The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  At Glens of Lochandee Ross was settling in more easily than he had expected but there were few nights when Rachel did not come unbidden into his thoughts as he settled to sleep. He longed to tell her of the work of the day, changes or improvements he had made. He wanted her to share his hopes and dreams. If she had loved him, as he had believed, surely she would have replied to his letter? His insides twisted with yearning as he recalled the passion she had aroused in him. He thought she had shared it too. But he could not dismiss the shame of discovering he was a bastard. Rachel was so innocent of the world. Could he blame her if she had been shocked by his revelation?

  During the day he threw himself into his work. It was a great relief when the surly Watt Kerr took himself off to the Annan Fair to hire himself to some other unsuspecting farmer. Old Nathan Wright came back to help as soon as he heard. He was an old man but he had been at Lochandee all his life and he could supervise Alfie and help with the milking.

  ‘I kenned he was a thief and a liar,’ Nathan told Ross. ‘He tried tae blame me when the sheep went a-missing but I kenned he had sold them on the sly. That’s why I stayed away. I couldna bear to see him cheating Mistress Beattie so I told the Factor.

  Even Nathan Wright had not known the full extent of Kerr’s treachery. The first morning Ross took the milk to the railway station he was waylaid by several women, all holding their milk jugs, waiting for them to be filled from the Lochandee churns.

  ‘O-oh, so we’ve got a new face today, have we? Didn’t that devil Kerr tell you to stop at my gate,’ one woman panted, when she caught up with him. She thrust her jug at him before he could reply.

  ‘He didn’t mention it,’ he said cautiously, curious to find out more.

  ‘But we’re all regular customers!’ she told him indignantly. ‘I get a pint every other morning. There’s my money.’ She held out a penny. ‘We pay as we get it – just like he said. Mrs Perkin gets a gill every day because her man likes fresh milk for his porridge. He charges her a ha’penny a gill and it’s poor measure I can tell you.’

  ‘How did he measure it?’ Ross enquired, holding her jug uncertainly.

  ‘He dipped the jug in the can of course. Guessed the measure. Cheated if he could.’

  Ross made several stops along the way for waiting women and almost missed the milk train as a result.

  When he returned to Glens of Lochandee he emptied the coppers he had collected onto the white scrubbed table.

  ‘Now I know why the dairy company kept complaining about short measure, in spite of the lead seals we used on the milk churns,’ he announced triumphantly.

  ‘Was there a reason?’ Alice asked, ‘and where did you get the money?’

  Ross told her about Kerr’s regular milk customers.

  ‘He was charging them eight pence a gallon? That’s more than we get from the dairy company! And he kept the money to himself …’ Alice was indignant. ‘No wonder things seemed so bad. I had a feeling in my bones that you and I would do well together, Ross. You could easily have kept the milk money, as Kerr did. My instincts told me you were honest.’

  ‘I would never do that!’ Ross gasped. ‘But I would like to have a proper measure if we continue. Some of the jugs were not very clean, and one woman complained of short measure.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice nodded. ‘I can see there might be problems of a different sort. It takes more of your time too, but the price is better. I knew Kerr was dishonest but I never thought to this extent.’

  Ross accompanied Alice Beattie to the kirk in the village each Sunday. It had been a habit Gertrude Maxwell had instilled in him for as long as he could remember but his presence delighted Alice. She insisted he must share her family’s pew, for which she paid a yearly rent.

  The minister, the Reverend Simms, welcomed him warmly and introduced his wife. Mrs Simms immediately asked if he would like to join the choir.

  ‘I noticed you have a fine tenor voice and we are always looking for more members.’ Ross declined with a smile. No one had ever mentioned he had a good voice before. He felt a sudden yearning for his fiddle, which he had left behind that morning at Windlebrae. His heart sank as it always did as he thought of the things and people he had left behind without a word of farewell. He found it hard not to have bitterness in his heart for the way Gertrude Maxwell had tricked him.

  Alice also introduced him to Doctor MacEwan and his wife, as well as several of the other people who lived in the village and a few of the farmers who came in their traps from more distant parts of the parish.

  ‘This is our nearest neighbour, Andrew McNish,’ Alice told him but he could tell by the stiffness of her manner that she had little respect for the man.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you.’ Ross shook hands but before he let go he added, ‘I am looking forward to having a new boundary fence between us. We shall be needing all our grass for our own cattle from now on.’ The man scowled. He made no effort to keep his cattle from straying.

  ‘You certainly seized your opportunity there, Ross,’ Alice chuckled as they made their way back to The Glens of Lochandee. ‘I don’t think we shall be seeing much of the McNishes. That pleases me because he spends most of his time tipping up a whisky bottle.’

  One of the men Ross had met at the kirk was Mr Pearson who kept a cycle repair shop.

  A week before Christmas Ross decided to call on him with a view to purchasing a second-hand bicycle for himself so that he could explore a the surrounding countryside on Sunday afternoons.

  ‘You are Mrs Beattie’s new man,’ Mr Pearson greeted him. ‘She introduced us at the kirk. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am looking for a bicycle.’

  He eyed Ross’s long legs. ‘I could make one from parts.’

  ‘How much would that cost?’ Ross asked warily.

  ‘About thirty-five shillings,’ Mr Pearson answered promptly, too promptly Ross decided shrewdly.

  ‘That’s more than I had a mind to pay for a second-hand machine,’ he turned away, denying himself the temptation to smile. He guessed the old man liked to bargain, even if he was the Beadle at the kirk.

  ‘Ah, don’t be so hasty, now,’ Mr Pearson caught his elbow, turning Ross back into the dim store. The walls were adorned with parts of cycles. He saw Ross’s gaze travelling over his stock. ‘I never throw anything away. I’m sure I can make something to suit your purse and pride. Mind you the cheapest you could buy new would be three pounds, nineteen and sixpence. A good frame and decent wheels and tyres and you would pay five or six guineas, maybe as much as nine guineas.’

  ‘But, I’m not buying a new one,’ Ross reminded him. ‘That looks a good sturdy frame up there.’ He pointed to the far wall.

  ‘It is. It was off Master Patrick’s last bike. ‘You know, the folks who live in the big house on the other side o’ the loch. They’re friendly with young Laird Lindsay.’ After a few more discussions and much bargaining, Mr Pearson agreed to make up a bicycle for one pound, seven shillings and sixpence.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Maxwell,’ he called Ross back again. ‘I would include this front lamp, as well as one for the back if you do me a favour. It would cost you four and sixpence to buy a ruby red with a bulb and bracket. You’ll need lamps if you’re thinking of coming down to the village dances? The new constable’s a sharp young fellow.’

  ‘What is the favour?’ Ross asked resignedly.

  ‘Ask Mistress Beattie if she could make a place up at The Glens of Lochandee for my granddaughter. She’s a grand wee lassie, but she needs to get away from that step mother of hers. She has a tongue as sharp as a razor and she has Beth doing most of the work for her own pair of lazy wretches.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Beth? She’s thirteen. Tell Mistress Beattie she wouldna need much besides her keep and lodgings. I’d like to see the bairn getting a decent training. The Glens was always the best place for a man or maid starting work. Kindly folks the McAllisters. Always treated their men fairly.’
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  ‘I must be getting back for the milking, Mr Pearson,’ Ross had to cut short his ramblings.

  ‘But you’ll remember my wee lass? You’ll ask Mistress Beattie?’

  ‘I’ll see what she says,’ Ross promised. He was astonished when Alice Beattie took the pony and trap to the village the following day and returned with a slight shy girl beside her.

  ‘This is Beth,’ said Ross. ‘I hope you will be patient with her. I intend to teach her to milk. Maybe we could start to churn again. I need a live-in dairy maid now that Nathan’s wife is too old to help in the house.

  Ross decided he would write one more letter to Rachel, and one to Meg. He smiled to himself as he took his first cycle ride down to the village to post them on Christmas Eve. When they opened his letters on Christmas morning they would be full of goodwill. Surely they must reply this time. Optimism bubbled up in him. Life was improving.

  When Tam McGill pushed his red post bicycle up the road to Windlebrae he also believed Christmas might be a time of goodwill and forgiveness.

  Gertrude waylaid him in the yard and relieved him of his mail. He was no longer welcomed indoors for a cup of tea and a blether with Cameron, even as an old friend.

  As he pedalled away Tam reflected sadly on the changes. Things had deteriorated since Meg and the lassie had gone, and young Ross too. He was almost certain the letters were from Ross and he wondered if the girls would receive them. Whatever the quarrels that had driven them all away he knew Gertrude Maxwell was the most unforgiving of women.

  If he had guessed how desperately Ross and Rachel longed to hear from each other, Tam would have walked the four miles to Ardmill in his bare feet.

  As winter turned to spring Peter’s cow calved and Rachel milked her each morning. She made butter once a week for the household and Peter sold any surplus. The three little girls followed her around at every opportunity. Despite the heaviness of her own heart their company cheered her and she was always kind and patient with them.

  ‘I think we should buy another cow,’ Peter suggested one evening. ‘I can’t supply all the orders for your butter, Rachel.’

  She flushed with pride.

  ‘We must wait until Rachel’s baby is born,’ Meg warned. ‘She’s working far too hard already.’

  ‘She must have something new to welcome her into the world,’ Mrs Jenkins declared sentimentally, convinced the baby would be a girl. ‘I shall knit a jacket and bonnet, with leggins and mittens to match. I shall use up all my wool ends to crochet a blanket. Now Polly, just you sit there and hold the hank of wool while I wind it into a ball.’ The little girl held the skein of wool patiently, full of excitement about the new baby.

  In fact the baby took them all by surprise, coming into the world swiftly and with the minimum of fuss during the evening of the twenty-second of May. It had been the hottest day for half a century in London but at Ardmill Rachel had ignored the increasing pain in her back and had fed the chickens and milked her cow without complaint. Two hours later her baby son entered the world with a lusty cry.

  ‘Mrs Jenkins will get a surprise when she comes in the morning,’ Meg laughed with relief. ‘This baby has done everything contrary to her expectations.’ Meg’s smile was getting broader by the minute as she cradled the newborn infant tenderly in her arms, crooning softly between her chatter. ‘He has not taken several days to come into the world as she said first babies do. Dear Rachel, I must leave you to get some rest, but have you thought of a name for him?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel shook her head. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘If only Ross had come back. He must bear my name now.’ She gulped on a sob. ‘He will never know his father.’ Gently Meg laid the small swathed bundle in her arms.

  ‘He is beautiful,’ she crooned softly. ‘He will comfort you.’

  ‘Perhaps I should name him Peter? You have both been so kind to me,’ Rachel looked up through swimming eyes.

  ‘Think about it tomorrow,’ Meg murmured. ‘Sleep now, Rachel. Everything will seem better when you are not so exhausted.’

  ‘Thank you, Meg,’ Rachel caught her hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  The baby was christened – Connor Cameron Peter O’Brian – after both of his grandfathers and the man who had befriended her in her time of need. Even before the christening the twins had given him their own version, combining Connor and Cameron to Conan – a name which was to stick. Rachel made no further mention of Ross so Meg and Peter tactfully avoided his name.

  Willie and Ruth came to visit and brought a perambulator.

  ‘It is such a generous gift!’ Rachel said with tears of gratitude.

  ‘It’s a Burlington,’ Ruth chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Rachel. They may cost three guineas new but Father always gets a bargain. He brought it ages ago and we have been keeping it a secret.’

  The three little girls, Mrs Jenkins, and most of all, Meg, were thrilled with the pram. They all wanted to take Conan for walks down the village street, but Rachel would not venture near except to attend church.

  ‘This wee fellow is going to be the most spoiled young man in Ardmill,’ Peter chuckled, ‘With so many women to look after him.’

  Peter watched Meg’s attachment to her nephew with growing concern. Her love for children was evident in the way she cared for his own young daughters and their love for her could not have been greater had she been their natural mother. It was the wistful look which troubled Peter. He saw it in her eyes as she cradled the baby to her breast, or allowed him to suck the tip of her little finger. On the evening he first smiled at her, Peter’s worst fears were realised. ‘He’s so beautiful,’ she breathed softly. ‘If only I could have given you a son of your own, Peter. It would have made me the happiest woman on earth to bear your child.’

  Peter shuddered with fear at such a thought and hugged her closer.

  ‘Meg, I am the happiest man on earth already, now you are my wife. You are all I ever wanted. I could not bear it if I lost you now.’

  ‘I know, I know how you have suffered, my dearest,’ Meg whispered against his chest, but there was a kind of desperation in her response to his loving that night and many more nights when her emotions were aroused. Peter was troubled.

  Every second week Meg had returned to Windlebrae while Gertrude was at the market. Since the birth of Rachel’s baby she had been torn between her desire to see her father and her reluctance to leave the baby.

  ‘You must visit Windlebrae, Meg,’ Peter advised with some concern. ‘You know that Rachel is the best of mothers.’

  ‘But she is so young, Peter.’

  ‘She has a natural instinct. She’s a wonderful mother and you would be the first to admit it. Anyway Mrs Jenkins is always here the day you are away.’

  Cameron Maxwell was also concerned by his daughter’s obsession with Rachel’s baby son. He alone knew of her secret hope that Peter would allow her to adopt him and rear the boy as their own. He prayed she would not develop her mother’s possessive nature. Whatever struggles lay ahead he was convinced Rachel would never agree to give up her child, even to Meg.

  ‘Is there no word of Ross?’ he asked one day.

  ‘No. It’s strange that he has not written to you, Father, not even at Christmas. Sometimes I feel so angry with Ross, but at other times I do worry about him. Suppose he’s ill or had an accident? How should we know?’

  ‘I don’t know, lassie, but there’s little we can do. He could be working his passage on a ship to Canada to start a new life there. I hear others are trying their fortune over the sea.’

  He had asked Gertrude several times if she had any idea where Ross had gone. She evaded his questions. In his heart he was sure she had had something to do with Ross’s disappearance.

  In August, the death was announced of Mr Alexander Graham Bell. Whether it was coincidence, or whether his death had brought attention to his invention, Peter did not know, but there were several proposed installations of telephones in the towns an
d villages. Peter decided such a link might prove useful for his business.

  The household and shop accounts were showing a small profit in Meg’s capable hands and he felt more confident. They had already decided that he should change his horse drawn van for one with an engine before winter. Meg was concerned for his health when he was out in stormy weather. Peter agreed it would shorten many of the country journeys.

  Rachel’s skill at making butter was proving a great asset. Peter decided she should be paid a small wage, in addition to her food and lodgings. Rachel was surprised.

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve, dear Rachel,’ Meg assured her with a warm smile. It’s time you had something of your own. When Conan grows too old for wearing dresses he will need breeches and shirts.’

  ‘Yes. It troubles me, wondering how I shall clothe him. Mr Dewar has promised to make him his first pair of clogs as soon as he’s able to walk.’

  ‘The clogger is a kind man,’ Meg agreed, ‘even if he is rather quiet and shy.’

  ‘He’s not really shy when he gets to know people.’ Rachel bit her lip. The old cobbler was always kind and gentle when he greeted her and they often exchanged a few words together while she attended the cows and chickens. ‘He – he offered us the use of his paddocks now that Peter has bought two extra cows. All he asks in return is some butter and a little fresh milk for his porridge each morning. Do you think Peter would agree? We really do need extra grass and Mr Dewar does not even keep a horse to graze.’

  ‘He does not go anywhere to need a horse. Apparently he has no family either. I’m sure Peter will accept his offer.’ Meg agreed enthusiastically, little guessing what other plans Sam Dewar had in mind for the well being of Rachel and her baby son. ‘Speaking of going out – it’s time you went out more, Rachel.’