by CL Skelton
‘Have you seen Donald yet?’ asked Ian. ‘You know he asked me to tell you that he bore no grudge.’
‘Nae, I haven’t. I’ve been a wee bittie shamed of myself. But I’ll see him after we know. For now, we can only pray. I’ve been daeing an awful lot o’ that lately.’
‘Is Mrs Bruce here?’ asked Ian.
‘I dinna ken, she hasna spoken tae me since I told her that Donald was arrested. I don’t blame her.’
But Mrs Bruce was there. It was she who persuaded Gordon to bring her down. Unknown to any of them, she had taken a room at the White Hart Inn, not nearly so luxurious an establishment as the George, but a place where she knew that Willie would not be staying. The White Hart had also the added advantage that it lay right at the foot of a flight of steps which led directly up to the castle. She was within two minutes’ walk of her son.
She had used Gordon to get her information as to how things were going, giving him strict instructions that he was on no account to approach his father. But he was to use every other means to find out what was happening and to bring her news.
After meeting Ian, Gordon had hurried down the steps to the White Hart and told Maud that the verdict might be in at any time. She had immediately put on her green velvet cloak and accompanied her younger son up the steps to the castle. There the magic mention of her husband’s name gained her immediate admittance.
‘Where’s the court?’ she asked.
‘It’s on the second floor,’ said Gordon, ‘but they won’t let you up there.’
He took her into a small anteroom of the officers’ mess and left her there while he went upstairs to hear the verdict.
The court had been out for over an hour when at last the order was given to recall those taking part in the proceedings. They all took their places, with Donald at the prisoner’s table, made conspicuous by the fact that he was the only person in the room whose head was bare and who carried no sword.
They all rose as the court filed back to their places. The atmosphere was tense and silent. The only sounds were made by the shoes of the court members as they walked in, echoing in the vaulted emptiness of the room. Ian scrutinized each face as they came through the door facing him but he could read nothing. They were all solemn and expressionless. He had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was the moment of truth. God, he wished that they’d hurry and get it over with, tell him if all of his effort had been vain or not. But they did not hurry. One by one they entered, each as impassive as the next. Maddeningly slowly they stood behind their chairs and waited for the President to sit. At last he did so. This was it, thought Ian. But no. As they sat down the President started leafing through the bundle of papers he had carried in with him. It was only after what seemed an age that the President looked up in Donald Bruce’s direction.
‘The prisoner will approach the court,’ he said.
Still Ian could read nothing in the man’s expression, as, with Donald on his right and the escort on Donald’s right, they approached the blanketed table. They stood to attention waiting for Donald to hear the judgement.
Infuriatingly, the President looked down at his notes once again and then, at long last, looked sternly up at Donald.
‘Captain Donald Bruce,’ he said, ‘it is the verdict of this court that you are guilty of a most serious offence: that of leaving your unit without permission whilst that unit was on active service in defence of Her Majesty’s territories overseas. Is there anything you wish to say in mitigation before sentence is pronounced.’
Ian was about to speak but was stopped by Donald who, in a firm and clear voice, replied, ‘No, sir.’
‘Very well,’ said the President. ‘You will no doubt have observed that in stating our verdict, we did not use the word “desertion” which would have carried with it a mandatory sentence of death. The charge upon which you have been convicted is a little less grave and carries the sentence of death or such lesser punishment as the court might determine.
‘We have taken into consideration all that has been said by the Prisoner’s Friend. And at this point we feel that you should be grateful at having had so able an advocate. Your conduct in leaving the regiment when you did was inexcusable, and must be punished.
‘We have also taken into consideration the gallantry which you displayed on the very day of your offence on the field of battle. We have decided that the proposition advanced by the Prisoner’s Friend, that there had been a strong possibility of you becoming the recipient of an award for gallantry, was true.
‘We have also noted that for several months preceding the offence you had made it known that you had no desire to continue in the army; at one point even attempting to resign your commission. We believe that filial fear was a contributory factor in your withdrawing your resignation.
‘Having then taken all of these matters into consideration, the sentence of this court, subject to confirmation by the General Officer Commanding Scotland, shall be as follows: Captain Bruce, you are hereby sentenced to be cashiered and to serve a term of five years’ penal servitude.’
Donald was probably the only man in the room who showed no emotion at the verdict. Ian, who had hoped so much for an acquittal, felt his shoulders slump. Willie Bruce at the rear of the room took a deep breath, audible throughout the court, and bowed his head. But the President had not finished. He looked up again at Donald.
‘This sentence,’ he said, ‘is to take effect from the date of the offence. That is all. The court is adjourned.’
The members of the court rose and filed out of the room. Willie rushed across to Donald and flung his arms around him. ‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘Thank God, lad.’
Donald looked at his father, smiling wryly. ‘I’ll see you in five years,’ he said.
‘Did you no listen tae what the man said?’ Willie almost shouted. ‘If I havna got a soldier for a son, at least dinna let me have an idiot. You are free. Your sentence started in 1884. It’s over. Mister Bruce, you’re a civilian now. I’ve got a hansom waiting. Come on. We’ll get over tae the George ‒ I’m sorry, lad, but I canna take you into the mess ‒ and we’ll all have a drink tae celebrate.’ He turned, a little embarrassed, to where Ian was standing, ‘Ian Maclaren,’ he said, ‘I shall forever be in your debt.’
‘Thanks, Ian,’ said Donald, and he offered his hand a little shamefacedly. ‘Sorry I lost my temper. I understand now that what you did, you had to do. Thank God you did it.’
‘Come on, then, let’s awa’,’ said Willie.
The three of them hurried out of the castle and into the waiting cab. As soon as they arrived at the George, Donald went up to his father’s room to change into the civilian clothes which had been brought down from Strathglass. Willie meanwhile ordered the drinks.
They were just sipping their first whisky when Gordon, accompanied by Maud, came into the lounge. She ran over to her son with her arms outstretched.
‘Where did ye come from?’ demanded Willie. ‘Nae, don’t tell me, it doesna matter. You’re here and the lad’s safe. We got him off.’
‘Yes, Willie,’ she said. ‘You got him off.’ And she kissed him. Turning again to Donald, she said, ‘Oh, Donald, I’ve spent more time on my knees in these last weeks than I did in all the rest of my life put together.’
‘Is everything all right, Maud?’
‘Yes, Willie, everything is all right.’
‘Come on, now,’ said Willie, ‘we’ll drink up, and then we’ll all have the biggest, most expensive meal that this hotel has ever seen. You’ll stay, of course, Ian. You’re the hero of the hour.’
‘Well, sir,’ replied Ian, ‘actually, no, I cannot. If you’ll forgive me, I have a prior engagement.’
‘Who with?’ demanded Willie.
‘Sir Godfrey promised me a reward. I’m going to claim it.’
‘Oh,’ said Willie, laughing. ‘The beautiful Victoria.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ian. ‘I hope you understand.’
‘I do
that. She’s a bonny wee lass.’
‘I say, Ian,’ piped up Gordon. ‘Who’s Victoria? I always thought you were rather keen on Naomi.’
‘I was,’ said Ian. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
Chapter Eleven
The spring of 1891 was exceptionally mild. The tight green buds of the silver birch trees were already bursting into leaf, the broom was in flower giving great patches of brilliant yellow among the rocks and crags, and the winter snow had receded until only the very tops of the mountains retained their white winter coating.
The salmon had started to run up the River Glass and Sir Andrew Maclaren would spend many a day sitting on a wooden stool by the river bank, vainly trying to persuade one of the silvery creatures to take his fly. Frankie Gibson, when he could get away from the barracks, would creep stealthily down to a secluded spot in the gorge at Aigas with his otter board and take a fish with consummate ease. Of course, everyone knew that Frankie did just that; it was the habit of a lifetime. And when Lady Maclaren asked her son to get her a salmon for the Great Day, he had replied testily, ‘Why don’t you ask Frankie Gibson?’
‘All right, I will,’ she replied.
She did and Frankie obliged with a fine eighteen-pounder the day before the Event.
Culbrech House was bursting at its ancient seams as the clan gathered for the Great Event. It was many years since the old house had seen a wedding. Andrew had married his bride in St Margaret’s, Westminster. Shortly after that his sister Margaret had married old Sir Henry Maclaren’s English factor, Richard Simpson. The regiment had been in India at the time, having left shortly after Andrew’s wedding, and since then there had been nothing. Andrew’s other sister Jean had remained a spinster.
Andrew had broken all the rules, but he had managed by dint of persuasion and just a suggestion of bribery to convince Sir Godfrey MacAdam that it would be a good idea for his daughter to marry in the Highlands where she would be fated to spend most of the rest of her life. That eminent advocate, whose quite considerable wealth had been accumulated in no small way by a consummate ability to always allow someone else to pay the bill, had, after an insincere show of reluctance, agreed.
As for Victoria herself, she had stated categorically that she did not care where she got married.
It had been a gentle courtship in spite of its brevity. It had flowed serenely along conventional lines until the MacAdams’ first visit to Culbrech House. That was when Victoria had met Robert.
Ian had not seen his younger brother for well over six years. When they finally met again ‒ it was just after Ian’s return from Edinburgh ‒ he barely recognized him. Robert had been a tall, gangling youth when he went off to Sandhurst. But now, at six feet four inches, he towered over them all. When he stood apart, he did not look his height, so beautifully proportioned was his body. A great gentleness was probably his most outstanding virtue, though if you asked him, he would bend a six-inch nail with his bare hands; not in any spirit of pride, but because you had asked, and Robert always wanted to please. Robert had never known his mother; she had died before he even had a name. And Andrew, probably more from a feeling of guilt than for any other reason, had always overindulged his younger son.
In the nicest possible way, Robert oozed charm; he was unable ever to say no to anyone, and he found the three hundred pounds a year that his father allowed him totally inadequate for his needs. But everybody loved Robert; nobody minded his extravagances. Robert never saw beyond the moment in which he lived. If he took a girl out to dinner, it had to be the best and most expensive that money could buy. Not because he wished to impress, but because he wanted to please. He would never ignore a call for help, whether it was to pick up a lady’s glove, or to chop a winter’s supply of wood for an ageing pensioner on his father’s estate. Robert was one of those people who tried to be all things to all men; the only trouble was that he could not afford it. But the men admired him and the women adored him.
Ian had seen the danger signs the moment Robert and Victoria were introduced. There was nothing unusual in Victoria’s reaction to Robert. She reacted as practically every other woman did when they met him for the first time. But this had hurried Ian in his resolve, and within three days of her meeting Robert, Ian had proposed, been accepted, and the date arranged.
They would all be there at the wedding in St Andrew’s Cathedral in Inverness. The Bishop himself was going to perform the ceremony. Staunch Church of Scotland though the Maclarens were, they could not deny this charming girl the right to be married in her own, Episcopal, church. Ian’s father, grandmother, and two aunts ‒ Aunt Jean who would pray for him because she disapproved of marriage, and Aunt Margaret now married and with a family of her own, who with her husband practically ran the Maclaren estate ‒ all would be there to witness the marriage nonetheless. Margaret would give him a lecture on economics. Of course, the Bruces would be there. Willie and Maud and Gordon. Naomi was arriving from London, apparently bringing someone with her. As for Donald, he had been invited, but no one was quite sure whether or not he would arrive and face all of his ex-brother officers again, for of course the whole officers’ mess and the senior of the senior N.C.O.s were coming.
Donald, after a fleeting visit to Strathglass, waiting for the sentence of the court martial to be confirmed, had returned to London. There he had met a very surprised Mr Wilson on the step of the shop in Bond Street. Mr Wilson had taken him out to lunch at Rules, where Donald had told him the whole story.
‘Well,’ said Mr Wilson after he had heard Donald out, ‘one can only take people as they find them, and I have found you a good and reliable employee. If you wish to come back, you will be more than welcome. Though I must confess, I shall find it very strange calling you Mr Bruce, Mr MacDonald.’
Donald was very moved by his old employer’s belief in him and expressed his gratitude.
‘No, Mr ‒ er ‒ Bruce, I am the one who should be grateful,’ was the reply. ‘Now, Donald, we will just pretend that none of this ever happened and start again just where we left off. I shall see about the new shop sign tomorrow.’
Gordon Bruce, who was to be Ian’s best man, had collected him that morning and taken him to rooms in the Caledonian Hotel in Inverness. He had done this because he had to get Ian out of the house before the bride and her party arrived on the afternoon before the wedding. It was, of course, Robert who had arranged the stag party.
Ian had got out of the house just in time. Within half an hour of his departure, the MacAdams had arrived. Lady MacAdam was a small mouse-like little person who hardly ever spoke and always agreed with everybody. She would inevitably reply, ‘Quite’ to any suggestion that was made, and then observe her questioner through a pair of lorgnettes which she always carried on a black cord around her neck. They had brought with them only one servant, Michelle, who was Victoria’s French lady’s maid. As soon as they arrived and had been greeted by Andrew and his mother, they were shown to their rooms in the east tower, and then brought down and introduced to the Bruces.
It was Andrew who had insisted that Willie and Maud should come and stay with them over the period of the festivities. His wish was engendered by panic at the thought of being shut up in his own house with a lot of women. He was determined that, if his home was going to be turned into a female enclave, at least he would have Willie to lend support to himself and Sir Godfrey.
Lady Maclaren, upon whom the bulk of the preparatory work had fallen, had enlisted the aid of Maud Bruce. As soon as the MacAdams had unpacked, Maud whisked Lady MacAdam into Inverness to the Station Hotel to spend an hour with the banqueting manager in order to obtain her ladyship’s approval for the arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Lady MacAdam listened to all that the manager had to say, and then raised her lorgnettes and said, ‘Quite,’ in an approving tone, so everything, Maud presumed, was all right.
Closeted in his study with Willie, Andrew asked if he knew whether or not Donald was coming.
‘I’ve nae
idea,’ said Willie, ‘we’ve hardly heard from him since the trial.’
‘He went back to his jewellery business?’ asked Andrew.
‘Aye, he did that,’ said Willie. ‘Naomi told us, but more I canna tell you for I don’t know myself.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t come,’ said Andrew.
‘Why?’
‘After all, it would be quite a strain for him to have to face the regiment again.’
‘He’s no a coward,’ said Willie.
‘I wasn’t suggesting that he was,’ replied Andrew, ‘at least, not in the way we normally judge cowards. But just because you can face an enemy does not mean that you have the courage to face the disapproval of your friends. I know that only too well.’
Willie looked up at him quickly. He was well aware of what it was to which Andrew referred. For Andrew would have married Maud had he not been faced with social ostracism in the event of marriage to a woman who was carrying a bastard Eurasian child.
‘Aye,’ said Willie, ‘you’re right, of course. I must say that I’m damned glad that you are.’
They smiled at each other and Andrew poured another whisky. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see if he is going to show up then?’
‘Right,’ said Willie. ‘Slainte.’
That evening, after Maud and Lady MacAdam had returned from Inverness, they gathered in the small dining room for dinner. Lady Maclaren and Andrew sat at the foot and head of the table respectively. Sir Godfrey was on Lady Maclaren’s right, and Willie Bruce on her left. Lady MacAdam and Maud were on either side of Andrew. Between Sir Godfrey and Maud were seated Jean Maclaren and Richard Simpson, with Richard’s wife Margaret opposite them between Willie and Lady MacAdam.
They had a new butler, Seamus McLeod. He had adopted the mantle of MacKay, who had retired two years previously to a small house on the estate. McLeod was a veteran of twenty-four years’ service with the regiment. He had risen to the rank of sergeant and had had his eye on MacKay’s job for some time. An intelligent man, he had taken the trouble to hang around Culbrech House and pick up various details of what the work entailed, long before he applied for the job. He was tall and thin, cadaverous in fact, and he lacked the lobe of his right ear; it had been sliced off by a bullet while he was serving in India. When he started he retained a disturbing habit of noisily stamping to attention whenever addressed by a member of the family. After a little chat with Lady Maclaren he stopped stamping, but he still stood at attention. He had had to learn also that one did not speak to the other servants in the same tone and volume as one shouted at recruits on the barrack square. But he learned quickly and soon settled down and gave the same efficient service which had been the hallmark of MacKay.