They had met Niel Gow, the fiddler, on their travels, and Rab was thinking about song writing and song collecting. He loved the old songs of Scotland and wanted to find some way of preserving them. Did he miss her singing, she wondered. He returned to Edinburgh via Fife, where Jean’s mother had relatives, ostensibly visiting the people who had subscribed to his books. He was also picking up traditional songs along the way, tinkering with them, making them even more beautiful. This was the way the tradition worked. Nothing was ever set in stone. The songs of the people grew and changed shape all the time. But he was becoming a master of the art. He wrote a song about his love being like a red, red rose and sent it to the family in Mossgiel. Jean recognised bits of it, phrases, images that she had sung to him herself, parts of other old songs. Rab’s sister, Isabella, told Jean that he had written that Jean might like this, might like to sing it because it would very much suit her voice.
‘He said to be sure and tell you. He was most particular about it,’ added Isabella.
It was to be sung to a new tune by Niel Gow, called Major Graham of Inchbrakie’s Strathspey, and he would play it over to them some time on the fiddle. Jean wondered if the celebrated fiddler had played it to Rab when they had met. But it would only be later that she learned the melody for herself and saw how it suited her voice, in particular, what Rab called the ‘wild irregularity’ of it, those soaring and dipping notes of which she was so eminently capable. O my luve’s like a red red rose, that’s newly sprung in June, and my love’s like the melodie, that’s sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, sae deep in luve am I, and I will luve thee still, my dear, till a’ the sea’s gang dry. Did he love her still, or was it just for the sake of the song? He would profess to almost anything for the sake of a poem or a song.
She had never liked October much, hating the storms that would rampage in from the west, the storms that had proved so troublesome for May Campbell on her last sea voyage. The end of summer brought a settled sadness in its wake. She often thought that she would fly away with the birds, if she could.
The daft thing was that she had wanted to take the wee girl with her. Wanted to take her out to Mossgiel. She had promised to go and visit Robbie, but it was a foul day, one of the first real days of winter, for all that it was only October, wet and windy with clouds like bruises filling the sky and the road ankle deep in mud. She liked to keep her promises, so she said she would go for an hour or two, at any rate. But her mother had persuaded her to leave Jeany behind, persuaded her that she would be much better off in the house. She wouldn’t want the child to catch a chill, would she? So she had kissed her little daughter, wrapped herself in a cloak and set off for Mossgiel. Had there been an inkling of disaster? A premonition? She didn’t think so. She had been cold and wet enough by the time she got there, but they had made her welcome as usual, drying her muddy shoes and her cloak by the fire, making tea, probably brought by Rab from Edinburgh, and a slice of tart made with that autumn’s apples and a few late brambles to go with it. Rab was well, they said, and was speaking of coming to visit. He had moved to the New Town, and he had rented a very nice room there. She thought it would be a good thing that he was coming home, because she needed to see him – she had news for him, something she must tell him as soon as possible, although she had said nothing to anyone else about it. Not yet.
And then Willie Patrick was hammering on the door, panting for breath, having run all the way from Mauchline where he had been sent on an errand earlier that day, saying, ‘Jeany, Jeany, you’re to come home wi me the now. Something’s happened. Something terrible!’
Nobody could say for certain how it had happened. The wean was walking well, only a scant two months after her first birthday, up on her feet and toddling about. But unsteady for all that. Not quite sure footed enough yet but quick in her movements and curious. Very curious. The fire in the kitchen grate fascinated her, but she couldn’t reach it with any ease, and they kept an eye on her, kept her away from it. But Mary Armour had been putting more coals on the fire that was smoking wretchedly because of the way the wind was blowing. She had left a big black pot of hot water hanging on the swee, swung out to one side while she did it. And wee Jeany had been able to reach that all right, had toddled over in an instant, reached up and pulled the whole of it over on top of herself. Afterwards, Jean was glad she had not heard the screams, because she would never have been rid of them, all the days that remained to her. Sometimes she fancied she could hear them in her mind although she had not been there. Willie Patrick’s father, the cobbler, came rushing along the street to help. They summoned Doctor Mackenzie and he did what he could, which was little enough. The pains seemed to subside after a while, but the child died a few days later, her skin so red and raw and peeling that Jean couldn’t even hold her in her arms until after she was dead.
Word had already reached Rab. Jean could barely speak, let alone write, too shocked and sad even to cry. Mary blamed herself and wept ceaselessly in between busying herself with her own young children, while poor James, who had loved his little granddaughter most sincerely, took himself to the kirk and stayed there, praying, night and day. And when that didn’t help, he crossed the road to the Whitefoord Arms and drank. But Daddie Auld came and took him back to the kirk after a while and spoke to him, and then he came home and went back to work. There were other mouths to feed. However you felt in yourself, the living were more important than the dead. The house was quiet, the atmosphere heavy with mourning. Children died all the time. Mary and James had lost children. But this was different. They all knew that this shouldn’t have happened, that it could have been prevented. They all feared Rab, if the truth be told. He would be so angry. Toweringly angry. Mackenzie took it upon himself to write to him, explaining what had happened as clearly and sympathetically as he could. How it was an accident. He had seen this happen on other occasions too. Most doctors had. The house could be a dangerous place for toddling weans. Jean was certainly not to blame. She hadn’t even been there. She had been visiting Robbie. And as for Mary … there had been a moment’s inattention. A moment’s distraction. That was all it took. If she could call the moment back, she would.
But the damage was done, and in more ways than one.
If Rab had been only intermittently concerned for Jean before, he seemed doubly indifferent now, although he had written to another friend that he was a ‘girl out of pocket and by careless, murdering mischance too,’ the casual phrases disguising the cold rage that lay underneath. Mackenzie spoke to Jean about it, gravely, cautiously. He had heard something similar from Robert, loved the man like a brother and was worried about him.
‘This is how Rab responds, you see. When something goes too deep. I’m very alarmed for him. He suffers in winter you know, and this won’t help him. I wish he were back here. I could wish, Jeany, that you and he were safely married. I think that would be best for him, you know, even now. Even with this tragedy hanging over the two of you.’
She had not wept properly, not even at the dreadful funeral, with the tiny coffin, and the disapproving or sympathetic murmurs of the few members of the congregation who could bring themselves to attend. Daddie Auld had been as kind to her as he could be. There had been unaccustomed tears in his eyes. But even he seemed to be appalled by the magnitude of what had happened. Nobody wanted to talk about it because nobody knew what to say about it. And all of them were wondering what Rab might say or do when he came back from Edinburgh, Rab who was aye fond of his weans, the fondest of fathers. It was as though they had tried to bury it all with the child. Even Rab seemed to have done that. Because if he allowed himself to dwell on it too closely, it would overwhelm him with grief and fury and he might drown.
‘I could wish it too,’ said Jean. ‘Could wish that we were safely married. And for more than one reason.’
Mackenzie gazed at her, wondering what she meant, and then quite suddenly realising the significance of it.
She had come to his house in the Back Causeway opposite Nance Tinnock’s change house. Needing to tell somebody, and who but a doctor? A doctor Rab had once – in fun to be sure – named ‘Common Sense.’ But she couldn’t speak to him at home so she had come here.
‘What other reason would there be?’ he asked, frowning. And then, ‘Oh Jean, you’re not are you?’
‘I may well be.’
She had tried to ignore the signs all over again, tried to put them to the back of her mind. She knew it was foolish but she couldn’t help herself. After the twins were born and while she was feeding them, her body had taken some time to return to its normal monthly rhythm. So she hadn’t thought about it much. But she hadn’t been feeding any infant for months now, and she could fool herself no longer. The signs, the feelings, the sickness – so hard to hide from her mother – the changes in her body were unmistakable. She was carrying Rab Mossgiel’s child again.
‘How could this happen?’ He broke into her thoughts.
‘In the usual way, Doctor Mackenzie. You should ken that, a man of your profession. What other way would there be?’
He shook his head. ‘When did it happen? He’s hardly been here!’
He seemed faintly exasperated, but she thought it was with his friend, rather than with her. He didn’t once doubt her, knew exactly who the father must be.
‘In July I think. Well, I know full well. It must have been very late in July. I had not been alone with him before that, and I have not seen him since. It was just the once.’
‘That’s all it takes, Jean. Just the once.’
‘He came home and he came to see me, and to see my poor wee Jeany.’ Her breath caught in a sob. ‘And he was very kind to me back then.’
‘But he didn’t come back when your girl died. Even though I wrote to him. And I’m certain others must have written to him as well.’
She shuddered, shook her head. ‘No. I think he would not. He was so angry. I’m sure he was so angry that he kept away for fear he would hurt somebody. He blamed my mother and my father. Still does, I think.’
‘But not you, I hope. You were not even there.’
‘I don’t ken. Maybe he does blame me. Maybe I am to blame.’
‘You mustn’t think that way, Jean. Does anyone else know about this? Has anyone else noticed that you’re with child?’ He was wondering how on earth he could help her.
‘I don’t think so. Not my parents. Too much has been going on in our house. My mother can barely look at me in any case, for fear that she sees accusation in my face. But she’s not to blame. It could have happened even if I’d been there.’
‘You’re a good girl, Jeany. A good, kindly girl. And I could wish your man … ah well, let’s leave that aside for the moment. What about the kirk session? They were interested in your condition soon enough last time, weren’t they?’
‘They were, but they have noticed nothing. They suspect nothing. Why should they? As far as they ken, Rab’s been gone for months and there’s been no other man. Good God! Once it’s kent in the parish they’ll think me little better than a whore. I’ve no proof that he’s the father, even though he is. If he denies it, I’ll be no better than Racer Jess in their eyes!’
He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re moving too far ahead. Rab is not a man to deny his own child. You of all people must know that.’
‘I would have said that before, but now? I think he hates me.’
‘Let’s worry about all that later on. For the present, it’s the session that must concern us. And keeping your situation a secret while we make plans.’
‘The session kens nothing about it. Not even Willie Fisher. So much else has been happening and besides, they’ve been quarrelling with Mr Hamilton, haven’t they?’
‘Oh, aye!’ His lips twitched suddenly. ‘The small matter of the tatties.’
The kirk session had been in dispute with Rab’s friend, Gavin Hamilton, Mackenzie’s friend too if it came to that, about the sin of Sabbath breaking. Hamilton had been walking in his garden, not far from where they were now sitting, when his children had asked for a boiling of new potatoes. He had summoned one of his servants and asked the man to dig a few schaws. The man had complied, but somebody had noticed and reported Hamilton to the session for breaking the sanctity of the Sabbath day. He was compeared to appear before them, but he had been leading them a merry dance ever since, and would continue to do so. He had explained that his children had tasted no new potatoes that year and had begged him for them. Who could refuse his own children when they made such a request? The session officers had questioned some of his household servants and learned that there had been new potatoes in the kitchen the week before, so Hamilton had lied. It was exactly the kind of dispute that would make Rab smile. He would love the intricacies of it all, the way in which Hamilton was clearly tying the session, in the shape of Willie Fisher and James Lamie, in knots. And Common Sense, in the person of Doctor Mackenzie, would be equally amused, but faintly shocked too. In other circumstances.
‘You know,’ Mackenzie observed mildly, ‘all this nonsense could have been avoided if Gavin had simply dug his own tatties.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, do you not think that it was the very act of making another man break the Sabbath that has upset them all so much?’
‘I suppose so.’ She was momentarily distracted from her own troubles, vast as they were in comparison to the matter of the tatties. And perhaps that had been the good doctor’s intention. She said, ‘But he wouldn’t have done that, would he? I doubt if Gavin Hamilton has ever lifted a graip in his life!’
‘Aye well, you’re right there. He wouldn’t know one end of a tattie fork from the other. So perhaps he and his children should have gone without tatties till Monday. Ach, it’ll go no further, you know. No further than here in Mauchline, I mean. Once the Ayr Presbytery are involved, it will all be stopped. Hamilton has influential friends in plenty. Fisher and Lamie seem to think he’s small fry, and vulnerable to their censure, but he isn’t. And they’ll find it out soon enough.’
‘I’m only glad it has distracted them from noticing me.’
‘And perhaps it will continue to do so for a few weeks yet.’ He was doing brief calculations. ‘Very late July you said – so the baby is due at the end of April?’
‘Do you think it could be babies again?’
‘What? Ah God, Jean, do you think so?’
‘For some reason, I have it in my mind that it might be twins again. There’s just something. I mind how I felt the first time.’
‘Oh Jean!’
‘Could you listen? Agnes listened the last time, and she could tell. But it was later. How soon could you tell? I don’t want to tell Agnes Sloan. If I do it’ll be all over the town. I don’t want my parents to find out, no just yet at any rate.’
‘I don’t rightly know. It might be a bit soon. But I can try. And what about Rab? Have you written to him? Have you told him?’
She shook her head, mutely. How could she tell Rab in the light of their daughter’s death?
He made sure that none of his servants were nearby. God knows what they would think he might be up to with Jeany Armour, and her with a reputation for scandal too. He took the slender wooden listening trumpet from the press where he kept all his medical things and made her perch on a high stool, smoothing her dress down over the swelling mound of her belly, still not very noticeable, fortunately. He set his ear to it and listened, moving it about from time to time. She could hear his breathing and hers and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Then he stood upright and sighed. ‘I can’t be sure and that’s the truth. It could be two heartbeats. Or possibly not. It might just be the one. We’ll need to wait a while. But what are you going to do? Will you tell Rab?’
‘Should I?’
‘I think you m
ust. Jean, I have to ask this, even though I already know the answer. So don’t be angry with me. There’s been nobody else?’
‘No. There’s never been anybody else for me.’
He looked at her candid eyes, her open face, pinched with sorrow and worry, and he believed her. He thought that Rab would believe her too, if only he was here to see her at this moment. But Rab was in Edinburgh, where he had met a young woman and would-be poetess called Nancy McLehose. Nancy was not a widow, but she might as well have been. Her husband was away in the Indies, but the word was that she was well rid of him, since he had been a notoriously violent man. Rab was clearly very taken with her and she with him, and Mackenzie had grave misgivings about the friendship, about Rab’s propensity for falling madly in love and just as precipitately falling out of it again. He couldn’t tell Jean any of this. She would find out soon enough.
‘Well, you can write to him from here if you like. Just a note. I’ll send the letter for you and put in something of my own.’
‘Would you do that for me?’
He sighed, looked mildly irritated, although she could see that it was irritation with his friend rather than with herself.
‘Sit yourself down at my desk. Write to him now, today. I’ll make sure he gets it. And, Jean, even if you let nobody else know about this for now, you need to take care of yourself and the baby. Eat properly. Get plenty of fresh air. Rest if you can.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Willie’s Mill
Your rosy cheeks are turn’d sae wan,
Ye’re greener than the grass, lassie.
The Jewel Page 21