Marianne was caught on the raw. ‘And little you cared about me when I was at hame,’ she snapped. ‘Him nor you, you were that ta’en up wi’ each other you hadna time for me.’ She did not notice that, in her anger, she had reverted to her old tongue. ‘I bet you were glad to be on your own wi’ him, and it didna bother me. I managed to better mysel’.’
‘You did that, a’ richt,’ Moll spat out, ‘but what would your servants think, an’ your fine friends, if they ken’t you’d once been a skivvy and stole money fae your mistress?’
Marianne was even more infuriated by this. ‘Are you threatening me? If I don’t give you money, you’ll tell them, is that it?’
Losing her temper now, Moll shouted, ‘I dinna want your money … nae for mysel’, ony road. I’ll manage to work for what I need, but I think it’s only richt that Alfie gets a gravestone, an’ you can weel afford it. Mair to the point, it would let folk see his only lassie hadna forgot him.’
Marianne’s chest was heaving now. She’d had enough to cope with before Moll turned up, and if the only way to get rid of her was to erect a headstone to mark her father’s grave, so be it! ‘I’ll get my solicitor to arrange it,’ she said loftily. ‘And I’ll get to the bottom of this letter you say you sent. I can assure you, that if I had received it, I would not have let my father die in a hovel.’
‘Aye, weel, then, just you mind.’ Obviously at a loss as to what to say now, Moll decided against saying anything and stalked out, leaving Marianne leaning against the back of her chair with her heart palpitating.
Once she recovered, she went to Hamish’s study and took out a sheet of crested notepaper, thankful that he’d been called to London on urgent business – some query about a price which had been quoted and not stuck to, that was all he’d told her except that he would not be home for at least a week – because she didn’t want him to know about this. He believed that she had run away from home because she was being ill treated, but neither her father nor her stepmother had ever been physically cruel to her. It was more that she’d resented being ousted from her father’s affections by a person she thought was common … but Moll had apparently been a good wife, looked after him right to the end.
The tear which plopped on to her hand now made her more ashamed of herself than ever. She should have contacted him, found out how he was, if they needed help. He had worked hard for her when she was small, and looked after her single-handedly after her mother died – until he married again. She had never wanted for anything … and he had died in poverty.
Then she remembered the letter Moll had said she sent. What had happened to it? Stretching out her hand, she pulled the bell rope at the fireplace and in less than a minute, the little parlour maid appeared at the door. ‘Yes, m’Lady?’
‘Rosie,’ Marianne said, uncertain as to how to word her question because she didn’t want to blame the girl if it wasn’t her fault, ‘I have just found out that a letter came for me while I was in London, which seems to have got lost. Would you know what became of it?’
The girl had been smilingly waiting to hear what was required of her, but at the mention of the letter her face lost every vestige of colour and she looked as if she were about to faint.
‘Are you all right, Rosie?’ Marianne enquired anxiously.
‘Oh, m’Lady, I’m sorry! I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I forgot all about it. You see,’ she hurried on, desperate to explain, ‘Cook asked me to go and get the veggies Dargie had promised her, and I just went out the door when Postie handed me that letter, so I stuffed it in my pocket and carried on. I stopped a wee while to speak to Davey Black, he’s assistant gardener since Ben Rogie left and we’d been … keeping company … still are,’ she confided, blushing a little. Then the haunted look returned to her eyes and a tear trickled out. ‘Oh, m’Lady, I know I shouldn’t have wasted my time like that, and that’s why I forgot about the letter. I’m that sorry. I hope it was nothing important?’
Marianne’s smile was rueful. ‘It was very important, as it happens.’
‘Oh, m’Lady, you’re not going to sack me, are you? I didn’t mean it …’
Marianne hesitated. Her first instinct was to send the girl packing, but she liked little Rosie, who always spoke in her best English and always did what she was told willingly and efficiently. Besides, the poor thing hadn’t meant it, yet … ‘Tell me, Rosie,’ she said, as something occurred to her, ‘why didn’t you find the letter if it was in the pocket of your apron? Surely you would have noticed it when you carried on with your own work.’
‘It was pouring rain that day, m’Lady, and I’d put on my coat, and I’ve never had it on since.’
Her eyes brightened a little. ‘It’ll still be there! Do you want me to get it?’
‘Yes, I would like to see what it said.’
While she waited for the parlour maid to return, Marianne dipped the pen into the crystal inkwell, but she had only written ‘Dear Andrew’ when the girl came hurrying in, holding out a rather crumpled envelope which her mistress grabbed and tore open. It was written in a beautiful script, which astonished Marianne until she remembered that it was Mary McKay who had actually done the writing, likely interpreting what Moll wanted to say.
Marion,
I wish to let you know that your father is very ill. He has not been able to work for some time now, so the mill is putting us out of the house. He needs constant attention, so I can not take a job myself. We will have nothing coming in and I am forced to ask you if you will help us. If you can let us have enough to give him a decent roof over his head and the nourishing food he needs to give him strength to recover, that is all I want from you.
Moll Cheyne
Marianne heaved a somewhat ragged sigh, then realized that the girl was still waiting. ‘It’s all right, Rosie. I’m not going to sack you, but please be more careful in future.’
The girl did not take the intended dismissal. She had told Cook about the awful-looking woman who was in with the mistress, and knew that Mrs Carnie would expect her to find out who it had been. It was not in Rosie’s nature to be bold, or to poke her nose into other people’s business, but she was well aware that her life wouldn’t be worth living downstairs if she didn’t. And so, her face as red as a cock-turkey, she stammered, ‘Had the l-letter to do with the w-woman that was here? I know there was a row, for I heard you both shouting.’
Taking a moment to decide how to answer this, Marianne said, ‘She wrote it and she couldn’t understand why I hadn’t replied. But it’s all sorted out now, so get back to your duties and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Thank you, m’Lady.’
Before knuckling down to writing to Andrew, Marianne couldn’t help wondering if it would have made any difference if Moll’s letter had been sent to London along with the rest of their mail, and came to the shaming conclusion that it probably wouldn’t have, especially if it had followed the afternoon tea fiasco. At that time, she hadn’t had even a drop of the milk of human kindness left in her, and she’d had no compassion for anyone else. She would most certainly have torn the letter up. She had never liked her stepmother and she’d have thought it was just a begging letter.
Since coming home, she’d had an even worse trauma to face, one she could never have come through without help … from Flora and Robert … and Hamish. He was still getting over it himself, and his father’s death, which was why she couldn’t let him know how callous she had been towards her father and it was time she got this letter written. She meant to do what little she could for her father now, but she needed Andrew’s help.
Chapter Fourteen
Andrew had been surprised, and very pleased, by Marianne’s letter. Having the Lord and Lady Glendarril as clients would be good for business. She had been married for over five years now, and he had only seen her for a few hours at a time, yet his heart still beat a full drum roll every time he saw her. While the train sped south, he decided that he should manage to cope with seeing her and h
er husband together for a whole weekend.
Carnie was waiting for him at Laurencekirk, but sadly for Andrew, he was in a talkative mood. ‘His Lordship’s no’ back yet,’ he said, as he laid the young man’s valise on the seat. ‘He’s still away in London, but her Ladyship’s expecting you.’
This information had the same impact on Andrew as if he had been slapped in the face with a wet fish. Marianne must have known when she wrote that she would be alone. What was she up to? Her indifference to him at Hector’s funeral had worried him. He had got the distinct impression that he was intruding on a very deep private grief, but even when he reminded her of his promise to be there for her when she needed him, she swore that nothing was wrong. Perhaps, however, she had been too upset to talk about it then, and she may be ready to confide in him now.
Carnie broke into his thoughts. ‘Master Ruairidh was a bit down all day yesterday, but he’s brighter the day.’
This did much to ease Andrew’s anxiety. He had forgotten about the two boys – they would be around during the day, which would make things easier. ‘I have heard that children can be quite ill one day and back to normal the next.’
‘That’s what Nursie said when her Ladyship wanted to get in the doctor. The bairn’s just three yet, of course, so it’s little wonder she frets. Master Ranald, now, he’s a sturdy wee man, never nothing wrong wi’ him, an’ it’s just as well, for it’s him that’ll come into the title.’ Carnie’s weatherbeaten face sobered. ‘I sometimes get a queer feelin’, though. Old Lord Glendarril had a twin brother, you see, Randolph his name was, and being a couple of hours older, he was the heir, but he caught a terrible chill the winter he would’ve been twenty-one, and he never saw his birthday.’
The elderly man shook his head mournfully. ‘And Master Hamish, the present Lord, was the second son by about an hour, but young Randolph, after their uncle, he picked up some germ and died when he was fourteen.’
‘Neither death was caused by a hereditary disease,’ Andrew pointed out quietly, ‘and if Ranald is as healthy as you say, I should not think there is any chance of Ruairidh ever inheriting.’
‘It’s the name that bothers me, Mr Andrew. That was two Randolphs that died young, and Ranald’s no’ that much different from Randolph, is it? I’m sure there must be a curse on the elder sons –’ He broke off, then added darkly, ‘Things like that comes in threes.’
Andrew had to laugh at this. ‘I would not have thought that you were so superstitious, Carnie, and surely you do not believe there are curses in this day and age. We are almost three years into the twentieth century. Ranald will grow to be a fine young man, and with his mother’s genes in him, he will be one of the best lairds this glen has ever seen.’
Marianne was waiting outside with the two small boys as Carnie drew the carriage to a halt at the steps. ‘Oh, Andrew, it’s good to see you again!’ she exclaimed, coming forward as if to hug him.
Evading this, and hoping to discourage her from trying again, he bent down to her sons with a smile. ‘My, you two have grown!’
‘I’m as big as Rannie,’ Ruairidh said confidentially.
‘You are not!’ his brother protested.
‘Say hello to Uncle Andrew properly,’ Marianne prompted, ‘or else he’ll think you’re always arguing.’
Gravely, they both held out their hands and said in unison, ‘Hello, Uncle Andrew.’
‘Hello there,’ he responded heartily. ‘I wish I’d had a brother to argue with when I was young.’
Four large blue eyes regarding him curiously. ‘Had you nobody to play with, either?’
‘I had a dog …’ His voice tailed away. He could still recall the awful wrench when he had said goodbye to Duke – far worse than losing his father.
‘I’m as clever as Rannie now,’ Ruairidh announced.
‘No, you’re not. I know more than you,’ Ranald boasted. ‘I can say my catechism, and I can say the alphabet backwards as well as …’
‘That’s enough,’ Marianne said sharply, putting her arm through the visitor’s to walk up the steps. ‘Stop pestering Uncle Andrew. He’s tired after his journey and needs a wee rest. You’ll see him later on.’
‘Oh, good!’ Ranald grinned. ‘Is he staying for a while?’
‘He goes home on Sunday. Off you go, and don’t let Nursie forget to give you your syrup of figs tonight … remind her it’s Friday.’
Both boys pulled faces but scampered off obediently. ‘They’re not so bad,’ Marianne smiled, as she opened the door of the ex-Blue Room, the most comfortable in the house and consequently, the most used.
‘They’re very well-behaved,’ Andrew observed, taking a seat on the couch as his hostess had indicated. ‘Carnie was saying that Hamish is down in London.’
‘Yes, he did ask me to go with him, but he’d expect me to make the rounds of his friends’ wives, and I can’t stand any of them. How are your aunts, Andrew? I hope Miss Edith got over her bout of flu?’
‘She only stayed off work for two days, but, unfortunately, Esther went down with it, in a much more severe form. Their doctor seemed quite concerned for her but she said last Sunday that she had begun to feel better.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And Miss Emily?’
Andrew smiled fondly. ‘She soldiers on. I keep telling her and Edith that they should retire from the shop – they are both over sixty now – but they just laugh at me.’
‘The shop’s their life. Don’t force them into giving it up.’
‘I wouldn’t dare try,’ he laughed.
It was halfway through the afternoon when he said, ‘We had better get down to business and have it out of the way. What was it you wanted to see me about?’
‘Can I speak about something … personal first?’
The pain in her eyes alarmed him. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Not exactly … well, you could say there was, but … oh, Andrew, I didn’t want to let anyone know, but I’ll have to tell you.’
She sank down on the couch beside him but before telling him anything, she held one hand out to him and, presuming that she wanted him to hold it to bolster her courage, he clasped it to his chest. ‘What is it, my dear?’ he asked huskily.
She started with the lost letter and her shame at not having kept in touch with her father, waiting for him to absolve her of all blame, but he looked at her with his head on one side. ‘I was afraid that this might happen. In fact, I am surprised that it didn’t happen sooner, if this Moll was the kind of woman who ill treated a young girl.’
‘Oh, Andrew, I’m sorry,’ she wailed. ‘I told you that story so you wouldn’t think so badly of me for running away. She never touched me, not in anger, at any rate.’
‘But you said you ran away because you stole some money,’ he reminded her. ‘Why in heaven’s name did you tell me that and not tell me the truth about your stepmother?’
Her nerves at breaking point, Marianne cried, ‘I don’t know. It just came out and I can’t think about –’ She broke off, biting her lip, then blurted out, ‘It’s all piling on top of me, Andrew!’
The concern in his face changed to uncertainty. ‘Is there more that you have not told me?’
‘Not about that,’ she muttered, averting her head. ‘It’s just happened so quick after –’
Her abrupt, agitated stop made him say, ‘Go on, Marianne. What else happened? Tell me!’
‘I was raped,’ she stated badly, ‘and don’t ask me to tell you anything about that, for I haven’t told anybody … I can’t. Not yet. Not ever.’
Pity for her surged up in him as he took her in his arms, biting back the questions he wanted to ask: who, where, why, and how had the opportunity arisen? ‘Please don’t upset yourself like this, my dear. I know it must have been traumatic for you, but it was not your fault.’
‘But he said it was,’ she moaned. ‘He said it was my fault. When he was … Oh God, Andrew, you’ve no idea what it was like. He was like an animal. Oh God! Oh God!’ She
buried her face in her hands in anguish.
He crooned soothing words to her, patting her gently on the back whilst silently cursing her unknown assailant. At last, when he thought that she was over the worst, he said, ‘Does Hamish know about this?’
She nodded, then raised her eyes to him. ‘He … he doesn’t know what to do … he’s never had to cope with anything like this, and I didn’t mean to tell you, Andrew, but you’ve got the knack of worming my secrets out of me.’
‘I am glad of that, my dear.’ He smiled. ‘I would hate to think that there were any secrets between us now. Believe me, Marianne, as I told you long ago, no matter what you have done, or do in the future, I will stand by you. I have not stopped loving you and never will, so bear that in mind. All I ask of you is that you will be scrupulously honest with me at all times.’
‘I will, Andrew, I promise.’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘Now, shall we continue? It will help to take your mind off things. What was it you wanted to see me about? Do you want to divorce Hamish? Is that it?’ She had mentioned no such thing when she wrote, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him, perhaps a hope which had lain latent in him since the day of her marriage, although he was not aware of it. Her astonished gasp, however, told him that he was mistaken in his premise.
‘No, of course I don’t want to divorce Hamish! I love him! I really do, and he loves me.’
‘I’m sorry, Marianne. Tell me what it is you require of me and I shall do my best to –’
‘I … need some fresh air. Come on.’
He followed her along the hallway and down to the basement kitchen where she introduced him to Mrs Carnie as the weekend guest. ‘We’re going to take the dogs out a walk,’ she went on, ‘but I thought we might have a cup of tea first.’
‘In here?’ asked the cook, incredulously. She was not accustomed to her domain being invaded in an afternoon, especially by the mistress. Lady Marianne, Lady Glendarril as they should call her now but old habits die hard, usually left everything to Roberta Glover, menus included, and seldom put in an appearance herself at any time of day.
The House of Lyall Page 23