All too soon the corn was ripe and the field of oats was cut and stooked. It was vital that it had wind and sun to dry it out and harden the grain so that it would keep until it was thrashed in winter. Several times in the next fortnight the rain came down in torrents. All the carefully erected stooks had to be moved to dry ground like so many Indian wigwams. Rachel felt lethargic. Her limbs seemed leaden. It was an awful effort to gather up the cows from the meadow and bring them in for milking, but at last the corn was safely gathered into two round stacks.
Two days after the harvest was finished Rachel suffered a bout of sickness. Meg rose before anyone else in the mornings to gather in the cows ready for morning milking. On this particular morning at the beginning of October she had just left the bedroom when Rachel swung her legs over the bed. The wave of nausea came as a shock and she reached for the chamber pot. She soon felt better. She was not one to make a fuss.
The next few mornings she felt slightly dizzy but she decided the mild illness had passed so it was a shock the following morning when a sudden wave of sickness came over her. She ran to the midden. She was thankful no one had witnessed such indignity – or so she believed. The same thing occurred the next morning but this time she managed to gain the privacy of the closet. It took her a little while to recover. Ross and Meg had almost finished milking their second cow when she returned to the byre. Ross grinned.
‘Hello, sleepyhead. Did you curl up and go back to sleep?’ he teased. Rachel gave him a wan smile and got on with the milking. She felt much better by breakfast time, though her stomach was still doing minor somersaults. She ate her porridge slowly unaware of Gertrude’s watchful stare.
Later in the day Gertrude harnessed the pony and yoked it into the trap, her mouth pursed into grim satisfaction.
‘I expect she has gone to the Manse to see the minister,’ Cameron said in reply to Meg’s query. It was rare for Gertie to leave the farm except on market day. That evening, when Ross and Meg and Rachel had gone to bed, Gertrude reached for the stand which held her pen and ink bottle and drew out two thick sheets of writing paper. She seated herself at the kitchen table and drew the oil lamp close.
‘Why are you writing letters at this time of night?’ Cameron asked sleepily. His voice was more slurred than usual. Gertie did not answer. She had given him twice the usual amount of medicine which Doctor Jardine had prescribed. She knew he would sleep soundly until morning, and he would probably be drowsy well into the day. She proceeded to write two letters, stopping every now and then to consider. One was for Ross, though she had no intention of letting him read it until he was many miles from Windlebrae. The other was to her half-cousin, Jim MacDonald, a further explanation of the telegram she had sent him that afternoon.
Since the first morning she had heard Rachel vomiting in the room above, her mind had been in a ferment of speculation, her eyes sharp, her ears alert. Cameron had foisted two unwanted people on her. Now they had both played into her hands. Her brain schemed furiously in preparation for one final step to banish them from her life forever.
Gertrude was up early. As soon as Ross and Meg had gone to the byre she hurried up the narrow stairs to the attic room. She tapped on Rachel’s door but she did not wait for a reply. Rachel was startled at her entrance. Her stomach was churning with the dreadful nausea. She was beginning to dread wakening. She could not understand it. All her life she had been healthy.
‘A-am I late for the milking?’ she gasped in alarm.
‘No, no.’ Gertrude crossed to the other side of the bed. The autumn morning was still dark and the tiny window shed little light. She held up the lamp and looked down at Rachel, hiding her malice behind a sympathetic tone.
‘I’ve noticed you have been a bit pale lately, lass. Maybe you are too young for so much work …’
‘Oh no,’ Rachel protested. ‘I am used to working.’
‘Then maybe it’s something else that ails you? I’ve noticed you’re a mite sickly, especially in the mornings.’ Rachel stared at her in amazement. The soft voice was so unfamiliar.
‘I hope I did not offend you, if you saw …’
‘I’ve seen bairns o’ my own being sick before. I’ve come to tell you to take a rest. I will go to the milking this morning in your place.’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly do that!’ Rachel made to swing her legs over the bed. The awful nausea made her head swim. It was a relief when Mistress Maxwell’s hand on her shoulder pressed her back against the pillows.
‘Now you stay there until I come and tell you to get up. We don’t want you falling sick with the winter coming on, do we?’
‘N-no,’ Rachel stammered in bewilderment, but she was thankful to sink back against her pillows. Gertrude nodded.
‘Remember, you stay here until I tell you to get up.’
Gertrude closed the door firmly behind her. Rachel did not hear the key turn in the lock. She felt exhausted enough to sleep for a week. Gertrude crossed the narrow space to Ross’s door and reached for the leather case from the back of the cupboard. She packed a night shirt and a change of clothes from Ross’s chest. She took his tweed suit and a clean shirt over her arm and carried them all to the kitchen, then she added the letters and locked the case. She hurried out to help with the milking.
‘Where’s Rachel?’ Ross asked immediately.
‘I’m taking her place today. The poor lassie is not very well.’ Ross was surprised at her apparent sympathy. He smiled warmly.
‘She was a bit pale and quiet yesterday morning.’
‘Yes, she has not been her usual self,’ Meg agreed. ‘Perhaps she has been working too hard with the harvest taking so long to bring in.’
‘We had better get on with the milking,’ Gertrude said briskly. ‘I have a lot to do today. Meg, I want you to take a basket of eggs over to Mrs McNaught straight after breakfast. She’s going to send me a sitting of duck eggs in exchange.’
‘But I thought you were getting them ready for next week.’
‘No, you must go today. They are all ready. Go straight after breakfast.’ Meg nodded resignedly. It was no use arguing with her mother, but she knew for certain that the exchange of eggs had been planned for next week.
There were still three more cows to milk when Gertrude followed Ross to the dairy. She watched him empty his pail of milk over the ridged water cooler.
‘I’ve a surprise for you, Ross – a telegram. You remember Jim MacDonald, my second cousin, who farms near the Border?’
‘Yes, I remember him,’ Ross frowned, ‘Is he coming back to visit?’
‘No. There’s a farm on his estate to rent. He wants you to go and have a look at it. It’s a fine opportunity for a fit young man. It’s being offered rent free for the first year.’ She hoped it was still vacant. ‘He will meet you at Lockerbie station today.’
‘Today?’ Ross echoed in dismay. ‘I can’t go today.’
‘Yes, you can. If you take the milk to the station instead of Willie you can travel on the milk train to Kilmarnock. Jim travelled from there down to Dumfries, and then to Lockerbie.’
‘But who will bring back the pony and trap from the station?’
‘Ach, you know as well as I do that Dolly could find her way home from the station blindfold.’
‘We-ell that’s true, I suppose,’ Ross agreed slowly.
‘I have not said anything to your father. You know Doctor Jardine said he should not get upset or too excited. Time enough for that when you have seen the place and had time to consider. Jim will give you lodgings. I’ve packed the suitcase with a few things for you. Your suit is in the kitchen. You can change in the wee back room as soon as you’ve had your porridge. That way you will not disturb your father or waken poor Rachel.’
‘Rachel. I must talk to her …’
‘You can talk when you return. She will be better by then. Don’t dally or you’ll be late.’ Gertrude reverted to her usual abrupt manner. She was tense with the effort of planning.
Ross was astonished by her encouragement. He had believed she would thwart any opportunity he might ever have to farm on his own. Excitement rose in him but he wished he could tell Rachel. She was too young to marry yet, but if he could establish himself as a tenant farmer he could take a wife sooner than he had dreamed possible. He wanted her at his side more than anyone else in the world. She had dispelled the isolation he had often felt, even within his family. They laughed together and talked together, they were friends as well as lovers. All his thoughts were on Rachel and their future as he blindly followed the plans Gertrude had made for him.
Cameron was still sound asleep when Meg came for her breakfast.
‘Is Father ill too?’ she asked in concern.
‘Just a bad night,’ Gertrude mumbled. ‘If you’ve finished eating you can get away with the eggs. It’s a long walk across the fields and you will have to go carefully and not chip any.’
Meg shook her head, her mother talked as though she was still a little girl of three instead of a grown woman. She sighed. She was getting old. Her thoughts were melancholy as she set out across the fields, pulling her shawl closer against the October chill. There was a damp mist in the air. She was certain it would turn to rain long before she returned.
As soon as Meg had left the house Gertrude shook her husband awake.
‘Cameron! ’tis time you were waken. If you sleep much longer you’ll be wetting the bed again.’ Cameron Maxwell was only vaguely aware that his wife was speaking, much less that she was addressing him as though he was a child. He grunted and closed his heavy eyelids but Gertie pulled the blanket back and shook him with grim determination.
‘Come on I’ll help you on with your breeches and across to the closet.’
‘I’m not ready to go to the closet,’ Cameron mumbled, slurring his words even more than usual.
‘Well I’ve work to do. Rachel isna well. She’s staying in bed. I’ll take you now before I start churning the butter. I’ve hung up some fresh squares of newspaper behind the door. You can read some of them until I come back for you. Cameron felt too groggy to argue. He allowed himself to be helped into his boots. His head was swimming and he would have lost his balance in spite of his two sticks if Gertrude had not grasped him under the arm.
She settled him onto the wooden seat and placed a few of the paper sheets near at hand, then she removed his walking sticks and closed the door behind her.
There was little time to waste if she was to get the girl well away from Windlebrae before Meg returned. She whisked into the house, snatching the long horsewhip from the stand behind the door as she went. Dolly never needed a whip so it was rarely used. Its leather thong was sharp. She paused only to unlock the bedroom door. She was beside the bed, the whip raised. Rachel was sleeping like a child, on her stomach, her face cradled in her hand and she was the image of her mother. Gertrude’s teeth clenched at the sight of her. The lash of the whip scorched through her thin night-gown, instantly drawing a raw weal across her shoulders. Rachel yelped with pain but before she could gather her senses the thong descended again, and again. Rachel tried to shield herself. She managed to pull a blanket over her head. Gertrude was breathing hard. She flung the whip aside and pulled the blankets off the bed.
‘Get up! Get out of my house! You wicked, ungrateful wretch,’ she hissed. She tugged at Rachel’s slight figure. ‘Get dressed!’ Her voice rose shrilly as she pushed and pulled, scarcely giving the bewildered Rachel chance to put on her petticoat and dress. ‘I took you in. I gave you a home. How do you repay me? You sin! You sin!’ She was almost screaming now. ‘Fornication is a sin! A sin, do you hear me?’
In her mind she was reliving her own sin, and the penalty she had paid. At that moment Gertrude was scarcely sane as she sought to take her revenge. This girl was the daughter of the man who had used her. He had cast her aside for another. Rejected her! The anguish. The terror. Memories rose in her like bile. She forgot the part she had played. The scheming to steal Connor from the girl he loved, Mhairi Maclean.
‘Please, please do not hit me again,’ Rachel pleaded, shielding her face with an upraised arm, trying to pull on her boot with the other. ‘Ross!’ she called, ‘Ross, please help me!’
It was her shout, and Ross’s name, which brought Gertrude back to the present. There was no time to lose. She grabbed the cover from the pillow and bundled Rachel’s few belongings into it, almost flinging it at her.
‘Now get out of my house! Don’t ever come back!’ Gertrude’s words were a hiss of venom as she hustled the helpless girl down the stairs and out of the house. Rachel barely had time to cast a hopeful glance towards Cameron Maxwell’s chair, then the box bed beside the fire. He was not there. Where was Meg? Where was Ross? Surely he would save her. But Gertrude had raised the dreaded horsewhip again. Rachel hurried out into the chill October drizzle.
‘Ross …?’ she faltered when she was several paces away from her persecutor.
‘He’s gone,’ Gertrude gave a nasty laugh. ‘Just like your father. He’s let you down.’ Rachel turned then and stared at her.
‘M-my father?’
‘Your father was no saint, whatever your mother believed.’
‘M-my father was a good man. Ross …’
‘Ross won you over with his silver tongue. He’s just like your father. He’s had his way with you. Now he’s gone. Taken the pony and trap and gone off on the train. Away from here. A long way away.’
‘I-I don’t believe you …’ Rachel gasped, feeling the blood drain from her face. Gertrude shrugged. ‘Please yourself. He will never be back in these parts again.’ She turned on her heel and closed the door firmly. Rachel stared at the unyielding dark brown wood.
Then she turned and walked slowly out of the farmyard, down the road, away from Windlebrae. What could she to do? Surely Ross had not gone away? Where would he go? As she walked she listened, praying he would call her name, come running after her. Surely she would waken and discover this was a bad dream?
The pangs of hunger were no dream, nor the faintness which accompanied them. She had no money, no food. She had nowhere to go. She did not even know which road to take to the nearest village or to the station. The whole world was a vast grey blanket of mist and rain. She shivered but she plodded on. She dare not go back.
Chapter Seven
RACHEL WALKED WEARILY, LOST and alone, on roads which appeared to have no ending, but which must surely take her away from Mistress Maxwell and her wild eyes and the dreaded whip.
Meanwhile Ross was experiencing a jumble of emotions as he climbed aboard the train which would take him to Dumfries. He had never been further than Kilmarnock before. He could not control the fluttering in his stomach. Feelings of apprehension and foreboding mingled with excitement. The whole adventure was a surprise, and a shock. There had been no time to think, to ask questions, to consider. No time to talk to Rachel, or even to Meg.
It had all been such a rush. Why hadn’t his mother told them yesterday? When had the telegram arrived? Could that be the reason for her trip with the pony and trap?
Her help, her encouragement, astonished him. She had never shown any interest in his future before. Yet today she had organised everything, even thrusting a packet of sandwiches into his hand and wedging his suitcase between the milk churns.
‘Your ticket is in your waistcoat pocket and there’s half-a-crown in the other and the key for the case. There’s a letter for Jim MacDonald. Er – there’s a package for you as well. Find them before you go to bed.’ Maybe she thought they would not feed him, he thought with a grin.
It had all been such a bustle, loading the milk onto the platform, turning the trap and heading the pony for home with a slap on the rump. He had felt a pang of regret, a sinking in his stomach, as he watched the empty trap disappear. Sternly he reminded himself that he would be back at Windlebrae by tomorrow night.
As the train gathered speed, with great huffs and puffs of black smoke, his anticipation mounted.
He watched the fields flying by and wished Rachel could have come with him. He grinned wryly to himself. His mother would never allow that – two of them away. He still couldn’t believe she had made all these arrangements for him. He would have liked to tell Rachel though. She must have felt very ill to miss the milking.
The green fields gave way to bleak hills and moor where rocks seemed more plentiful than sheep and cascades of water sprang from nowhere to fall down the sides of the hills. He felt his spirits sink but the train puffed ever onward away from Ayrshire, away from Windlebrae, away from Rachel. Why did he have this awful feeling of dread when he thought of her and of his home?
As the train headed south the drizzle gave way to patches of blue sky and the hill and moorland became greener and more kindly again. Little whitewashed farmsteads nestled into the lea of green slopes, sheltered here and there with the darker green of woodland. Ross began to daydream. Maybe by next year he would have established himself with a few cows and a couple of pigs, some hens and a pair of good Clydesdales horses for the ploughing and carting.
He sat up straight, frowning. His mother had not mentioned how he would stock a farm of his own, even if Jim MacDonald could get him one for a year without rent, as she believed. They ought to have discussed it with his father. Surely it would be easier to have a farm nearer to Windlebrae so that he and Willie could share some of the tools and implements? His mind raced, but his thoughts kept returning to Rachel. He felt vaguely troubled without knowing why.
Could she be seriously ill? His life had taken on a new light since she came to Windlebrae. She had become his friend and confidante – and more. His cheeks flushed and he felt his insides clench at the thought of her in his arms, held close to his heart.
Ross changed trains at Dumfries without trouble. So far, so good. The see-saw of his spirits rose again. There were a number of people waiting at Lockerbie station when the train lurched to a halt but Ross and Jim MacDonald recognised each other at once.
A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) Page 6