The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

by CL Skelton

  Dinner was, as intended, a magnificent affair. Lady Maclaren had determined to give the returning warriors a real taste of Scotland. They started with cock-o-leekie soup, then fresh salmon from the Glass, and of course haggis. This strange ‘thing’ which Burns had described as ‘great chieftain o’ the puddin’ race’ proved something of a chore for the Worthings. The general attacked it in soldierly fashion, refusing to be intimidated by the speckled brown lump on his plate. His wife took one forkful and pushed it aside, and Emma secretly resolved that it would never appear on her table. However, there was better to come. The haggis was followed by a huge saddle of mutton from their own hill, and each course was piped around the table by the regimental pipe major. It was then deposited on the massive oak sideboard where the Inverness chef carved and portioned at a speed and with a dexterity to watch and admire.

  Just before the ladies retired, the colonel rose to his feet and made his speech. He announced his retirement and told them that the command of the regiment would now fall on Major, shortly to be Lieutenant Colonel, Macmillan. This was greeted with polite applause, everyone realizing that the appointment was primarily that of a caretaker until Andrew was old enough to take command.

  ‘And also,’ the colonel continued, ‘I have the greatest pleasure in announcing the betrothal of my only son Andrew to Emma, daughter of General and Mrs Worthing. I know that you will join with me in wishing them all future happiness in the years ahead. I am sure that that will give the ladies something to talk about.’

  There was a burst of applause, and some good-natured laughter, and it was just as the ladies were rising to retire to the withdrawing room that she appeared.

  She had got in through the front door, along the passage by the kitchens, and up to the banqueting hall by way of the stairs in the deserted east tower. She stood there like a wrathful angel, just inside the door in her plain homespun skirt and cotton blouse, her brown hair loose and untidy and her eyes red with crying.

  ‘Andrew Maclaren,’ she shouted. ‘I want Andrew Maclaren.’

  Everyone stopped and stared at Maggie Buchannan, too shocked to utter a word. She pointed at Andrew.

  ‘You,’ she said, and there was venom on her tongue as she hissed the word, pointing at Andrew. ‘You’re the one. You’re the one that murdered ma mannie.’

  General Worthing was the first to find his voice. ‘Is this a madwoman?’ he called.

  Andrew rose to his feet. ‘No, Maggie, it is not true.’

  ‘I heered it all. Frankie Gibson told his wife and that bitch came to gi’ me her sympathy. You hanged him, did ye no? You made me a promise, that day that ye took me in the heather. You promised you’d get him oot o’ the army. You lied to me, Andrew Maclaren.’

  ‘No, Maggie, I tried, believe me, I tried.’

  She spat on the floor. ‘Dinna lie nae mair. I ken it all. I ken weel what ye did. I ken what it was you telled them and how they hanged him for it. I curse you, Andrew Maclaren, you and all your bloody regiment. May ye never know a day’s happiness, as I never shall.’

  At last she was silent, and the colonel nodded to MacKay. ‘Take her out,’ he said gently.

  ‘Dinna touch me,’ she said through her tears. ‘I’m awa’.’

  Suddenly she held her head up proudly and walked from the room.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Who was that person?’ said Emma calmly. ‘And what was all that about?’

  Andrew looked at her, expressionless. What could he say? He was not a coward, he had proved that on the battlefield. But this was something very different, something beyond his comprehension. He could not fight back. He could only wish that it had not happened, that somehow it would go away.

  ‘Andrew.’ The voice of his father, who leaned across the table, spoke to him quietly. ‘That was Buchannan’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Andrew. ‘Her name is Maggie.’

  ‘Poor woman, I’m sorry for her,’ said the colonel. Then he turned to the others and, raising his voice slightly, said by way of explanation, ‘You must understand, that woman’s husband was hanged on the ship on the voyage home. Just before we left New Zealand, he was caught red-handed by my son here and Sergeant Major Bruce. He was tried by court martial and found guilty of murder and the violation of a native woman. Andrew was in no way culpable. At the court martial, I was very conscious of Andrew’s reluctance to give what was inevitably damning evidence. Not that it mattered. All of Andrew’s evidence was fully corroborated by Regimental Sergeant Major Bruce. There could have been no other verdict and no other sentence; it was a harsh moral and military necessity. I am sorry that she had to find out. It would have been so much better if we could have left her with the illusion that her husband had died on active service. But unfortunately, in a community as tightly knit as ours, secrets are very difficult to keep.’ He tried to put the facts before his guests calmly, and with dignity, hoping that the matter could be let rest. Conversation had died, the officers were embarrassed, and the others, including the ladies, just did not know what to say.

  After a long awkward silence, the colonel turned to Lady Maclaren. ‘I think, my dear ‒’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘Ladies?’ and she started towards the withdrawing room.

  In silence, MacKay solemnly placed the decanter of port in front of Sir Henry. He removed the stopper, filled his glass, and sent the port on its way around the table. Conversation after the loyal toast was halting and embarrassed. The officers, who had formed the majority of the guests, and most of whom had actually witnessed the execution of Angus Buchannan, did not want to talk about it. The other guests did not want to ask. But it was the only subject that was on everyone’s mind. Chisholm tried.

  ‘Pity we didn’t get back in time for the twelfth,’ he said. He was referring of course to the opening of the grouse season on the twelfth of August, and it was now well into September.

  Someone replied, ‘Yes,’ and the conversation died again.

  Sir Henry realized that it was no good. There could be no after-dinner conversation and he was rightly sure that his guests would rather leave than continue in that awkward atmosphere. Only about ten minutes after the port had made its first circuit, he suggested that they join the ladies, and within minutes of their entering the withdrawing room, guests were already making their farewells and leaving.

  It was much later that evening, the guests had gone, and only the Maclarens and the Worthings were left in the house. General Worthing, who had been ominously silent since dinner, came over to Andrew.

  ‘Andrew,’ he said, ‘I want to know the whole truth about this business. If I am to let you marry my daughter, I have got to be assured that you are a gentleman.’

  Andrew had had a miserable evening, knowing well that he was the subject of every whispered conversation in the room.

  ‘I really don’t know what to say, sir,’ he said. ‘You heard Mrs Buchannan and my father. I think that you must draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘Humph!’ said the general. ‘I can only draw the obvious, and I don’t want my daughter married to a whoremonger.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied Andrew, ‘you are a stranger to our glen. No Englishman can understand the relationship that exists within a Scottish clan. It is a family, and Maggie Buchannan is part of that family, just as the regiment is an extension of that family. There are no whores in our family, and no whoremongers, and I find your remark extremely insulting.’

  ‘And so do I,’ said Emma, who had joined them unnoticed. ‘Daddy, I am not going to marry a whoremonger. I am going to marry Andrew, with or without your blessing. I think we are going to be very happy together. I have no interest in the past, only in the future.’

  Andrew looked at her in amazed admiration. He was pleased and reassured, and at that moment he knew that he was now committed to this woman who was to become his wife. Here was a greater strength than his. ‘Thank you, Emma,’ he said. ‘But ‒’

 
; ‘No buts, Andrew,’ said Emma. ‘And Daddy, we will not refer to this matter ever again.’

  Suddenly the general broke into a broad grin. ‘By gad, Emma,’ he said, ‘I admire your spirit. Go on, then, marry the lad. But don’t blame me if ‒’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  General Worthing looked at them for a moment and then said, ‘I suppose that if you two are going to get married, you are entitled to some time alone. I’ll take myself off to bed. Goodnight.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he left them.

  After her father had gone, Andrew turned to Emma. ‘What she said was true, you know. Most of it, anyway.’

  Emma ignored the implication that her fiancé had had another woman. ‘Did you really try to get her husband out?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Andrew, but there was some hesitation in his reply.

  ‘You mean that you could have tried harder?’

  ‘Yes, I could, but how was I to know?’

  ‘Naturally. And I think that the matter is best forgotten. I am going to bed. You may kiss me goodnight if you wish.’

  She held up her face and Andrew kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, Andrew,’ she said, and left the room.

  Andrew stood for a moment looking at the closed door through which she had gone, and then he went over to the sideboard and poured himself a very large whisky.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The September rain, urged along by the near gale-force wind, was rattling against the windows of Cluny Cottage, where Maud Westburn was making her pot of afternoon tea. The events of the previous day had left her as confused as ever. She had not wanted to go and watch the parade, and yet she had been unable to keep away. She had seen Willie and Andrew in all their regimental finery as they had marched past her, and the sight of them had stirred her emotions, dragging back memories and crowding her thoughts with a mass of feelings which she could not analyse.

  Maggie was not with her. She had not seen her since she had dashed out of the crowd and run alongside Andrew looking for Angus. Maud had not been surprised by this. She rather expected that Maggie would be spending the next few nights at home with her husband. She of course had heard nothing of the occurrences at Culbrech House the night before. She had allowed Maggie to persuade her to go to the parade, but she knew that she would have gone anyhow; at least she knew that now. Having seen them, and knowing that they were safe, there was nothing left for her to do but wait, wonder, and hope that at least one of them would call.

  On the other hand, perhaps she almost hoped that neither one would come to see her. She did not know. It had been such a very long time, and she did not know if her mental images of the two men were real. They inhabited her dreams. Things happened when she was asleep, or daydreaming, which made her blush; or, remembering the horror of Cawnpore, filled her with revulsion. They were persons created in fantasy and demanding the materialism which would either confirm or destroy her images.

  She carried a tray of tea things into the sitting room and placed it on a small table in the bow window. Just as she was about to sit down, she looked through the net curtains and saw a man walking down the garden path. It was the barely discernible figure of a soldier in uniform, his head bent low against the driving rain. She felt very weak and very excited all at once.

  She hurried over to the mirror and straightened her hair, listening for the knock on the door. She stood for a moment, and then started down the passage towards the door, so that she should not keep him waiting. She was almost there when the knock came. She flung open the door.

  ‘Andr‒’ she started, and stopped.

  The man looked up at her and grinned. ‘Sorry, Miss Westburn, it’s me, Willie.’

  It was indeed a very bedraggled Willie Bruce. The rain was bucketing down and Willie’s feather bonnet looked rather like a cat that had fallen into the rain barrel. There were little globules of water dripping off the end of his nose, but he was still smiling.

  ‘Welcome back, Sergeant Bruce,’ said Maud, and then seeing the royal coat of arms, his new badges of rank, added ‘Sorry, it really is Mr Bruce now?’

  Willie nodded his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was silly of me, Willie! You had better come inside.’ And she took him by the elbow and steered him into the little hall.

  ‘I’m afu’ wet, miss,’ said Willie as he came into the house dripping water on to the carpet.

  ‘You’ll have some tea,’ she said firmly, ignoring his remark and leading him into the sitting room.

  He looked around at the neat chintzes and said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Miss Westburn, but should we no have it in the kitchen? I don’t want to be spoiling your pretty furniture. Just look at me.’ He glanced down at his dripping form and then repeated, ‘I’m afu’ wet.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Maud. ‘But don’t bother about it. We have clean rain in the Highlands. That, at least, I have discovered.’

  Willie sat gingerly on the edge of one of the chintz-covered armchairs while Maud hurried to the kitchen to get another cup. He sat there, acutely conscious of every drop of water that fell from him, until she returned.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Westburn,’ he said as she handed him his cup.

  She sat silently watching him as he drank his tea. When he had drained his cup, she offered him another.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘You thought I was Major Andrew again?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember the first time.’ And then with forced casualness she added, ‘He was a captain then, so you have both come up in the world.’

  ‘You’ll no be seeing the major for a while. He got himself engaged yesterday, and his lady’s staying at the big hoose, a general’s daughter, I’m told. He’ll be spending his time wi’ her.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Maud could say. It was strangely surprising to her how little effect the announcement seemed to have, but she stood silent for a moment, looking out the window.

  ‘Is there something wrong, Miss Westburn?’

  ‘Er ‒ no.’ And then, realizing that she really meant it, she added, ‘No, there is nothing wrong.’ She turned to him, changing the subject. ‘You know, if you do not call me Maud, I cannot possibly call you Willie.’

  ‘Och, I couldna do that,’ said Willie.

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ she replied. ‘Just try it.’

  ‘Well,’ he said doubtfully, ‘Maud. How’s that?’

  ‘Much better,’ she smiled. ‘It was kind of you to write,’ she said. ‘And it was very kind of you to come and see me.’

  ‘Well, Miss ‒ er ‒ Maud,’ replied Willie, ‘I have no exactly come to see you. As a matter of fact, I really came over to see Maggie Buchannan. I was told that she was staying here.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maud, and she was disappointed. ‘Well, she’s not here. She’ll be over at her mother’s cottage with her husband.’

  ‘No,’ said Willie. ‘No, she’s not with her husband.’

  ‘Didn’t she meet him at the parade yesterday?’

  ‘She couldna have done that. You see, her husband’s dead. I thought that somebody should come along and talk to her.’

  Maud was silent for a moment. ‘Poor Maggie, what a terrible thing to happen. How?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, that’s not for me to say. But it’s nice to have found you.’

  She smiled at him and started sipping her tea to cover her embarrassment. ‘Well, Willie Bruce, tell me what you have been doing. You’re not married yet, are you?’

  ‘Me married?’ Willie laughed. ‘A man would be a fool to get himself married while he was on active service.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about marriage? Seriously, I mean?’ She did not know if she was making small talk or not. ‘Is there no one?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Willie, ‘there is a lassie, but she doesna know. Anyway, she wouldna look at me.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ said Maud. ‘You’ve never spoken to her?’

  ‘Not about such thi
ngs,’ said Willie. ‘You see, I’m just a common soldier. She’s a lady, a proper lady.’

  ‘There’s nothing common about you, Willie Bruce. I can think of no woman who would not be proud to call you her man, unless she was a fool.’

  ‘Are you sure that you mean that?’ he said.

  She realized that he was looking at her with a peculiar intensity, and she realized in that same moment that she was the woman to whom he was referring. She coloured slightly and looked down. She had to gather her thoughts. ‘Yes, Willie,’ she said in a very small voice. And then she looked up at him, this great bear of a man overflowing her armchair and making it look small and insignificant against his massive frame. She was very solemn and looked him straight in the eyes as she said, ‘Yes, I mean that.’

  ‘And you know who ma lassie is?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know who she is.’

  ‘Oh, ye bonny wee thing,’ said Willie, rising and standing over her. ‘You’ve had ma heart since the first day I clapped eyes on you. I never believed that this was possible, but I want you for ma woman. I’m no an expert at the gentle ways of gentlefolk, but I can think of no higher calling than to guard and protect you for the rest of ma life. What do ye say, Maud? What is your answer?’

  She did not reply immediately. He watched her as she moistened her lips with her tongue. He knew that there was something else that she had to say and he waited respectfully for her to say it.

  ‘Before I answer,’ she said, ‘there is something you must know.’ Maud walked to the door and turned back to him. ‘Something I must show you. I shall only be a moment.’

  Willie watched her leave the room, his thoughts in a turmoil. He felt that he had gambled all on a single throw, but somehow, he sensed that he had won.

  In less than a minute she was back, accompanied by a child. The girl was about five years old, rather dark-skinned with straight black hair and deep brown eyes. She stared at Willie as she came into the room and hid behind Maud’s skirt.

  ‘Naomi,’ said Maud, ‘this is Mr Bruce. Say how do you do.’