The House of Lyall

by Doris Davidson

  ‘You’d have chosen him,’ Ruairidh said, but there was no evidence of bitterness. ‘He was the one who could make people laugh, he was the one with personality.’

  ‘Oh yes, but I had realized that he was turning out to be a bit of a heartbreaker, that he could make any girl think she was the only girl in the world for him,’ Melda pointed out. ‘You’re different, Ruairidh. You wouldn’t say anything like that unless you meant it.’

  He clasped her hand. ‘You are the only girl in the world for me, Melda, but it’s too soon … I don’t feel happy about saying it myself yet. It’s … oh, I don’t know, the world’s in such a state. Maybe when we’re at peace again …’ He heaved a long, doleful sigh. ‘I can’t make plans for a future I may not have.’

  Raising his hand to her cheek, she burst out, ‘Don’t say that! Of course we’ll have a future, so there’s no need to grasp at happiness, is there? Just remember when you’re over there that I love you and I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Determined not to let their emotions overtake them again, they reminisced once more about their childhood; about their fellow pupils at the glen school, some of whom, like Ranald, had been killed, though Melda didn’t mention that; about Rannie himself, whose name was not the bogey it had been last time. Well aware of how easy it would be to slip, they kept their kisses as light as they could, reserving their passion for the time when there would be no war, when they would be free to love each other without having a sickening dread looming over them afterwards.

  Chapter Twenty

  After six weeks, Marianne still had not come to terms with what had happened, but Hamish was being exceedingly patient with her. She knew she was like a fragile piece of china waiting to be knocked down again and smashed beyond repair, yet the way Thomson fussed over her, ready to step between her and anything the least bit threatening, only irritated her.

  Why couldn’t people see that she was still mourning her son? And how could they carry on with their unimportant lives so soon after Ranald’s death, as if it meant nothing to them? Even Flora Mowatt seemed more inclined to tell her how grateful she should be for having one son left alive than to commiserate with her about the one she had lost. It was all right for her – she had no sons.

  For as much as Melda had been worrying about Ruairidh’s safety, she had a far greater worry on her mind now. When she missed once, she had prayed that it wasn’t true, but another month had gone past and she would have to face up to it. She was carrying Ruairidh’s child!

  She was shivering with cold, yet it was a glorious Indian summer outside, quite a common occurrence in September. The trouble was, she couldn’t cope with this predicament on her own, but she couldn’t tell her parents.

  Her father, an old Victorian patriarch, was loud in condemnation to his wife and daughter of the glen girls who had illegitimate babies. ‘It serves them right!’ he always said. ‘Surely to God they could stop their lad before it gets that far,’ and she, in her innocence, had agreed with him … until lately. Even if she’d wanted to, she didn’t think she could have stopped Ruairidh, and it hadn’t entered her mind, in any case. If that had been all, if it had been any other boy, she might have braced herself to tell her father of her condition, but because it was Ruairidh, he’d be doubly mad. For years now it was as though he had something truly bad against the laird’s sons, which had been reflected in their mother’s aloof attitude to her, which had started about the same time. She hadn’t been invited inside the castle any more, but it hadn’t stopped the boys from letting her join them in their play.

  As for her own mother, she was a Victorian-style wife, never daring to disagree with her husband, though she wouldn’t do that in this case anyway, because she, too, was dead against unmarried girls landing in the family way. She wouldn’t excuse her daughter’s plight, no matter who the boy was, so there was no point in asking her for help.

  There was no one to turn to. She had no address for Ruairidh – they had never written to each other – and she wondered if his mother would tell her how to contact him if she went and asked.

  The next morning being a Sunday, she went to church knowing that no amount of prayers or singing praise to the Lord would help her now. First, she had to find out if Lord Glendarril was at home, for she could never say anything in front of the laird. She was thankful that only his wife and Jean Thomson were seated in the Bruce-Lyall stall. At the close of the service, her shame at what she would soon have to confess made her hold her head down as Lady Marianne went past on her way out, her usual ornate hats replaced by a plain black toque.

  Trailing her way home, Melda decided that she had better go to the castle today. This was the first time his Lordship had been away from home since … and he might not be away again for months, and by that time the whole of the glen would know she was ‘in the family way’, and what a scandal there would be.

  Fortified by a bite of lunch, she went out for the walk she usually took while her father was having a nap, sometimes not more than forty winks if he was called out, and he needed all the rest he could get. As she walked up the curved drive, she tried to plan what to say; she would have to tell the truth, for she was useless at telling lies. And she’d been heartened by what her mother had said before she came out.

  To her dismay, her father had been holding forth about the number of girls who had been ‘wronged’ by a soldier they’d met at one of the dances being laid on for servicemen in towns and villages for miles around. ‘It’s a damned disgrace!’ he had declaimed. ‘But they’re as bad as the boys, if you ask me. They must know what they’re doing, and who do they think will look after their love children? Their mothers?’

  His wife had shaken her head. ‘Marianne’s always very sympathetic to the girls who shame their families. She finds second- or third-hand prams and cradles for them, and gives them enough money to buy the other essentials, and she never condemns them.’

  Robert had snorted. ‘It would be different if the blame lay at her own door, though. She wouldn’t be so sympathetic.’

  Flora had eyed him slyly. ‘I know at least one mother who was certain it was Ranald Bruce-Lyall who fathered her daughter’s child.’

  ‘Ach! Women’s gossip!’

  The rest of that story came back to Melda now. The ‘shamed’ girl had told her, months later, that the laird’s wife had paid for the confinement in a small nursing home miles away from the glen, and had found employment for her where she could keep her child. Besides that, long afterwards a farm labourer from somewhere near Brechin had admitted to being the father. Melda had been relieved at the time that it wasn’t Rannie, but she had doubts about that now. The Bruce-Lyalls could have paid the farmhand to make his confession to save their faces.

  Climbing the nearest set of steps, Melda steeled herself for the confrontation to come and gave two loud raps on the oaken door.

  ‘It’s the kitchen door you should’ve come to,’ the little maid told her when she asked to see Lady Glendarril. ‘And her Ladyship never sees nobody without an appointment.’

  ‘She’ll see me, Jessie.’ The sight of her old school friend had given Melda some extra courage.

  Jessie shoved her lace cap up off her brow. ‘She’ll gi’e me a row if I show onybody in the now, for she’s havin’ a rest.’

  ‘Go in and tell her I have to speak to her – it’s important.’

  Marianne was sitting in a chair by the fire wearing a silk peignoir over her underclothes when the light tap came at her door. ‘Come in,’ she called, frowning, because she did not feel like seeing anyone. ‘Yes?’ she asked, when the maid opened the door. The girl looked scared, but since it was her first week as parlour maid – she had previously been kitchen maid – her mistress could understand how she felt. ‘What is it, Jessie?’

  ‘There’s somebody asking to see you, m’Lady. I said you wasn’t at home to folk, but she says it’s important.’

  ‘She? Did she give you her name?’

  ‘She didna need
to, m’Lady. It’s Melda Mowatt, and we was at the school at the same time.’

  ‘Show her in.’ A chill of presentiment made the woman draw her négligée closer around her. Why on earth would the doctor’s daughter want to speak to her? When the visitor appeared, she looked every bit as scared as the maid had been, and Marianne, forcing a smile to her lips, prepared for an unpleasant surprise. ‘I believe you have something important to tell me, Melda?’

  ‘Yes, your Ladyship,’ Melda murmured timidly, wondering if her nerve would hold until she got it out.

  Marianne gestured to a chair. ‘Sit there and tell me.’ The girl sat down, but it seemed that she was unable to come out with whatever had brought her to the castle. ‘I won’t eat you, my dear. Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve come … I thought I’d better … you see … I’m expecting.’

  The last two words, bursting out like the cork from a champagne bottle, were so unexpected that Marianne did not understand at first. ‘But why come to me? What can …?’ With comprehension came a violent lurch of nausea that had her gripping herself together in case she was actually sick. Then she felt as if her body was floating away, that she was looking down on a scene which had nothing to do with her. After a few moments, reality returned and, noticing that the girl was looking anxious, she managed to say, ‘It is my son’s child?’

  ‘Yes, m’Lady, but it wasn’t just his fault …’

  ‘No?’ Marianne was desperately trying to think how to cope with this situation, so similar to many she had dealt with over the past few years, yet so different, the boy concerned being of her own flesh and blood. ‘It might be best not to apportion blame,’ she quavered.

  ‘But I want you to understand,’ Melda said beseechingly. ‘It was the night he came home on leave, and we hadn’t arranged to meet, but we’d both gone to the old hut in the woods, and …’

  Marianne was scarcely taking anything in, she felt so angry at her son for putting her in this position, and she said nothing as the girl continued.

  ‘… and we were both crying, and trying to comfort each other, and we got to kissing, and then –’

  Marianne sat up in astonishment. ‘You were trying to comfort each other? You and Ranald? What on earth for?’

  It was Melda who looked astonished now. ‘Not Ranald, m’Lady. It was Ruairidh.’

  ‘Ruairidh? But Ruairidh wouldn’t …’ Her head swimming, Marianne had to stop. Much as she had hated to think ill of Ranald, she could easily see him as the culprit, whereas her younger son could never … ‘I suppose you are going to say he raped you?’

  ‘No! Ruairidh would never harm me, he loves me, and I love him.’

  A warning bell started ringing in Marianne’s head. Was this talk of love a prelude to a forced wedding? She could not allow Ruairidh to marry the daughter of that madman! It must be all of sixteen years since the minister had made that attack on her, yet she could still see his deranged eyes, still feel his clawing fingers, his hot breath. Oh no! She would have to do something to prevent …

  She drew a steadying breath and smiled sugar-sweetly to take the edge off what she was about to say. ‘You can’t have this child, of course. You can’t disgrace the Bruce-Lyall name like that. I will have to arrange for an abortion.’

  ‘But it’s your grandchild!’ Melda gasped, shocked both at the very idea, and that it should come from this respectable pillar of the community.

  ‘I am well aware of that, but with Ranald … gone, Ruairidh is heir to the title, and he can not have an illegitimate child hanging over him, possibly dividing the family in future generations and causing embarrassment in this one.’

  ‘But he’ll marry me when he comes home,’ Melda said firmly. ‘I’m sure he will, when I tell him …’

  Marianne’s manner changed completely, her face hardening, her eyes narrowing as she barked, ‘You will not tell him about this! I will arrange for you to have an abortion, and …’

  This was too much for Melda. ‘I will not have an abortion!’ she said, firmly but quietly in case Jessie heard. ‘It’s my baby, and you can’t make me! I know you’re the laird’s wife, and you likely think you own the whole glen, but you don’t own me! I won’t let you kill my baby!’ She glared defiantly at the woman.

  Marianne’s hand itched to slap her across the cheek, but she would lose control of the situation if she did. Making up her mind that appearing to climb down might be the best policy, she changed tactics again. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she said softly, ‘I was trying to think what would be best for you, but I can understand you wanting to keep the child. The trouble is, I haven’t had time to think properly, so I want you to go home now and come back in the evening. Ruairidh’s father will not be back until tomorrow, so come round the side of this wing, and I’ll let you in by the french window. We don’t want the servants to start wondering why you are here a second time, and if Jessie asks you why you wanted to see me, tell her you brought a message from your father.’

  When Melda left, Marianne went upstairs to dress for dinner, as she usually did at this time. She must do nothing to rouse the slightest suspicion that something was wrong. The hour she normally spent in answering letters could be used to think how to get rid of Melda or her expected child … preferably both.

  Her hour of concentrated thought was almost up when a plan occurred to her; a scheme to out-scheme all schemes. It would take a lot of arranging, probably much greasing of palms, but it could be done … as long as Andrew Rennie played along with it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Melda Bruce opened her eyes slowly, hardly believing that the birth was over. For hours there had been brief respites between the labour pains, and then they had accelerated into the excruciating agony that had made her scream and scream until she was sure that her lungs would burst. She had been praying for God to take her, to release her into that heaven where no pain existed, when she was given morphine to help her through the final stage, and the last thing she clearly remembered was feeling ice-cold though she was drenched in perspiration. But she felt better now. Someone had sponged her then told her she had a son, but she couldn’t remember anything after that.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  The young nurse who had held her hand and stroked her brow during her labour was by her bed again, and Melda gave her as bright a smile as she could to show how much she appreciated the kindness. ‘Still a bit tired, but not too bad.’

  ‘You’ll soon get over it.’ The girl seemed to be on the point of saying more when the ringing of a bell made her hurry out.

  Melda lay back lazily, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t asked if her son was all right. That must have been what the nurse had been going to tell her if she hadn’t been called away, but she’d tell her next time she came in. Lady Glendarril had said she wouldn’t be allowed to see it, but at least she knew which sex it was.

  She took a good look around her – she had been in no state to notice anything when she was taken through from the labour ward. Like the rest of the maternity hospital it was disinfectantly clean, but there was a more homely look to this private room. It was furnished with a matching walnut chest of drawers and cabinet, two padded armchairs and a small circular table standing on one beautifully carved leg that ended in three clawed feet. The walnut bed ends supported a firm spring under the mattress, so the bed was quite comfortable, with a plump feather pillow for her head and several fluffy white blankets. She snuggled down into the soft eiderdown that lay on top, and closed her eyes again.

  It had all been so unexpected. At first, when she had refused to agree to an abortion, she’d thought that Ruairidh’s mother was going to strike her, but only for a moment. She was bound to have been angry, of course, being defied by a sixteen-year-old girl whose condition would cause the glen folk to think that one or both of the laird’s sons had seduced her. But later, when the woman had had time to think, she came up with what she’d said was an infinitely better solution. For the hundredth time, Melda won
dered how she had ever let herself be talked into it, but it had been the only option open to her. Her mind went back.

  Although she had bravely refused to entertain the thought of having her child’s pre-life terminated, she had felt anything but brave when she made her second visit to the castle. Her stomach churned, her legs shook, her breath came in harsh gasps, but she kept saying, ‘No!’

  Suddenly, Lady Glendarril’s expression had softened. ‘You know, my dear, I can understand how you feel. If I loved somebody, I wouldn’t want to dispose of his child either, but there is another way to save all our faces. I could arrange to have it adopted.’

  Not caring a fig about saving anyone’s face, least of all her own, Melda clung to the back of the nearest chair. ‘I told you! I want to keep it! It’s mine … and Ruairidh’s, and when I tell him the things you’ve been saying, he’ll never want to see you again.’

  The woman’s face turned grey. ‘So you would have me lose both my sons? I did not think you could be so cruel.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Ladyship, it’s just … you’re getting me so muddled, I don’t know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Sit down, my dear, and we’ll discuss it.’

  Melda kept standing. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’m not getting it aborted, and I’m not letting it be adopted …’

  ‘Please sit down … Melda, you’re overwrought, too upset to think clearly. I was not thinking clearly either when I spoke of abortion, but I cannot … I can not allow you to flaunt my son’s bastard –’

  ‘Oh!’ Melda gasped, sitting down because her legs gave way. ‘What an awful thing to say!’

  ‘It’s the truth. A bastard, that’s what it will be, and I will not allow Ruairidh to admit being the father, nor take any responsibility for it.’ Marianne’s eyes hardened. ‘If you refuse to do as I say, I shall tell him – and his father – that you do not know whose child it is, that it could be any one of the soldiers billeted in the old hall. That would put an end to any hope you may have of marrying my son.’