The Betrayal of Maggie Blair

Chapter 2

I think I did have happy dreams that night, but they floated away like wisps of mist, and I couldn't remember what they were. My sleep wasn't long, anyway, because before dawn there came a battering on the door, startling me awake so suddenly that I shot up out of the straw like a hunted hare.

"Elspeth! You're to come quickly! My Jeanie's got her pains!"

It was Mr. Macbean, and I knew what he wanted. Granny was a famed midwife, and if his wife's time had come, he'd need her to bring the baby safely into the world.

It was pitch-dark in the house so I kicked at the peat. A little flame flared up, giving enough light for me to see Granny lying dead asleep on the floor, her empty beaker of whiskey by her hand. Tam had gone.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Macbean," I called out. "I'll wake her up."

"Is that you, Maggie?" The voice outside the door was hoarse with anxiety. "Get her up quick, for the Lord's sake. Jeanie's pains are bad."

Granny's snores were as loud as the snorts of Mr. Macbean's bull in a rage, and I had to shake and shake her before she'd stir. When she did wake, she only pushed me off and tried to roll over.

"No, Granny! You must get up. Mr. Macbean's here, and the baby's on its way."

She opened one eye and glared at me, and even by the dying flame I could see that the drink was still on her. My heart sank.

"Get up, Granny. You have to."

The hammering on the door started again.

Granny lurched to her feet, took a deep swallow of water from the pail of water, and splashed her face.

"My shawl, Maggie," she croaked, and staggered to the door.

She was in no fit state; I could see that. I fetched my own shawl, still damp from yesterday, and followed her outside. She'd need me to bring her safely home.

Mr. Macbean was the one man in Scalpsie Bay rich enough to own a horse, and he had ridden it to our cottage. There was only a faint glimmer of light outside from the quarter moon, but he could see how far gone Granny was.

"Look at the state of her. Drunk," he said with disgust. "Tonight of all nights."

Without waiting for a word from Granny, he picked her up and heaved her onto the horse, then set off at a smart run up the lane, with me trotting along behind.

The cold night air, the jolting ride, and the water she'd drunk seemed to sober up Granny, because she was looking sharper when we reached the Macbean farm. It was the biggest holding for miles around, standing proud on its own land. Mrs. Macbean's serving girl, Annie, was standing outside the farmhouse door, twisting her apron around in her hands.

"Oh, it's you, Maggie," she said, pursing her mouth in the irritating way she put on whenever she saw me. "I thought it was a wild animal creeping up like that."

There was a hiss from Granny, who had heard her, and Annie shriveled up like a leaf held to a flame. I couldn't help grinning. Annie was only a servant, but she gave herself more airs than the lady of Keames Castle herself.

Mr. Macbean had plucked Granny off the horse, and she was already at the farmhouse door.

"Where is she?" Granny demanded, and I heard with relief that her voice was firm and clear.

Mr. Macbean led the way into the farm kitchen and beyond it to the inner room. There was a lamp burning there, and looking in I saw a proper bedstead, with sheets of linen and all, and a ceiling hiding the rafters, and a chest of carved wood. I was so impressed I barely noticed Mrs. Macbean, who was lying with her back arched and her face red and wet with sweat.

Then Granny said, "Where's that Annie girl? Fetch water, can't you? And the rest of you, give a body room to breathe."

By that time, the three older Macbean children were crowding around the door beside me, along with the manservant and Mr. Macbean himself, but Granny shut the door in our faces, and we were left standing in the kitchen.

I don't remember how long we waited, listening to the poor woman crying out in pain. I do remember the faces of the little Macbeans huddling close together, their eyes round with fear. I liked to be with children. I didn't often get the chance. I felt sorry for them, anyway, so I knelt beside them and said, "Your mammie's going to be fine, you'll see. While we're waiting, why don't I tell you a story?"

They nodded, and the smallest one, Robbie, put his thumb in his mouth.

"A while ago, not far from here," I began, "there was a seal who came out of the sea and took off her skin and turned herself into a beautiful..."

Mr. Macbean came in from stabling the horse.

"No more of that," he said roughly. "If it's stories you want, read them true ones from the Good Book. I won't have their heads filled with fairies and magic and the works of the Devil."

He took a Bible down from a shelf and put it into my hands. It was so heavy I had to rest it on my knees. I'd never seen such a big Bible outside the kirk before. Granny couldn't read, and there were no books in our house.

"Open it," Mr. Macbean said unpleasantly. "Read a story."

"I—I can't read," I said, lifting it back up to him.

"No, Maggie, you can't, but it's time you learned. You should study the Scripture and follow the path of righteousness before that grandmother of yours leads you to Hell and destruction."

I didn't know what to say. Little Robbie had crept close and laid his head down on my lap. I knelt there, stroking his hair and staring up at Mr. Macbean.

"Well," he said, in a kinder tone, "you're a good lass, Maggie, after all. Mind now, that you don't take on the infection of wickedness from Elspeth. She..."

Then came the sounds from the next room we had been waiting for—a final loud cry from Mrs. Macbean and a thin wail from the new baby. Mr. Macbean's face cracked open in a great smile, and I saw a glimpse of something in him that could be good and loving. I'm glad I did, because later all that came from him toward us was hatred and cruelty.

The door of the next room opened, and Granny came out with the new baby in her arms. The children jumped up and ran to look, but she kicked out at them to shoo them away.

"Elspeth," came a weak voice from the bed behind her, "you're a good soul, whatever they say, and you've saved us both. I can never thank you..."

"The basket," Granny said. "The bread and cheese. It won't work without them."

She was looking at Annie, who was standing sulkily by the corner shelf—jealous, I think, of the way the children had taken to me. Annie picked up the basket beside her, putting into it a loaf and a round cheese from the shelf. Impatiently, Granny grabbed it from her, planted the baby on top of the food, and stamping across to the hearth in the middle of the room, she began to swing the basket around and around on the iron hook from which the cauldron usually hung. She was singing something under her breath. The peat fire had died down, and the only light came from a small flame guttering in the oil lamp by the door. It cast Granny's shadow so monstrously on the wall behind her that even I was frightened.

Mr. Macbean darted forward.

"Stop that! How dare you? I won't have devilish practices, not in my house!"

Granny stopped muttering and jerked the basket to a standstill. The baby inside it set up a wail again. I could see that Granny was tired and her head was aching, and the anger that always simmered inside her was ready to break out. Her eyes, red from the drink and lack of sleep, narrowed, and she thrust the basket into Mr. Macbean's hands.

"Take him, then. It was a favor I was doing you, to protect him from evil. You'd best christen him quickly, for by the look of him he'll not be here long."

Mr. Macbean put the basket gently down on the ground and bent to lift his son out of it. As he held him close to his chest, the three other children clustered around him. They looked afraid.

"John, what are you doing? Bring him back to me!" came Mrs. Macbean's weak voice from the next room. "Elspeth, are you still there?"

Ignoring her, Granny picked up her shawl and flung it over her wild gray hair.

"I wish you joy of him, while he lives," she spat out, and without a glance at me flung out of the house into the cold night.

It wasn't until we had stumbled halfway home and the moon, coming suddenly out from behind the clouds, shone a sliver of light over the water of Scalpsie Bay that I remembered the end of the seal story and was glad after all that Mr. Macbean had stopped me from finishing it. The seal mother goes away and never comes back. It would have been a hard thing for wee Robbie to hear just then.

Perhaps it was the Devil that put the story into my head, to torment those poor children, I thought with a shudder. And to be on the safe side, I chanted to myself, "Deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil," all the way home.

Dawn was on its way by then, and a gray wet dawn it was too. It didn't break, as the saying goes, but slithered up upon the land and sea in a misty, ghostly way.

I was ahead of Granny as we reached the cottage, and I jumped with fright because the door of Blackie's byre slowly swung open. Then Tam stumbled out. He was covered in wisps of straw, and clots of dried dung were stuck to his hair. Granny burst into a cackle of laughter.

"Old fool! Too blootered to find your way home, were you? You never slept the night in the byre with the cow?"

Tam mumbled something then turned away, fumbling with his breeks to relieve himself. He was doing it too close to the house for my liking.

I went inside quickly. I was afraid that other feelings for Tam would push their way in and spoil the love I felt for him. I didn't want to see weakness and silliness and the blur of drink in his eyes. I didn't want to feel pity or contempt.

The fire was nearly out, and it took a while to coax it back to life. The floor needed sweeping, Blackie needed milking, and the porridge had to be cooked. Granny, who had shooed Tam away from our door with a shake of her broom as if he was a stray dog, kept me at it all morning.

The lane running along the head of Scalpsie Bay goes directly past our cottage, and anyone coming or going to the Macbean farm has to pass right by us. It annoyed Mr. Macbean, as I knew well, to see the good land of our small field and kail yard, which took a bite out of his big farm. He was envious of the stream running so close to the cottage, and the treasures of the beach being ours for the first taking. He'd long wanted to gobble our place up and take it into his own holding.

Later that morning he rode by with a sack of oatmeal as payment for Granny's services, and his eyes wandered possessively past me toward the cottage. I flushed with annoyance at the sneer in his voice when he spoke. "When was it you last put fresh turf on your roof? You must be flooded through those holes every time it rains."

"It's dry enough," I said stiffly.

He pretended to look sympathetic.

"It's too much for you though, this place, isn't it, Maggie? An old woman and a young girl! I wonder you don't give it up and move somewhere more fitting. Elspeth could find a place in Rothesay, couldn't she? And you could go to be a serving girl like our Annie."

I had to bite my lip to stop my anger bursting out, but I wasn't like Granny. I could always hold it in. I stared back at him coolly and said, "I hope the baby's well and Mrs. Macbean. Have you chosen a name for him? When is the christening to be?"

He looked embarrassed.

"The christening will be soon enough. We'll see. He's to be named Ebenezer."

He mounted his horse and rode off.

"Ebenezer!" snorted Granny, who had come out of the cottage in time to see Mr. Macbean disappear over the rise toward Rothesay. "What kind of fool name is that? Not that the child will bear it for long. The mark of death is on him."