone.’
Jenny and Archie had sprung up, Jenny in concern and Archie in alarm. Being stared at in silence by a tousle-headed moppet was a new experience.
‘There now, my precious,’ Jenny said, hurrying to stoop over the child. ‘Was it a dream again?’
The little girl’s head made a solemn nod once or twice. She twined her arms round her mother’s neck and hid her face.
‘Come along now, darling, it’s the middle of the night, Wee Willie Winkie will be looking for you. Come along.’ Jenny picked her up. Already sleep was exerting its influence over her again. She lolled like a rag doll in her mother’s arms.
‘Let me take her, Mistress Armstrong, and let you go back to your conversation.’
‘No, no, Baird. It’s time the house settled down for the night.’ Jenny, in the hall, beckoned to Thirley, who came forward with Archie’s coat and hat. The horse could be heard worrying its bit on the drive outside as it waited in the shafts for the welcome journey home.
‘I’ll away, then,’ Archie said. He wasn’t sorry to be going. The tender moment with Jenny had descended into bathos and he didn’t think he could reconstruct it. ‘I’ll leave you to think on what we’ve been saying, and I’ll come back some time tomorrow to continue our discussion.’
She made no demur. He bowed and took his leave.
As he drove home he was in a mood of exaltation. She would divorce Ronald Armstrong, she would be free and they would be married. He would take her to live at The Mains Farm. The furniture and decorations there were still according to the taste of his late mother, but Jenny should have a free hand, she could redecorate exactly as she wished.
As for continuing her interest in Waterside Mill, he wouldn’t stand in her way. From Bowden to Galashiels in his Stanley gig was only an hour ‒ she could be driven into town two or three days a week or, indeed, he himself would drive her, it would be a pleasure to do so, they would chat to each other as they drove, she about the weaving, he about the estate.
Her friends would come to The Mains, his circle would be enlarged by friendships with the new, enthusiastic men in the world of textile engineering and design. He would bring her the acquaintance of lawyers and bankers and landowners. They would be sought-after, the best host and hostess in the Borders.
He would even ‒ he stiffened himself inside his carriage coat as he came to this thought ‒ he would even take on the little simpleton. She was a pretty enough child. No doubt a good, patient governess could make something of her even if she never caught up with others of her age group. She might never marry, of course. Well, then, he would provide for her. He wouldn’t be a hard, uncaring stepfather. He wouldn’t hold it against her that she looked like Armstrong, with her tawny hair and wide-set hazel eyes.
And he and Jenny would have children of their own. He would have a son to inherit the lands his own father had handed on to him.
At this point in his scheming, an unexpected wave of sadness engulfed him. He could have had all this ten years ago ‒ all of it, and without the little halfwitted child to mar the perfection. Jenny would have come to him then a happy, eager bride.
But he hadn’t had enough sense to know that he had heaven in his grasp. His mother had always told him he was a fool but he had laughed at her in secret, calling her a silly old woman.
But she had been right to call him fool. He had wasted ten good years.
Jenny too was thinking of waste. Too wound up to go to bed, she sat by the side of her sleeping child and thought about what had been said to her that evening.
Divorce? But that was a waste of what had gone before. Their marriage ‒ hers and Ronald’s ‒ had had value and meaning. How could she end it without losing more than she gained?
It was easy enough for Archie to say, Divorce him, he’s no good. Archie had never been married. He had no experience of the tie that grows between two people who live together in day to day harmony, who love and disagree and laugh and mourn together.
He had swept her along with his words. For a moment she had almost given in to the comfort of his arms. To be loved and cared for ‒ it was so enticing, a siren song that called her. She was tired, so tired, of being alone without a man. She was no weakling, but she needed someone to walk beside her on this sometimes thorny path through life.
She had recognised honesty and truth in his tone as he urged her to turn to him. He really loved her. How strange that was! How the gossips of the district would adore to be told what had passed between them that night! Archie Brunton in love ‒ trapped at last, they’d say. And not by some speckless maiden with a great dowry, no, no. By a married woman with a witless child and a husband who had deserted her.
As the night hours wore on, her thoughts roved over her past. She saw herself in her girlhood ‒ the strict Huguenot home in Edinburgh, her father’s hands opening the family Bible to read a passage before they retired for the night.
Her upbringing was totally against any idea of marrying another man while her husband was alive ‒ her real husband, the man with whom she had taken the vows in church. In all the Huguenot community there had never been a divorce. True, the matter wasn’t regarded throughout Scotland with the severity it aroused in England, but it wasn’t approved of. And by Huguenots it was unheard-of.
Jenny wasn’t herself deeply religious. She had preserved the appearance because it was socially desirable, but often she found herself disagreeing with things the minister said in church. Nevertheless, she had been brought up to believe that a vow taken ‘before God’ couldn’t be lightly broken. To Archie it might seem an easy thing to do ‒ he might even feel that resentment or anger would carry her forward into an action for divorce.
But she didn’t feel anger or resentment against Ronald.
What did she feel? She was bewildered, stricken, unhappy. Frightened, too ‒ frightened that her life had gone awry totally and completely. She was lonely ‒ lone and bereft. Even Archie, with all his passion and his longing to help, hadn’t warmed the arctic cold of her loneliness.
Common sense cried out at once against this self-dramatisation. She wasn’t alone ‒ she had Heather, and she had friends, and her work. She had more, much more, than most people. She was independent, mistress of he
r own fate ‒ Mistress Armstrong, the moving force at the best mill in the Scottish borders.
But courage is hard to shore up in the middle of the night. She heard the wind whining in the trees on the hill outside, she heard the barn owl call as she hunted from the coach house tower, she heard a train steaming out with night mail from Galashiels station. Few souls were awake, and fewer yet with cares like those that weighed her down.
She was wakened by a gentle touch on her shoulder. Baird was at her side.
‘Mistress, why are ye no in your bed? It’s four in the morning.’ It was a whisper, so as not to rouse Heather. The maid had wakened and come to check on the little girl, only to find the mother still sitting by the bed.
‘Oh.’ Jenny rose slowly, stretching her stiff limbs and her aching neck. ‘I dropped off.’
‘And no wonder. Come now, mistress, come along to your room. I’ll help you out of your dress ‒’
‘No, no, I can manage ‒’
‘Ach, you’re fair dropping with weariness. Come now, let me help you into bed.’
Dazed and drowsy, she allowed herself to be led to her own room. Baird stirred the dying fire in the grate to give a little warmth. Then she came to Jenny, unhooked her bodice, helped her step out of her crinoline. With deft hands she folded the underwear ‒ chemise and drawers of French lawn, stockings of pale grey knitted silk, petticoats of taffetas edged with lace. She unpinned Jenny’s hair, brushed out the ringlet curls.
‘I’ll just fetch you a wee milk toddy,’ she murmured, after helping her into a quilted dressing-gown.
She tiptoed down to the kitchen. There the range was damped down for the night, and she hesitated to open it up, for the sound would bring Cook to see what was afoot. She used a small spirit stove to heat milk. She spiced it with cloves and added an eggcup of whisky.
As she carried it carefully upstairs in its silver holder, she was saying to herself, I’ll not let them wake her at the usual time, she’s to sleep in, she’ll be the better of a good sleep, for God knows she looks as if she needs it these days.
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