On Carrick Shore
Page 17
There were few in Ayr to mourn Mungo McGillivray, and no-one seemed minded to look for his mother. Annie had disappeared too. It was said that she had completely lost her wits and was living in a cave on the shore somewhere down near Girvan; she had been seen begging in that town.
Kate had taken Mungo’s death hard. She had lost her first grown-up friend and could not understand how someone who had been so kind to her had tried to kill her brother. She had moped around the house for days until Tom had sought her out in the walled garden, where she sat on the swing, moodily kicking at the windfall apples which strewed the grass.
“Mungo was my friend too,” he’d said. “It’s all right tae grieve for him; I do.”
“But he was bad. He killed Mr Cunningham and he shot you.”
“Weel,” Tom grinned ruefully, “at least he missed me. An’ if I’m right, he didnae mean tae kill Mr Cunningham. He was in a rage. Mungo wasnae a bad man at heart, an’ he was fond o’ you, wee sister. In a way, the last week o’ his life was one o’ the happiest, thanks tae you an’ David.”
The tears that Kate had held in check for many long days came then, and Tom held her close until at length she gulped and said quietly, “I’ll aye mourn him, I think, in some part o’ me, but I’m better noo.” She sniffed, gave him a tearful smile, and they set off back towards the house.
A stir in the doorway brought Tom’s thoughts back to the present. Some latecomers had arrived and he was surprised to see that the party included Isabelle Cunningham, on the arm of a tall man who looked vaguely familiar. The Misses McFadzean fluttered their fans furiously and muttered to each other at the sight of a woman who was supposed to be still in mourning for her husband. Isabelle was no longer in black but her sober grey silk dress enhanced rather than disguised her proud beauty as her glance swept the room, defying gossip.
Seeing Tom, she whispered something to her companion, who went off towards the refreshment table while Isabelle approached Tom, smiling a greeting.
“Monsieur Tom. You are quite recovered, I see.”
“Almost. My arm is nearly healed. How are you, Madam?”
“I am well, as you see.”
“And the business? I dinnae see Mr Kennedy here the nicht.” “Adam Kennedy is no longer in my employ,” answered Mrs Cunningham smoothly. “Nor are certain of his associates. I had long suspected that they were not entirely honest, and I had to dismiss them. I believe they intend to go to the colonies.”
Tom was surprised. The last time he had seen Isabelle he had assumed that Kennedy was her lover. Seeing his look, Isabelle drew closer.
“Le commerce, Tom,” she murmured. “Le commerce avant tout. You have not asked me if you are still a Cunningham employee.”
“I assumed I was not. But . . .”
“Do not worry. I am sure you have no desire to come back to Cunningham’s, nor do I expect it of you.” She smiled and touched his arm.
“You saved my life,” said Tom. “I am in your debt.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “You would do well to remember that.” Just for a moment Tom caught a glimpse of something cold and hard in her eyes which made him shiver, but then she laughed and turned to the tall man who was approaching, bearing glasses of punch, so that he wondered if he had imagined it.
“May I introduce my new business associate, Gavin McKie,” she said, accepting her glass.
“We’ve met,” said McKie with an easy smile. “I trust ye’re weel, Mr Boyd.” Tom recognised the excise officer who had inspected Cunningham’s back in August. He wondered just what “business associate” meant.
“Quite weel, I thank ye.”
After a few polite exchanges, Tom excused himself and went to ponder these new revelations. It seemed that Isabelle Cunningham had quite recovered from the loss of her husband and now meant to run the business she had inherited her way. Tom reflected bitterly on how different things would have been if Richard Cunningham had recognised Mungo as his son. He had given him a job, but nothing more, and he had never told his wife about their connection. He shook his head to clear it of these melancholy, useless thoughts and went to join his family.
“There ye are,” said Sir Malcolm, “I thocht yon merry widow was gonnae eat ye. Did she want tae gi’e ye yer job back?”
Tom shook his head. “No. I couldnae gang back there onyway.”
“Aye, it’s for the best. So, what will ye dae noo?”
“I dinnae ken, faither. The law, maybe.” He looked hopefully at his father.
“I doot they’ll want a jailbird like yersel’,” opined Sir Malcolm. “My influence doesnae stretch that far.” But his tone was kind.
“So what dae ye suggest?”
His father smiled in a mysterious way that reminded Tom fleetingly of Isabelle Cunningham.
“I’ve got an idea, but I’ll no’ tell ye yet. Get yer strength back first. There’s time enough.”
“Aye,” said David, who had overheard. “A few weeks helpin’ us get this harvest in an’ the ploughin’ done will set ye up fine.”
Tom groaned.
“Meantime,” said his mother as the band started up again, “even if ye cannae dance yet there’s a young lassie ower there that ye’ve been neglecting. Come on, my dear,” she added, turning to her husband, “it’s time for us tae tak’ a turn on the floor.”
With a lighter heart, Tom went over to where Alison sat with her father. Greetings over, “Mistress Fleming,” he said, “as my arm hasnae quite healed, may I have the pleasure of sitting out this dance wi’ ye?”
“Of course.” Alison smiled and made room for him beside her on the bench. Her father grunted and moved aside a little.
“How are ye keepin’, Tom?” she asked. “Ye say your arm’s no’ quite healed. It’s been near a month noo.”
“It’s a lot better, but I cannae lift onything heavy yet. David says that’s just an excuse for no’ helping on the farm. The doctor says I’ll make a full recovery though, thanks tae you.”
“No’ just me.” Alison fell silent, thinking back to the events of that awful night.
“But if ye hadnae been tae Annie’s then ridden through the storm tae fetch help, I wouldnae be here.”
“I couldnae hae done onything withoot David and Bob, and yer faither makin’ us ride Prince.” Alison shuddered. “Yon’s a fine beast, but I’m in nae hurry tae ride him again. Jinty’ll dae me fine.”
“A brave wee donkey. She played her part an’ a’.”
“Since we’re talkin’ aboot it . . .” began Alison.
“What is it, lass?”
“Is there ony news o’ Mungo? I mean, did they find him?”
“Nae sign onywhere. I dinnae suppose there will be noo. Annie’s disappeared as weel, they say.”
Alison sighed. “I’m heartsore aboot Annie. I’ve been tae the hoose a few times, but it’s cauld an’ bare. The lads frae the brewery hae been an’ lifted the few wee things she had. I’m aye wonderin’ what’s become o’ her.”
“They say she’s been seen doon by Girvan, begging. I think she might be livin’ in one o’ the caves on the shore. I ken some folk do.”
“Tom . . .” she hesitated.
“Ye want tae gang an’ find her.”
“I couldnae rest easy if I didnae at least try. Would ye . . .”
“Come wi’ ye? Of course I will. We’ll gang the morn, if ye like.”
“Could we? Oh Tom, thank you.” She grasped his arm, making him wince. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Tom merely grinned and moved a little closer on the bench. They turned to look at the dance floor, where Sir Malcolm and Lady Margaret were leading a set in a stately strathspey.
“Your parents are looking well.”
“Aye. My mither’s got a braw new gown. She must hae a new dressmaker, no’ yon optician’s nightmare frae the Sandgate.”
“Tom Boyd, ye ken fine I made her gown. An’ if ye look at yer aunties, ye can see they’ve changed their colours an’ a’.”
Alison made to punch his arm but remembered not to just in time.
“What will ye dae noo, Tom?” she asked.
“My faither’s got somethin’ in mind but he’s no’ tellin’ me just yet, so you could say I’ve got a wee holiday. I’m planning a trip tae the shore the morn wi’ a young lady, an’ then I was gonnae ask her faither if he’d let me court her, if she’s willin’ of course.” Tom looked into Alison’s shining eyes and read his answer there.
“Faither,” she said, “what dae ye say tae that?”
Mr Fleming, busy relighting his pipe, studied Tom over its bowl for a long moment, then grunted, “Aye. Ye’ll dae.”
“Dinnae mind him, Tom. That’s high praise.”
They smiled at each other and, under her shawl, Tom found and held her hand.
*
September 29th
Isabelle Cunningham sat in her chair at the desk in what was now her office, working on the company’s accounts. The desk had been her husband’s, but she had changed the rug and the chair, although the room held no terrors for her. She did not believe in ghosts.
She allowed herself a small sigh of satisfaction. The business was flourishing with new personnel and her hands firmly on the reins. The presence of Gavin McKie lent it an air of honest legitimacy and he would not interfere with her plans; she would see to that. She reflected that things had turned out very well – Tom Boyd was in her debt and Mungo, her pawn, was no more. With a complacent smile she sipped from her cup of chocolate and continued her task of restoring the figures she had altered to their original values.
*
The midday sun, stealing into the cave, played upon the face of the red-haired woman. She woke, groaning, and heaved herself upright, trying to bring some movement into her numb and weary limbs. The effort exhausted her and she sat for some moments, fighting for breath. Finally she hauled herself to her feet and looked around for the bottle. It was there, but it was empty. Cursing, she threw it across the cave to smash on the rocks and staggered towards the cave mouth.
Outside, the sun was bright and the breeze kind, and the salty sea air revived her a little. She stumbled over sharp rocks to the water’s edge and looked out, as she did every day, over the shining silvery waters towards the great blue-grey Craig. She stood there motionless for a long time, her eyes searching the empty sea.
A shout from along the shore caught her attention and she thought she heard someone calling her name. She turned slowly. A man and a woman were scrambling over the rocks towards her. She fancied she recognised the woman, but it meant nothing to her. Turning back to the sea she called her son’s name, as she did every day, but her voice was drowned by the cries of the gulls and the endless waves beating on the shore.