A Maxwell Mourned Read online

  ‘Oh yes. After my … well, when they needed me I sometimes played the fiddle for the dancing.’

  ‘You play the fiddle? Well, well! There’s an old fiddle up in the attic. My grandfather used to play sometimes. It will be badly neglected and out of tune but I will ask Beth to look for it. What about the bowling club? Or badminton? Do you fancy going? I have noticed how melancholy you seem sometimes and I want you to be happy. I don’t want to lose you, Ross?’

  He could not miss the question in her voice. He knew Mistress Beattie meant well, but he could not confide in her about his family. Even less could he tell her about Rachel. Maybe Mistress Beattie was right. Perhaps he ought to go out more, meet other girls. He sighed heavily. There was only one Rachel O’Brian and he was finding it impossible to put her out of his mind.

  ‘Well Ross? Do you think you will attend the hiring fair?’

  ‘I think we should wait until the May term. By then we should be able to afford a few more cows. A man with a wife might bring help with the milking as well as the ploughing and turnip hoeing. We could certainly find plenty of work.

  ‘All right,’ Alice nodded, pleased that Ross was thinking ahead. ‘But remember you must make time for a little leisure too. You are too young to stay at home every Saturday night. Surely you would enjoy the dancing?’

  ‘I will think about it,’ Ross promised but Alice noticed the shadows did not leave his eyes and the set of his jaw was much too stern for a young man.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS A BITTERLY cold morning in November and Meg welcomed the cup of hot tea to warm her up.

  ‘Ugh,’ she shuddered as she tasted it. ‘You must have bought a new blend of tea, Peter? This tastes terrible.’

  ‘It’s the usual blend,’ Peter said in surprise. ‘It’s very popular.’ A week later Meg still had a dislike for the tea, but Rachel saw her munching her way through her third raw carrot.

  ‘I think you have developed a craving for carrots, Meg,’ she laughed. ‘I hope you have left enough to make the soup.’

  Cyril Johnstone was serving a customer when Meg carried a loaded tray of scones through to the front shop. She waited while he weighed the sugar into the thick blue bag. As the woman closed the door behind her Meg stepped forward, but the floor suddenly came to meet her. Cyril grabbed the tray just in time and Meg managed to steady herself against the solid wooden counter. Her knuckles gleamed white with the effort.

  ‘Here you are, Mistress,’ Cyril Johnstone guided her anxiously onto a chair, peering into her pale face with concern. ‘Shall I call Miss Rachel?’

  ‘No, no,’ Meg whispered. ‘Just – a drink – of water, please.’ By the time Cyril returned with a cup of water Meg was feeling better. She sipped it gratefully and summoned a smile, feeling rather foolish.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ she apologised. ‘I’ve never fainted in my life.’

  ‘Maybe you have been overdoing things a bit,’ Cyril suggested.

  When he got home he told his wife about the little episode.

  ‘If she were not so old I’d say she was the same as me,’ she said promptly, patting her swollen stomach. ‘But in her case it must be the other thing that women are supposed to get in middle age.’ She giggled. ‘I don’t know anything about that yet.’

  ‘That’s obvious!’ Cyril grinned.

  The same thing happened to Meg during a visit to Windlebrae.

  ‘You must see a doctor,’ Cameron said anxiously. ‘Maybe you need more red meat, lassie. You’re looking pale.’

  Doctor Gill had only lived in Ardmill for two years. He was still regarded as a newcomer by the locals, as were Meg and Rachel. He was younger than Meg had expected. She judged him to be in his early forties, about Peter’s age.

  He asked her many questions and examined her very thoroughly – more thoroughly than Meg thought could be necessary.

  ‘Well, I hope you will be pleased with my diagnosis, Mrs Sedgeman,’ Doctor Gill was smiling broadly. ‘There’s nothing seriously wrong with your health.’

  ‘Then of course I am pleased!’ Meg smiled back and jumped up from the couch, only to grasp the side of his table as the room swam around her.

  ‘Please, do sit down. You will have to learn to take things a little easier, a little slower, until your baby is born.’

  ‘Baby …?’ Meg gaped at him.

  ‘You mean you did not know? You did not guess …?’

  ‘Well …’ Meg frowned as she made some mental calculations. ‘I suppose I have been a bit irregular. But you must have got it wrong, Doctor. I-I can’t have a baby.’

  ‘Who told you that? And for what reason?’

  ‘My mother. I had some sort of illness when I was twelve. She said I nearly died. It was mumps, but there were complications, or so I understood.’

  ‘I see. Well, you are most definitely having a baby.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it!’ Meg began to cry.

  ‘You don’t want a child of your own?’ Doctor Gill asked with concern.

  ‘Want a child? O-oh … it’s what I want more than anything in the world!’ Meg stood up and hugged the astonished doctor in a most uncharacteristic display of emotion. Between laughter and tears she apologised. ‘You just don’t know how happy you have made me.’

  ‘I think it’s your husband you must thank, Mrs Sedgeman.’ Doctor Gill bit back a smile. ‘I trust he will be as delighted as you are yourself?’

  ‘Peter?’ Meg’s smile faded. She stared at the doctor in consternation. ‘No. No, Peter will not be at all happy. You see he … His first wife died, after the birth of the twins.’

  ‘I understand …’ The Doctor nodded thoughtfully. ‘There is no reason why such a thing should happen to you, even though you are not so young to be having your first child. I shall do my best to reassure your husband. If he can afford to pay, I could arrange for you to be admitted to the cottage hospital for the actual birth. They have more … er … more facilities if there are any problems. I can attend you myself, as well as the midwife. But there is plenty of time to think about that.’

  ‘I will mention it to Peter. It might reassure him.’

  Meg could scarcely contain her elation, but she was not without some trepidation at the thought of telling Peter.

  Predictably he was dismayed but Meg’s joy was so great he tried hard to hide his fear. Secretly he vowed he would do everything in his power to provide the necessary fees for the cottage hospital and the doctor’s attendance. He would spare nothing that might help his beloved Meg.

  Rachel was delighted by Meg’s news.

  ‘Conan will be one year old at the end of May. There will be a year between them. I do hope they will be the best of friends.’ Rachel’s own experiences had made her more mature than her years. Now she felt older and wiser than Meg.

  When Peter voiced his concerns Rachel promised him she would do her best to watch over Meg, see that she rested and spare her any extra work.

  ‘You are a good lass, Rachel. I often bless the day it was me who found you by the roadside. Will you – will you stay with Meg, even if you are made a better offer?’ he asked, thinking of Sam Dewar’s plans for her.

  ‘A better offer!’ Rachel scoffed with rare bitterness. ‘That’s not likely. Anyway nothing would persuade me to leave Meg until her baby is born. I give you my word.’

  Cameron Maxwell could scarcely believe Meg’s news. Gertrude had always been so certain she would never bear a child after the illness she had suffered. He was a little concerned, but Meg was radiantly happy.

  ‘Meg is positively blooming,’ Ruth told Willie. ‘I’m sure everything will go well for her and Peter.’

  ‘They deserve it,’ Willie agreed with feeling. ‘I could never understand what Mother had against Peter, except that he was not a farmer.’

  There was great excitement at Christmas with Peter’s three small daughters each hanging up their stockings. Apart from the usual apple and orange
and nuts, Peter had saved a small box of jelly sweets for each of them. Rachel had made three little dolls out of calico and sewn on faces and woollen plaits for hair – one in brown, one in black and one in bright yellow. Mrs Jenkins knitted three tiny outfits for each of the dolls. Meg had sewn red velvet dresses with lace collars for the girls. They were to wear them to Church and then for a party in the village which had been organised by the Sunday school superintendent.

  Conan was still too young to understand but Polly, ever a little mother to him, had insisted on hanging one of her own stockings. So Rachel, Mrs Jenkins and Meg made socks and bootees, a tiny velvet jacket and some knitted leggings so that the girls would not be disappointed.

  Mrs Jenkins had already agreed to share their Christmas dinner and Peter was dispatched to persuade Sam Dewar to join them.

  Rachel was almost in tears when he presented her with a pair of tiny boots for Conan. They were made of the softest green leather and the tiny stitches were exquisite.

  ‘I know he is a bit young for them just now,’ Sam Dewar said apologetically, ‘but soon …?’

  ‘Yes, he will need them before long,’ Rachel laughed and gave the old man a warm hug.

  ‘When he learns to walk I shall make his first pair of clogs,’ the old man promised. ‘And for the three little girls …’ He drew a large paper bag from behind his back and held it up mysteriously. In fact Sam Dewar was enjoying himself immensely. He had never minded spending Christmas alone – but then he had never experienced a family Christmas like this before. Out of the bag came three little boxes, each tied up with a red leather lace. Each box held a tiny leather bag with a draw string top. Inside was a bright new penny and a little sugar pig. The children were ecstatic. Polly gave the old man a spontaneous wet kiss on his wrinkled cheek. Shyly the twins gave him a combined, if rather tentative hug – all of which gave Sam Dewar the greatest pleasure.

  In the middle of February Meg awoke from a deep sleep. It was still dark. Then she understood what had wakened her.

  ‘Peter, Peter wake up! The bell is ringing. The bell for your telephone.’

  ‘Who could want me at this hour?’ he mumbled sleepily. Meg struck a match and lit the candle.

  ‘It’s nearly half past five.’ When Peter came back upstairs, he was shivering in his night shirt. It was a bitterly cold morning and the stone flagged floor downstairs struck a chill right through his bare feet to his head.

  ‘Meg,’ he took both of his wife’s hands in his and squeezed them tightly. ‘Please try to keep calm, for the sake of our babe.’

  ‘What is it, Peter? Who was calling?’ she demanded urgently, sitting up straight now. ‘Father? Is he?’

  ‘It was Willie. He was calling from that new telephone kiosk they put at the cross roads. It – it is your mother. She has had a nasty fall. She is asking for you.’

  ‘Asking for me?’ Meg stared at her husband. ‘After all this time?’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye, lass. Get dressed. I will take you in the van. Dress warmly. The weather is bitter. We may have to walk part of the way.’ His voice was quiet and controlled, but Peter did not feel calm. Willie had sounded upset. He had telephoned for the doctor. Knowing Mistress Maxwell’s views on illness, that was a bad sign

  ‘How good you are, Peter. You think I should go to her? You are willing to come with me?’

  ‘I would not let you go alone, lass. And I would never keep you from your own mother, whatever she might have done.’

  Meg nodded and began to dress. Peter wanted to hurry her but he dare not. He scrambled into his own clothes.

  ‘I will waken Rachel and tell her where we have gone. She will have much to do.’

  ‘Mrs Jenkins will be here later. She will help.’

  ‘I’ll put a note through Sam Dewar’s door,’ Peter decided. ‘I don’t know how he can help, but I know he’ll try in an emergency.’ The word triggered alarm in Meg.

  ‘Emergency? Is mother badly hurt, Peter?’

  ‘I think it must be fairly bad, lass.’ He could not bring himself to tell Meg that her mother had lain all night on the cold flagged floor. According to Willie she must have fallen outside, on her way back from the closet. She had dragged herself to the shelter of the dairy door and collapsed there. Willie had found her when he arrived for the milking. He was fairly certain she had broken her leg, or maybe even her hip. She had been extremely cold and barely conscious, muttering incomprehensibly most of the time, but clearly wanting Meg.

  The roads were treacherous with ice. Peter was intensely aware of the effects a nasty skid could have on Meg and the baby. By the time they arrived at Windlebrae the doctor was already there, as well as Ruth and Willie. Cameron Maxwell was hunched in his chair before a blazing fire and his wife was tucked up in the box bed under a pile of blankets and surrounded by all the stone pigs Willie could find. She looked frail and old, lying there with her ashen face and her eyes closed.

  Meg moved close to the bed and took her mother’s hand gently in hers. The crepe eyelids fluttered, then opened.

  ‘Meg...?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Mother. Don’t try to talk.’ There was silence for a few moments as though Gertrude was gathering her strength.

  ‘Not – much – time,’ she said haltingly. ‘Get Ross.’ The words were clear. Meg was startled. Her grip tightened on her mother’s fingers. How thin she was. Amazingly she felt a faint pressure in return. Her eyes opened again, then opened wider, staring incredulously at Meg pressed against the frame of the bed. ‘You’re carrying a bairn? Is’t possible?’ The eyelids drooped again.

  ‘Yes, mother, I am.’ Meg said softly.

  ‘The – Lord – be – praised!’ Her voice was weak, but the words sincere. ‘Take – care – lassie. Didn’t – think – possible …’ This time her fingers relaxed completely. The doctor came forward.

  ‘She should sleep now. I gave her morphine for the pain.’

  ‘Get Ross,’ she repeated fuzzily, but her eyelids seemed too heavy to open. ‘Jim MacDonald …’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Doctor Jardine said quietly. ‘She seems disturbed. About your brother perhaps? Ask him to come as quickly as he can.’

  ‘As quickly …?’ Meg stared at the doctor. Peter came to her and put his arm around her shoulders. His eyes met the doctor’s questioningly.

  ‘She’s very ill. The shock of the fall. Lying out on such a cold night. I think she may have broken her hip.’ He shook his head. ‘I can hold out little hope.’

  In his chair Cameron groaned aloud and buried his head in his hands. ‘Never heard her go out,’ he muttered.

  ‘Just as well, Cameron,’ the doctor assured him kindly. ‘You could not have helped her.’

  ‘Should we contact Ross, Father?’ Meg asked. ‘Where does Jim MacDonald live?’

  ‘His address will be in the bureau. Have a look, lass. Willie can send a telegram.’ Meg went to the bureau. She felt guilty, rifling through her mother’s papers, but she came across a ledger and found Jim MacDonald’s name and address without too much searching.

  ‘I want to stay, Peter,’ Meg pleaded. ‘Willie will have the milking to do. Would you send the telegram to Ross?’

  ‘I will stay too,’ Ruth said quickly, casting Peter a reassuring glance. ‘Father will look after the children.’

  ‘Well …’ Peter hesitated. ‘Will you eat something before I go, Meg. We had no breakfast. You might faint again.’

  ‘Peter is right,’ Ruth said briskly. ‘We must all eat – you too Peter, before you drive down that icy road again.’

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDDAY when the telegraph boy cycled up the track to Briarbush. Jim MacDonald saw him as he was crossing the yard and he opened the yellow envelope immediately, his heart thumping. Telegrams rarely meant good news.

  ‘Well!’ he gasped. ‘Gertie asking for Ross. Wonders never cease.’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Send this reply,’ he instructed the boy. ‘Ross not here. Will contact him.
’ He frowned. ‘Maybe I should send a telegram to Lochandee,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Have you any idea what the roads are like over there, laddie?’

  ‘They’re not good anywhere, Pa says. He’s a postman.’

  Meg’s heart sank when Willie brought the reply to the telegram. Her mother was drifting in and out of consciousness. Doctor Jardine had warned them what to expect. Willie wanted to take his father down to the cottage in the cart but Cameron refused.

  ‘I can’t leave her now, laddie – not after all the years we’ve been together. I’ll be all right with Meg and Ruth. You do what you have to do. Your mother wouldna have wanted you to neglect the animals.’

  It was mid-afternoon when Alice got the message which the Factor had phoned through to the village post office. How frustrating it was receiving cryptic messages via several people, she thought irritably. One thing was clear – Ross was wanted by his family, and urgently. It would soon be dark. How would he get to the station? Would there be a train tonight? Would there be anyone to meet him at the other end?

  She went to search for him and found him and Alfie just finishing loading the cart with turnips from the pit.

  Alice gave him the message and watched his face grow pale, and then flush – but with pleasure, anger or indignation she could not tell. He looked up and met her gaze.

  ‘I cannot go.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Well, I can’t go today. I don’t even know whether there will be a train by the time I can get to the station. We must …’

  ‘Beth and I will manage the milking,’ Alice said automatically, though she knew it would take them until bedtime without Ross. She realised how much she had come to depend on him. Never once had he let her down, or neglected his duties. An awful thought occurred. What if he went home to his own people and decided to stay there?’