‘Then you should have left me at Willlie’s Mill,’ she said, moving away from him, sobbing, rubbing her eyes. The dust from the road had gathered on her cheeks and now the tears left smudges there. Inside her the babies moved convulsively, disturbed by her anguish. ‘I wish you had left me there. At least there folk were kind and cared what became of me. I wish I were dead. I’d be better off dead!’
‘I do care what becomes of you.’
‘Well you have a strange way of showing it.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Naething. Except maybe a glimpse of the old Rab. The Rab who loved me and was kind to me.’
Really, she thought, she wanted her father to embrace her and call her his wee Jeany. She didn’t want anything to do with this strange, cruel man who looked like Rab but sounded and behaved nothing like him.
He seemed momentarily confused. He turned away, his hand over his eyes.
‘You have found me a room, and you have found me a bed. You’d best leave me to lie on it, Rab, and get back to your fine Edinburgh ladies.’
She tried to push past him, to find her own way into the house, but he restrained her.
‘My fine Edinburgh ladies?’ he said. ‘Who cares about Edinburgh ladies?’
He pulled her close. The very scent of him was familiar to her, the warmth of him. If he didn’t speak, she might pretend he was the same old Rab.
Knowing that he wasn’t. Not at this moment.
There was a confused jumble of sensations. He kissed her fiercely, and she responded to him although there was a part of her that wanted only to find her room and her bed, lie down and sleep. She was sick and dizzy. The walls of the stable went spinning around her. She was aware of sinking slowly down onto dried horse litter, not falling, so he must have caught her, eased her down gently, like a ewe onto its back. There were cold flagstones beneath her, the dark stable with its pungent smell of horse, the cool air on her legs. He groaned. ‘Jeany!’ he said. She didn’t want him very much at all, at that moment. But obscurely, stupidly, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings either. She lay still, beneath him. Letting him do what he wanted. At first she thought it would be all right, but suddenly he was too forceful, too vigorous. It felt as though he was punishing her and the weans inside her, and she cried out in pain.
Somewhere in the village, a dog howled, a long, mournful sound. It seemed to bring him to his senses.
He muttered, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ and withdrew, abruptly. ‘What am I thinking?’
He was muttering to himself rather than to her, but she knew what he was saying.
‘A standing cock has nae conscience.’
He scrambled to his feet, doing up his breeches, fumbling a little. ‘Dear God, Jeany, what am I doing to you?’
She found herself apologising to him. Thinking of all the times she had lain in bed, wanting him. Wondering at her own revulsion. She had wanted him for sure, just not like this. Not in this way. Not now.
He helped her to stand up, brushed her down, brushed the straw and the dry horse litter from her skirts. She felt very strange, even more dizzy, almost fell against him. He put one arm around her, picked up her bag with the other, and lead her into the house. The room was warm. Somebody had lit a fire. Somebody had made the bed. Why had he used the horse litter in the stable when there was a perfectly good bed? She came as close to hating him at that moment as she ever would. He sat her down, took off her cloak, took off her shoes and gently rubbed her feet, gazing into her face. He was white as his linen.
‘You’re so cold,’ he said. ’Oh, my dear.’
He had brought tea from Mossgiel. Fresh milk, cheese, oat bread, all packed in a basket. From his mother, he said. She wanted him to go away and leave her in peace. She wanted to do nothing more than lie down and go to sleep. Eventually she curled up on the chaff mattress that rustled under her. He pulled the blankets over her, tucking her in.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I have to go back to Mossgiel. Will you manage here, if I leave you?’
‘Yes.’ She was already drifting into sleep. ‘I’ll manage. Go away, Rab. Leave me be.’
‘Mackenzie will look in on you. And Nance Tinnock. She’ll fetch you anything you want.’ He seemed anxious about her welfare, but not anxious enough to stay. Or maybe it was just that he was too ashamed of himself to stay.
Just before he left, he bent down, brushed the hair away from her cheek, planted a little kiss there. Not a lover’s kiss at all. But she was already drifting into sleep.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry for all this, Jeany.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Husband and Wife
I hae a wife of my ain,
I’ll partake wi’ naebody;
I’ll take Cuckold frae nane,
I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody.
Only a few days later, her waters broke and the twin girls came, much too soon. The birth was surprisingly easy. Her mother relented to the extent that she came over from the Cowgate to help her daughter. And Doctor Mackenzie came in as well. They were born quite quickly, but they were too tiny to survive for long. Too small and frail for the world. But perfect: fingers, toes, tiny rosebud mouths, perfect in every way. Rab paid a brief visit, leant over the crib, touching their waxy cheeks. Jean turned her face to the wall and would not look at him. If she had, she might have seen tears in his eyes but he could hardly bring himself to speak to her. He left some money for her though, to pay for necessities, and went back to Mossgiel. If anything, the money made her feel even worse. She put it in a drawer, knowing that she would be forced to use it sooner or later.
One of the babies survived only a few days. The other lingered on for some twelve days more. In the intervening period, Mackenzie came in to check up on Jean’s health and that of the surviving twin. But as Jean improved, the baby failed. It was as though the wee mite was anxious to rejoin her sister, thought Mackenzie. The good doctor brought with him the unwelcome news that Rab had gone back to Edinburgh. He had decided to take the lease of Ellisland in Dumfriesshire, and he needed to see his new landlord, Mr Miller, who was in the city at that time. Besides that, he was looking for money from his Edinburgh publisher, and he was also seeking to enter the excise service. This surprised Jean and Mackenzie both. Ellisland would be a last throw of the dice as far as farming was concerned. It seemed that the excise, however unsuited to his natural inclinations – Rab had never been a great one for submitting to authority – might be a more secure way of earning a living than farming, if all did not go well in Dumfriesshire.
‘But all of these things,’ the doctor said, ‘seem to indicate that he is planning a more settled way of life, although you never can tell where our Rab is concerned.’
Mackenzie was trying to offer her some hope, although he was far from hopeful himself. If Rab was happy to travel between Mauchline and Edinburgh, he could easily travel between Ellisland and Edinburgh too. ‘I can’t see Rab as an enthusiastic exciseman,’ he continued. ‘Can you, Jeany?’
‘No, not him.’
‘He’s as changeable as the weather.’
‘He is that.’
Gloom had descended on her and nothing could shift it.
Had he said anything to Jean about this excise plan? He had not. Then perhaps he had somebody else in mind for a wife. They were both thinking it, both reluctant to voice it for fear that saying it aloud might make it real. Mackenzie had heard something about Nancy McLehose, but he was not nicknamed ‘Common Sense’ for nothing, and he could see how thoroughly impractical such an attachment would be. He was confident that Jean knew very little about Nancy at that time, even if she seemed to be fretting about the fine Edinburgh ladies she imagined throwing themselves at the Bard, and he was not going to be the one to enlighten her. Besides, Nancy was still a married woman, even though Rab had judicio
usly termed her a widow in his letters to his friends. She was also a religious woman with influential friends who kept a stern eye on her behaviour.
Altogether, John Mackenzie thought Nancy too might be in the nature of a last throw of the dice for Rab. The threat to Jean’s happiness, if she still wanted Rab, which seemed doubtful, might be imaginary rather than real. He knew that Rab never could resist a love affair. Never could resist spinning dreams and daydreams out of desire. The feeling was no less intense for its ephemeral nature. But the tension between his passion for Nancy and his affection for his old love was clearly making him exceedingly miserable. Anyone with an ounce of wit could see it, and it was there in all his letters, although few among his friends and relatives were brave enough to tell him so. Mackenzie sincerely hoped that Rab would come to his senses and do so without delay.
The babies were written up as unbaptised and unnamed in the parish register, but Daddie Auld gave instructions that they were to be buried inside the kirkyard, in consecrated ground. Perhaps he knew that Jean had splashed warm water on their tiny heads, knowing full well that they were too small to live, that their breathing was laboured, that they were not feeding properly. Blessing them in the name of the father and of the son. Wishing with all her heart that she could follow them into the grave.
Yet all unexpectedly, before the end of that month, Rab was back in Mauchline. Early one morning, with all the birds of spring in full song, he came knocking at Jean’s door. She opened it to find him standing there, somewhat sheepishly, hat in hand and with the most extraordinary expression of pained penitence on his face, as though he had arranged his features before knocking. It was so unlike him that she could only gape at him in amazement.
‘Can I come in, Jeany?’ he asked, solemnly. ‘I have something to say to you.’
‘Aye. Aye, of course. After all, you’re paying the rent, Rab. You’re my landlord, if nothing else.’
She held the door open for him, glancing up and down the street, but it was early and there were no prying eyes. He seemed taken aback by the bitterness in her tone, but said nothing until he was inside, still maintaining his almost comical expression of contrition. She followed him in. She was still in her night clothes. There seemed to be little point in getting up and dressed these days, although she had promised to go out to Mossgiel to see Robbie later. It was all she lived for. But she was suddenly ashamed of her dishevelled appearance. He looked so smart in his well brushed coat, his plaid just so, his shiny boots. He looked even more like a gentleman, albeit a remorseful one.
‘You should have sent word, Rab. I would have been up and dressed for you at least.’
She had stirred the fire into life, and there was hot water in the iron kettle on the swee. The kettle had come with the room, and she had been very glad of it. Hot water was such a comfort. She still had the tea he had brought from Mossgiel, and she offered to make some for him. Nance Tinnock had given her two pretty cups, with birds and flowers on them.
‘I ken fine you like to have nice things about you,’ Nance had said. ‘Bonnie delft for a bonnie lass.’
Jean had been moved to tears by the older woman’s kindness, but then it didn’t take much to make her cry these days. She had been ashamed of her weakness, wondering what had become of the lighthearted lass who had sung and danced so confidently. Now, her father, her God and her lover all seemed to have forsaken her. Her girl children were dead, and even her son had been taken from her.
It was a chilly morning, and she wrapped a shawl around her, the first to come to hand. It was the silk shawl that Rab Wilson had given her in Paisley.
‘Where did you get that?’ her visitor asked.
So he still noticed such things about her, still noticed her clothes. And he was suspicious. Quite possibly jealous too. Like the dog in the manger in the old book of fables they had read at the school when she was a girl. If he didn’t want her, he didn’t want any other body to have her either.
‘It was a gift from a friend,’ she said, with something of her old spirit. He really was impossible. An impossible man.
‘What friend would that be?’
‘And what would it have to do with you, anyway, Rab Burns? I have nae claim on you, remember?’
‘Everything about you has to do with me, Jeany. D’you not ken that yet?’
He sounded very subdued. Sad too. His face had resumed its normal aspect.
‘Well, you’ve a very strange way of showing it.’
‘Let’s not quarrel, eh?’
‘I’m trying hard not to, Rab. I’d like it fine if we could be friends, for the sake of Robbie, at least.’
‘I’d like it fine too. And I meant nothing by it. I was just curious. I’m allowed to be curious. So who gave you the shawl?’
‘Rab Wilson if you must know.’
‘Recently?’
‘No. Don’t be daft! He’s in Paisley. I haven’t seen him for a long while. He gave it to me at the Sneddon that time, when I had nothing and nobody and he was the only friend I had.’
‘Ah. I thought…’
‘Well, you ken what thought did?’
‘Aye. Followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding.’
She found herself giving him a watery smile.
‘So you thought that he had maybe been back courting me again? Small chance of that, Rab. Small chance of any lad courting me now.’
‘Just as well!’ he said, with a touch of the old braggart.
‘Why?’ She could hardly believe it, the cheek of the man.
‘Because you’re still legally married to me. The God’s honest truth is that you’ve never not been married to me, ever since we signed that paper and whatever your father and mother might have thought. Whatever they might have done to mutilate it.’
‘But you said…’
‘Och, never mind what I said. Or did, Jeany. I was a wee thing daft for a while. Willie Muir was right all along. I think the Edinburgh air must have gone to my head.’
‘I think it must.’
‘Listen…’ He sat down on the bed and pulled her down beside him, capturing her hand in both of his. ‘Listen to me. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?’
‘For what?’
‘For being so unkind. And more than unkind. Cruel. Especially that time in the stable.’
‘It wasnae that I didnae want you. I’ve aye wanted you. But it wasnae like you.’
‘No. It wasnae. I’ve hated myself for it ever since.’
‘I wanted you. Just no like that.’
‘No. No like that. And in sic a place.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Why are you here, Rab?’
‘I’ve been making plans.’
‘What plans?’
He took a deep breath, squeezing her hand. ‘I’ve signed the lease of a farm down in Dumfriesshire. There’s no house to speak of on the land, nothing but a lightless but ‘n ben, so there’ll need to be a new house built. I’ll need a wife who kens a bit about dairying, so I thought you might like to go out to Mossgiel this summer and learn. My mother and my sisters will teach you all you need to ken, and you can see Robbie at the same time. He’s aye fretting for his mammy, or so they tell me.’
‘Am I hearing this right?’
He rushed on. She thought about him chasing the Highlandman, even at the risk of toppling off Jenny Geddes. An impulsive man.
‘I’ll be coming to and fro once the building work starts. You ken the builders won’t work properly with nobody to supervise them. They’ll come and sit on their cart, drinking their ale, eating their bread and cheese and saying that’s what they aye do before they begin. And besides, I’ll need to start working on the farm as soon as may be. But I’m going to be in training for the excise with Mr Findlay in Tarbolton first. Six weeks training before I go to Ellisland.’
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‘Aye. I heard.’
‘But in the midst of all this, Jean, I’m sorely in want of a wife, and I wondered if you could forgive me enough to apply for the position. Well, the truth of the matter is, it’s a position you already have. Just never taken it up right. But it’s yours if you still want it. Till a the seas gang dry.’
He recited all this as though he had learned it off by heart beforehand. As perhaps he had. She could hardly believe her ears.
‘I thought you said…’
He interrupted her. ‘Aye, well. I did say. I said a lot of things I now regret. To my lasting shame. But whatever I may or may not have said, I’ve made up my mind now. I can’t think of anyone else who would make a better wife to me than you, Jeany. You ken me better than most. Perhaps better than anyone.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m a poet. It’s my brag and my failing. I might be able to imagine sic a wife, to fancy her, in the same way that I can imagine the angels in heaven, or auld Nick in shape o’ beast, but I have never seen or met anyone to match you. I’ve never met anyone who loves me like you do. And I’d be plain daft to discard sic a treasure, once found. The honest truth is that you have my hand and my heart. You’ve aye had it. But I don’t ken if you still want to be married to me after all. Do you?’
She found herself nodding. He took this for consent and raced on.
‘Well, what we could do is this. We could walk over to Gavin Hamilton’s house. We could go later on today if you like, when you’re dressed and ready, and we could sign a fresh paper. He has told me he’ll be happy to witness it, and then nobody, not even James Armour or Daddie Auld himself can say that we arenae man and wife.’
She gazed at him in utter amazement. ‘Why?’ she said after a while. ‘Why have you changed your mind?’
‘I don’t rightly ken. Well I do. I ken all too well. The truth is that I never did change my mind. It was aye you, Jeany. From the moment I first clapped eyes on you.’
The Jewel Page 23