The Betrayal of Maggie Blair

Chapter 16

I came to Ladymuir late in the evening. My feet were sore from fast walking, my arms ached from the weight of my bundle, and my stomach was growling with hunger. Worst of all, my heart was hammering with shyness and fear.

What if they turn me away? I kept asking myself. Where will I go?

I'd met few people along the road, but it had been easy enough to find Kilmacolm and the path leading from there to Lochwinnoch. There were clusters of farm hamlets squatting in the folds of the hills all around, and I might have walked right past the track leading to Ladymuir if I hadn't luckily met with a peddler, who pointed it out to me with a grudging flick of his head.

This is it, I told myself. I'm here. Now for it.

If I hadn't been so tired and hungry, I think I'd have stood for hours in that narrow, muddy lane, plucking up the courage to step up the few hundred yards to the cluster of long stone buildings under the shade of several tall ash trees. But it was already late in the long summer evening, and I knew that if I didn't screw my courage up and knock at the farm door, the family would be away in their beds and I'd have to spend the night supperless in the open.

I looked up and down the lane and scanned the bare hilltops. No one seemed to be about. Quickly, I untied my bundle and shook out my old gown. It would be best to start off on an honest foot, to show myself to my uncle and aunt as the person I really was. A few minutes later, I was a girl again. The strings of my cap were tied under my chin, hiding my short boyish hair, and my father's shirt was wrapped up in my bundle. I arranged his plaid around me like a woman's shawl, taking comfort from the smell of cows and heather it had acquired. I took a deep breath and marched up the track toward the farm.

The first living creatures I saw were the dogs. Two black-and-white collies that had been lying at the farmhouse door stood up as I approached and came toward me. Trained to silence, they didn't bark, but one bared his teeth and growled. I stood still and let them sniff me. They seemed reassured by the smell of the cows on me and let me pass.

The farm buildings were set around three sides of a square. The dwelling house was big, bigger than Macbean's farm at Scalpsie. There was even a chimney at one end of it and two windows, one on each side of the door, their wooden shutters already closed. I hesitated. The door was forbiddingly shut, and I didn't dare to knock. Then I heard the sound of quiet singing. Two or three men's voices rumbled low, with a couple of women warbling above. It was the first time I had ever heard the evening psalm and its sweetness gave me courage:

I will both lay me down in peace

And quiet sleep will take;

Because thou only me to dwell

In safety, Lord, dost make.





When the singing stopped, there was a murmur of "Good night, good night," and then the latch of the door was lifted and two men came out. They started with surprise when they saw me, hovering shyly by the barn.

"Master!" one of them called back into the house. "There's a lass out here."

I knew at once that the man who came to the door was my uncle Blair, and I'll never forget that first sight of him. He was indeed a tall man, as Mr. Lithgow had said, and he had to bend his head right down under the low lintel of the door as he stepped outside. His fine fair hair fell to his shoulders, and his face was clean-looking, like Mr. Robertson's. It wasn't a drinker's face, I could tell. He stood with one hand on the door frame, peering out at me in the faint evening light.

"Who's there?" he called out. "Why, it is a lass."

It was his voice that undid me. It unlocked a memory from long ago, of another big man, who had swung me up in his arms. I felt tears prick my eyelids and had to swallow hard.

"I'm Maggie Blair," I said. "I'm your brother Danny's daughter."

A woman appeared at his shoulder. I could barely see her, standing in the shadows.

"Is it beggars again, Hugh? Take care. There may be others hiding behind her."

He didn't answer her but stepped out of the house and came to look at me more closely. I was nearly full grown already, but he towered over me.

"I believe you are," he said. "I believe you really are Danny's wee girl. What brings you here so late? Surely you haven't come alone?"

There was such kindness in his voice that I found it hard to control my tears again, but the woman's voice, fretful and suspicious, set me on my guard.

"Who is it, Hugh? Be careful. What does she want?"

A boy, older than me, had appeared at the door now, and a girl peeped around from behind him.

"It's my brother Danny's daughter, Isobel," he said, with blessed certainty. "She looks half dead too. Come away in, lassie. Have you eaten your supper? Get her some broth and an oatcake. Now, then—Maggie, is it?— there's no need for that."

I had been overcome at last with tears of relief and joy.

"Thank you," was all I could manage to gasp out. "Oh, thank you."

It felt like a dream to enter that clean, well-ordered room, to be given a bowl of broth, to have my bundle taken from me and set down on the floor. I felt so shy of the ring of faces staring at me, and so overwhelmed by tiredness and tears, that I could hardly bring out a word in answer to my uncle's questions.

"Let the girl sleep," he said at last. "We'll hear all about it in the morning." He nodded at the girl standing by the dresser. She was about my age and size. "Grizel, you'll make room in your bed for Maggie."

He had already slid open one of the wooden doors that lined the wall to show a bed in the cupboard behind it. The room quickly emptied. The two men and the boy went outside again, and I heard their steps retreat toward the barn. The girl, Grizel, had reached into the bed and brought out a linen shift. I stared as she took off her woolen gown and underskirt, and slipped the shift over her head. I'd never known anyone to have special clothes for the night. Uncertainly, I unwrapped my bundle and took out my father's shirt, ashamed to see, in the last faint glimmer of light through the window, how grimed and stiff with dirt it was, but I took off my dress and put it on anyway.

Grizel hopped up on to the bed, and I started to climb in after her. A sleepy mumbling from the recess startled me.

"It's only the little ones," Grizel said, picking up a child and shifting it aside. I couldn't tell from her voice if she was well-disposed to me or not.

Tomorrow, I thought, my limbs so heavy with tiredness that I could hardly find the strength to turn over on to my side. I'll worry about that tomorrow.

Grizel leaned across me to slide the door across, and we were enclosed in dense, stuffy darkness. Through the mists of sleep engulfing me, I heard my uncle and aunt settle themselves in the box bed beside ours and the murmur of their voices.

"How do you know," I thought I heard her say, "that she's not been sent to spy on us?" but the words made no sense to me. I heard my uncle's answer, calm and reassuring, and then all was blotted out in sleep.

***

A rapping on the door startled me awake. I jerked upright, not knowing where I was. The door opened. A glow of morning light shone in, making me blink.

Ladymuir, I whispered to myself. I made it. I'm safe.

Grizel was already climbing over me. Two wriggling little figures scrambled after her. They stood staring back into the bed, astonished at the sight of a stranger there.

"That's Martha," Grizel said, pointing to the bigger of the two girls, whose solemn blue eyes were round with wonder.

"And she's Nanny."

The smaller one, hearing her name, shrank behind her sister.

"You'd best get your clothes on quick," Grizel said, "before the others come in for their breakfast."

I jumped out of bed and fumbled to put my clothes on, screwing up my father's shirt to hide its filth and bundling it back into the bed.

"Mistress won't like that," Grizel said reprovingly, picking it up to fold it neatly. "You'd best wash it, anyway. Look at the state it's in!"

I saw disgust on her face, but I had taken courage from the word "mistress." Grizel was a servant, not a daughter of the family. I needn't be too afraid of her.

The room, which had been empty, was suddenly full of people.

"Blow up the fire, Grizel," Aunt Blair was saying. "Get the porridge on." She turned to the boy. "Ritchie, fetch in water. What's the matter with everyone this morning? You're all half asleep."

She didn't look at me or greet me, and my heart sank. I didn't know what to do or how to occupy myself. I stood in the corner like a great fool, with everyone bustling around me. Then I saw that little Nanny was struggling to set her cap on her head, so I knelt down beside her, tucked her long fair locks behind her ears, and tied the strings under her chin.

Uncle Blair came in from outside, ducking his head under the lintel.

"Good, Maggie, good. Making yourself useful already." He shot a quick glance at his wife, but she was stirring the pot suspended over the fire and didn't turn around. He smiled at me again, but a faint frown wrinkled his forehead. "You'll be wanting to wash your face and hands. Grizel will show you the well."

A fiery blush rushed up my cheeks. There'd been no thought of washing on the drove. My fingernails were long and black, my hair a matted mess, and my face no doubt streaked with dirt. I must have looked like a common vagabond, as out of place in this orderly room as a blowfly on a butter dish.

Like everything else at Ladymuir, the well was neatly built. Stone slabs had been laid around it to keep the mud at bay. The handle turned easily, and the bucket rose on a sturdy new rope. I did my best with my face and hands and scrubbed at the worst stains on my bodice, which still bore the marks of the green slime on the walls of the Rothesay tolbooth, but I was sure I looked a fright as I went back to the house.

Breakfast had already been set. There was a white linen cloth on the trestle table, and bowls and spoons set out on it for each person. It seemed very grand to me. Granny and I had eaten from one bowl on bare wood, and we had never owned more than two spoons altogether.

The two serving men came in, and all took their places on the benches. I hung back, not sure if I was expected to sit too. The bowls were still empty. Was I meant to serve the porridge?

"Sit down, Maggie," Uncle Blair said. "We can't begin till grace is said." He waited gravely till I was seated, then everyone bent their heads and he began to pray. I looked around the table. All eyes were shut, all hands clasped, except for little Martha's. She was peeking at me over the rim of her bowl. When she caught my eye, she shut hers quickly and looked down.

I didn't hear a word of the long prayer. I was studying the faces around the table. Uncle Blair and Aunt Blair, one at each end, were clear enough. The little girls were surely their daughters, and Grizel was the servant. But was the boy Ritchie a son of the house or a serving man like the others who had slept in the barn? He was seventeen or eighteen, I reckoned. He had Uncle Blair's clear, wide forehead and fine pale hair, but he was shorter, more like Aunt Blair in build, stocky rather than lean. By the time the grace came at last to an end, I was sure of it. Ritchie was a son of the house, a Blair like I was. A cousin. I only hoped he would be my friend.

Grizel served the porridge, and as soon as we had all eaten, the two men went outside to their work. Aunt Blair stood up to clear the bowls, but Uncle Blair said, "Sit down, Isobel. Now, Maggie, you know you're welcome here, but perhaps you will tell us what brings you here, on your own, a young lass like you, with no one to accompany you?"

It was the moment I'd been dreading. Aunt Blair sat down again at once, and I could see avid curiosity along with disapproval in her face. Ritchie was staring at me with a measuring look, as if he had encountered an interesting new insect, and Grizel's mouth was half open, like a child waiting to hear a story. The little girls leaned their arms on the table and cupped their chins in their hands, their eyes fixed on me.

I took a deep breath.

"You know that my mother died when I was born, and my father was drowned on the drove years ago," I began.

"We heard that, to our sorrow, yes," said Uncle Blair. "'The Lordgiveth, and the Lord taketh away.'"

"Up till now, I was living—I lived—I was with my granny." I didn't know how to go on. I'd spun story after story in my head in preparation for this explanation, not wanting to see the horror I pictured on the faces of people who didn't know me when they heard about the trial and Granny's burning and the strange wildness of my flight with the drovers, but looking at Uncle Blair's honest, kind face, I knew that I couldn't lie to him.

I started slowly with the birth of Ebenezer Macbean, Annie stealing my buckle, Granny's party at Ambrisbeg, and the curse at the christening, and then it all tumbled out—the trial, the false witnesses, and the meanness of Donnie Brown, and Tam's clever rescue, Granny's horrible death, and my flight to Rhubodach. I explained Annie's revelation, my swim with the cattle (I shuddered again as I remembered that), the kindness of Mr. Lithgow, and my solitary walk to Ladymuir.

They listened, silent and rapt, to every word, even the little girls. Every now and then, Uncle Blair made a comment.

"Such wickedness!" he'd say. Or "Superstitious nonsense!" or "Danny's buckle, aye, I mind when he first bought it at Paisley fair," or "Archie Lithgow, a good man, indeed."

But it was my aunt's face I chiefly watched. I saw fear, horror, and disgust give way to pity and even a kind of admiration, and I finished more hopefully than I'd started.

A collective sigh went around the table when at last the story was over. Uncle Blair said, "Well, Maggie, you've lived through more in your short life than many do in long ones. You did well to come home to us. You'll stay with us and be a part of our family. The Devil has been after you, body and soul, to snare you in his cunning traps, but with prayer and God's good grace, you'll stay free of him. Now you must submit to your aunt's authority and be a good help to her."

The words sounded judgmental, but his tone was kind and the smile he gave me lit up his eyes with warmth as he went outside to his work. Aunt Blair had been smoothing the linen cloth on the table with her hands.

"I never heard such a story in my life," she said, standing up and crossing to the fire. "And here we are in the middle of the morning and not a pot stirred or a floor swept." She spoke complainingly, but to my relief patted me on the shoulder. "But you're a good girl, Maggie, I'm sure, if your uncle says so, and you'll do your best."

She put a hand into the small of her back, and as she turned, I saw the bulge at her waist and realized that she was expecting a baby. She saw where my eyes were fixed. "So you've noticed. Another mouth to feed soon enough." She sighed but brightened at once. "Now, then, what are we going to do about these old clothes of yours and that stinking plaid? Grizel, go to the linen press and fetch out my old brown gown. It'll do for Maggie just now. It's a fine drying day for once. Take out the soap too. You two girls can get on down to the burn and do a big wash. There's a mountain of clothes in this house to be seen to."