THE TITHE
1910
Two weeks earlier
S he wanted her medicine. Surely it was time for the nurse to bring it? She longed for the wellbeing it brought and the sleep that followed directly. Oblivion was the only thing she desired, and the medicine the only thing that gave it to her.
The blind had been pulled over the window; it was dark. Why did the nurse not come? She could hear the usual evening noises of the hospital: doors being locked, footsteps in the corridor, the creaking wheels of the medicine trolley. Her medicine was on that trolley, in its little bottle, coming nearer. It would be here soon.
The door opened and she turned her head expectantly. But it was not the nurse with the little brown bottle and the measuring spoon. Instead, she saw Doctor Galway, and behind him, the trembling plumage of her mother’s best hat.
“Good evening, Mrs Buchanan,” said the doctor briskly. “You have a visitor.”
Her mother seldom came, and never in the evening. She strode with her usual confidence to the bedside and kissed her daughter briefly, then stood back and took off her gloves. “If you will forgive us, Doctor Galway, I wish to speak to my daughter in private.”
The doctor was about to acquiesce, but she raised her head from the pillow. “Doctor, I have not had my medicine!” she cried. “Do not leave me! They will forget to bring me my medicine!”
Doctor Galway bowed to both ladies. “I assure you, Mrs Buchanan, that nobody will forget your medicine. And I assure you, Mrs McAllister, that as soon as your visit is over, if you will just tap on the door, a nurse will come and show you out.”
He took his leave and her mother sat down in the visitors’ chair. “I know it is an inconvenient time, Anne, but I had to come,” she began, busying herself with finding a place to put down her handbag. “There has been a development of which I feel compelled to inform you.”
She was very, very tired, and her head ached unbearably. “Oh… It is not about Jamie, is it?”
The boy was a man of twenty-one now, but she still thought of him as her baby, the golden-haired darling she had kept by her side every day, until they had taken her away from Drumwithie and brought her to this place. That morning, when she had descended to the caves, intending never to ascend again, he had been going off to do his Latin with the tutor. Seven years later, he had no need for tutors. He had at last gained a place at the University. He was about to enter the world.
“Jamie is perfectly well,” said her mother gently. She leaned towards the bed and took her daughter’s hand. “The news, my dear, is of David.”
Her heart began to thud. Blood flooded her head; silver dots floated before her eyes. “David?” she said breathlessly. A wild notion had come to her. “Oh! Has he come back?”
Her mother’s head was bowed so low that only her hat feathers were visible. “No, he has not. He passed away a week ago last Monday.” She stroked her daughter’s hand. “He had been ill for some time, though we knew nothing of it.”
She stared at her mother. “David is dead?”
“I am afraid so. Hamish read the death announcement in The Times. He has gone down to Gilchester, the town where David lived, for the funeral.”
She sat up, fighting her fatigue, refusing to believe her mother’s words. “Hamish has gone to David’s funeral? No, you must be mistaken.”
Her mother gazed at her with a look of agony. “He wished to make amends to David’s family. They were cousins, after all.”
She lay back again, weakened by the onslaught of many emotions, longing more than ever for her medicine. So Hamish had gone to pay his respects to David in death, when he had detested him, and severed all connection with him, in life. She did not understand her husband. She never would. What was clear, though, was that her mother had waited until Hamish was away from the castle before bringing the news. Hamish did not know of her visit, and Jamie could not know either. “Mother…” she whispered.
“Yes, my darling?” Her mother half rose, the better to hear her.
“Is it true, that David has gone?”
“Yes.”
“Then there is nothing left but to join him.”
Her mother sat down again, her head falling onto her breast. She had her own griefs. What comfort could she be to one who had lost everything? “Do not say that, Anne,” she said softly. “Jamie is left. You must not forsake your son.”
She closed her eyes. “My son.” Tears slid from under her lids and down her cheeks. She felt her mother wipe them with a handkerchief. She smelled lavender on it. She remembered how this same gesture had comforted her when she was a little girl, when they lived in the vicarage, and Father was alive, and none of them had even heard of Hamish Buchanan, his cousin David Graham, or Drumwithie Castle.
Her voice rose to a wail; she could not suppress her anguish. She could not help herself screaming. Her mother’s arms encircled her, but no amount of consolation could stem the grief that flooded over her, through her, soaking every crevice of her mind and body.
David was the man she had loved. He, and only he, had woken passion in her. For so many unhappy years she had carried that memory, conscious that as long as he was alive in the world, he might someday return to her. But now, even that faint hope had gone.
She screamed louder. Screams obliterated thoughts. Tears rolled into her mouth and dripped off her chin. She choked and sniffed, unthinking, aware only of the pain of her loss.
Then the feel of the arms embracing her changed from silk to scratchy tweed. Doctor Galway was restraining her, speaking in her ear, holding her head against his chest while the nurse pressed the spoon against her lips. She swallowed gratefully. It was over.
Warm among the pillows, her body, and the world, seemed insubstantial. She was calm.
From somewhere, words floated towards her ears, but she did not respond.
She did not open her eyes. She preferred the darkness. David had gone away and there was nothing left. And very soon, she would go away too, and be with him for ever.
THE SLIDE
The rain did not stop. The ground, hardened by weeks of fine weather, could not absorb the deluge, and huge puddles formed on the driveway. Water cascaded down the roof, spilling in torrents from gutters and pipes too narrow to contain its volume.
By the following day, the relentless drumming had become the background to our lives. And still it did not stop. I spent the morning in my room, writing to Mother. How I longed for her! It was scarcely credible that I had left Chester House less than two weeks ago. But the event that had so fundamentally changed my life during that short time was the very one I could not write down: Jamie and I loved each other. I wrote of the weather, our imprisonment in the castle, the delicious raspberry pudding Bridie had made, and the wonders she worked with my hair. I asked dutifully after Edith, Susan, Mrs Jamison and Jarvis. I sent my greetings to the Reverend Baxter, and to the grocer’s wife, who was lying-in after the birth of her sixth child. I even remembered to enquire after the health of Sergeant, Mother’s thoroughbred, who had had a slight cough.
Then I sat back, chewing my pen. The little world of Gilchester seemed so remote, and its concerns so meaningless, I could not conjure it. In the forefront of my thoughts, as insistent as the rain streaming down my window, stood the figure in the pink silk dress, and Jamie’s gleaming gaze.
I left the unfinished letter on the table. Who knew when MacGregor would be able to get to the post office, anyway? Discontented, I went downstairs.
I found the Great Hall deserted. I went to look for Jamie, but he was not in the library or the drawing room. In the passageway to the kitchen I met Bridie. “Where is Mr Jamie?” I asked.
“Gone out, miss.”
“Gone out?” I was astonished.
“Aye, he went off with MacGregor.”
“When?”
“I’ve a mind it must have been about an hour ago, miss. I heard Mr Jamie and MacGregor speaking, and then they went out the boot-room door.”
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I had no wish to return to the tower room. I could not even see my precious view. All there was to do was plod on with my letter and think. “Very well,” I told Bridie, “I will be in the small drawing room.”
“Aye, miss,” she said good-naturedly. “It’s good and warm in there.”
I had no sooner opened the door than boots sounded on the flagstones of the Great Hall, and Jamie appeared, followed by MacGregor. Both were thoroughly drenched. The shoulders of Jamie’s overcoat were sodden, his hat dripping, and his boots and trousers heavy with wet mud. MacGregor’s boots, socks and kilt hem were equally filthy. The gillie’s face was pinched with anxiety.
“Cat, there’s been a slide!” announced Jamie importantly. “Some of the big trees have fallen!”
I gazed at him numbly. He had taken off his hat, and was rubbing his streaming hair with his scarf. “We do not yet know which ones,” he told me. “MacGregor and I tried to go down there to see, but it’s impossible. We shall have to wait until the weather lets up.”
His expression made it clear that he was thinking the same thing as I was: if the tree that had blocked the entrance to the cave had fallen away, the mouth of Drumwithie’s underground labyrinth might once more be accessible. Dread the caves though I did, I felt a tingle of excitement.
“The master must decide what to do,” declared MacGregor.
Jamie nodded. “I will speak to my father about it as soon as he returns this evening.” He took off his wet things and handed them to the gillie. “Thank you, MacGregor.”
When the gillie had stumped off to the boot room, Jamie pulled me towards him and kissed me. He was warm from his exertions, rosy-cheeked, his hair darkened by its recent soaking, but beginning to dry in golden wisps. I received and returned the kiss with equal warmth, electrified by the sensation, and we kissed again and again. When we eventually drew apart, in his eyes I read a sort of discontented delight, or delightful discontent – double-edged, like many of Jamie’s expressions. “You have done this!” he exclaimed.
The rain beat against the windowpanes. The wind rattled the frames. Bridie had built a good fire in the Great Hall, but I was still not warm enough and shuddered in my shawl. I wished he would take me in his arms again. “The Cait Sìth has done it, you mean?” I asked.
“Of course. If that oak tree trunk falls further down the glen, we will be able to get into the cave. Why would the ghost draw our attention to it if we could not enter it? She knew you would make this happen!”
Of course I had not made it rain, but I did not object. It was impossible to reason with the unreasonable. I gave a small sigh. “Will you kiss me again?”
“With pleasure!” He laughed, taking my face in his hands. But at the same moment, the door opened. Jamie let me go as suddenly as if my cheeks were red-hot. Demonstrations of affection were not permitted in front of servants, even in a liberal household like Drumwithie. But it was not only Bridie who entered. Behind her was Mrs McAllister.
“Grandmother!” Jamie raised his eyebrows in my direction while Bridie took Mrs McAllister’s mackintosh and left the room. “This is an unexpected pleasure, in this weather!”
Mrs McAllister eyed him coldly. “As if you didn’t know that we Scots are made of hardy stuff! I hailed the milk van as it passed the Lodge. I can do more good here than sitting at home in my room.”
I could imagine the “good” she intended to do. She was clearly aware that in such conditions, the doctor would not ride up to the house for luncheon, and Jamie and I would be left alone all day. Feeling disappointed, I warmed my hands at the fire. “Are you joining us for luncheon, Mrs McAllister?”
She sat down in the fireside chair. “I am indeed,” she said steadily, studying my face. “And then, Catriona, you and I had better spend the afternoon at something useful, and leave Jamie to his studies.”
During the next half-hour Mrs McAllister spoke more than I had expected. She behaved like an attentive hostess, at pains to keep the conversation flowing and superficial. She asked Jamie what he was reading. She talked of her own interest in Scottish literature, and told me, as Jamie had predicted, about the society in Edinburgh whose committee she sat on, dedicated to the preservation of folklore. When this subject was exhausted, she asked me what “useful” things I liked to do. “Do you sew, my dear?”
I had been taught to sew, but I did not care to do it, for usefulness or pleasure. “No, not really,” I confessed.
“Then do you have a pony?”
“Er … my mother is a far better horsewoman than I am. She keeps horses, but I do not have one of my own and, no, I do not often ride.”
“So you do not hunt, then?”
“No.”
“Ah. So what is your pastime, when you are at home?”
I glanced at Jamie. Intent upon the newspaper, he presented me resolutely with a view of the top of his head. “I like reading,” I told his grandmother, “and sometimes I play the piano, though since Father died…”
I had not touched the piano since my father fell into his near-death sleep. When he had still been able to sit in his chair, he had liked to listen to my playing, not because I was talented – I certainly was not – but because he loved me. The music made a connection between us when other forms of discourse were no longer possible.
“Then you are musical!” said Mrs McAllister triumphantly. “I knew it! Have you brought your music with you?”
I wished I had not mentioned the piano. “No, I have not. And please do not think I am musical. I only learned to play because my mother considers it a necessary accomplishment for a girl.”
“And so it is! Jamie, we must have some music lying about the place. It would be delightful if Catriona could give a little concert one evening!”
I could feel myself colouring. “Mrs McAllister, I must insist that you do not plan any such thing. I am an indifferent pianist and do not play for company.”
Jamie still had his head down, but he was looking at us from under his eyebrows, chuckling softly. “Well said, Cat! And you know, Grandmother, that old piano in the Great Hall hasn’t been tuned for decades. I have no desire to hear anyone play it!”
Mrs McAllister’s intention was to find me something to do that did not include Jamie. She could not have made it more obvious had she announced it. Undefeated, she leaned towards me. “Then what about reading?” she suggested. “Are you a novel reader, like me? Do you know Sir Walter Scott’s books?”
“I do not, I am afraid. But I do like novels.”
“Then that is how we shall spend this rainy afternoon! The library contains Scott’s complete works. You may read aloud to me while I do my tapestry. Catriona – a most appropriate title, you will agree.”
And so it came about that Jamie was allowed to do whatever he wished, and I was compelled to join his grandmother in the small drawing room and read Sir Walter Scott’s novel about someone called Catriona while Mrs McAllister sewed a cushion cover, her spectacles on the end of her nose. Every so often she looked up and gave me an approving smile. At last, she had got her way. And I was powerless against her.
“That will be enough for now,” she said after twenty pages or so. “Mark the place and we can go back to it tomorrow. Here, use this.”
She handed me a length of tapestry wool. I slid it between the pages and closed the book with relief. But when I made to stand up, she gave me a stern look over her spectacles and motioned with her needle for me to sit down again. “Do not run away, Catriona. I wish to speak to you.”
Dismayed, I waited while she knotted off her thread, placed her needle in the pin-cushion, removed her spectacles and put them in their case. “Now,” she began, folding her hands upon the work in her lap, “in the short time you have been here, my grandson seems to have become rather fond of you.”
I remained silent, clutching the book tightly between my palms to avoid betraying my agitation.
“You have made a profound impression on him,” continued Mrs McAllister.
Her green eyes looked at me steadily. She had something to say and was determined to say it. “Indeed, he is very impressionable. Perhaps more so than other young men. You see,” she went on, before I could speak, “he has not been much in the world. He has no experience of young ladies.”
I understood. She was telling me that he only liked me because I was the first girl he had ever met. This was undeniably rude, but to show myself offended would be to supply her with further ammunition. It would make me seem sure of myself, vain and flirtatious. “I suppose he does not,” I said blankly.
“Furthermore, he adores his mother. He does not see her often because the hospital distresses him. But he misses her dreadfully. Jamie is a loving boy, who has had nobody on whom to bestow his affection for some years. Is it any wonder that you have set his head spinning? ”
Astonished, I gasped. “I have not done anything of the sort! Truly, I would not know how to set anyone’s head spinning.”
“But you are aware of his feelings for you?”
I felt my colour rise, but kept my voice steady. “Mrs McAllister, I can only suppose what Jamie feels. He appears to care for me, yes.”
“But that does not mean you can set your cap at him!” All amiability was gone. Two pink spots had appeared on her cheekbones. “Hamish invited you here in order to set straight an old feud that is nothing to do with you. I would not have done so in his shoes, but he is the master of Drumwithie and may invite whomever he pleases. He did not expect you to…” As she searched for words, an idea came to her suddenly, setting her eyes ablaze. “This was cooked up between you and your mother, was it not? The instant she set eyes on Hamish, she planned for you to be mistress of Drumwithie. Do not deny it!” She was twisting her hands, creasing the tapestry, staring past my head, talking more to herself than to me. “And who would not exchange a modern house such as your father’s, bought with money from trade, for an ancient estate, and a real, inherited fortune? I wanted the same for my own daughter and I achieved it! She is the present mistress of Drumwithie, but the next one will not be you, Miss Catriona!”
The Devil's Promise Page 13