The House of Lyall

by Doris Davidson

  Melda shuddered at the oversimplification, a crude explanation for what had been a wonderful, heavenly experience, although afterwards – after the seeming eternity of the two hours they had been together – when they were drained of all feeling, they had avoided looking at each other and walked silently back to the road. It was as if anything further would have shattered the spell.

  And now? She came to the conclusion that her love for the brothers had been equally divided. Life without Rannie would possibly be less exciting, but also less of a strain, because he himself had raised doubts in her as to his trust-worthiness. He had teased her about Becky Drummond, or pretended that he’d been teasing, but there had been a touch of mischievous wickedness in his eyes which suggested that it might have been true, or that he wished that it had been. She could not begin to imagine him taking a wife – he would have baulked at the confines marriage would impose – whereas she could see Ruairidh as a perfect husband.

  Ruairidh lit another cigarette, grimacing at the overflowing ashtray by his bed. It had been one hell of a night! After seeing Melda home, he had roamed through the woods for hours, agonizing over what he had done. He had taken advantage of her, there was no other word for it. She’d been crying her heart out for Rannie, and had admitted wishing she’d given in to him before he was sent to France, so didn’t that prove it was Rannie she loved? And bumbling great fool that he was, Ruairidh Bruce-Lyall had taken what should by rights have been his brother’s.

  Now, even if she swore that she loved him, he would never be sure that he wasn’t second best. Could he be happy with that, or would it cause a rift between them? If he ever dared to ask her to marry him and she accepted, wouldn’t he keep thinking that she’d have been his sister-in-law if Rannie had lived, not his wife?

  Ruairidh eyed his cigarette with loathing; he had smoked far too many of the blasted things since he was given the God-awful news, and this one tasted absolutely foul. Snibbing the glowing tip carefully so as not to knock any of the old butts or ash on to the floor, and putting the stub behind his ear in the way his batman always did, he lay back to think things over for the umpteenth time.

  ‘We shouldn’t have been so selfish last night,’ Marianne murmured.

  Hamish wound a tendril of her tousled auburn hair round his finger. ‘What do you mean … selfish?’

  ‘We only thought of ourselves losing a son –’ She broke off to steady the tremble in her voice. ‘Poor Ruairidh lost the brother he was always so close to, and I ignored him after you came in.’

  ‘You needed me,’ Hamish reminded her, ‘and I don’t think I’d have got through last night if it hadn’t been for you, my darling.’

  She looked at him gratefully. Last night, after their tears were spent, he made love to her and told her how much he loved her as he hadn’t done in years.

  ‘My darling,’ he said again, looking at her as if begging her to understand, ‘I have been all sorts of a fool. I knew, deep down, that you were not to blame for what Duncan Peat did, but I could not bear to think of him … It tore me apart to think … Every time I looked at you, I could picture him touching you …’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she murmured, although, at the time, she had been unable to consider how he had felt, and even yet she could hardly bear to let her mind dwell on that terrible day.

  ‘So many years wasted,’ he said softly, kissing her brow, ‘and all because I was too obstinate to admit … to accept …’ He heaved a great sigh. ‘It had happened, and nothing could change that, and I should have comforted you and helped you to get over it, instead of which, I thought only of how it affected me. Can you ever forgive me, my dearest?’

  Her heart full, she whispered, ‘Of course I forgive you, Hamish, my dear, but I should have tried to see it from your point of view. I couldn’t understand why you turned from me …’ She broke off tearfully.

  ‘Oh, my dearest dear, I should not have brought it up … not now … at this time …’

  He also tailed off, clasping her to him until she thought he would crush her bones to powder, which did a little to counteract the burning grief that had been slowly consuming her since the telegram was delivered. Gradually, however, his grip relaxed and shortly after that, his breathing became steady and deeper, and she knew that he had fallen asleep again. It didn’t matter. Most likely none of the maids would dare to intrude on them today. They would be left to console each other, to get up when they felt like it, to eat only if they wanted to.

  Her thoughts began to wander now. Their marriage hadn’t been altogether an ideal one, though they’d been happy together, up to a point. For many years they had missed out on … the deep fulfilment that comes with true, openly expressed, love. If only she had realized why Hamish had closed the door on that. If only she had realized that a man’s outlook on things was completely different from a woman’s. If only he had been less restricted in his view of what had happened to her. It wasn’t her fault. She’d gone to the manse with the purest of intentions, and that vile brute, that – she delved into her memory for a stronger expression and came up with one she had once heard in Tipperton – bugger o’hell! Yes, that’s what he was, and she hoped against hope that he would rot there till the end of time. But she shouldn’t even think about him.

  She drew a shuddering breath. What should she think about? Not about Ranald. Not yet. Not until the searing pain in her heart had subsided. Get back to Hamish, she told herself. They’d have to make the most of whatever time they had left to be together, and at nearly thirty-nine, she surely wasn’t too old to give him another heir … just in case Ruairidh …

  Sheering off the unthinkable, she was conscious that Hamish was awake again, and said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Like you said a while ago, we had each other to help us through the night, but Ruairidh had nobody. He went out not long after you got home, remember, and I didn’t hear him coming in again. Did you?’

  ‘Yes, long after the hall clock struck two.’

  ‘As late as that? I wonder where he’d been.’

  ‘Would he have gone to see Melda? They used to be a threesome with Ranald when they were children.’

  Marianne’s eyes filled with tears once more, but she didn’t voice the objection she had to any liaison between Ruairidh and Melda. It was better not to tell Hamish who the girl’s biological father was – she didn’t want to remind him of the man, and besides, it was Flora and Robert’s secret. ‘I never had the chance to ask you, dear. How did you manage to get home so quickly? The telegram I sent wouldn’t have arrived until …’

  He clasped her hand now. ‘I probably knew before you, my dearest. A friend in the War Office came to tell me about midnight, so I took the early morning train, but I wish … oh, I never want to leave you again.’

  ‘I’d better call at the castle this morning.’ Robert Mowatt pushed his chair back and stood up from the breakfast table.

  ‘They don’t want any visitors,’ his wife reminded him.

  ‘I’m not going as a visitor. I should really have gone as soon as I heard yesterday to see how Marianne was bearing up, but wee Lexie Murison had a bad attack of croup, and by the time I’d drained all the muck from her throat somebody said Ruairidh was home, and it wasn’t long before somebody else told me that Hamish was back as well, so I knew she’d be all right.’

  Flora’s nose had screwed up at the mention of what he’d had to do for the little girl, but she was glad when he went out, giving her the chance to speak to her daughter in private. ‘You didn’t tell me Ruairidh was home,’ she accused her. ‘Was that why you raced off yesterday without any supper?’

  Melda shook her head. ‘I didn’t know he was home till … I met him accidentally later on.’

  ‘It was after eleven before you came in. You couldn’t have been with him till that time of night?’

  ‘Yes I was. He’d just lost his brother, remember, and we were … going over old times, when we were bairns running wild in the school holidays.�
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  ‘You thought a lot of Ranald, didn’t you?’

  ‘I thought a lot of both of them.’

  Her mother eyed her calculatingly. ‘I think you liked Ranald best, though, but don’t forget … Ruairidh’s the heir now.’

  Melda’s cheeks flamed. ‘I’m not going to chase after Ruairidh to please you. Anyway, you know fine Father wouldn’t like it, goodness knows why.’

  Fully aware that her husband was afraid of what Marianne would do if he allowed her son to court Duncan Peat’s daughter – she was obsessed with the idea of insanity – Flora gave a tight smile. ‘I could probably manage to talk your father round.’

  She was not going to sit idly by and let something that had happened sixteen years ago spoil her chances of becoming mother-in-law to the future Lord Glendarril.

  Not wanting to fuel the hope her mother seemed to have for her, Melda kept away from the old hut all that week, and when she saw Ruairidh helping his mother from their carriage at the church gate on Sunday, she was so taken aback at them for showing themselves in public at such a time that she didn’t know what to say. It turned out that, at the laird’s request, the minister was holding a memorial service for Ranald. With his body lying in some foreign field there could be no funeral as such, but the Reverend Stephen Drummond’s emotional words brought tears to the eyes of every person there and did much to ease the grief of all the men and women who had lost sons in the war.

  As was the custom, the rest of the congregation kept seated until the laird and his family left, and when everyone was outside, they stood in small knots discussing the service and the terrible toll that had been taken on the young manhood of the area. Feeling sad enough without listening to so many gloom-laden conversations, Melda walked on when her parents stopped to talk to friends, and was glad she had when she saw Ruairidh waiting for her at the gate.

  As she neared him, he doffed his peaked hat and twirled it in his hands. ‘Will you meet me in the hut tonight?’ he asked shyly. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  ‘Yes … all right,’ she mumbled, all she could manage with her mouth so dry.

  ‘Half-past seven?’

  At her nod, he moved away to join a man she hadn’t noticed before, an older man, probably one of his father’s friends though she didn’t care who he was. All that concerned her was what Ruairidh was going to tell her.

  Andrew Rennie had been shocked to learn of Ranald Bruce-Lyall’s death and honoured to be asked to attend the memorial service for him. It had proved a truly moving experience, more so as he had sat behind Marianne and Hamish, both painfully erect in an effort to hide the depth of their suffering. That was the penalty they had to pay for being nobility, he had thought – the duty of maintaining dignity even in the face of heartbreak – watching the woman’s hand searching for her husband’s, noticing the throbbing vein at the man’s temple.

  His heart had gone out, too, to the young man next to Hamish, a soldier like the brother whose life was being celebrated. He knew how close the boys had been and could practically feel, himself, the anguish that Ruairidh was enduring at still being alive when Ranald was dead.

  When they emerged into the sunlight again, Ruairidh said, ‘I won’t come in the carriage, Mother. I need a walk to clear my head.’

  Also feeling the need of some fresh air before tackling the lunch he had been invited to stay for, Andrew said, ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’

  ‘I’d enjoy it, Uncle Andrew.’ When the carriage drew away, he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I want to talk to a girl I know.’

  ‘You should have said. I wouldn’t have foisted myself on you.’

  ‘I won’t be a second, if you’ll just walk on a bit.’

  Amused by the boy’s subterfuge, Andrew walked on, and it wasn’t long until his companion joined him again, his step somewhat lighter. ‘Everything all right?’ Andrew queried.

  ‘Yes, she’s going to meet me in the evening, and …’ Ruairidh’s eyes begged the man to understand, ‘… I’d be grateful if you didn’t offer to come with me again.’

  ‘Will this be common knowledge, or should I keep it to myself?’

  Ruairidh gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself, Uncle Andrew … please.’

  ‘Yes, of course, and you need not have worried about me butting in again. I am going home in the afternoon.’

  At the castle, Ruairidh said, ‘I’m going to my room. There’s bound to be a lot of people here, and I can’t …’

  As it happened, only Marianne was in the drawing room when Andrew went in. ‘Hamish has gone up to change,’ she told her old friend.

  ‘Ruairidh thought there would be a lot of people here.’

  ‘I can’t face anybody yet,’ she said, somewhat shamefacedly.

  ‘You shouldn’t have invited me back either. I’d have understood.’

  ‘That’s why I asked you; I knew you’d understand. Oh, Andrew, it feels like a part of me has died.’

  Longing to show how much he felt for her, he drew a chair up next to her and took her hand. ‘I am so very, very sorry about Ranald, my dear, and I wish I could have been here to support you when you … got the telegram. You must have been devastated since neither Hamish nor Ruairidh was at home.’

  She sandwiched his hand between hers. ‘It was like I was turned to stone, at first. I couldn’t feel anything, and I didn’t really take it in till Ruairidh arrived – his CO brought his furlough forward a week – and we were still comforting each other when his father turned up. Hamish has been a rock to me, though he was heartbroken himself … and d’you know, Andrew, sharing our sorrow brought us closer than we’d been for years.’

  Conscious that she was looking at him warily, as if unsure what his reaction would be, he said, ‘I am truly glad for you, Marianne.’

  As he confided to his Aunt Edith in a few hours, when he went to tell her how the memorial service had gone, ‘I am glad for her, though I had hoped to be the one to provide the comfort she needed.’

  ‘Andrew,’ Edith said sadly, ‘I know you have worshipped Marianne ever since you met her, and I have the feeling that she loved you in her own way, but she knew what she wanted. She had set her mind on being rich, and Mammon is a hard taskmaster.’

  ‘If she had waited, I could have given her everything she wanted.’

  ‘You could not have given her a castle, Andrew, nor a title. I am afraid she wanted to get as much as she could out of life, and if she missed out on love, she has only herself to blame.’

  Andrew had to admit the truth of this, but when his aunt hinted that Marianne’s wealth and her position in the glen community had possibly gone to her head, he said, staunchly, ‘She does not put on any airs. I could see for myself that everyone in the church looked up to her, and she treats them all the same, from the lowest maid in the castle to the doctor and the schoolmaster. Hamish’s workers and tenant farmers and their wives all showed respect when they told her how sorry they were about her son, yet no one appeared at all awkward with her.’

  Edith nodded her snow-white head and smiled. ‘She has the knack of getting on well with people, whatever their station in life. I can see you resent me criticizing her, Andrew, but I can assure you that I still care for her, very much. She was like a daughter to us when she was here … as you have always been like a son.’

  Getting to his feet, he went across and lifted her wasted hand to his lips. ‘And I was extremely fortunate in having three such dear ladies to mother me through university and see me through the ordeal of being best man at the wedding of the only girl I shall ever love.’

  Tears sprang to the old woman’s eyes. ‘My dear, dear Andrew.’

  He straightened up resolutely. ‘No more sentimentality. I have had quite a harrowing day, and it is time I went home to bed, but I shall see you again next Sunday.’ He bent to kiss her cheek and then went out, his eyes suspiciously moist.

  Aunt Esther had been the first to go, f
rom a heart attack a little over three years ago. That was when the other two sold up the shop and retired, and only a month or two later, Emily had died under the surgeon’s knife during an operation to remove gallstones. It was probably fortunate that Edith had outlived her two younger sisters, however, because she had always been the strongest and had made all decisions.

  * * *

  All afternoon, Melda fluctuated between wanting to meet Ruairidh and dreading it. What was he going to say? If he wanted her to commit herself to him publicly, she couldn’t. She was newly sixteen and her father would not agree to any engagement, particularly not to Lady Marianne’s only surviving son. But maybe Ruairidh wasn’t going to propose. This meeting could just be a ruse to get her alone, to take his pleasure with her again.

  When the time came, therefore, she set off apprehensively, but when she entered the old shack and saw him sitting with his back against the rickety wall, his face serious, his eyes looking straight ahead, she knew that he would never trick her into anything.

  He jumped but made no move towards her. ‘I should have told you this last time I saw you, Melda, but we were both so upset …’ He halted, looking down at his feet as if ashamed to remind her of their last meeting. ‘You don’t know how sorry I am for –’

  ‘What should you have told me?’ she interrupted. It was dangerous to speak of that other evening.

  ‘I go back to camp tomorrow and … this was embarkation leave as well as compassionate. We’re being sent overseas very soon.’

  Giving a horrified gasp, and forgetting the promise she had made to herself, she was in his arms and they were murmuring the endearments all lovers make to each other. But it was not long before Ruairidh broke away. ‘No, Melda,’ he muttered shakily, ‘I didn’t plan this. I don’t want to … take advantage of you again. It’s not fair when you haven’t had time to get over Rannie.’

  ‘I’ll never forget him,’ she whispered. ‘but I’ve been thinking … I’ve always loved you as two halves of one whole, and I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if I’d had to choose between you.’