The Betrayal of Maggie Blair

Chapter 25

Weeks went by, turning into months, and all the time we became hungrier and more anxious, while my inner turmoil grew. There was still some time to go before the harvest could be brought in to fill the storeroom again, and I could hardly bear to look at the pinched faces of the children. Aunt Blair wouldn't touch the laird's money.

"It's for your father," she snapped one day, when she saw Ritchie eye it longingly. "If we're in need, think what it's like for him."

I kept out of my aunt's way as much as I could. All the time I dreamed of how I would travel to Edinburgh, rescue Uncle Blair heroically from his dungeon, and bring him back in triumph to Ladymuir and how everyone would love me for it, and forgive me, even Aunt Blair—for being the cause of Annie's coming and her betrayal.

Once, after Aunt Blair had scolded me for taking a second oatcake, I almost started off toward Kilmacolm on my own, but I knew I'd never reach Edinburgh. I would have starved to death or been arrested as a vagabond long before I'd walked half the distance.

And then, early one morning, as I was rooting about in the barn, hunting for eggs, someone cleared his throat right behind me. I jumped and spun around.

"Tam! Where have you been? What are you doing here?"

He had the humble, servile look of a dog afraid of a whipping.

"Why, Maidie, I came to see how you were doing. I crept in last night when you were all in bed and slept here with the cows. I came because I heard what happened to your uncle, and—anda boutA nnie."

"Yes," I said bitterly, wanting to punish him. "No thanks to you for all that, Tam. I knew as soon as I saw her that she'd bring trouble here, but not even I thought she could be so wicked."

"I know, I know." He saw that I wasn't going to scold him anymore. He pushed his hand up under his filthy old bonnet and scratched at his head, looking a little happier, then began to pick a few wisps of straw off the front of his tattered coat.

"You'll be interested to hear, maybe, that that fine soldier of hers has got rid of her already. Less than a week she had, queening it around Sorn Castle. He threw her out in the middle of a rainstorm."

"Good," I said vindictively. "I hope she died of cold."

He shook his head again, looking solemn at the thought of it.

"Tam!" I stared at him. "You're not—you can't still be sorry for Annie! Not after what she's done! Tam, you haven't brought her here again?"

"No, no!" He shuddered. "I never want to see the girl again. If I'm lucky, I never will. She found herself another rascal straightaway. One of those flouncy military fellows, his red coat all covered over with shiny brass buttons and leather straps and whatnot. He's got more feathers on his hat and more silver braid on his cravat than that bully Dundas, so I guess Annie thought she'd done well for herself after all."

A shadow fell at the door, and Ritchie came into the barn. His brows twitched together as he recognized Tam.

"You're back, then," he said dryly. "Alone this time, I hope."

Tam twisted himself into a knot of writhing humility.

"Oh yes, indeed, young man. I came to tell you how very sorry I am for your trouble. I never knew what that girl would do! If I'd had any idea, I'd have cut my right hand off rather than bring her here."

He thrust out his scrawny arm as if to prove he was sincere. The sleeve of his coat, worn to strips of rag, fell away from it, and I was shocked to see how thin he was, his bones seemingly held together by nothing more than their casing of skin.

Anger died out of Ritchie's face. I could see he was torn between pity and contempt.

"Well," he said at last, "it wasn't your fault, after all, but we're in a bad way here, thanks to that girl." His eyes brightened as he looked down and saw a little bulge in the pocket of my apron. "Did you find any eggs, Maggie? The children are crying for their breakfast."

"Breakfast!" said Tam, a slick of spittle gathering in the corner of his slack old mouth. "Now there's the finest word I've heard in a long time. My insides are stuck together with hunger."

I could see that Ritchie was torn between his natural generosity and the knowledge of how little food there was for his family. Generosity won.

"You're welcome to share what we have," he said as willingly as he could.

But suddenly I had seen what I had to do, and I shook my head at Ritchie.

"We've no time for breakfast. Tam's come to take me away. I'm going to Edinburgh. I'm going to try and see my uncle and help him if I can. I've still got my father's silver buckle. I'll sell it to pay my way. And then I'll find a way to send you news."

Tam's mouth had dropped open, showing his few crooked blackened teeth.

"Wait now, Maidie. I never came to take you away. It's a bit of rest I'm needing. The road's a hard place for an old man."

"I can't help that," I said mercilessly. "You can't stay here, Tam, anyway. There's no food—this family's practically starving. You're taking me to Edinburgh."

He stared at me, aghast.

"Edinburgh! It's an awful distance to Edinburgh. And how are we to live on the road? Walking's a hungry business."

"We'll find a way," I said firmly.

Ritchie was biting his lip and frowning at me.

"I can't let you do this, Maggie. It's too dangerous. Traveling without a permit's forbidden. You know that."

"Then we'll keep out of people's way," I said impatiently. "For goodness' sake, Ritchie, I escaped the executioner in Bute and found my way to Ladymuir on my own. Surely I can get myself to Edinburgh! Anyway, you don't know Tam. He's spent a lifetime creeping around Scotland, making himself invisible. He knows how to keep himself out of harm's way. He's so clever. He's always been able to get me out of trouble."

Tam simpered, looking foolishly pleased. Then his face dropped and he shook his head mournfully.

"It's not what I had in mind, Maidie. A little rest, that's what I'd hoped for. A little time to gather my strength."

"But I need you, Tam!" I cried. "I can't do this on my own!"

He shook himself and sighed.

"I never could resist you, darling. Not since you were a tiny little thing. What's that buckle of your father's worth, do you think? Would it stretch to a little whiskey now and then along the road?"

"Maggie," began Ritchie.

"It's no good," I told him. "My mind's made up. Let's go and tell my aunt."

***

I have to admit that Aunt Blair was a good woman. A spark of relief lit her eyes when I told her my decision, but she doused it quickly and tried to persuade me to stay. The danger was too great, she said. She was responsible for me. She'd never forgive herself if I came to harm.

In the end, though, when she saw how determined I was, she came around to agreeing.

"When will you go?" she asked.

"Now! Today! Look, the weather's fine for a walk. There's not a cloud in the sky."

"You'll not go till you've eaten," she said. "There's a little cheese left, and those eggs you found, and the last of the oatmeal that Dandy Fleming brought."

Tam was so pleased at the thought of breakfast that he seemed quite reconciled to the long journey ahead.

"This is fine! This is kind, mistress!" He cracked his dirty knuckles as he looked at the meager meal laid out on the table.

"It's not what it was." Aunt Blair sighed.

"Or will be again," said Ritchie.

Tam stretched out his hand toward the oatcakes, and I nudged him just in time as Aunt Blair said, "You'll ask a blessing on our food, Ritchie." And Ritchie, sitting in his father's place, said a mercifully short grace.

I was so tense with excitement and dread that I could hardly eat. Now that the moment had come, I hated the thought of leaving this neat, homely house and the family who'd treated me so kindly and taught me all I ever knew.

No one said much at the table, and when the last crumb had been eaten, Ritchie scraped back his stool and went into the parlor. He came back a moment later carrying his father's old coat and put it into Tam's hands.

"What's this? It's not for me?" said Tam doubtfully.

"Yes, of course, what a good idea, Ritchie," said Aunt Blair, bustling forward. "And there's a shirt, too, and some breeks that I was going to cut down for dresses for the girls. We can spare them easily. Take him into the other room and get him dressed."

I hardly recognized Tam when he came back into the kitchen a few minutes later. His old rags—patched, faded, and torn—had been part of him for so long that they had seemed like a second skin. My uncle's clothes were far too big for him. They hung loosely on his skinny frame, the coat tails dangling below his knees, the sleeves falling down over his hands. I wasn't sure that I liked the new Tam. He looked even more frail and pathetic than before.

He was so entranced, though, with his new clothes that I couldn't help smiling. He gazed down at himself, awestruck, fingering the strong woolen weave of the shabby brown coat between his clawlike fingers.

"There's an old bonnet of your father's too," said Aunt Blair, who seemed to be enjoying the chance to dress even such an unpromising figure as Tam.

But when Ritchie fetched it, Tam looked at the clean blue bonnet with dismay.

"You're very kind, mistress." He was clasping his disgusting old headgear tightly to his chest. "But my old one, you know—like a friend—I wouldn't feel quite right in another. Keep it for your man when he comes home."

Aunt Blair's smile faded.

"When he comes home," she repeated bleakly. "Aye, God willing."

I had been gathering together my few possessions and had tied them in my old bundle. Martha had been following me about, trying to hold my hand whenever it was free.

"You're not really going away, are you, Maggie?" she said, her chin wobbling.

I bent down and hugged her.

"Yes, sweetheart, but I'll come back, and maybe when I do, I'll have your daddy with me."

Big tears rolled down her cheeks, and then, in her usual way when she was distressed, she ran off to hide.

We were ready at last. We stood at the door, and I took a deep breath as I looked down the track that led away from Ladymuir, on into the valley below, then away up and over the hills.

"Here," said Ritchie, who had reappeared from the parlor. "Take this."

He put two silver pieces into my hand.

"What, Ritchie? You can't!"

"It's the rest of the laird's money. For my father, and for you, if you really need it." He hesitated, then his face flushed red. "I hate you going off like this. It's a man's work you're doing. It ought to be me!"

"You can't, Ritchie. You have to run the farm and look after your mother."

"I know. But it's a bitter thing to have to stay. I—I haven't said this to you, Maggie, but you know how much I admirey ou and—and—"

I didn't want to hear any more. I hitched my bundle up onto my shoulder and said quickly, "Thank you for everything. You're a good cousin and friend, and I'll do my best for your father."

Aunt Blair put her arms around me and hugged me with what felt like real affection.

"God go with you, Maggie dear, and may his angels watch over you. We'll pray for you and your mission without ceasing."

And then we were away, and I was hurrying after Tam, who had retrieved his pipes from the barn and was scampering down the track at his usual amazing speed. After a while I turned to look back and saw them still standing there—Aunt Blair with Andrew in her arms, waving his little hand, and Nanny jumping up and down at her side. Ritchie had come a little way down the track after us and was standing by the rowan tree, with his hand resting against the trunk as if he needed the support. But Martha hadn't reappeared, and I knew she was hiding in the bed we had shared for so long, curled up in a tight little ball, crying.