The next stop was Laurencekirk, another fifteen miles farther on. As soon as Marianne stepped down on to the platform, a porter – or possibly he held down all the jobs like Dod Cooper at Tipperton – came forward, touching his hat respectfully. ‘Miss Cheyne? His Lordship’s carriage is waiting. I’ll take your luggage out for you.’
He did his best to hide his surprise at learning she had only the valise she was carrying, but it was obvious that he thought she fell far short of the usual standard of visitors to Castle Lyall.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as graciously as she could. She was tempted to add ‘my man’, but decided that such an embellishment would best be kept until she was actually married to Hamish.
She followed him out to the waiting carriage, where the coachman, a man about forty with an almost completely bald head, also stared doubtfully at her, but the coat of arms on the door gave her fast-sinking morale a great boost. The coachman, looking down on her from his lofty perch as the railway employee helped her aboard, was just a servant, her servant … or would be very soon.
Nothing was said while the high-stepping horse trotted out of the village at a gentle pace, turning, without any directions from the man, into a much rougher side road marked ‘Glendarril’. Proceeding into the glen, they came, in what she judged to be about three miles at least, to a wide, low building with a high, smoking chimney stack. She didn’t like to ask what it was, but when they passed it, she saw a huge sign above the gates – ‘Glendarril Woollen Mill’. So that was how the Bruce-Lyalls made their money? She hadn’t given a single thought to that before now.
They penetrated deeper and deeper into the narrow glen, lined for the next few miles by silver birch and horse chestnut trees, with a wealth of wild flowers growing around them – ragged robins, lords-and-ladies, small blue orchids, bluebells swaying in the gentle breeze. The road was climbing, she realized, and with the thinning out of the trees she could see dozens of sheep grazing on the hills rising on either side, and beyond them, in the distance, the snow-capped peaks of mountains pierced the sky. With so little sign of habitation as yet, Marianne had a strange feeling that they had left civilization behind, and she wondered how much further they had to go. Eventually they came to some small cottages, each with a neat strip of garden in front, and, she could see as they approached at an angle, a stretch of cultivated ground at the rear. She brightened now, and felt considerably better when she saw another cluster of houses and farther on, a small church with a large bell in its tiny steeple. Alongside, within the area of yew trees which surrounded the kirkyard, poked the chimneys of what she took to be the manse.
‘That’s the school,’ the coachman announced shortly, pointing to what looked like another cottage on their left. He gave a cackle at her astonishment. ‘It’s the dominie’s house, and all.’
Tipperton having had a large population of children, sometimes nearly a hundred and fifty at a time, its two-storeyed granite school had a good-sized, separate building at the side for the headmaster. The County Council employed one assistant for him, usually a product of Aberdeen University who had failed to graduate, and another helper known as a pupil-teacher, unpaid because he or she was learning a profession. So this tiny place seemed to be most inadequate.
‘Just a dominie for the whole school?’ she asked. ‘No other teachers?’
‘No teachers, just Mr Wink.’ He turned round and grinned at her. ‘Is that no’ a funny name for a dominie? William Wink. He’s been here all his life, and he’s awfae good wi’ the bairns. There’s only five the noo – Jeannie and Maggie McDonald, wee Kirsty Bain, Chae Rattray and … oh, aye! The dominie’s ain laddie, Peter. He’s mair like his mother than his father, though! Mistress Wink wouldna be pleased if she kent folk ca’ the dominie Wee Willie Winkie behind his back, for she thinks she’s better than … oh!’ His large brown hand thumped the side of the carriage. ‘I shouldna say that to you, for I hear tell you’re Master Hamish’s intended?’
So caught up in his gossip, Marianne had practically forgotten how she would appear to the men and women on the estate. It wouldn’t do for the future Mrs Bruce-Lyall to be seen hobnobbing with any of them, least of all the coachman. ‘Yes,’ she said, primly. ‘We are engaged to be married, Mr … um …’
‘I’m Carnie, miss. Just Carnie.’
‘Carnie. I’ll remember that.’
The next small collection of buildings boasted a shop, actually the front room of one of the houses, and judging by the vast selection of items packed into the window, it sold everything. One much larger house stood out from the others.
‘That’s the doctor’s,’ Carnie told her. ‘Auld Dr Tyler retired just six month ago, and some folk havena got used to Robert Mowatt treating their ills, for he was born and brought up here in the glen and they still think of him as a laddie.’
In another hundred yards, the horse turned, once more of its own accord, into a wide drive with huge metal gryphons perched atop the gateposts, one on each side of the entrance. She knew they were gryphons because she had come across them in one of the books Andrew had given her to read to broaden her knowledge. But Andrew had no place in her mind here. Her eyes were drinking in as much as they could as she was borne between two lines of larch trees, their feathery boughs caressing the edge of the long curved drive. They were lovely to look at, though she couldn’t help thinking that more daylight would filter through if there were fewer of them.
She hadn’t realized that they were still going uphill until they emerged into an area of landscaped gardens that took her breath away with their splendour, neat low hedges breaking the huge expanses of lawns on the down slope into symmetrical designs, with flowerbeds in regular patterns. And then she saw it – the castle itself.
Her initial impression was one of disappointment. This wasn’t the fairy-tale castle she had imagined, with quaint turrets and tall thin windows where an imprisoned Rapunzel might have let her hair down for her lover to climb. It seemed to have been built quite haphazardly, with no definite plan, and it was much smaller than she had expected. On closer inspection when they drew nearer, however, she found that it had been built in a series of wings, and stanchions, and – glory be! – there were some turrets after all, almost out of sight among the welter of stonework. It must be an awful old place, she decided, for it was just built of big boulders, probably carried down from the mountains and added to at various times. It wasn’t nearly as grand as Balmoral – where Andrew had once taken her on the train – which was granite-built and sparkled in the sun as if it were studded with diamonds. But that had been rebuilt for Queen Victoria by her loving Prince Albert, God rest his soul, and Marianne Cheyne shouldn’t be critical of Castle Lyall. At least it was a castle!
The horse came to a standstill at the steps up to a massive oaken door, and Carnie jumped to the ground to come hurrying round to help his passenger down, but Marianne was too rapt in discovering all she could about the higgledy-piggledy building to notice him. When she did, she got to her feet but was sidetracked by turning her head and seeing the panorama on that side of her. From this high vantage point, looking over the larches they had passed on the way up, she saw the mountains much better, range after range, some so tall that, judging by the amount of snow huddling in the passes between them even in May, it must come at least halfway down them in winter. What she could see of the most distant seemed to be truncated masses of dark blue rising mistily to blend into the hovering cumuli, but the lower slopes of the nearer ranges tended to be brown, probably with dead heather, for it wouldn’t burst into glorious purple until August or September.
She shifted her attention to the foothills – nearer but still miles off – green for most of their height from the grass and undergrowth where there were no pines and firs, and from the trees themselves up as far as the tree-line.
She was surprised at how much she remembered of the natural history books Andrew had given her. Brought up in the heart of an area of low-lying farmland, windswept and b
are, she had never seen mountains like these, and what she used to think were hills had been little more than mounds, touched with white only in the severest winters.
‘Are you ready, miss?’
Carnie’s voice brought her out of her reverie, and grasping his rough hand, she let him half lift her down on to the gravel driveway. Only then did the front door open, but it wasn’t Hamish who stood waiting to welcome her, and she climbed the dozen or so steps with a heavy heart. If he couldn’t come to the station to meet her, he should at least have been here to welcome her.
‘Her Ladyship is waiting to receive you,’ announced the stiffly erect maid, black-clad apart from a strip of white lace round her head.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re a bit late.’
Marianne wasn’t going to start by apologizing for anything … to anyone. She followed the woman along a corridor until she halted outside one of the oak-panelled doors. After giving a small tap, the servant opened it just wide enough for Marianne to walk through, and closed it silently behind her, leaving her to stand uncertainly.
The elegant woman sitting in a chair by the window stared at her, giving her no indication of what she was expected to do. If this was meant to cow the girl, however, it had the opposite effect. Marianne reacted to the cavalier treatment by deciding not to knuckle under. At some date in the future, she would be Lady Glendarril and this ill-mannered woman in her silk dress and rope of pearls (for she was ill-mannered, even though she was an aristocrat) would be a dowager.
Smiling at this comforting thought, Marianne advanced into the room, and held out her hand. ‘You must be Hamish’s mother? I was expecting him to come to meet me at Laurencekirk – or at least one of the family – but it seems none of you has even a nodding acquaintance with mannerly behaviour.’
The last part came out before she realized what she was saying. She had no right to speak to a titled lady like that, and although she derived great satisfaction from seeing the woman’s jaw drop as far as it would go, she whirled round in dismay at a sound behind her. The man in the doorway, however – quite short and unheathily thin, wearing old corduroy trousers and a battered tweed hat and jacket – wasn’t scowling at her as she deserved, but was softly clapping his hands.
‘Good for you!’ He grinned at her impishly. ‘Hamish said you had a lot of spunk. I am his father, in case you were wondering.’
‘I thought you must be,’ Marianne smiled, still determined never to fall into the trap of apologizing. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She turned again to his wife, and this time, after a slight hesitation, her hand was touched by the heavily ringed fingers. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, and all, Lady Glendarril,’ she smiled, doing her best to put things right between them. She should have thought before saying what she had; she would be wise not to make an enemy of her future mother-in-law.
Lord Glendarril looked accusingly at his lady. ‘Hamish said he was going to collect Marianne. Where is he?’
‘I have had frightful indigestion since Sunday – I didn’t tell you, Hector, in case it alarmed you – so I asked him to get some magnesia for me from the pharmacist in Montrose. He left early enough to be back in time to meet … the train.’
Her husband frowned. ‘You did not need to send him to Montrose, surely? Robert could have given you something?’
She glared at him defiantly. ‘I always get it from Montrose, but I have just remembered … the old man died some weeks ago, and I do not know if anyone has taken over from him yet.’
Marianne glanced at the man to see if he had been fooled by this blatant ploy to keep Hamish from going to the station, and was glad to see that his lips were compressed in a thin hard line.
When he caught her eye, he said, ‘Would you like me to show you round some of the gardens, my dear? Or are you too tired after your journey?’
‘No, it wasn’t far and I’d love to see the gardens.’
He waited until they were clear of the house before he said, in a low voice, ‘I am afraid that Lady Glendarril is against Hamish taking you as his wife.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘Since our other son died, she has pinned all her hopes on Hamish, and even if he wanted to marry one of the royal princesses, his mother would not consider her good enough. In any case, I have always believed that this family needs a new strain in it to set healthier blood running through its veins, and when he told me how well you had stood up to a girl who was nasty to you, I knew you were the one for us.’
‘Well, I’m prepared to do my duty as his wife …’ She decided to be brutally honest – there was something about this man that demanded it. ‘I suppose he told you that love was never mentioned between us, so you won’t be surprised to know I’m marrying him for the money?’
His expression saddened. ‘I was afraid of that … but perhaps … in time you will …’ He broke off. ‘We should go back. Hamish is probably here and will be wondering where you are.’
While they strolled along he said, ‘My wife is a woman who likes her own way, and I would advise you not to cross swords with her. For instance, however much you want the wedding to be to your liking, let her arrange it. She will derive great pleasure from letting it be known that she was responsible for everything. She has her mind set on making a great splash, the kind of show she was denied herself because her father, titled although he was, could not afford it. It was a pity you got off to such a bad start with her, but I am sure she will come round to you. Ah, here is Hamish now, and I would be obliged if you kept our little talk a secret.’
The length – and strength – of Hamish’s apologies for not meeting her did much to soothe Marianne’s ruffled feelings. It wasn’t his fault that his mother had manipulated him. What was more, she had most likely smothered him with love after his twin died, and she would be to blame for Hamish being the way he was now. That was something she’d have to remember, Marianne told herself, when her son came along … When she arrived she had been pleased that both Hamish and his father were casually dressed, remembering her previous dress mistakes, but when she entered the dining room at seven that evening and saw them in evening dress and Lady Glendarril in a beautifully embroidered gown, with her greying hair coiled up in a deep swathe, Marianne’s heart sank.
The maid assigned to Marianne had asked about a dress but Marianne hadn’t understood the situation and had shrugged off – foolishly, she now knew – suggestions that she change.
The woman pounced on her immediately. ‘Why have you not changed? Did Hamish not tell you that we always dress for dinner?’
Hamish jumped to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Marianne, I didn’t think.’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,’ she shrugged, struggling to keep her temper under control. ‘I don’t have any dresses – just blouses and skirts.’ And not many of them, she thought sadly.
He came over and took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly as he led her gently to her place. Unfortunately, his seat was at the opposite side of the table and during the meal, he scarcely had a chance to say a word to her, his mother skilfully manoeuvring the conversation to exclude the interloper. Trying not to show how hurt she was, the girl took the opportunity to study as much of the room as she could see without twisting round. Facing her was a fireplace so immense that you could roast an ox in it, she thought, then smiled as she realized that any roasting of oxen or other beasts would be done in the kitchen, not in the dining room. The andirons, the poker, tongs and long-handled shovel, looked to be made of silver but surely they couldn’t be? Heat would melt silver, wouldn’t it?
The two magnificent portraits on either side of the chimney breast must be Bruce-Lyall ancestors. The man, resplendent in a maroon velvet jacket with a cream cravat at the neck, had a look of the present Lord Glendarril – the same penetrating blue eyes and silver hair receding from his deep forehead; the same brownish eyebrows and bushy moustache, though the beard was much bushier – his father, or grandfather? The woman at the
other side would be his mother, or grandmother. Her attire was more sombre, her black dress, moulded to her body, showing a bust of large proportions. Her long face was sharply featured and her hair was metallic grey, pulled severely back off her face. The one redeeming feature in what would otherwise be a mundane representation of a serious, plain woman, was the twinkle, the sparkle, the artist had caught in her grey eyes.
Hoping that no one had noticed her absorption with the portraits, Marianne stole a glance at Hamish, and was astonished to find him looking at her with the same sparkling twinkle in his eyes, more blue than grey. His mother seeking his attention again, he turned away at once, and Marianne was free to continue her appraisal of the room.
Above the mantelshelf was another portrait, a younger man posing in a bright red uniform, his blond hair partly covered by a shako with a red hackle at the side. He was so like Lord Glendarril that he must be his brother.
To her left, she saw a pair of smaller paintings on the wall at right angles to the fireplace wall, again of a man and woman she took to be husband and wife, dressed in what could only be Regency style, very elegant and ornate. Beside the door, she noticed for the first time a row of miniatures, oval in shape and with narrow gold frames. She came to the conclusion that the only way she would find out who was who would be to ask Hamish … if she could get him away from his mother long enough.
By the time dinner was over, the strain was beginning to tell on Marianne, and when Lady Glendarril remarked on how tired she looked, she gladly took up Hamish’s suggestion that she go to bed. She did need a rest, and a good night’s sleep would help her to withstand all the jibes the woman cared to make tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
The House of Lyall Page 9