by CL Skelton
Dear Sir Henry,
It grieves me deeply to have to tell you what I am about to say. I only say it because I know that you hold the honour of your family and your regiment above all things. I am aware that the contents of this letter will be hurtful to you, and perhaps you will wonder why Andrew is not writing it. I can only say that he is not, because he knows how much pain it will cause you. So I have taken it upon myself to disregard his wishes in this matter and write to you direct.
What I have to tell you concerns Major Bruce. I have discussed this at length with my husband and have assured him that I can no longer tolerate the abominable behaviour of this man. Even though he is well aware that I am presently carrying your second grandchild, he persists in foisting his attentions upon me. And though I know it sounds unbelievable, I have reason to suspect that he is encouraged in this by his own wife.
I have never been a believer in promoting common soldiers to commissioned rank. I believe that breeding is essential to anyone who assumes to be an officer and a gentleman. This breeding, or rather lack of it, is very apparent in Major Bruce. Why do I tell you this? You might well ask. I tell you because it has come to my knowledge that Major Bruce was only able to accept his commission and has risen to field rank because of your patronage. I understand that you have settled on him a not inconsiderable allowance. Forgive me if I say that I consider this money ill-spent.
I think that Major Bruce has his eyes firmly fixed upon your son’s position, though of course Andrew disagrees with me in this. I however believe that he will stop at nothing to attain his ends, and this does not exclude the blackening of your son’s character. I am sure that he is using his knowledge of the attitude of the common soldier in order to turn a well-disciplined force into a discontented rabble who hate their commanding officer.
Other things have come to light regarding Major Bruce, of which I will mention only two. You will no doubt remember the night you announced our engagement, when Mrs Buchannan came into your dining room and accused Andrew of murdering her husband because he had had an affair with her. I understand, and I believe that this is the truth, that Andrew had no affair with Mrs Buchannan, and that it was in fact Major Bruce masquerading as Andrew. As you are well aware, they look sufficiently alike for a comparative stranger to mistake one for the other.
The other matter is so unsavoury that I cannot bring myself to write of it with any clarity. But I would venture to suggest that Major Bruce’s relationship with the young drummer boy, I believe he was known as Wee Alex, is worthy of further investigation.
It is to me a disgraceful state of affairs that a character such as Major Bruce can occupy so high a position in one of the finest regiments of the British army. I hope and pray that what I have said has not distressed you too much, but I do believe that action must be taken and taken quickly to have Major Bruce and his wife removed from the regiment. At first I thought of writing to my own father, but then I decided that, at least in the first instance, I should write to you.
You have, of course, my full authority to show this letter to my father, who will, I have no doubt, assist you in any action you deem necessary.
I find it almost comical to think that Major Bruce may face a charge of ‘conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,’ for Major Bruce is certainly no gentleman.
Once again, let me tell you how sorry I am to burden you with this. I do it only because I see it as my duty and as a soldier’s daughter; duty means a great deal to me.
With fond affection,
Your loving daughter-in-law,
Emma.
Jeannie, the parlour maid at Culbrech House, went into the morning room to dust. She had delayed her entry because when she had first tried, her master and mistress had been having a heated argument. It seemed that the row had been caused by a letter which had arrived in the post that morning. She hung about dusting in the corridor until they came out. She could not remember when she had seen Sir Henry looking quite so angry, and her ladyship had been crying.
When they were clear, she went into the room and the first thing she saw was the letter. It was lying on the floor somewhat crumpled, where it had been either dropped or thrown down in anger. Now Jeannie was young, with all the inquisitiveness of youth, and the temptation which the letter offered was more than she could resist.
She picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a long letter, several pages. To most of the servants it would have meant little, but Jeannie could read. Overcome with curiosity, she read it.
Having read it, she read it again, because there was a lot in it about her cousin Maggie Buchannan. At least, she thought that the Mrs Buchannan referred to in the letter must be Maggie, because she had been present on the evening when Maggie had burst into the dining room and accused Mr Andrew of all those horrible things. Jeannie made up her mind that she would go and see Maggie as soon as possible, and find out if all of this was true. It all seemed very exciting. Carefully she returned the letter to where she had found it.
She did not feel in the least guilty when, as soon as she had finished her dusting, she went to see Mr MacKay and told him that she had heard that her gran’ was not well and could she take an hour or two off to go and see her. After all, her gran’ was Maggie’s gran’, and if she knew what had been happening, she would not be feeling well. MacKay was suspicious, and not inclined to give immediate permission.
‘I shall have to speak to her ladyship,’ he said.
‘Och, it will only be for an hour or two. There’s no need tae worrit her ladyship.’
MacKay had little trust in attractive young parlourmaids. It was much more likely that this one had an assignation with some young man. But he could not call the girl a liar to her face, and so he went to see Lady Maclaren. Lady Maclaren, gentle and trusting, not only gave permission but insisted that cook prepare a basket of nourishing things such as calf’s-foot jelly and a jar of chicken broth which would only need to be heated over the fire.
All of this delayed Jeannie for an hour, but at last she got the desired permission and put on her woollen bonnet, the one that her gran’ had knitted for her with the red pompom on the top of it, and with the basket over her arm went striding off up the hill in the direction of her grandparents’ cottage.
As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she ate the calf’s-foot jelly and then changed direction and headed for Cluny Cottage, where Maggie was still living, looking after it for Willie and Mrs Bruce.
And that was why, three days later, Maggie Buchannan called at Culbrech House and demanded that she be allowed to see the laird.
When Maggie arrived, Sir Henry was still wondering what he ought to do about Emma’s letter. All his life he had made instant decisions, but this one hurt. He had no reason to doubt the honesty of his daughter-in-law, but he found it very hard to believe the things that she had said about Willie Bruce. He was very fond of Willie and could not lightly condemn him unheard. So he was delaying taking any decision or any action on this letter, though he knew that he could not put it off for long. The matter was too important. What the devil was he to do? The simplest way would have been to have discussed the whole matter with General Worthing and then try to arrange a staff appointment. But if the man was as guilty as Emma’s letter seemed to indicate, this would have been unfair to the army and that he could not be. Also, he would have to reply to Emma, and what the blazes was he going to say to her?
Lady Maclaren, too, was making things difficult for Sir Henry. She wanted Willie out of the regiment, but her reasons were not the same as Sir Henry’s. She had seen between the lines, or at least between some of the lines that Emma had written, and this had raised in her mind the spectre of other letters. Letters which she had intercepted between Andrew and Maud.
Sir Henry was alone in his study when MacKay came in.
‘Excuse me, sir, but there is a person asking to see you.’
‘What person?’ demanded Sir Henry.
‘A Mrs Buchannan, sir.�
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‘Well, I don’t want to see anybody. Tell her to go away.’
A few moments later, MacKay returned.
‘Well, what is it now?’ Sir Henry was not in the best of tempers.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, the lady will not go away. She said that I was to tell you that it was to do with a letter you received concerning Major Bruce.’
‘What the ‒!’ Sir Henry’s monocle dropped from his eye and swung across his chest on the end of its cord. ‘Give me a minute, MacKay, and then show her in.’
‘In here, sir? The library?’
‘Yes, dammit, here.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Sir Henry went over to the big desk and straightened the already neat papers which lay on it. He found Emma’s letter and started to read it through, but he did not finish. He knew it by heart. He sat himself down behind the desk, and as he heard MacKay start to open the door, he screwed his monocle firmly into his bad eye and glared at the door as Maggie Buchannan entered the library.
She walked calmly across the room and stood facing him over the desk. She seemed to be perfectly in control and not in the least worried by the fearsome aspect he was trying to project.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you will be good enough to explain to me how you came to know that I had a letter concerning Major Bruce.’
‘No, Sir Henry, I willna tell you that. But I ken you had it, and I ken what was writ in it.’
‘I demand to know ‒’ said Sir Henry, and then stopped and sighed. He was well aware that it was quite impossible to try and get that piece of information out of her. Just as it was impossible to keep a secret in the glen. In fact, the only remarkable thing about the letter was that he knew the contents before the rest of the neighbourhood. ‘All right,’ he continued, ‘I believe that you have something to say to me concerning that letter?’
‘Aye, that I have.’
‘Then perhaps you’d better say it.’ And when he saw her hesitate, ‘Out with it, woman.’
‘It’s a pack of lies.’
Sir Henry was very calm, and when he was calm, he was a much more dangerous person than when he lost his temper. ‘Are you aware,’ he said, ‘who it was who wrote that letter?’
‘Aye, I ken that fine.’
‘Which means that you are knowingly calling my daughter-in-law a liar. That is a very serious charge to bring against a lady.’
‘I dinna care if it was the Queen hersel’ who wrote that letter. It’s a pack of lies,’ said Maggie, defiant now.
‘I hope you can substantiate that accusation,’ said Sir Henry menacingly.
‘I’m no quite sure what you mean by that, but if you mean can I prove it, the answer is yes. Yes, I can prove it.’
‘I think you had better sit down, woman.’ And when she was seated, his voice softened a little. ‘All right, Mrs Buchannan, I’m not going to try and find out how you became aware of the contents of that letter. But I want to hear your story. I won’t say that I shall accept what you tell me, but I’ll listen. So out with it, woman.’
‘Well,’ said Maggie, ‘It’s no an easy thing for a body to tell, but I ken for sure that it was no Willie Bruce that had me in the heather that day.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Sir Henry, ‘Major Bruce and my son look very alike; they have often been mistaken for each other. You don’t know my son very well, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then how can you be sure?’ She did not answer at once, so he repeated the question. ‘How can you be sure that it was my son and not Major Bruce?’
‘Because I’ve had them both, and I kenned Willie well, a lot o’ the lassies did. He was a wild one, yon, but we all loved him. It was a sad day for the glen when Willie Bruce got married. That sort is always true when they wed.’ She became almost wistful. ‘There was many a time that we ‒ we ‒’
‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Sir Henry said, embarrassed. ‘Get on with your story.’
‘Ye ken what I mean?’
‘I ken.’
‘Then you’ll understand that though I might not be certain aboot Master Andrew, I could have na doot aboot Willie Bruce. Ye canna bed wi’ a mannie and then not ken him the next time.’
Sir Henry did not speak for a long time. He could not deny the crude logic of what she had said. ‘Maggie,’ he said eventually, ‘will you tell me the truth about Andrew, about what happened that day?’
‘Och,’ she said, ‘I dinna mind telling you. Not noo ma mannie’s gone.’
Sir Henry looked down at his desk at the mention of Angus Buchannan. Maggie continued to stare at him quite calmly. She continued in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘It was nice, in a way. But it was an afu’ long time ago. I’ve put on a lot o’ weight since then. If it had been today, it might no have happened. It was all verra simple. I met Master Andrew on the hill. He was sad, he didna tell me why, of course. We sat doon and he shared his piece wi’ me, and then we made love. I was his first.
‘Well, I wasna feeling too happy that day, either. Ma mannie had just taken the Queen’s shilling and I didna want him tae go. Master Andrew promised me that he would try and get Angus oot o’ the army. I have no doot noo that he did his best. But, and you’ll forgive me for saying this, Master Andrew’s best wasna very much.
‘When I heard the way ma mannie went, I think that I went a bit mad. It was a terrible thing for a wifey to hear.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Sir Henry.
‘’Twas naebody’s fault but Angus. I ken that fine now, though at the time I hated Master Andrew because he never kept his promise tae me. Dae ye understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘I tell you this, Sir Henry, Willie Bruce is ten times the man that Andrew is or ever will be. In a funny way, Willie is the real gentleman. Just think of it, him not saying a word when Andrew was hanging around Cluny making sheep’s eyes at Mrs Bruce even after her and Willie was wed.
‘There’s nothing dishonourable aboot Willie Bruce, Sir Henry, and anybody what says there is is a liar, and I would call them so to their face, whoever they were. Willie Bruce is the finest of his line. I think that you ken well what I mean when I say that.’
‘Yes, Maggie,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I ken well what you mean.’
He rose and walked slowly over to the desk. ‘I think I need a drink,’ he said. ‘Will you take a dram with me, Maggie Buchannan?’
‘I will, Sir Henry, for there is a chill in the air. I will take a wee one. Is there anything else you want to ask me?’
Sir Henry brought the whisky over to her. ‘Not unless you have anything else to tell me. But I thank you for coming. Slainte mhath.’
‘Slainte mhath,’ she replied, raising her glass. ‘Well, then, I think I had better be awa’. I am sorry if what I have told you has caused you distress. You see, like many of the women around here, when we were lassies, we were all in love with Willie Bruce.’
‘I can understand that, Maggie, he’s a fine man. Where are you staying now?’
‘I am living in Cluny Cottage. I am looking after it for Mrs Bruce until they return.’
‘You have all you need?’
‘Och, aye.’
‘Here, Maggie, take this.’ He offered her a golden sovereign, and when she hesitated, ‘To get something for the children.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, taking the coin.
‘And, er ‒ on your way out, tell MacKay that you’re to go home in the gig.’
‘That is very kind, Sir Henry, but I walked here and I am quite able to walk back.’
‘No, no, I insist,’ he said. ‘I am in your debt now.’
‘Then thank you, Sir Henry, and goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Maggie.’
And she left him.
So the letter had been a lie. At least part of it had been a lie, and if the part, then why not the whole? He would have to write to Emma. What could he say? He would have to say something, if only to stop her going to General Worthing with her sto
ry.
He sat down at his desk and thought for a long time before he started to write.
Dear Emma,
As you so rightly surmised, your letter caused me no little pain. However, I am happy now, and I am sure that you will share my happiness, when I tell you that as a result of detailed investigations which I have made, I can now reach no conclusion other than that you have been sadly misinformed in regard to Major Bruce. There is no evidence whatsoever …
Chapter Twenty
Jamie Patterson wrote in his diary:
Tomorrow we move. Back to the frontier. More sand, more bloody heat, nothing to drink except water and damned little of that. I shall miss the barracks. We have no servants in the passes. Funny, I shall miss Ian Chisholm, too. I thought that he had recognized me the night he stopped one. Thank God that young Farquhar didn’t pay any attention to what he was saying.
Nobody has told us anything, of course, but I fear that we will be under canvas again. They are building forts all along the frontier. Why the devil they cannot billet us in one of them, I just do not know.
Perhaps when we get home, I should go and see Chisholm. After all, we were at school together. But I don’t suppose I shall. I am happy to be a soldier. Must try and get a bottle to slip into my pack.
Today the regiment is ready to move out.
Leaving Lahore, they would travel to Rawalpindi and then on to Peshawar, which lies within fifty miles of the Khyber Pass. There for the next several months, they would be on duty guarding the frontier. The advance party from the 33rd Foot, who were to take over the garrison duties, had already arrived, and their own heavy baggage train had left for the frontier three days earlier.
They made a brave sight lined up by companies in the early-morning sun. The officers were on their chargers, and bringing up the rear was Lieutenant Farquhar with his Gatling gun and his mules. They had hoisted the colours and then lowered the regimental flag, replacing it with the standard of the 33rd. They were ready to move out.
As the 33rd’s colour broke at the gaff, Andrew gave the command to start their journey.