by Joan Aiken
“Clanreydon had taken me and Pieter—as hostages for Nils and his papers. He—he had thrown Jannie overboard—”
“You were on his yacht?” Benet repeated as if he could hardly believe his ears. “Unchaperoned? You spent the night there?”
“Well, part of it at any rate.” She studied his face with curiosity, almost sympathetically. It was evident that for him she was now suddenly and permanently devalued. Poor man, thought Val with detachment, and tried to find an image for his dismay. It was like, she decided, it was like choosing the biggest shining strawberry from the dish and then having the misfortune to drop it in a cowpat.
“Benet,” she said tiredly, “I am sorry if you came here hoping to resume our engagement. But I must tell you again once and for all that we should not suit. Our—our modes of thinking are too unlike. I accepted you, when I did, for the wrong reasons. I was lonely—you seemed so strong and kind and reliable—but we should have been wretchedly ill-matched. I am sorry.”
“My dear Valla—I am sorry too. But perhaps, after all, you are right. Since we have been apart, I believe—I believe our ways of looking at things have sensibly diverged.”
“Yes, that is it,” she agreed, smiling. “You are so good at finding the mot juste, Benet! Our ways of looking at things have diverged.”
“However, my mother’s escort is still at your service should you wish to accompany her.”
“That is extremely kind of your mother, but I could not possibly go off abandoning my poor friends here in such straits.”
“Well—if you are certain—” He looked suddenly younger, unhappy, troubled, and a little ashamed of himself. “I am sorry to leave you like this. But I will disturb you no further. I most sincerely wish you well.”
“Yes, do go away, Benet.” She shut her eyes again, knowing that she had behaved badly but too tired to care. Then something occurred to her; she opened her eyes and called,
“Benet?”
“Yes?” he said, turning.
“Could you send Miss Warren to me a moment, if you please?”
“Miss Warren?” He sounded startled.
“If you please,” she repeated.
A few minutes later she heard soft footsteps and saw Charlotte Warren creep into the room looking big-eyed and apprehensive, despite a ravishingly pretty traveling costume of oyster velvet with swansdown trimmings.
“Miss Warren,” said Val, “I have an apology to make to you. Last time we met I was wretchedly rude and unkind to you—I was feeling rather unhappy at the time but that is no excuse—and, since we are not likely to be meeting again—since I am not returning to New York at present—I wanted to ask your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” repeated Charlotte, looking totally puzzled—though also, suddenly, hopeful—“I don’t understand you, Miss Montgomery? I don’t recall the occasion.”
“But I recall it,” said Val, “and I have felt bad about it ever since. Goodbye, Miss Warren. Enjoy your journey.”
She closed her eyes again as Charlotte, still puzzled, tiptoed from the room.
A longish time passed, during which Val fell into a doze. She heard; at a distance, voices, footsteps, the slam of doors, the clatter of wheels and horses’ hoofs. They’ve all gone, she thought tiredly; none of the others came to say goodbye. I must get up and help Elspie. But her back ached badly.
A tear trickled from under her lids.
And then she heard footsteps: quick, too heavy for Elspie. A hand was laid over hers.
She opened her eyes.
“They’ve gone,” said Sir Marcus. “I sent them off in my carriage. I am sorry you had to be troubled with them my dear—but the poor young man was so anxious to see you—and I feared my letter to you had miscarried—so I thought they might as well come with me. I understand that you have sent Mr. Allerton about his business? Are you sure that was wise?”
“The wisest thing I ever did,” Val said from her heart.
“Well,” he said, “I cannot pretend that I am not delighted. Och, Val, my dear, I believe you know my feelings for you? I was that cast down when I had your letter bidding me not to come back here—I believed that it was your kind way of letting me know that there could be no hope for me. But now I understand that it was because your brother had concealed himself here, I cannot forbear to try my luck—”
He suddenly came to a dead stop. His usual air of sardonic composure had completely deserted him. He looked defenceless, vulnerable—rather like Benet, she thought, touched and amused, under the joy that was flooding her. Speechlessly, he held out his hand. Without a word, she laid hers in it.
He stooped and kissed her. “My dear, I am the happiest man in Lammermuir. And the most undeserving! It was not I who rescued you from the ship, or sent those villains into the quicksand, or pushed Clanreydon over the cliff. Indeed, I would hardly know how to set about such business. But nonetheless, I hope I shall know how to make you happy.”
“Why, it is so easy,” Val said, smiling at him. “Next time you go to Baku or the Aral Sea, just equip me with a camel and take me along!”
“That I will! But still, I don’t deserve you. Or so Helen said.”
“Helen . . .” Val looked away from him and drew a long, sad breath. “I don’t know how—after loving her—you can see anything in me—”
“She could,” he said. “When I spoke to her about you, she said, ‘Why, Marcus my dear, you are really in love at last! And, although you don’t deserve her a bit, that girl will be the salvation of you. Mind you don’t let her slip through your fingers, now!’ Och, I was in such terror when that lawyer-laddie came to call on me (although I did wonder how you had come to love such a ponderous kind of a public-speaking fellow)—I thought I had lost you for good and all! So I decided to bring him straight here and learn my fate at once.”
“How did you get here so early? You never came from Edinburgh today?”
“No, no,” he said. “We spent the night in my house at Ravenswood—where I am going to take you back, shortly. Just for a wee visit,” he added hastily as he saw her look of protest. “Mungo has brought back Tibbie Gordon, from Wolf’s Hope, and some other folk are coming presently to help with the clearing up, so you need not feel you are deserting them. And Pieter can come with us, if you wish.”
She clasped his hand tightly, thinking about Jannie, and, as if guessing her thought, he said, “My dear—I know you cannot help grieving about the poor little child. And it was a dreadful thing—it is right that you should. But do not take it too hard; for Davie had told me that she might have had more wrong with her than just the ear trouble, poor bairn. She might not have lived to grow up.”
“Oh, poor little Jannie.” Val covered her face with her hands.
“Try not to cry,” he said. “Listen—I have another piece of news. I’ll not pretend that my main wish in coming here was not to see you. But I also had business with Mungo.”
“With Mungo? About his book?”
“No. I have various legal acquaintances who have been undertaking research for me, on Mungo’s behalf, over some considerable period of time, and I came to announce to him in person the results of their labours—in fact,” he said, “the long and the short of it now is that Mungo’s direct descent from Andrew Bucklaw Carsphairn is now established beyond question, and I came to tell him that he is the Master of Ardnacarrig.”
Val gasped.
“Mungo is? Not the Stroma ladies?”
“No, their claim was only valid—as they are well aware—if no descendants of the other line, the male line, were still alive.”
“Who was Andrew Bucklaw Carsphairn?”
“He was the auld laird’s younger brother. Lady Stroma’s uncle.”
“The one with Jacobite tendencies who left home. I see,” she said slowly. “And Mungo is—”
“His great-grandson.�
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“Did he never guess?”
“Mungo is a remarkable person. He did not greatly care. It was I who became interested in the name Bucklaw, who began to inquire and to ferret out people’s histories and write to correspondents in South America. But, now that he is assured of his claim, he will take his responsibilities with the utmost seriousness and will make an admirable laird. I am certain of that.”
“Oh, I am too! This is wonderful news! And I don’t imagine the Carsphairn ladies will be very upset—perhaps they may even be relieved to have it all settled? And Mungo will marry Elspie—oh, please bring them here—I can’t wait to see them—or, no, help me up, Marcus, let’s go to them,” exclaimed Val, scrambling off the sofa.
“Carefully, my dearest girl. You are as pale as a gean flower; you should have a dram of birk wine with a pinch of ipecacuanha, or some sulfate of zinc—”
“Yes, yes,” she said, taking his arm lovingly, “all in good time—but now let’s just go and congratulate Mungo and Elspie.”
She walked haltingly, leaning on his arm, as far as the kitchen door, and there paused. It was open. Inside, at the kitchen table, Tibbie was carefully sorting through a big wicker basket of broken crockery, putting the few uninjured pieces to one side.
Elspie sat in the rocker holding Pieter tightly; his arms were round her neck. And Mungo, standing in the front of the range, read from the Bible:
“They slay the widow and the stranger and murder the fatherless. . . .
“But judgment shall return unto righteousness: and all the upright in heart shall follow it.
“Unless the Lord had been my help, my soul had almost dwelt in silence.
“But the Lord is my defence; and my God is the rock of my refuge.”
He closed the book and stood with his head bowed for a moment, then, looking up and seeing Val and Marcus, came forward to welcome them in with grave friendliness, as befitted the master of the house.
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Joan Aiken
Joan Aiken was born in Rye, Sussex in 1924, daughter of the American poet Conrad Aiken, and started writing herself at the age of five. Since the 1960s she wrote full time and published over 100 books. Best known for her children’s books such as The Wolves of Willoughby Chase and Midnight is a Place, she also wrote extensively for adults and published many contemporary and historical novels, including sequels to novels by Jane Austen. In 1968 she won the Guardian Children’s book prize for Whispering Mountain, followed by an Edgar Allan Poe award for Night Fall in 1972, and was awarded an MBE for her services to children’s literature in 1999. Joan Aiken died in 2004.
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Bello
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First published 1976 by Gollanz
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Copyright © Joan Aiken 1976
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