by Fiona Monroe
Near the village was a patch of woodland, and as she approached it, Flora decided on impulse to divert through it to see how the bluebells were coming on. She was rewarded by the sight of carpets of dancing blue beneath the trees by an old tumbledown stone structure, and was kneeling to fill her basket with flowers when she heard an odd noise that seemed to be coming from within the abandoned building. It sounded very much like a woman's cry, followed by the deep rumble of a man's voice.
Immediately apprehensive, Flora got to her feet and crept to the empty window to see who was within. She wondered if she should just ignore the sounds and go on her way, but she was concerned that there might be someone in trouble. As the Minister's wife, it was her duty to help if she could. The female sounded distressed, she was sure.
With her heart in her mouth, she peered through the window and saw a couple lying together on the dry leaf-covered floor of the empty cottage. Or in fact, there was a man lying full on top of a girl, her legs splayed out either side of him and moving vigorously up and down.
Flora gasped in shock, and her basket fell from her hand. There was a rustle of leaves and a crack of dried twigs, and the girl shot up from under her lover like a jack-in-the-box. With tumbled dark hair around a flushed face, it was Phemie.
The man spat out some kind of curse, which happily Flora could not understand, and rolled off her. Flora scarcely noticed him, beyond registering that he was dressed in good working clothes and seemed like a gardener or gamekeeper. Her astonished gaze was fixed on Phemie, who seemed frozen in position with her skirts rucked up over her bare knees.
Flora turned on her heel and fled.
When she got back to the Manse, out of breath from half-running the rest of the way, Flora realised that she had left her basket behind in the woods. It was at the moment the least of her concerns. She sank into a chair in the sitting room, panting and faint with shock.
She heard Mr Farquhar's step in the passage, and her heart started to beat even faster. She had hoped that he would be out on calls. He must have been in his study, and heard her come in.
"My dear?" He put his head round the door. "Are you all right?"
"Oh! Yes. Just a little..." She tried to think of an acceptable excuse. "Tired from walking."
He frowned, and came into the room. "John told me when he returned with the trap that you were walking back from Domhnall's farm. I do not think, Flora, that it is a good idea to wander about the country by yourself, and you have clearly tired yourself out."
"I'm sorry, sir. It was such a beautiful day." She felt that every word she spoke was a lie upon a lie. She felt dazed with and guilt.
He bent over her, and caressed her hair, lifting a lock from her damp forehead."I don’t want any harm to come to you, my dear. Do not walk such distances alone again."
"No, sir."
"Was Domhnall's son any better?"
Numbly, Flora made a stammering report on the illness of the little boy and the health of the rest of the family, and he seemed satisfied and kissed the top of her head. He then went back to his work, saying that he would send in tea as she appeared so much in need of it.
Flora could hardly meet Mrs MacDonald's baleful eye when the housekeeper came in with the tea-things, and she sipped her tea distractedly, her mind whirling.
She knew that she ought to go straight to Mr Farquhar, right now, before any more time elapsed, and tell him exactly what she had witnessed in the old cottage. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the correct course of action, what he would wish her to do, and what was probably her duty. But she could not bring herself to call down such trouble upon Phemie without at least giving the girl a chance to explain herself. Perhaps there was an explanation, perhaps after all Phemie and the man she was with were secretly married and had told no-one as yet for reasons she could not even imagine. It was possible. She determined that she would not do anything hasty. She would confront Phemie as soon as she could, listen to her explanation, and then put the matter into Mr Farquhar's hands.
* * * * *
Flora had no opportunity to speak to Phemie alone until the next day. She knew that the girl was avoiding her eye as she served in the dining room that evening, and immediately after dinner, if they did not have guests, Mr Farquhar liked Flora to sit with him by the hearth and listen while he read from an inspiring book. It would have seemed very singular had she excused herself from this and gone into a private conference with the maidservant at this hour of the day. So she sat in a state of suppressed agitation, frequently pricking her finger with her needle and listening to not a word of Bunyan's Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, knowing that she was every moment keeping the knowledge of Phemie's sinful conduct from her husband.
The next morning, as soon as Mr Farquhar had set out to visit someone, Flora rang the bell and said that she wished Phemie to help her sort through the clothes that she had brought with her from Edinburgh, with a view to altering and donating some garments to the poor. As soon as the door of her bedchamber was closed on the pair of them, Phemie burst out, "Oh, Mrs Farquhar, ma'am! Please don't tell!"
Flora anxiously checked behind the door again, but the upper hallway was quite empty. Mrs MacDonald was far away down in the kitchen, preparing lunch and presumably supervising old Peggy's floor-scrubbing. She closed the door firmly once more and sat on the chair by the fire, where she had too often been put across Mr Farquhar's knee. Now it was she sitting in judgement of Phemie, who stood before her, hands twisting.
"I've been so afraid since yesterday," she said. "I thought every moment that the Minister was going to send for me. I was sure you would have told him as soon as you got home."
"Phemie, I have not told him, but I ought to have done so!"
"Oh please, ma'am, don't, I beg you."
"But Phemie, what is the meaning of it? Did that man - did he force you?"
"Oh no, ma'am. No, indeed Calum wouldn't do that. He's gentle and kind and oh, wonderful in every way, ma'am. I love him."
"But you are not married?"
"We're engaged to be married, ma'am. Only - well, it's like this, ma'am. Calum is an under-gardener at Lochlannan, and the head gardener, Mr MacDonald, he doesn't allow his under-gardeners to marry. Calum would lose his job. We have to wait until Calum can find a position as gardener in his own right elsewhere, or at least get a place as under-gardener somewhere they'd take on a married man, but it's hard, ma'am. He asks where he can, but he has to be careful. Mr MacDonald is a hard master and doesn't take kindly to disloyalty. Calum's worked for him since he was twelve years old."
"But Phemie, I understand about that, and it's bad luck on you - but if you must wait to marry, you must wait before engaging in intimate relations, too. Those are only proper between a man and his wife. You know that, surely you know that."
"Oh yes, ma'am." Phemie began to cry. "We won't do it again, I promise. We do both know it's wrong, but it's so hard, when I think of how long it might take for Calum to get the right place. I love him so much, we just can't help it."
"But Phemie, you can and you must. Think what it might lead to."
"I know, ma'am." She hung her head and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Calum says that if he's careful it won't."
Flora had no idea about that. She was pretty sure that this wonderful Calum was saying anything he thought would get him the pleasures of the marriage bed without the inconvenient preliminaries, and that Phemie was foolish to believe him. But then, she thought how rapid and easy had been her own path to happiness. She had loved Mr Farquhar from afar, he had proposed so unexpectedly, and she had been married and in his arms within a week. Despite her husband's strict hand, she had been fortunate indeed. And she pitied Phemie's situation.
She bowed her head, thinking hard, feelings and thoughts skittering about inside her.
"Please don't give us away, ma'am," said Phemie, bursting in on her contemplation. "I would lose my place, I would be turned away in disgrace, and Mr MacDonald would hear
of it, and he might turn away Calum too, and we would be ruined." She cried harder.
"This Mr MacDonald, is he a relation of Mrs MacDonald?"
"He's the brother of her late husband, ma'am."
So the connection was inescapable. Flora felt trapped and very troubled. How could she betray the girl to such a fate? This was not letting her in for a hiding, this was bringing about her ruin. And yet to allow such a serious sin to go unpunished, and perhaps encourage it to continue, was, she knew, deeply wrong. To conceal it from Mr Farquhar was as wrong as anything could possibly be.
"Phemie," she said at last, "You know I ought to tell Mr Farquhar about your shameful misconduct. Indeed it is not misconduct, it is sin. Sin pure and simple, do you understand that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You must promise me that you will not yield yourself to your betrothed again until you are properly wed before God."
"I promise, ma'am. Oh, indeed I do."
"And I will..." She hesitated to say the words. Keep her secret? It sounded so sly and sordid to put it like that. "Say nothing to anyone, as long as you keep your word. And I will make enquiries on this young man's behalf, to see if we can find a suitable place for him."
"Oh thank you, ma'am!" Phemie fell to her knees before her and looked almost likely to kiss her feet.
Flora stood, deeply uneasy. "You may help me with the clothes now. Mrs MacDonald will want to know what we have been doing here, otherwise."
As she and Phemie hauled armfuls of gowns and other garments out of the trunks and spread them on the bed, Flora's heart was full of foreboding.
Chapter Eight
"Mr Farquhar, sir." Mrs MacDonald stood just within the door of his study, her weather-beaten face frozen into an expression of what he recognised as perturbation. "There's something - there's a problem."
"Well, come in, Mrs MacDonald." Farquhar looked up from his desk, where he was making notes for his next sermon. He was surprised that the normally severe and unflappable Mrs MacDonald seemed so disturbed. She was like many older Highland women, who seemed to have been tanned both in body and soul by hard weather and a hard life, and expressed little outward emotion.
Mrs MacDonald approached the desk. "It's the maidservant, sir. Phemie. I've had a tale told me by the blacksmith's youngest girl, Eilidh."
"Yes? Speak freely, Mrs MacDonald."
Mrs MacDonald reached into her apron and produced a wisp of fine lacy cotton, which looked like a lady's handkerchief. "I saw young Eilidh in the village showing this to her friend. I asked her where she got it, because it did not look to me, sir, like something a girl of her station had any business with. I have to say I was afraid she might have stolen it somehow, sir."
Farquhar turned the handkerchief briefly over in his hand. It was embroidered with flowers, though it had no initials, and it was certainly the rightful property of a lady. "Dear me. What did the girl say?"
Mrs MacDonald's face froze harder. "She was inclined to be impudent, sir. It was only when I said I'd speak to her father that she claimed she had found it. I have to say I didn't believe her, sir, and I told her so. Well, she carried on being impudent, sir, so that I was about to march her to her father's forge to see if he could skelp it out of her - then she told me that she had found it by the old bothy in the woods, and that she had a basket with other things too, and that she had seen - " Here Mrs MacDonald stopped, and her expression tightened once more.
"Yes?" Farquhar prompted.
"She said she had seen Phemie - the girl, sir - in the bothy, with a man." She pronounced the word man as if it denoted a distasteful object.
"What, Mrs MacDonald? Engaged in immoral relations?"
The housekeeper's mouth twisted sourly. "Yes, sir. That was what she meant to say. I gave her a slap and told her she should not speak such disgusting lies, and she was impudent again and ran away. But I thought I ought to bring it to you, sir. In case the lass was telling the truth."
Farquhar thought for a moment. "You did right, Mrs MacDonald. Have you spoken to the maidservant about this?"
"No, sir. I thought I should speak to you first. I know you've said I should handle discipline, sir, but this is such a serious matter - it's not a pert word or lazy work."
"No, indeed. Again, you are quite right. I think I should speak to the blacksmith's girl myself before we proceed any further. Bring her to me now, if you can find her."
"Right away, sir." Mrs MacDonald curtseyed and hurried out.
Farquhar attempted to carry on with his sermon while he waited for her return, but his mind was distracted. His text was Ephesians - ‘wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body' - and his subject was marriage, which was of course close to his own heart. He did not wish to think of sordid unchastity taking place within his own household, when his own marriage was working out so well..
It was at least a couple of weeks now since he had even had to chastise Flora. She had learned very quickly to be humble, obedient and useful, and she showed spirit in the right way; in fearlessly tackling the duties of visiting sick crofters, and teaching little children in the village school. Many young ladies of such tender years who had never lived anywhere but the city would have been quite too delicate and refined for the rigours of life as mistress of a Highland manse, and he had been quite prepared for Flora to need a great deal of encouragement. If she had been full of airs, he would have put her right as firmly as need be. But she had not, at least so far, needed that kind of correction. She had thrown herself into her new life with determination, and her errors had - since that first night - all been relatively minor, and quickly and easily dealt with.
He was pleased. He was full of gratitude for this blessing. It could so easily have turned out disastrously, his impulsive decision to marry a young girl of faulty education, whose family was blighted by scandal. Much as he had told himself that it had been an act of charity to rescue her from the danger of sharing her sister's fate, and to restore her to respectability, he knew very well that his chief motivation had been a yearning for her bright dark eyes and soft, yielding body.
And now, if it proved that the maidservant was guilty of this sin, it cast a dark shadow over the purity of his household. He hated to think that his Flora had shared a roof with a fallen woman once more, though she be only a servant.
Mrs MacDonald came back with the blacksmith's daughter Eilidh, a pert forward girl of about twelve, who looked not as abashed as she should be to be standing on the rug in the Minister's study.
"Come forward, Eilidh," said Farquhar patiently, in the Gaelic. He wanted to get the whole story from her, and saw no reason to let language difficulties tie her tongue. "Mrs MacDonald tells me that you found this handkerchief." He held it out, but did not give it to her.
Her eyes fixed on it shrewdly. "I did, sir."
"Where did you find it, Eilidh?"
"In the woods, by the bothy, sir."
"And what were you doing there, my girl?"
"Picking bluebells, sir, for my mother. Sir, I didn't just find the handkerchief, I found a basket, full of things."
"What things?"
"Books, sir, some with pictures, and a small pot wrapped in cloth. It had leaves in it too, sir. I think it had been there a little while. I didn't steal it, sir, honestly I didn't. Someone must have lost it."
"But why didn't you give it to an adult, child, who might have been able to find out who had lost it?"
"Well... sir... I just took it home and kept it, sir, under my blankets."
"As a matter of fact, Eilidh, you meant to keep for yourself some things you knew very well must belong to someone else. That is the same as stealing."
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Eilidh, looking contrite for the first time.
"Well, that is something I will be discussing with your father in due course."
Eilidh looked stricken, a
nd chewed her bottom lip.
"For now," Farquhar continued sternly, "I want you to tell me everything you saw when you found the basket. The truth, now, girl. I will know if you lie to me."
She began to stammer. "Please, sir. I was picking bluebells. There were lots by the old bothy, so I went close. Then I saw the basket, and found the things inside. Then I heard sounds. I thought there must be children playing in the bothy, but it sounded like grown-ups, and I wondered if - " She stopped.
"You wondered if, I expect, that the basket belonged to them."
She nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. I wanted to keep the basket, and I thought I should look to see who was there. So I peeped in through the broken window, the roof is all broken and there's plenty of light gets in, and I saw, I'm sorry sir, a man I didn't know, and Phemie from the Manse. There were, I don't like to say, sir."
"Please speak clearly, girl. Remember, I am a Minister of the Kirk."
Eilidh hung her head. "They were doing what mothers and fathers do, sir. They had taken clothes off."
"All right, Eilidh. Are you sure it was the maidservant from the Manse?"
"Oh yes, sir. Sure. My older sister Mairi and Phemie are great friends. It was her, sir. I saw her shawl too, on the ground."
Farquhar sat back in his seat, dismayed. The girl's embarrassment was genuine, and he had no doubt that she was telling the truth. "When was this, Eilidh?"
"Last week, sir. Last Sunday afternoon."
On the Sabbath. Worse and worse, although really nothing could serve to compound the sin beyond the sin itself. He dismissed the girl with a stern injunction to say nothing to anyone else about the matter, and told Mrs MacDonald that he would deal with the matter from here.
Clearly there was nothing to do now but summon the wretched maidservant, and ask her to give an account of herself. But since this matter involved the household, and the moral welfare of the souls within it, he judged that distasteful as he found it, he had to involve his wife.