The Jewel

by Catherine Czerkawska

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’

  He kissed her again, more gently this time. Maybe he thought he had been too forward. Maybe he was adept at gauging her response to him, any lass’s response to him. They lay back on the rough wool, side by side and then face to face. She had never been so close to any man except her father, and that only when she was a wee lass. Her breath mingled with his. He had unbuttoned his coat, and she slipped her hand daringly inside, feeling the cool linen of his shirt, his ribs underneath, his heart beating fiercely in response to her touch.

  Time passed. If she could have slowed it down, she would, although they did no more than kiss, caress, talk of this and that. Daft, inconsequential things. What Willie Fisher would think if he could see them now. What Sauny Tait, the Tarbolton tailor poet, would make of it.

  ‘Never mind Sauny Tait,’ she said. ‘What would my father make of it?’

  ‘Are you feart of him, Jeany?’

  She considered this, gazing into his eyes.

  ‘No. Not exactly feart of him. He’s never harmed me, never been anything but kind to me, never taken his strap to me like some fathers I could name. I just wish…’

  ‘What must I do, Jeany? To mak him like me?’

  ‘Be what you’re not. And I cannae ask that.’

  ‘So he’ll just have to thole what I am. They both will, your mother and father. For I’ll not give you up, my jewel, my Jeany. Not now.’

  ‘Will you not?’

  ‘Not for a king’s ransom!’

  She thought that there were two Mauchlines. One was the Mauchline of the kirk and Daddie Auld and her father: a little dour and dismal but kindly enough, as long as you obeyed the rules. It was like one of her father’s buildings, with each stone carefully fixed in place: a shelter to be sure, but quite possibly a chilly prison too. And then there was the other Mauchline, a place where young folk might wander through the woods and fields, a place of flower scented days and nights, older, softer, enticing, a place at once perilous and inescapable. Perhaps that was why the elders of the kirk fought against it all the time, knowing that it could never quite be contained, but that a measure of restraint was necessary and even desirable.

  He kissed her again, bracing himself above her, saw the alarm in her face, grinned, and suddenly got to his feet and pulled her up beside him.

  ‘We have plenty of time. I’ll not ask you to do anything you’re not ready for. D’you hear me?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘D’you trust me?’

  ‘Aye. I think I do.’

  ‘That’s good then. And I’d best get you home. Your father will be fretting that the Sabbath is coming on and his wee ewe lamb not safe indoors. Wi’ poets in the shape of wild beasts, prowling around outside.’

  Chapter Eight

  At Coilsfield

  My heart is sair – I dare na tell,

  My heart is sair for somebody;

  I could wake a winter night

  For the sake o’ somebody.

  That summer was the time of their first real courtship, during those long, light evenings and on the occasional even more illicit Sabbath afternoon, while she was meant to be learning embroidery in Catherine Govan’s house. They would wander where they pleased when the weather was fine, or take shelter wherever they could when it was not. Even the frequent showers never deterred them. Instead, inclement weather was an excuse to draw even closer together, sheltering beneath the dripping trees or beneath his plaid, wrapped up close, the scent of wet wool, flowers and leaves all around them as they kissed and kissed, taking each other to the very edge of sensation. Sometimes they would forget the time and walk for miles, lost in the pleasure of each other’s company, lost in conversation and the joy of proximity, hand in hand, or arm in arm. There was a kind of innocence about it and an intensity that she knew instinctively would never be repeated, and so she would try to hold onto it, cling to the moment. Later there would be a different intensity, the intensity of fulfilled desire that for a while feeds off itself and increases as it is fed. But the sharp, almost painful sweetness of those first caresses could never be recaptured, or only in memory. Often they would head south-west towards Coilsfield House, following the meandering Mauchline Burn to where it joined the River Ayr and then rambling along its banks towards Coilsfield and Montgomerie’s woods.

  Although they had done more than kiss, his hands ever more frequently fumbling to unlace her stays, or finding their way beneath her skirts, she was wary of giving herself to him completely, afraid of disastrous consequences, and so she resisted and he still seemed content to caress without forcing her to go further than she wanted. He was, in fact, a model of good behaviour and patience. One evening, when they were sitting on the banks of the Ayr, trying to avoid the midges that plagued them, she heard a rustling among the leaves behind them. Alarmed by the sudden disturbance, they both turned, half expecting some animal to come careering through the undergrowth, but instead a young woman burst into view, sobbing violently, distressed and clearly almost blinded by her own tears.

  Jean instantly recognised May Campbell. Rab had said that her real name was Mairead – Margaret in the Gaelic tongue – which was hard for a Lowlander to say. She answered to all three: Margaret, May, Mary. Jean saw the girl in Mauchline from time to time and knew her as a friend of Rab’s from his time at Lochlea, although whether they had been more than friends, she still didn’t know. During these weeks of their serious courtship, she had always hesitated to mention her, perhaps fearful of whatever answer Rab might give. ‘May Campbell frae Dunoon,’ was how Jean and her friends always spoke of her, with a touch of scorn. She was one of those lassies that the lads liked well enough, with her soft, compliant ways, but the girls were less generous towards her. And yet you couldn’t help but feel a measure of sympathy. She seemed one of life’s victims. Too trusting by half.

  Now, May looked distraught, with her long hair – the prettiest thing about her – unpinned and straggling out behind her, tangled with burrs and briars and a few stray petals, as though she had been pushing her way through the bushes, taking the shortest route to the river. Just as they saw her, she became aware of them and halted, her breast heaving with exertion. She was flushed, her face scarlet and shiny with tears. Her skirts were muddy, and she had a plain woollen shawl clutched about her.

  ‘May!’ Rab rose to his feet with a mixture of concern and dismay.

  ‘Rab. Oh, and Jean!’

  Jean didn’t know how to respond. Sympathy for the girl vied with irritation at the interruption. Her time with Rab was dear bought, and she treasured the few hours in the week when they could be together. What was May Campbell doing here, and what was wrong with her?

  ‘May, are you all right? What ails you? For God’s sake, lass!’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.’

  Rab took her hand, made her sit down between them. She clutched her shawl even closer about her, although the evening was warm, and rubbed at her eyes and then at her nose with the back of her hand, like a child. She didn’t look very bonnie tonight, thought Jean, instantly rebuking herself for her lack of charity, for her ill nature. Clearly something was very much amiss.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s gone! He’s gone away. He’s off to Kilmarnock and she’s there and…’ She paused, her voice broken by sobs again. ‘And she’s having the baby baptised. Oh my God, what am I to do, Rab? What’s to become of me?’

  Rab glanced from Jean to the distressed girl and back again. He seemed both embarrassed and uncertain. It was not at all like him. He stretched out a tentative hand and patted the girl’s bent back, looking sidelong at Jean, apologetically. She shook her head. What else could he do? The girl seemed so distressed. And she had been heading for the river, that much was plain. It was shallow and far from dangerous at this time of the ye
ar, but there were still deep pools called weels where it was possible for the unwary to drown. Besides, there were sandstone cliffs nearby, and if she had misjudged her route, she could easily have gone tumbling over. Perhaps that had been her intention all along. The horror of it seemed to strike both of them at the same time.

  ‘Lass, this is no solution.’ Rab seemed thoroughly alarmed now. ‘Whatever you were planning, this is no way out.’

  ‘Then what is, Rab? What is? There is no way out. Oh what’s to become of me?’

  May Campbell glanced up at Jean, seemed about to speak, changed her mind and buried her face in her hands again, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  ‘Jeany, I don’t ken what to do,’ Rab said suddenly over her bent head, his voice low and urgent. This was so unlike him that she was taken aback for a moment. He was usually so confident, so clearly in control.

  ‘What ails her?’

  He glanced down at the girl between them, absorbed in her own sorrow, weeping uncontrollably. He spoke in a low voice, hoping that she was crying too hard to hear him properly.

  ‘It’s not my secret to share, Jeany. Not here and not now. But you ken what’s been happening at Coilsfield, don’t you? I mean it’s all over the town. How can you not ken?’

  ‘You mean Jamie Montgomerie and Eleanora Campbell?’

  ‘Aye, I do. She went off to Paisley late last year, and the wean was born there.’

  ‘Her wean!’ May Campbell looked up at them piteously. ‘She cried him James after his daddy. Her wean and his, and now he’s gone for the baptism. She’s at Riccarton. And he’s left me! Oh Rab, he’s left me and I don’t know what I’m to do!’

  ‘We’ll think of something.’ He looked helplessly from one woman to the other. ‘Listen. When you’re calmer, we’ll walk with you back to the house. Here.’ He felt in his breeches-pocket and handed her a linen handkerchief, somewhat the worse for wear. He could never keep his handkerchiefs clean for more than a few hours together. They were aye covered in mud, Jean thought. ‘Here, hen. You dry your eyes.’

  Jean put her hand inside her skirts, where Rab’s exploring fingers had been just a little while ago, and took out her own, finer piece of cotton lawn that had been tucked into her pocket. ‘Use this, May. God knows what Rab has been using his linen for. Wiping the coos’ backsides, maybe.’

  She knelt down and patted the girl’s face gently, wiping the tears away, pleased to see that there was the beginnings of a smile on her face.

  ‘Don’t cry now. Tears won’t mend things. Whatever it is, if Rab says he’ll help you, then he will, you can be sure of that.’

  When she seemed calmer, they walked her back to the house between them. Rab had his arm around her shoulders, but she took Jean’s hand and held onto it all the way there, clinging so hard that her fingers were numb by the time they got to Coilsfield. They met nobody, which was fortuitous, only disturbing a few pigeons in the woods. The birds went crashing through the trees, shedding leaves as they went. As they walked, Rab spoke to May in a low voice, carefully and sympathetically, trying not to give away her secrets, very much aware of Jean’s proximity and, no doubt, her suspicions. They took her to the dairy where they were met by one of the other dairymaids, obviously concerned about her. There was a low cottage to one side where the maids slept and she was quickly hurried inside, beginning to weep all over again. Then the young woman came back out to them.

  ‘We’ll tak good care of her. She needs to rest. But where was she?’ the girl asked, her forehead creased with worry.

  ‘By the river. What happened? Why is she so distraught?’

  ‘Because Mr James has gone to Riccarton to be with Eleanora.’

  ‘Aye. We heard that…’

  ‘The wean was born in November, or so they say. Sojer Hugh got word. A fine big boy and they’ve called him James for his father. No shame. They have no shame, Rab.’

  ‘And May?’

  ‘Eleanora was away having the wean and hiding from her husband, and May was here, a daft wee lassie who couldn’t say no, could she? She’s been hiding it for months. I don’t think she even knew what ailed her for a long time, she was that innocent.’

  Jean drew in her breath, suddenly understanding, but saying nothing.

  ‘Poor lass,’ said Rab.

  ‘Aye, well, she lost it. May, I mean. She lost her wean. Hers and Jamie’s. Maybe just as well. But it was very late.’

  ‘Does anybody else know?’

  ‘No. I don’t even ken what she did with it. She went out into the woods, and when she came back she was bleeding and in pain. We’re all wondering if she even kent what was happening to her, she was in sic a panic. Up at the big house, they are too taken up with Jamie and the scandal. And there’s Charlie Maxwell threatening lawsuits against the whole family, and violence and God knows what all. They’ve barely even noticed one wee dairymaid’s absence from the dairy.’

  ‘No. They wouldnae, would they?’

  ‘She wouldnae be the first. But he kent fine she was with child, Jamie did. I’d believe nothing else. How could he not? Dear God, it must have been easy enough to see, for him at least. Even though she managed to conceal it from everyone else. It didnae show much. But she was more than seven months gone. And that’s hard.’

  ‘But the wean died?’ said Jean.

  The girl glanced uncertainly at Jean who, until that moment, had remained silent throughout the exchange. ‘Och, this is not for public discussion. I wish you hadn’t found out.’

  ‘It couldnae be helped. She practically tripped over us. And you can speak in front of Jeany. I’ll vouch for that. You can trust her. She knows when to keep her own counsel.’

  Jean hoped that she looked as trustworthy as Rab seemed to think.

  ‘I’ve tellt you. She lost it. All to the good as far as I can see. But she lost it, and Eleanora has a fine big boy, and…’

  ‘No wonder she’s distraught.’

  ‘But you’ll say nothing, you, Rab and you, Jean Armour?’

  ‘I’ll say nothing. I have my own secrets to keep,’ said Jean.

  Rab took Jean’s hand, pulled her close. ‘Listen. When she’s feeling a wee bit better, tell May I’ll do something for her. Maybe get her away from here. I cannae bear to see her so distressed. Do you think that would help? If she were away from this place?’

  ‘It might. But what could she do? Where could she go?’

  ‘Does she have milk? I mean has her milk come in?’ he asked suddenly.

  The lass blushed and Jean found herself colouring up too. How like Rab, to come straight to the point.

  ‘Aye she does. She had milk before she had the wean, and that’s hard on her as well. She thought he would look after her when the time came, but all he could think of was Eleanora. She’s binding up her breasts, but it’s hard.’

  ‘Would she come to Mauchline do you think?’

  ‘Where? You’re not meaning Mossgiel are you?’

  ‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘Are you mad? I may be a fool but I’m not that much of a fool, and they would all blame me for what is not my fault. As would the session. And then Jean’s parents would hate me even more than they already do. No, not Mossgiel. But I hear that Gavin Hamilton’s wee lad Alexander is in great need of a nursemaid. They say that Helen’s milk has all but dried up, that she can no longer feed him herself and that the coo’s milk is making him sick. May Campbell would be the answer to a prayer. And maybe a wean, even another woman’s wean, might be the answer to hers.’

  ‘Can you arrange it?’

  ‘Maybe. We must be getting back to Mauchline. Jean’s parents will be missing her, and I think there’s been enough scandal for one day. Tell May to leave it with me. But only if she’s agreeable. Tell her I think it’ll work out fine.’

  They set off through the gardens, taking the quickest way to town. The sun
was setting, and Jean would be late home, that was for sure.

  ‘I had no idea,’ she said as they walked, her arm tucked in his. ‘I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought. I thought she had her eye on you, Rab.’

  ‘Maybe she did. I used to see her in the kirk when we were at Lochlea. She’s worked at Coilsfield for years, from when she was very young.’

  ‘She’s very young now.’

  ‘Older than you. By two years, I think. But I’ll allow she has always looked very girlish. I used to have a fancy for her, and I used to think she might have a fancy for me. She’s a sweet, good natured lass. Maybe she did fancy me for a while. But her heart was aye elsewhere.’

  ‘With Jamie Montgomerie?’

  ‘Aye. With Jamie Montgomerie. Who is certainly in love with Eleanora Maxwell Campbell. And she gave birth to his child. While poor May Campbell…’

  ‘Has just lost his child. Does Eleanora know about May?’

  ‘I doubt it. And even if she does know, if she hears the gossip, what can she do but ignore it?’

  ‘What a sad and sorry business!’

  ‘I said to her, to May, why? Why d’you continue to lie with him whenever it suits him? She told me he was kind to her when first she came here and she was homesick. He didn’t force her. She said she couldn’t help herself. That he crooks his pinkie at her and she’s helpless.’

  Jean sighed.

  ‘You don’t believe it?’ he asked, pulling her closer.

  ‘I do believe it, but I’d think shame to be so weak-willed.’

  Those words were to come back to haunt her, as such things often do, but at that time she was still in possession of her senses. Just.

  ‘Maybe she’s faithful to him. Maybe having given herself to him she’s reluctant to break the vows she made,’ said Rab.

  He would always give a woman the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘But they must have been one-sided vows at best, Rab. It’s a fine thing to keep your vows when both have sworn to be true, but this is different. Poor lassie. What a situation for her to find herself in!’