The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

by CL Skelton

  ‘I am sorry, too, father. I have to accept your decision, and I suppose that there is an end to the matter.’

  Sir Henry stared coldly at him but made no reply, and after a short pause, Andrew rose and left the library.

  For the next forty-eight hours, Andrew fought a losing battle against his emotions. Irrational it all was, but then rationality had nothing to do with it. He tried; he tried with all his might to be ‘reasonable and civilized’, but it did not work. He could only think of Maud and Willie, Willie and Maud, and the things they did together, the intimacy of their relationship, their closeness, their touching ‒ like animals. He wanted to turn his mind away but could not. In his dreams, he watched them copulating and was disgusted, and when he thought about those dreams, he began to hate more and more. He did not return to barracks; he could not stand the thought of meeting Willie. Secretly he found out where she lived and felt ashamed. Secretly he determined that he would not go and see her, and knew that he would. He walked the hills alone, hating his loneliness, and yet terrified that he would meet anyone. He tried to conjure up pictures of Emma, but they would not come. She who was going to be his wife was not a reality. Then he thought of Maud whom he had known as a woman, who had drawn back in terror at the very touch of a man. In his mind, he saw Angus Buchannan rutting in the Maori hut, and sickeningly the image changed and it was Willie and Maud.

  He would see her, he knew that. But why? He knew that, too, though he would not confess it, even to himself.

  The torturous hours dragged slowly by until at last it was time to go, and go he must. Cluny Cottage was over five miles from Culbrech House, but he decided to walk. A vehicle or a horse would be an encumbrance. He set out and walked slowly, not wanting to get there, and the journey took him nearly two hours. He was afraid of how it would end and at every step he thought of turning back, but he did not.

  He arrived at the gate to the cottage and thought how like her it looked. Like a picture postcard, the grey slate roof still gleaming from a passing shower, the white-painted harled walls brilliant in the fitful sunlight, and the neat little garden, bright and colourful in its profusion of late roses in a multitude of colours, tall lupins in blues and violets and reddish purples, and little patches of carefully tended green lawn separating the flower beds. He put his hand on the green wicket gate and stopped.

  ‘No,’ he said aloud, ‘this I must not do.’

  He took his hand from the gate and was about to turn away, but it was already too late. She was there, standing at the open door and smiling a welcome.

  ‘Why, Andrew, how nice to see you!’ And there was genuine welcome in her voice. ‘I thought that you would never come.’

  ‘Hello, Maud,’ he said, still standing outside the gate and not trusting himself to say more.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there; come in. Andrew, it is so good to see you.’

  And she was halfway down the path towards him before he finally opened the gate and walked towards her.

  She was smaller than the woman of his fantasies had been. Smaller and more delicate, more vulnerable, more feminine. The fair hair, which he had first seen in Cawnpore, seemed to have taken on an added lustre, tinged with gold and shimmering in the sunlight. She was wearing a green silk afternoon gown and no jewellery, and her eyes, her smile of welcome, seemed innocent beyond belief. She held out her hand as she came to him. Should he kiss her? Perhaps lightly on the cheek? But no, he drew back from that and simply took her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry I did not come earlier,’ he said as they started back up the path towards the house. ‘But I’ve had so little time.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she replied. ‘I did hear about your ‒’ And she stopped.

  ‘You mean about Emma Worthing,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Both our families consider it a most suitable match.’

  ‘And you, Andrew? Are you happy with that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he replied as she led him into her sitting room.

  Andrew looked around him. The room was Maud, gentle and feminine like herself. Then he saw the pipe lying cold in the ashtray, the big carpet slippers on the hearth, and for a moment he had a vision of Willie Bruce there. But he banished it from his mind. Willie did not belong there. He, Andrew Maclaren, did.

  ‘You’ll have tea?’ Maud was speaking. ‘Or a drink perhaps? It’s late for one and early for the other, so you must choose.’

  ‘I’ll have a drink, if you don’t mind,’ replied Andrew.

  ‘Sherry wine?’ she said. ‘I fear that is all I have.’

  ‘Sherry would be wonderful. Can I get it?’

  ‘Thank you, it’s in the decanter on the sideboard.’

  Andrew poured out two glasses of sherry while Maud settled herself in one of the armchairs. He took the wine over to her and paused for a moment, looking into her eyes as she took the glass. She lowered her gaze and he turned away. He sat down and there was silence between them.

  ‘It has been a long time,’ he said at length.

  ‘A very long time,’ replied Maud, and then, ‘Why did you stop writing? It hurt me, you know. It hurt me a lot.’

  Andrew looked at her in astonishment. ‘But I didn’t stop writing. I wrote at least three letters after the last time I heard from you, and you never replied to any of them. I felt that it would be ill-mannered of me to continue.’

  ‘Three letters?’ And she was as amazed as he had been. ‘But I received none of them.’

  ‘At least three,’ he answered. ‘It may have been more. I do remember that in my last I said that, if I did not hear from you, I would have to assume that you had no desire to continue the correspondence. How could this be?’ He paused, but she made no answer. ‘I did not hear from you, so I had to accept what I assumed to be your wish. Was it?’

  ‘Oh, Andrew,’ she said in a voice heavy with emotion. ‘That was never my wish. I waited months, hoping that I would hear from you again, but the letters never came. How could that be possible?’

  He could not answer, because he knew just how this thing was possible. It had to be someone at home, and that someone had to be his mother. An enormous feeling of hatred welled within him. The injustice and the heartlessness of it all appalled him. One day he knew that he would have to forgive her, but not now. But he had to confirm what he knew to be true, and he asked her how it was that she came to leave Culbrech House.

  Maud smiled. ‘I think that your mother was worried about us, and I felt that my continued presence there might be an embarrassment to her. She had been so kind, and I could not impose on her. So I left. We didn’t part on bad terms, but I knew that she was afraid and I understood her reasons. As I had not heard from you for so long, I saw no point in increasing her worry by staying on.’ Andrew was about to speak, but she continued, ‘Please understand that she never asked me to leave. It was entirely my own decision.’

  ‘I see,’ said Andrew slowly. ‘What a pity.’

  ‘A pity?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that it had to happen like this.’ His tone changed and he tried to appear light and conversational. ‘Anyhow, that’s all water under the bridge, and now they tell me that you are going to marry Willie Bruce.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. Next week. You will be coming, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Andrew, wondering whether he would be able to face the event. ‘Willie is a very fine person, but he’s ‒ he’s ‒’

  ‘He’s not you,’ said Maud.

  She looked at him, and he met her gaze, and that strange primeval thing happened, that thing that can only happen between man and woman when they look hard into each other’s eyes, and beyond into the depths of desire. Though neither of them spoke, question and answer were both there. That strange instinct which strips away the veneer of civilized social behaviour, and makes even speech an unnecessary affectation, took command of them both. The animal cast out the rational, a thousand years of civilization vanished in an instant, and t
heir bodies demanded that they unite and procreate. The spoken word, even if it could have been spoken, meant nothing.

  Together they rose, and never for an instant taking their eyes from each other, as if fearing to break the spell, they came together in the centre of the room.

  Andrew put an arm around her waist and started to caress her breast with his other hand. He moved his arm down her back until he could feel the softness of her buttocks. He clutched at them and pressed her body hard against him.

  There was no tenseness, no struggle, and still she gazed on him. At last she spoke.

  ‘Now,’ she breathed, and he could feel the rise and fall of her breast against him. ‘Now.’

  Her lips were parted as she thrust her body still closer to him and they kissed for the very first time, drawing the breath from each other and impatient for that greater intimacy which had to come.

  He started to fumble with her dress, and she drew back just a little. ‘Not here, my darling. Upstairs. Take me now.’

  He took his hands from her and allowed her to lead him towards the door, still staying close enough to her to feel the movement of her hip against his thigh.

  The door opened.

  ‘Mummy, you promised to come and play with me.’

  It was Naomi. Small, dark, beautiful, and a picture of aggrieved innocence.

  The spell was broken.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The wind had moved to the northeast, bringing with it the chill of autumn and the promise of winter to come.

  Maud was alone in her house. Her husband Willie, now Lieutenant Bruce, had left some hours earlier in order to get to the barracks in time for the morning parade. The sky was overcast, and it was starting to rain. Maud kept glancing at the clock. It was almost eleven, and in her mind she saw the little medieval church lying under the shadow of the massive bulk of Westminster Abbey. She knew what it would look like; she had seen it all before when, as a little girl, her parents had taken her to a fashionable wedding at St Margaret’s. Of course that was many years ago, and on one of her rare visits to England. But she knew; she saw it all again in her mind. Only the best people got married at St Margaret’s. Only the quality could walk from their carriage between the gleaming breastplates of the Household Cavalry. Only the elite ‒ and them; damn them!

  She saw the guests being silently ushered into their places, waiting. Waiting for the moment when the organ would strike up the wedding march and Emma Worthing, an unreal person whom she had never met, would walk down the aisle on her father’s arm. There Andrew would be waiting for her, to take her hand and approach the altar where she would say those words, which she herself had said such a very little while ago to Willie Bruce in the parish church at Beauly.

  She looked out of the window and wished that the rain that was now falling on her garden would also be falling on the bride. She prayed that something, somehow, might have gone wrong ‒ a quarrel, an illness, anything would do. Prayed that Andrew would realize their love and that even now, at this eleventh hour, would find the courage to run away. To run back to Scotland, and to her. But the eleventh hour was already upon her. The marble clock on the mantelpiece, Andrew’s wedding present to her, had started to chime.

  She did not hear its insipid bell. She heard only the notes of the organ as that other woman started down the short path which would remove Andrew for ever from her life.

  When it was all over, they would step outside beneath the glittering crossed swords of the Life Guards.

  Damn the army! Damn the whole bloody self-centred crew! Damn them for their morals, their ethics, and their traditions. Damn them for giving her life and denying her all that she had ever wanted from it.

  She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the sounds that were not there. She grabbed the marble clock and flung it across the room, and then the tears came.

  They were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of rage and frustration. Rage at what was happening, and frustration at what she had done when she had married Willie, and what she had failed to do in not following Andrew to London. There she could have put up a fight. There, she was sure, even at the very last moment, she could have taken him away from that creature.

  And what of Willie? Did he know? Did he suspect? Did the man who had held her in his arms and called her his bonny wee thing realize that it was another she wanted? That other who was the image of himself? She had tried to keep it from him. She had used her pregnancy to stave off intimacy. She had tried to be interested, tried to show delight on the evening that he had come home and told her that he was going to be an officer.

  He had come in that night and picked her up and swung her round in circles. ‘It’s great news I have,’ he said. ‘Great news.’

  ‘Willie,’ she replied, ‘put me down. Remember … remember my condition.’

  His face fell. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, lassie,’ he said, looking into her face and thinking of that which was happening within her body, a thing so wonderful as to be beyond his ken. He put her carefully in an armchair. ‘How could I forget? That was stupid of me. I didna think. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, Willie, I’m all right,’ she said, straightening her dress. ‘What is this news that you have to tell me?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, his enthusiasm returning, ‘you’ll never believe this, but I’m going to be a general.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Willie,’ she said, and her voice was cold. ‘What do you mean, you are going to be a general? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Not a drop. And I’m not going to be a general right away, but I am going to be an officer. The colonel sent for me this afternoon and he told me that I had been offered a commission. Everything had been arranged, and it was only for me to say yes.’

  ‘But Willie,’ she said, ‘you cannot possibly afford to be an officer.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry your bonny head aboot that. And I shall not need a penny of your money. It has all been taken care of by Sir Henry.’ He paused, but she did not reply. Willie was too excited to be really aware of her lack of enthusiasm. He continued, ‘You know, Maud, I’m going to prove that Napoleon was right when he said that every soldier carries a field marshal’s baton in his knapsack.’

  ‘I see,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you not pleased? Do you not understand what this means to me? To us?’

  ‘Of course I’m pleased. I am delighted. I ‒ I congratulate you.’

  He sensed her lack of concern, and put it down to her condition. ‘Is it tired you are? Perhaps all of this news has been a bit much for you and you would like to lie down?’

  She made one more effort. ‘You’ll be a gentleman at last.’ And she tried to smile.

  ‘Aye, that’s what they say, an officer and a gentleman, though it is not always true. You know, Maud, the R.S.M. is the most important man in the regiment next to the colonel, and when I become an officer, I become a nothing all over again. But I shall be a nothing who knows the ways of the army and the ways of the men he commands. I shall have knowledge that no other officer in the battalion has. I’ll go a long way in the army, my darling, and you shall be proud of me.’

  ‘When does this happen?’ said Maud, trying hard to show some sort of joy.

  ‘Right away. I have to get a uniform and all the bits and pieces that go with it. I have one week’s leave and then I report back to the regiment as Lieutenant Willie Bruce.’

  ‘You won’t be an ensign?’

  ‘Och no. Not after being a regimental sergeant major; they couldna do that to me. I start as a lieutenant and verra soon I’ll be a captain, and from there, you see, I’ll be a general one day.’ He looked at her sadly. It did not seem to mean anything to her. ‘Are you sure you had not better lie down?’

  ‘Perhaps I shall, Willie. I find this excitement a little exhausting.’ And she left him.

  And Naomi. How she had resented that intrusion the last time that she and Andrew had been together, and there was still all to
play for. But for that, at least she might have convinced herself that it was Andrew’s child that she now carried in her womb. But no, even that small comfort had been denied her and denied her by a child of five.

  They would have started by now. What was it he would be saying? ‘I, Andrew, take thee, Maud ‒’ No, not Maud ‒ Emma. It would be something like that. ‘To have and to hold … for richer, for poorer … till death us do part.’

  Blast them all! Damn, and blast them all! That whole smug, self-righteous lot of them. Love, honour, obey. What did honour have to do with love, and what could that woman possibly know of love?

  She picked the clock up from the floor. The glass was broken, but it was still going. It would be nearly over now. Was it finished? Not if Maud Bruce had anything to do with it; not by a long way.

  Jean Maclaren walked into the sitting room.

  ‘Maud, dear, is there something wrong?’

  Maud glared at her, the calm, cool, self-righteous little prig that she was with her Maclaren nose and her mannish jaw, her head tilted to one side, wide blue eyes and a forced smile of sympathy on her lips. Jean, plain, pathetic Jean. What the hell was she doing here, anyway?

  ‘Wrong? Why should there be anything wrong? And why aren’t you in London? You may not have heard, but your brother’s getting married today,’ she snapped.

  ‘I do not want any part of that. I do not approve of marriage. No woman should give herself to a man, not even to my brother. But Maud, dear, you are distressed, I can see it. I am so glad that I came; perhaps I can be of solace to you.’

  ‘You? Solace to me?’ Maud laughed, and there was a touch of hysteria in her laugh. ‘Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You are a meddling bitch! That’s what you are!’

  ‘Maud, I am certain you are distressed; otherwise you would never say such things.’ Jean refused to be ruffled.

  ‘Listen to me! Just you listen to me! I don’t want you, I don’t want any part of you or your bloody family. I’d be a damned sight better off today if your damned brother had left me where he found me. Don’t just stand there looking at me. Don’t you dare pity me! I don’t want you or your pity, or any of you.’