St James’ Fair
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Copyright
To my dear grand-daughter Iyunadi
Prologue
There is nothing to show that a bustling town once occupied a long spit of land between two rivers on the outskirts of Lauriston. A green meadow stretches in a gentle sweep to a rising hillock at one end with a scattering of trees along its surface, but unseen beneath its undulations lie streets and alleyways; vanished churches, convents and a hospital; a royal mint and the cellars of the homes of prosperous merchants and busy journeymen. For what is only a field today was once Roxburgh, the capital of Scotland, a more important place than Edinburgh and a mecca for kings, papal legates and other important travellers.
No one knows for certain what happened to the town. It may have been abandoned because of the plague, or perhaps its buildings were razed to the ground to prevent it being taken again by invaders from south of the border. It could have been gradually deserted because it became a place of ill omen after James II, King of Scotland, blew himself up by the misfiring of a cannon when trying to blast an English garrison out of the town. Whatever the reason, soldiers and courtiers, clerics and journeymen left Roxburgh; the fine houses and churches fell into disrepair and then ruin. By the beginning of the 17th century the site had become a pasture. Today only a crumbling and haunted-looking castle broods on a hill above the vanished town and sheep graze over its sunken streets.
Until the 1930s, there was an annual reminder of the glory that once filled the empty field. This was a fair, named after St James, patron saint of pilgrims, to whom Roxburgh’s chief church had been dedicated. Churches dedicated to that saint dotted the pilgrim routes of Europe, culminating in the magnificence of St Jaime de Santiago in northern Spain.
Roxburgh’s fair was started in the 12th century and even after the town disappeared, it continued to be held on the first Monday in August every year. During fairtime, life surged back into the deserted town; voices rang over it once more and feet trod its hidden streets again. The ghosts of its dead mingled with seekers after pleasure at the fair.
This is the story of what happened during a particular St James’ Fair in the year 1816.
Chapter 1
Wednesday, 29 July 1816
Lauriston, the most elegant and prosperous town in the Scottish Borderland, was in a ferment. Its inns and lodging-houses were filled up with people flooding into town for the Fair; fleshers and provision merchants were rushed off their feet coping with orders from housewives catering for large family parties. All the livery stables were full and the big grain mill in the middle of the town was working day and night to supply the bakers with enough flour for the extra bread that needed to be baked. Money clinked in pockets and faces were smiling because the sun was shining and the weather promised to stay fine. Good weather always made fair-goers better humoured and more prepared to spend and although some people in Lauriston grumbled about the annual disruption of their peaceful routine, most of them looked forward to St James’ Fair.
In his office overlooking the town square, Andrew Elliot, a sharp-faced man of the law, was reading aloud a letter that lay spread out on the desk in front of him to Canny Rutherford, a plump, grey-haired man, who leaned forward in his chair listening intently with his blue eyes fixed on the lawyer’s face. When the reading was over, Elliot raised his head and stared at his client in silence for a few moments. At first the object of his regard nodded without speaking, then suddenly, like a jack in the box, did something very unexpected. Leaping from his chair he executed a jolly little dance in the middle of the carpet, rubbing his hands together and bouncing up and down on his stout legs as he cried in exultation, ‘By Jove, who would believe it! My girl’ll be a Duchess!’
Delight made him swell like a puffball and his bright eyes glittered and gleamed like chips of lapis lazuli. He was beaming so broadly that his scarlet cheeks bulged out like ripe apples and the rising colour in his face and neck made Elliot put out a restraining hand, fearful that his client be carried off by an apoplexy in his hour of triumph. But Canny had no intention of succumbing to a fit. As suddenly as he had started, he stopped dancing and leaned, panting heavily, across the desk to pump his lawyer’s hand rapidly up and down. ‘What a triumph, eh? What a sensation this’ll cause. The gossips will have something to make their tongues wag when they hear about this.’
The lawyer, as lawyers often do, felt it necessary to pour a little cold water on his client’s enthusiasm and counselled caution. ‘Do sit down, Mr Rutherford. You must remember it’s not definite yet. He’s written to say he’s interested, that’s all…’
But all efforts to induce calm were in vain because Canny only laughed more joyously and cried out, ‘He’s made the first move, hasn’t he? He’s strapped for cash. Everybody knows there’s bills out against him all over the countryside. He’s seen my lovely daughter and he’s been struck by a brilliant idea… who’d believe it? I ask you that, Elliot, who’d believe it?’
Who indeed, thought the lawyer, looking across his desk at the delighted man. Canny Rutherford had earned his bread as a boy by filling water buckets at Lauriston’s town pump for local housewives. No one then could have predicted that time would transform the water-carrier into a fabulously rich man with a daughter who was sought in marriage by a Duke.
‘What is Miss Rutherford going to think about this? It will be quite a surprise for the girl. How old is she now – seventeen?’ asked Elliot, carefully folding up the letter which had caused his client so much enthusiasm.
‘She’s eighteen. I’ve been wondering about finding a suitable husband for her – but even I never thought about this,’ exulted Canny.
Elliot shook his head dolefully. ‘There’s quite a difference in their ages. We all know what young girls are like – romantic. Do you think she’ll agree?’
Canny was not in the least deflated. His excitement was impossible to quench. ‘Oh, that’ll be all right. Of course she’ll agree. She’ll be delighted. What girl wouldn’t jump at the chance of becoming a Duchess?’
He stood in the middle of Elliot’s carpet looking like a jubilant Toby jug with his booted legs apart and his round stomach bulging out beneath a long white waistcoat. Even Elliot, who knew Rutherford’s history better than most, found it hard to remember that in spite of the apparent innocence of the blue eyes, steel lurked behind them. Canny might look like a pottery jug but he was a fiercely astute man who had proved his ruthlessness in a hard world. The water boy, who left Lauriston when he was eleven years old, had amassed a fortune in the West Indies – through brigandage, it was rumoured. When the ex-brigand had come home, transformed into what was almost, but not quite, a gentleman, he brought with him his only daughter. Even the lawyer was struck by the girl’s dark and exotic beauty and was not greatly surprised when the Duke’s letter arrived suggesting that a marriage might be arranged between Miss Rutherford and himself. For as well as being lovely to look at, Canny’s daughter was an heiress with a greater fortune than any other young woman between Lauriston and London and the Duke was not only an appreciator of women but he was also hard up and greedy.
Elliot thoughtfully fingered
his watch seal as he gazed through the window of his office which overlooked the town’s cobbled square, half-shadowed by the old Town Hall that bore a blue-faced clock on its tower. The hands stood at fifteen minutes to three and women were out shopping in the sunshine. A ragged boy was earning a few pence by filling buckets of water at the stone-walled pump and the lawyer permitted himself a wry smile as he thought that his client had once done the same thing. He switched his gaze back to Canny’s face and said slowly, ‘Can I take it that you are in favour of accepting this offer?’
‘Don’t be silly man. Of course I am,’ was the sharp reply.
‘But before we accept, we have to be sure that Miss Rutherford is in agreement,’ warned the lawyer.
Canny snorted. His impatience with Elliot’s ultra-cautious attitude was growing uncontainable. Elliot was a good enough business adviser, he thought, because he was as cunning as a monkey, but his caution made him slow and slowness irked the fat man more than anything. Canny’s given name was William, but from childhood he had been known by the nickname, bestowed on him as a joke like many in the Scottish Borders, because of his impetuous nature.
‘I didn’t make my fortune by hanging around when opportunity offered,’ he said impatiently, ‘I want you to reply at once and say we’re interested – more than interested, in fact. I want the Duke to know that I regard this letter of his as a definite offer. He’s not to have any room for backing out.’
In these peremptory tones Elliot heard the voice of a man who once went cruising in a black-painted ship on the dangerous waters of the Caribbean. He picked up his pen and prepared to begin transcribing but, for the last time, he warned his client, ‘Now, remember there’s no guarantee that Miss Rutherford will be marrying the Duke. Things are very much at the negotiating stage and if you run around talking about this affair, you could ruin it. I’ll reply to his letter exactly as you wish but I hope you’re sure there’ll be no hitches, because once you’ve accepted his offer, there can be no backing out.’
Like everyone in Lauriston, except Canny Rutherford who was too rich to care, Elliot lived in mortal terror of the Duke of Maudesley who ruled the lives of the locals like a feudal overlord. He owned most of the property in and around the town, including Elliot’s own house and office building; he employed the majority of the working people; he was like a king to them and his power was absolute. Anyone who annoyed him knew their only course was to pack up and leave Lauriston. It was this potentate who had selected Canny’s daughter as a possible consort. Although the Rutherfords and the Duke had never met socially, he knew everything that went on in the town and had spied her on the street. His informants would have told him who the girl was and how much she was worth.
‘Write the letter, write it!’ snapped Canny, hopping up and down impatiently on his plump-calved legs. The lawyer shrugged. He’d done his best. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and prepared to begin writing.
‘Neither of us are foolish men. We know it’s her fortune that interests him more than her beauty. He’ll want to know how much you’re prepared to give her as a dowry,’ he said.
Rutherford pulled out a chair and sat down, biting on the silver knob of his cane as he thought. After a few moments he announced, ‘I’ll give ten thousand as an earnest to begin with. Then another ten thousand on the day of the betrothal, and, when they marry, she’ll have a dowry of a quarter of a million… We’ll bait the hook for him!’
In shock Elliot laid down his pen again. Even he was surprised at this largesse. Rutherford must be richer than rumour made out. He shot an awed glance at the man before him but before he could say anything, Canny met his eyes with a hard stare and added, ‘Make sure he knows that when I die, she’ll fall heir to another half a million at least – possibly more. I want him to realise that my Odilie’s an heiress of the first rank. I doubt if there’s a better in the whole of the kingdom. So when you draw up her wedding contract it’ll have to be water-tight. She’ll keep control of her own money because I’ve heard about this Duke and I don’t want him wasting her fortune on wine and loose women.’
A short while later Mr Canny Rutherford stood in the doorway of Elliot’s law office, staring around his native town with pleasure so sharp that it seemed to him he was seeing lovely Lauriston for the first time. The town had a Continental look – it could have been somewhere in France. The houses and offices facing onto the square all looked clean, freshly painted and prosperous. Flowers bloomed in pots on window sills and a bent-backed old man was sweeping up litter from the cobbles with a long-handled broom. The pump which Canny knew so well was shaped like a Roman altar and stood in the middle of the square. Looking down over all, the cock on top of the Town Hall tower was glittering so brightly in the sunshine that it seemed to be made of real gold.
Canny stared across the square at the town’s two main streets – the Horse Market and the Corn Market – which ran off parallel in an easterly direction. He knew that the people bustling around would have noticed him standing proudly in his lawyer’s doorway and that they’d be thinking, ‘Yonder’s Canny Rutherford who used to be such a poor wee laddie. My word, he’s changed!’ He longed to cup his hands around his mouth and give a yodel as he used to do when a boy. Then, when he’d caught their attention, he’d startle them with his news, ‘My daughter Odilie’s going to marry the Duke!’ How annoying it was to have to remember Elliot’s injunction to keep his secret for a little longer, for the joy that bubbled up inside him hurt with the pent up force of a capped volcano. If he did not hurry home and break the news soon, he would surely burst.
With a lordly air he settled his tall grey hat on his head and patted it into position with a ringed hand. Flourishing his cane, he stepped into the roadway where he almost collided with a mournful-looking man who came out of Oven Lane that led down to the river from the side of the lawyer’s building. Canny drew back when he saw that he had bumped into Jockie Cunningham, another one who’d grown up with him. Normally he would not bother to waste time conversing with the gloomy and envious fellow but today’s good humour made him beam and call out in a friendly manner, ‘Isn’t it a grand day, Jockie?’
‘Fine enough I suppose, Canny. Let’s hope it doesnae rain for the Fair,’ said Cunningham in a lugubrious voice, for he was rarely known to make a cheerful comment on anything and could be relied on to search out the black side of every happening. Canny’s optimism was unquenchable however and he replied, ‘Don’t you worry. It’s set fine. It’ll no’ rain for the Fair. Try looking on the bright side for once.’
‘If you say so, Canny. You were aye one for the bright side,’ was the reply as Cunningham wandered on up the street. Canny looked after him with annoyance showing in his expression for he knew that his nickname had been deliberately stressed in a mocking way just to annoy and to make it obvious that he was still thought of as a poverty-stricken laddie in spite of his wealth and display. Jockie Cunningham and other people of his sort in Lauriston did not take Canny seriously even now. Frowning with pique he hurried off up Bridge Street heading for his home, Havanah Court.
* * *
When Canny Rutherford returned from forty years in the West Indies, he built his dream house choosing the site with extreme care. It had to be in Lauriston because he wanted everyone in the town to see it and gasp in admiration.
‘Why don’t you buy a big estate? You can well afford it,’ friends asked, amazed at his decision to build a mansion in the middle of a town, but there would have been no satisfaction for him in hiding behind a high stone wall or in the middle of a landscaped park. Canny was out to impress the people who had once disdained him as a pauper’s son.
After long and expensive negotiations with the then Duke, brother to the present incumbent of the title, the best situation in town was secured on the north bank of the River Tweed at the edge of the town and backing onto Bridge Street opposite the ruins of the ancient abbey. The recently built Rennie Bridge came to an end at the left of the property and meadows of
velvety green stretched westwards along the river bank while to the south the outlook was across a broad sweep of river towards the smudged purple shadows of the Cheviot Hills.
Little by little over a period of several years, Canny’s house had taken shape till it finally emerged from its scaffolds imbued with an assurance and elegance unequalled in the entire Border country. It was built of pale honey-coloured sandstone, long and low and shaped in a wide semi-circle like arms spread out to embrace the sun. There were no walls around it and the beautiful gardens could be seen through a line of metal railings by people passing to and fro in the street or strolling along the banks of the river. Canny had given as much care to the planning of his gardens as to the house itself, and fountains spouted over quaint grottoes constructed beside pergolas of roses. Seats were placed beside sweet-scented bushes and everywhere the ear was filled with the sound of softly running water. At the end of each outspread wing Canny had built a pavilion – the one on the west was an orangery, while on the east was a tropical greenhouse built for the delight of his daughter Odilie who missed the lushness and warmth of her birthplace in Jamaica.
He was thinking of Odilie now as he hurried along Bridge Street towards the lion-surmounted pillars of the front gateway which acted as lodestars for the hurrying man. When he reached the tall ornamental metal gates, he paused and peered through them as if he was a stranger. The smoothly-raked gravel of the drive swept in front of him in an elegant arabesque to a pillared front door where a sweep of front steps gleamed white with holystoning and the panes of the windows glittered and sparkled with the frequent polishing that was insisted on by Martha, his sister who was his housekeeper.
Martha drove the servants hard for she’d spent most of her life in service before he returned with his fortune from foreign parts. She knew how to catch maids out if they were inclined to idle. The Rutherfords had started life as Poors’ House bairns and had never forgotten the shame of being raised on the parish. Even now, at nearly sixty, Canny was always overcome with gratitude on cold or rainy days when he looked down and realised that his feet were encased in stout shoes, for as a boy he’d gone barefoot.
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