The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

by CL Skelton

  There in the crowd, Maggie had looked earnestly and long as they had passed the first time, peering and searching for a glimpse of Angus. By the time they had started their return, she was convinced that he was not there. As the head of the column reached the point where she was standing with Maud and little Naomi, she ran out into the road alongside Andrew.

  ‘Where’s me mannie?’ she demanded of him.

  Andrew did not reply. He kept on marching, looking fixedly ahead. He had feared something, he knew not what, if ever he saw Maggie again. He had prayed that it would not happen. He would rather have stormed the breach at Taku again than face her.

  ‘Where is he?’ she yelled again, tugging at his sleeve and he shook her off.

  ‘Awa’ wi’ ye, woman,’ said Willie.

  ‘I want ma mannie!’ shouted Maggie. ‘Where is he?’

  Andrew glanced down at her only for a moment, and tried to fight the thoughts that came flooding back to him ‒ thoughts of that afternoon in the heather; thoughts of standing in the Maori hut; and thoughts of Angus swinging from the yardarm.

  ‘He’s not here,’ he snapped.

  She tugged at his arm. ‘Where is he, then? Is he ill? I want to know what you’ve done wi’ ma Angus.’

  Andrew tore her hand from his arm and looked appealingly in the direction of Willie Bruce.

  ‘All right, sir,’ said Willie, ‘I’ll take care of this.’

  Breaking ranks, he took Maggie by the elbow and steered her to the side of the street.

  ‘I ken ye, do I no?’ said Willie, ‘You’re Maggie Taylor.’

  ‘Aye, you know me, all right. You’re the one that took ma mannie awa’.’

  ‘What’s your name now?’

  ‘Buchannan, Maggie Buchannan, and I want ma Angus.’

  So that was it, thought Willie. ‘Your mannie’s dead,’ he said. ‘Like many more who went wi’ us.’

  Maggie stood for a moment, her lips quivering. ‘Deed, you say?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Willie. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then why was I no told like the others?’

  ‘He died on the voyage home. There was no way to let you know before we got back.’

  ‘How ‒ how ‒’ She was holding back the tears that were trying to flood through.

  ‘I canna tell ye that,’ said Willie.

  ‘Why can ye no tell me?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ he replied. ‘I’m no medical man. I do not understand these things.’ And then as she became silent, ‘Have ye got a place to go?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ she said, and her voice was toneless. ‘I have a place to go. But who do I go to?’ she wanted to cry.

  ‘I’ll mention it to Major Maclaren.’

  ‘No!’ She spat the word. ‘I’ll ha’ nothing to dae wi’ a man who canna keep his word!’ And she started to cry, silently.

  Willie looked at her for a moment, but could find nothing else to say. ‘I must get back to ma place,’ and he trotted away towards the head of the column, leaving her, a forlorn and dejected figure in her homespun skirt and blouse.

  Maggie walked aimlessly away to the back of the crowd who, sensing that there was something wrong, parted to let her through. She took off the scarlet bow which she had pinned to her dress and let it fall from her hand, and then she pulled the mutch from her head, that proud and now meaningless sign of married respectability, looked at it for a moment, and threw it into the gutter.

  ‘Care and maintenance party, attention! Present arms!’

  The command to salute the colours was given by Major Macmillan as the battalion marched on to the parade ground of their new home for the first time. Major Macmillan had been left behind in Scotland when the battalion had gone overseas. With him were forty-eight men and one senior N.C.O., Sergeant Grant. They had been responsible for the equipment and regimental treasures left at Perth and the transfer to Beauly when the new barracks were completed. Macmillan had been given the task because he was the oldest officer in the battalion, over fifty ‒ really past the age at which a man should be ordered on to active service. At first sight, he was a most fearsome individual, mainly because of a deep scar which ran from his left ear right down his cheek, the legacy of a sabre slash he received as a cornet. This scar had the effect of making his smile ‒ and he smiled frequently, being a man of amiable disposition ‒ look like a fiendish grin.

  Colonel Maclaren returned the salute and the two ensigns bearing the colours turned smartly in the direction of the officers’ mess, where they would place the colours in their position in the dining room. The colonel then dismissed the officers and handed over the parade to R.S.M. Bruce to deal with the allocation of barracks.

  The building which was to house C Company was like all the others, divided by a central staircase, one half-company being housed on the right and the other on the left. On the ground floor there were two rooms for the sergeants in charge of each half-company. The men were detailed off, twenty to a room. The ground floor left contained such worthies as Frankie Gibson, Alex Munroe, and Corporal Campbell. The corporal occupied the bed nearest the door because this was the way it was always done, the man in charge of the room always taking that position. The beds themselves were in two rows, leaving a central area, and in the wall on the side opposite the barrack square was a large black iron fireplace beside which stood a highly polished zinc coal bucket. Gibson and Munroe claimed the beds which were two removed from the fire. There was reason in this. In the winter it was a great advantage to be near the fire, but not too near, as every man was responsible for the cleanliness of his own bedspace as far as the centre of the room, and those nearest to the fire always collected a much higher proportion of grime than the others. So about two away from the fire was about the best compromise. Above each bed was a green tin locker with double doors in which kit was stored strictly according to regulations, and on the bed, a rolled straw palliasse, a hard canvas-covered cylinder which passed for a pillow, and four neatly folded coarse brown blankets. This was home, the home they had dreamed of throughout the long years they had sweated it out in the east and far south.

  It was a busy time for Willie Bruce, inspecting billets, settling arguments about bed spaces, making sure that each man had his entitlement of bedding, soap, and towels. The latter were to be used in the ablution block at the rear of the barrack block ‒ a row of zinc basins and a hand pump for cold water at one end. Hot water was of course an unheard-of luxury.

  Willie reported to the individual company commanders as soon as he was sure that each company had been satisfactorily billeted. After inspecting C Company, he reported to Andrew.

  ‘They seem to be settled, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ replied Andrew. ‘By the way, sergeant major, I have a request to make.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Willie. He was enough of a soldier to realize that a request usually meant work.

  ‘You must understand that this is not an order, but …’

  There was always a but, thought Willie.

  ‘But the junior officers have asked me if I would ask you if you would do orderly officer tonight. We have all been invited to Culbrech House for a dinner, and naturally everyone would like to be there.’

  ‘Och, aye, sir,’ said Willie. ‘I doubt I would be able to get awa’ from camp tonight, anyhow. I’ll do it.’

  Of course, he had treated the request as a command, even though it was not his turn. But on the other hand, he would not be sorry to spend the evening in the bar of the sergeant’s mess, and getting acquainted with his new surroundings.

  In the mess, he sought out Sergeant Grant, the man they had left behind. Grant, like Major Macmillan, was an older man who had become a senior N.C.O. more by virtue of his long service than by any special aptitude on his part. He was fat, and viewed from the side, his sporran seemed to be well in advance of the rest of his figure. He was no athlete, but a slow painstaking plodder who could be counted on to get the job done if he had time enough, and of course he had plenty
of time to prepare for the arrival of the battalion.

  ‘You did a good job, Charlie.’ Willie addressed him by his Christian name, as was the mess custom.

  ‘Thanks, Willie,’ he replied. ‘Ye’ve had a rough time? What happened to R.S.M. Mackintosh?’

  ‘Naebody kens. It was just aboot the only shot fired in that action. He was a guid man.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Grant, sipping his beer. ‘He was a guid mannie, all right. And wee Alex, too?’

  Willie did not want to talk about wee Alex. ‘Aye. Well, they’re all bedded down, and now I suppose that the recruiting will start. Will you be on that?’

  ‘Nae,’ said Grant, looking down at his great girth. ‘I’m no the sort of figure that’s gonna inspire young lads to tak the shillin’.’

  ‘Well,’ said Willie, grinning as Grant patted his belly. ‘I’d best be awa’ to the men’s mess. What’s for supper here?’

  ‘Venison. The colonel sent us a beast.’

  ‘That was nice o’ him. I’d better not tell the men.’

  They both laughed and Willie went off on his rounds.

  The great banqueting hall at Culbrech House was always a magnificent sight. Its plain whitewashed stone walls, its blackened oak beams and pillars arching away into the high ceiling gave an almost cathedral-like atmosphere. There were huge black iron sconces with their great guttering candles set into the walls, and a massive fireplace surmounted by the inevitable wildcat’s head. The great black oak doors, made of timbers that were older than the house itself, were studded with iron bolts and huge brass fitments. The floor and the long refectory dining table were of polished oak, the table too beautiful ever to be shrouded by a tablecloth. This evening, the room looked even more magnificent than usual. The regimental silver had been delivered to the house direct from Perth; and Sergeant Watt, the senior mess steward, a man whose fastidiousness and attention to every little detail belied his origins in the slums of the Gorbals district of Glasgow, had spent the whole afternoon preparing the banqueting hall for the dinner. The silver had been polished until it shone like mirrors. The crystal gleamed and sparkled as the light danced off its cut facets. Fresh roses had been gathered from the garden and spread in profusion on the long polished table. Each place setting was exactly eighteen inches from the beginning of the next. Sergeant Watt had measured this in each and every case with the ruler he always carried on these occasions.

  Everything had gone extremely smoothly, apart from one slight altercation between the butler MacKay and Sergeant Watt, both of whom claimed seniority. But as in all the best arguments, it was settled by compromise. MacKay would be concerned only with the wines, while the stewards and maids would be under the command of Sergeant Watt who would have responsibility for the serving of the meal. When the subject of carving was broached, it was decided that the chef who had been brought in from Inverness for the occasion should be allocated this task, thus saving another argument.

  Lady Maclaren had resolved that this would be a day to remember. Apart from anything else, she was determined to impress the Worthings. She was well aware that the great country houses of England and the Highlands were two different animals. There was an easy social atmosphere in Scotland which was never apparent in England. Social divisions were not in any way so clearly delineated. The clan and the estate were one, and in the case of the Maclarens, that also included the regiment. Whoever belonged to any one of those three establishments was, irrespective of birth or wealth, a member of the family. So she had planned an evening more formal than most, but not so formal that the Worthings might feel that they were at just another English country house. The last few years had increased her desire to see Emma and Andrew matched. Richard Simpson, it seemed, would marry Margaret, and she could not really oppose that match. Simpson was invaluable to the estate, especially as none of the Maclaren men seemed to have any real interest beyond the regiment. No, she could not complain about Richard, nor Margaret, for that matter. If they married, they would undoubtedly remain at Culbrech, and the estate could not fail to benefit from their union. Emma, of course, was another matter. Her father was an extremely wealthy man and would no doubt provide a most welcome infusion of capital into the estate should his only daughter marry her only son. Yes, she thought, it would all be very suitable.

  She had little doubt that the match could be arranged and that the young would do as their parents bid them. Andrew would obey because marriage with Emma Worthing could only increase his prospects in his military career, and she had already gathered from the rather cold, emotionless Emma that she at least was sufficiently satisfied with the idea.

  In that torpid half-hour before dinner was served, when guests all hang on to their drinks waiting for the happening to begin, Emma Worthing turned to Andrew, who had been presented to her as her escort for the evening.

  ‘Well, Andrew,’ she said, ‘I think that our parents have made up their minds.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ replied Andrew. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘About us, I mean,’ said Emma. ‘They are determined that we shall get married. What do you think about it?’

  Andrew felt the blood rising up from under his collar. ‘Well, I ‒ er ‒ that is, I hadn’t thought about it very seriously yet.’

  ‘Oh, but you should have,’ said Emma. She had thought about it very seriously indeed. She was over twenty-four. Five years ago, she had decided that Andrew Maclaren was worth waiting for and she had waited. Above all, she had let other opportunities pass her by, and now, at her age, there would not be so many more. She had gambled and she was fiercely determined not to lose. ‘After all,’ she continued, ‘we are what is called a good match,’ and she smiled.

  It was quite an attractive smile, and Andrew was rather surprised to find it so. As a matter of fact, Emma Worthing was by no means an unattractive woman. Tall and slim, bright-eyed and clear of complexion, she was a typical English thoroughbred, and had the confidence and assurance that went with her breeding. Also, she had no illusions about her future. She accepted the fact that it was her destiny to become a brood mare to an aristocratic family other than her own. If she failed in this, there would be absolutely no purpose to her life. She had decided that Andrew was most suitable, and in her abrupt and forthright manner, was determined to settle the issue immediately.

  Andrew, for his part, wondered whether there was any passion under that cold and superbly controlled exterior. But he also knew well that if he was ever to find out, he would have to marry her.

  He returned her smile. ‘What do you suggest we should do?’ he asked.

  ‘Man proposes, woman disposes,’ she replied, still smiling.

  ‘I see,’ said Andrew. ‘Do you think we ought to get to know each other a little better first?’

  ‘I don’t see much point in that,’ said Emma. ‘After all, however well one knows someone before marriage, they are different people after the event, or so I have been told.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Andrew. He paused; he was thinking of Maud. Was what Emma said true? Was the illusion just that? Not that it mattered now; the die was cast. He knew that, and in another moment he would be committed to this stranger who sat beside him. Yet he could not help comparing the two women in his mind. Maud he could think of in no terms other that that of womanhood. Emma? Perhaps it was better not to think, just to let matters take the course which had been ordained for him.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’

  She looked at him and raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘Major Maclaren, are you proposing to me?’ she said, and there was a touch of banter in her tone.

  ‘I’m not quite sure ‒ yes ‒ I suppose I am ‒’

  ‘Very well, then,’ she replied. ‘I accept. Now we can tell them and they can make the announcement at dinner, and they’ll all be happy. Whether or not we shall be is entirely in the lap of the gods, but I know we’ll try.’

  ‘I suppose that I should go and ask your father’s
permission.’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ she replied. ‘Our possible engagement is the only reason that we are here. Daddy has always wanted to be a Scottish laird, and if I marry you he’ll succeed, even if it’s only second hand. Also, he knows that the Highlands are uneconomic, but he’s prepared to pay for that, and we can well afford it.’

  ‘Really!’ Andrew was shocked at hearing the truth he knew so well put into words.

  ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t marry you if I didn’t like you. I’m only for sale on my own terms. Anyway, Daddy will be delighted; he’s absolutely set on it. I believe that your people are too.’

  Andrew was at a loss for words for a while, and then he said, ‘Oughtn’t I to kiss you or something?’

  ‘Well, you can if you want to. It’s not necessary,’ and suddenly her tone became serious. ‘Andrew, I shall try to make you happy, and I shall try to be a good army wife. I do know the form. I suppose you will probably find me a little direct, but I’m a great believer in arranged marriages, and I also believe that two normal, reasonable people, man and woman, can make a go of marriage. I think also that they have to be determined that the basis of their marriage is going to be friendship at best. I don’t believe in what the novelists call love. I think that romance is more like a disease, and I am absolutely certain that infatuation is the worst possible basis for a life-long union.’ Emma preferred Jane Austen to the Brontes when it came to romance. ‘I have studied you. I have studied your background. I think you are young for your age, but I like you as a person, and I’m sure that you and I will make a go of it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Andrew, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Well,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘I suppose I had better go and tell Mummy and Daddy that their plan has reached fruition. And I suppose that you had better go and do likewise with yours. Shall we tell them that they can announce it tonight?’

  ‘I suppose it’s as good a time as any,’ said Andrew, and they wandered off in the direction of their respective parents.