‘He is a very fine gentleman of refined tastes,’ said Naismyth, then seemed surprised when Mrs. Costane thanked him for the compliment: he had not intended it for her.
‘He’s very handsome,’ put in Grisell, with a wink to old Hannah, the kitchenmaid. ‘He’d do you nicely, Mrs. Costane, if you thought of taking a second husband. Though I might fight you for him myself,’ she added thoughtfully.
Andrew, the new boy, scowled.
‘I saw nothing out of the ordinary in him. He’s a rough-looking specimen.’
‘So would you be,’ retorted Grisell, ‘if you had done all the things he has, fought and travelled and led men to victory, instead of combing his hair back and trying to look ornamental in some master’s house.’
‘There’s a great deal more to service than that, and you know it,’ said Naismyth, with dignity. Andrew grinned up at him.
‘Aye, you hear that, Grisell? Anyway, there’s plenty of us in service could fight and travel if we wanted to – we just know how to face up to our responsibilities here.’
‘Oh, aye,’ Grisell responded sarcastically.
‘Anyway, I don’t think much of his dog,’ Andrew went on. ‘A filthy-natured, white creature, with too many teeth for his mouth.’
‘It’s a fierce thing, a dog fit for a hero,’ Naismyth insisted ponderously.
‘It nipped me twice before I had the soup as far as his Lordship.’
‘Aye, it knows its master when it sees him,’ said Naismyth, and Grisell laughed.
‘Well, I’d follow the colours for him if he asked me nicely,’ she said. Andrew did not respond, but concentrated on removing the last of the meat from his chicken leg with surgical persistence.
‘You’ll need to put something on those bites, Andrew,’ said Murray sociably. ‘I don’t think that dog’s too fussy about its food.’
‘Aye, Miss Beatrix has some salve for me when I’ve finished here,’ said Andrew, without looking up. Grisell’s grin faded slightly.
‘Anyway, you saw more of him than we did, Mr. Murray.’ Mrs. Costane struck in again. ‘What was he like?’
‘Much as you would expect, Mrs. Costane,’ Murray said. ‘He’s large and full of himself, very handsome, well-informed, I think, about current gossip in London, a little shy with the ladies, and keen to tell his stories as any old soldier might be.’
‘Less of the old, Mr. Murray,’ said Naismyth sternly. ‘He is not of any great age.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Naismyth, I meant merely a man who has formerly been a soldier, not necessarily one of any age.’
‘The man is a hero to his nation, Mr. Murray. His deeds may have aged him before his time, but they are deeds of which any gentleman might be proud. Yes, Andrew, service is a grand way to live if you can do no better, but the army is the only true profession there is.’
‘Apart from the Church, Mr. Naismyth,’ said Hannah primly.
‘And the law,’ added Mrs. Costane, who liked Nathaniel Tibo.
‘My brother is already in the army, Mr. Naismyth. I was brought up instead to manage my father’s estates when he is gone.’ Murray felt he had heard enough in praise of the army for one day. Naismyth, who had briefly forgotten that Murray was not just another servant, immediately turned unctuous again, to Murray’s disgust.
‘But of course, Mr. Murray, the responsibility of an estate, with all its workers and families, that is a great thing. I had meant by profession the need to go out and earn one’s pay of course, nothing like the true occupation of a gentleman, like Lord Scoggie, or like your honourable father, of course.’ And nothing at all like a tutor or a secretary, Murray added silently to himself. He already regretted speaking.
‘Why is the garden door open? he asked, trying to change the subject.
‘Ugh,’ said Mrs. Costane, remembering. ‘One of the fish from the village was off. The place was stinking.’
‘You’d think it would be easy enough to buy good fish, this near the sea,’ said Andrew, still working the last scraps off his chicken.
‘Oh, you’re new to the place, aren’t you?’ said Mrs. Costane. ‘The best of the fish never even touches the land. It’s taken by the Edinburgh boats from our boats, and off down the coast before we even know it’s caught. You have to tell them well ahead if you want any of it.’
‘There’s a bit of a draught now, though, isn’t there?’ said Hannah grimly. ‘I’ll close the door again.’
She slid off the bench and stepped over to shut the door. The servants turned back towards their good fire, and rubbed their hands together as Mrs. Costane and Hannah took away their plates and brought the baked apples.
Outside, the closed door cut off any further sounds from the kitchen. Tom Baillie had been sitting quietly behind a water butt, his legs stretched out on the ground in front of him He had been listening, but he was at peace for the moment, for the spot was sheltered and dry, and he was distracted by the patterns of the movements of some slaters up and down the rough stonework of the castle wall beside him.
He felt weary, sleepy almost, but just now the kitchen garden was empty, for the gardeners were at their dinner too, and he had to move before they came back. He pushed himself up to crouch on one leg, the other out straight in front still. The strong bent leg lifted him, helped with one hand pressed against the wall and the other pulling the top of the water butt. It wobbled and he froze, muscles tense as wires. The butt settled again, and he breathed. He managed to straighten up, and pulled his crutches from behind the butt where he had hidden them. He swung them under his armpits, into their long-accustomed place, and began the long walk back to the village road through the orchard. The road was as quiet as the orchard and garden, and no one stopped to help him on to the back of their cart, or shortened his journey with talk as he hobbled down the steep hill to the village. In the distance he could see the herring boats, dots on the pigeon-grey sea. He was past regretting such things, but just for a moment the smile he caused to inhabit his face when he was in company faded a little as he stopped to gaze at them. Then he tugged his crutches back into place, and picked his way carefully down over the mud and cobbles of the village street, smiling blankly at the ground ahead of him.
Chapter Six
‘Excuse me,’ said Murray, poking his head around the door of the drawing room. ‘It’s time for the boys to have their walk.’
He had not been able to resist pausing for a moment before he opened the door. There had been only the barest trace of conversation from inside: a sentence or two from Lord Scoggie, a few words from Deborah, and a pause before a response from Major Keyes. Even so, the atmosphere did not seem to be affecting the boys. When Murray looked in, they were sitting side by side on two low stools, gazing reverently at their hero – though keeping him between them and the frightening dog. They seemed disinclined to leave him for something as pedestrian as a walk, but their father was more enthusiastic.
‘Yes, of course, Mr. Murray. Henry, Robert, go along now.’
Major Keyes watched them push themselves reluctantly to their feet, then appeared struck by an idea.
‘I could fancy a little exercise after my carriage ride, and after that fine dinner,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if I joined you, lads? Ladies, would you be good enough to excuse me?’
‘Of course,’ said Deborah, just a little too quickly. ‘You must have some fresh air, and the walks here are very pretty.’ She stood to encourage him, and Major Keyes pulled himself up out of a sagging chair. ‘Perhaps, Mr. Murray, you might like to show Major Keyes the lake walk.’
Murray met her eye, surprised but trying not to show it. The lake walk was the longest on the estate, and on a day like this they would be lucky to be home before dusk. She nodded briskly at him, and he took the hint. It might take some persuasion on Lady Scoggie’s part, he thought, to marry her daughter to Major Keyes.
The two men and the boys met in the hall in a few minutes in their outdoor boots and coats, and Murray led the way out on to the
drive. While he saw to it that the boys had their hats and gloves on, Keyes took a few deep breaths of air with marked appreciation.
‘You have no idea how good it is to breathe in like this, this damp, salty air, cold and healthy,’ he explained. ‘Even the south of England is too warm for my liking.’
‘And India?’ Murray asked, pushing the boys off ahead of them towards the lake. Robert gave a longing look to Major Keyes, but could not resist the pull of mud and trees. He ran off down the slope.
‘A filthy climate. We lost more men to disease than to any native assault.’
‘That must be very wearing.’ He wondered if Major Keyes had any other topic of conversation: if not, it was going to be a long walk, and a long winter ahead. Fortunately, the major almost immediately proved him wrong.
‘Do the boys walk every day?’ he asked.
‘Well, if the weather permits it. Lord Scoggie is very enthusiastic about fresh air.’
‘Aye, all the windows in Scoggie Castle always seem to be painted open! And what other exercise do they have?’
‘I teach them a little fencing,’ Murray said, slightly apologetically, feeling he was talking to a professional. ‘In fine weather they run races and steeplechases over hurdles, and of course they have ponies which they ride a few times a week. Archery is a little more difficult: there is nowhere around that is suitably flat that does not usually have a howling gale blowing across it.’
Major Keyes smiled.
‘And pugilism?’ he asked. ‘I noticed an air to Lord Scoggie’s remarks at the dinner table.’
It was Murray’s turn to smile.
‘Lord Scoggie does not consider it a fit sport for gentlemen.’
‘But the boys are keen on it?’
‘Robert is, or thinks he would be if he could try it. Henry would verify that Robert is keen to practise with his fists. Robert,’ he raised his voice, ‘keep away from the edge, or your father will skelp you.’ Robert’s scowl was visible two hundred yards away.
‘Do they swim in the lake?’ Major Keyes asked, as the surface of the lake came more clearly into view through the trees. ‘It’s a fine body of water.’
‘It is, and to my regret they do not. Lord Scoggie does not permit it. In the summer, however, we often walk down to the sea and bathe there.’
‘You are a strong swimmer yourself? Then what is his objection?’
‘He lost a dog here once, and he is convinced that there are weeds below the surface that trap swimmers. He may well be right, for I do not believe that it has been dragged for several years. There is a boat here but it is rarely used.’
They paused for a moment to survey the length of the lake in mutual sorrow at the waste of it. As the boys reached the trees ahead, they disturbed a flock of pigeons which rose with a clatter like falling playing cards, and shot up towards the house and the doocot, wings whistling as they went.
‘What’s your background, then?’ Keyes asked. ‘Apart from being a Master of Arts from St. Andrews University, which of course is enough for Lord Scoggie.’ A grin took away any offence in the remark.
‘My father is laird of Letho, near Cupar. He saw to my early training in fencing, boxing, riding, and so on, but my inclination was more to reading, I’m sorry to say. We had a falling out while I was at St. Andrews, and Lord Scoggie kindly employed me to enable me to support myself independently.’
‘I see. Perhaps Lord Scoggie would allow me to involve myself in the boys’ physical training during my stay,’ Keyes suggested. ‘It was very notable in the regiment which men had had a good upbringing and were well used to physical exercise. They were better at coping with the diseases as well. I shall put it to him.’
‘You are very welcome to try,’ said Murray, ‘though I am not sure that an argument based on its usefulness for military service will carry much weight with him. Robert would very much like to join a regiment, but I am not sure that his father will let him.’ He tried to remind himself that he was not that keen on overseeing the boys’ exercise himself, and should not feel that Major Keyes was treading on his property.
‘But I am astonished that he feels that way: he has certainly never said as much to me.’ Major Keyes pondered for a moment. ‘It is extraordinary that someone as keen on the traditions of North Britain as he is should forbid his son to join the army. Soldiers are one of our greatest exports, are they not?’
Murray laughed.
‘I had not thought of them that way, but perhaps you are right.’ He paused to allow Keyes to negotiate a kissing-gate that led to the lake path, which he did awkwardly, shuffling on his wooden leg which otherwise did not seem to hold him back. ‘My own brother is in the Royal Regiment, but I am not sure he is much of an export at the moment. I had hoped, perhaps, that scholarship was something we were better known for. Hume and Adam Smith, for instance, to speak of recent times, though Europe used to be flooded with scholarship from this part of the world.’
‘I don’t know much about scholarship, but the Royal Regiment is a good example. If your brother’s with them, you’ll know their nickname: Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard. We’ve been exporting soldiers for a good long time. And the French king’s archers were all Scots.’ The major freed himself from the gate, and called to Tippoo who scrambled efficiently over the adjacent wall. ‘India is full of Scots, both administrators and soldiers. I remember a day I was invited to dinner in Bombay – that’s a town on the east coast, one of the headquarters for the East India Company. It was not long after ‘Patam, and I was still a little unsteady on my foot. So was everyone else after the dinner ended though, eh? Two days of drinking, then we went out to hunt wild pig. Aye, grand days! But every man at that dinner, and there were forty of them, was a Scot.’ He laughed at the memory, then cocked an eye sideways at Murray. ‘I talk about nothing else, do I?’
Murray, surprised to have his thoughts suddenly echoed, made awkward, non-committal noises, and Keyes grinned sheepishly.
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘For one thing, I spent three years out there, and it was a marvellous place. Terrible, and marvellous. The sights I saw ... they haunt my dreams, you know. For another, since ‘Patam no one has asked me about anything else. I was given the freedom of cities in England I’d never even visited till the presentation, and honours and medals and who knows what, and invited to all kinds of clubs and dinners, and all the time people just want to know all about India and the battle and what did Tippoo Sultan look like and did he have a harem, and half the time you don’t even know what their names are because they are much keener to tell you that they know who you are. It’s a bit monotonous, to tell you the truth, Murray.’
‘It must be.’ Murray had not thought of it before: it was as if Keyes’ life had frozen the day of the taking of Seringapatam, and he had not been allowed to progress since. He did not envy him.
‘And to be honest,’ Keyes went on with diffidence, ‘it’s easy enough to be a hero when you’re from North Britain. People almost expect it of you. Like Davie Baird – now, I wouldn’t want to take anything from him, for he’s a grand soldier, but there he was offered the chance to take his revenge on Tippoo. The other officers were just standing back letting him charge ahead, so how could he not be a hero? Now there was a fellow out there called Wesley, an Irishman. You may have heard of him? He’s a grand man for the baggage train, a kind of quartermaster general by birth. He’s not one for charging ahead with fifty kilted Highlanders behind him, screaming curses on the enemy and slaughtering all before him. He’s a good man, but he’ll never be a hero. All David Baird had to do – all I had to do – was to be ourselves.’
‘What have you found, Henry?’ Murray asked suddenly. The boys were just in front of them now, and Henry was poking something delicately with a stick.
‘It’s a bird’s nest,’ said Henry, using what Murray liked to think of as his Royal Society voice, employed for gentle lecturing of his regrettably stupid tutor. ‘I think it’s a crossbill’s. Yes, look: here�
��s a bit of eggshell, white with bits of red and brown on it.’
‘Let’s play football with it,’ urged Robert.
‘No! I don’t have a crossbill’s nest in my collection.’
‘Well you’re not a crossbill,’ Robert pointed out, reasonably enough. ‘Why do you need that mouldy old thing?’
‘For scientific purposes,’ Henry explained grandly. He clutched the ball of moss and lichen to his chest like a new-born lamb, and looked up into the fir trees they were passing under. ‘It must have fallen from the very top ...’
‘Maybe the crossbills thought they were under siege, and dropped it on the enemy,’ Robert suggested, with the barest glance at Major Keyes.
‘If you’re under siege, you don’t drop your whole fortress on the enemy,’ said Henry disdainfully. ‘Mr. Murray, will you carry it for me? And please be careful.’
‘I’ll do my best, Henry.’ Murray reluctantly took the nest as the boys rushed off again. ‘And there,’ he added with a smile to Major Keyes, ‘are both our arguments regarding North British exports proved. Henry is the scholar, and Robert the soldier.’ And the sooner we can export them both the better, he thought, shifting the nest to a safer hold. It would probably have fallen apart by the time they reached the house, and no doubt he would be to blame for the loss to science.
They strolled on. The path was lightly muddy, and Major Keyes seemed to be managing very well. Tippoo jogged along beside him, and a little ahead when the path was too narrow, rarely distracted by the interesting smells along the way, as if he had a greater purpose in mind. Here there was no salt odour, for they were in a hollow: the air was scented instead with earth and decaying leaves, fir bark and the damp shallows of the lake. When the sun showed itself a little through the clouds, the light was muddled with shade under the trees.
They had gone a little way in silence, listening to the shouts of the boys up ahead, when Keyes cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back.
‘Ah, would you mind if I asked you something about the family? I understand you’re in a difficult position, so if you don’t want to answer just say so, but I’m a clumsy fellow, and I don’t want to put my foot in it, so to speak.’ He grinned, glancing down at his wooden peg. Murray said:
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 9