Jennie About to Be (25 page)

“Except that you can't get killed at it.”

“I'm not so sure of that! Promise them the moon, but when we start the work, they'll be sure they're being cleared.”

“But can you blame them, after Kilallan?” She sponged lather off his shoulders. “But you won't need to take down the existing cottages, so they can live in them while you're having the new ones built, and afterwards the old ones will do for byres. Once they realize their roofs won't be burned over their heads, it will be all right. It's that—that awful coming with torches, like Saxons and the Vikings!” She showed him the gooseflesh on her arms. “It's so horrible even to imagine, without experiencing it.”

He was scowling at her, and she grinned at him. “Forgive me for telling you what you know. You must have already taken the old cottages into account. My duty isn't to instruct my husband in
his
duty, but to drink tea with Lamonts tomorrow. I have a strong suspicion Miss Lamont was Christabel's choice for you.”

Nigel stood up, dripping. “Miss Lamont is what is known in some circles as a damn' fine woman. She weighs all of eleven stone, and in another ten years she'll reach twenty. The man who shares her bed is likely to be crushed to death in the night.”

She laughed. “Shall I dry your back?”

“That sounds dangerously seductive. . . . Promise me you won't mention Kilallan tomorrow.”

“I won't shout, ‘Death to the landlords!' over the teacups, if that's what you're afraid of. Where will you be while I'm in durance vile?”

“Archie and I are riding into town to have a meeting with the joiners and masons. I insist that he must approve the final plans so Christabel can't accuse me of wasting her money. It will do old Archie a world of good to have some time away from her. He's been under the influence of the blue devils lately.”

“I hadn't noticed that,” said Jennie. “I thought he was in fine fettle yesterday.”

“He's always quite the buck with
you
. But Archie's an eccentric, and growing more so. He broods, and drinks with it. Not good.”

“What does he brood about?”

He shrugged. “Christabel perhaps. I know I would! Or having no sons, not even a bastard like Sandy. He likes to gamble at cards, but otherwise I don't think he ever sowed a wild oat in his life. He must regret that, don't you think?”

“I fancy that's one regret you'll never know.”

He hugged her, damply. “Ah, Jennie, you're the light of my life.”

She dressed in her willow green outfit and walked to Linnmore House through an open-and-shut afternoon, carrying a furled umbrella just in case. Before she reached the bridge, she put on her hat and fastened up her pelerine.

She crossed the little bridge with a fond glance for the primroses on the banks of the brook and walked briskly along the drive, anxious to get the afternoon begun and over with. Who knew, perhaps she might like the Lamonts; just because Christabel made a fuss over them shouldn't damn them for all eternity.

She could see between a bright-leafed beech and the sweeping dark boughs of a big spruce into the stableyard. No visiting equipage was there; no coachman lounged with his hat off and his jacket open, smoking a pipe with Iain and the grooms. But at the front of the house, a tall bay horse stood beside the steps, cropping grass. Perhaps the Lamonts had sent a messenger to say they couldn't come. She was dismayed at the prospect of a whole afternoon alone with Christabel and wished wildly that she did have needlework; at least she could keep her head bent and her fingers occupied while Christabel preached and advised.

The horse lifted his head and gazed mildly at her. She stroked his Roman nose and told him that with a nose like that he should be in Parliament. “In the House of Lords,” she added. He seemed appreciative and interested in her reticule. “If I'd known you were here, I'd have brought you something,” she told him.

The front door opened before she could lift the knooker. Armitage, who was always so impassive he could have been wearing a papier-mâché mask with extraordinary lifelike tinting and a small wart on one plump cheek, was slightly out of breath and, for him, effusive.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gilchrist. Would you care to wait in the library? Madam is detained at the moment.” He was guiding her there as he spoke, like a sheepdog sent to herd a refractory ewe. “May I bring you something to refresh you after your long walk?”

The drawing-room doors were not quite closed, and there was a man's hat on the Tudor chest.

“It wasn't really long, and I don't need refreshment, thank you, Armitage.” She smiled at him and got a smile back; he was definitely flustered. He must have been listening at the drawing-room doors and had almost been caught.

“I thought you'd gone to Inverness, Armitage,” she said.

“Inverness?” He looked surprised. “Not until next week, Mrs. Gilchrist. If you do not require anything, I shall return to my work.” He bowed and left her.

Nigel must not have heard correctly about the Inverness holiday, not that it mattered. She went to the library door and listened until the door to the kitchen wing closed; then she walked across the hall, pulling off her hat so her ears would be freed. Whatever Armitage had found so fascinating she'd be sure to find absolutely enthralling. And no need to be caught with her ear to the crack of the doors; the granite walls shut off outside sounds so well that she could stand by the console table straightening her neck frill before the mirror, watched by all the dead stags, and hear Christabel's high voice, clipped and arrogant.

“It is completely my husband's decision. He
is
Linnmore.”

The answering voice was new to Jennie: deep, hoarse, but with the Highland cadence. “Mrs. Gilchrist, Linnmore would remember his responsibilities if you were not urging him to forget them.”

“Responsibilities!”
Christabel laughed theatrically. “To these parasites, these vermin? You forget where and who you are, Mr. Grant.”

“On the contrary, I remember very well. When last I left this house, I swore I would never come back. But I broke my own vow to ask you again not to clear. There is plenty of room. The old folk, now—to drive them out is killing them as surely as if you fired a pistol into their hearts.”

“How poetic, Mr. Grant. You may go now.”

“As to who I am, I am no longer the factor here, but a man who can speak his mind on equal terms with any other man living. I will come back when Archie Gilchrist is at home.”

“
Mr
. Gilchrist does not wish to discuss the matter further.”

There was a silence during which Jennie's ear throbbed; she pulsed all over, as if she had been running hard in a bad dream. She saw her face in the mirror, staring, mouth open for an outcry that couldn't come. She saw also in the mirror the burly man leaving the drawing room. If he saw her across the hall, he gave no sign but walked rapidly out. The big front door slammed behind him. She swept up the hat from the chest and ran out, calling, “Mr. Grant! Please!”

One foot in the stirrup, he looked around, his thick features still suffused with rage, his eyes narrowed and inimical under bushy gingery brows. “You forgot your hat,” she said apologetically.

He took his foot out of the stirrup and accepted the hat. “Thank you,” he said brusquely.

“Mr. Grant, I'm Jennie Gilchrist. Mrs. Nigel. Will you please tell me what's going on?”

“Don't you
know
?” he asked incredulously.

She shook her head.

“Come away from those windows,” he ordered her. Leading the horse, they walked along the drive toward the brook.

“I know they're going to have sheep,” she said, “but they aren't going to make anyone leave. They're going to rebuild the cottages, make them more comfortable and modern, and—” Under the weight of his astonishment she faltered; the brave words trembled and died.

His voice came soft with pity, and his expression went from brutal to kind. “I do not like to tell you that today the writs of eviction are being prepared and that both Nigel and Archie Gilchrist are present.”

“No, no!” she cried. “He told me—he
promised
me—that when every thing was done, they would be better off!”

“Perhaps he meant better off dead. But their lives are as precious to them as ours are to us, poor as these lives are, and so short. Your husband was brought in to replace me, to do what I would not do and what Archie Gilchrist is too squeamish to do for himself.”

Both her stomach and her head were spinning. She struggled for poise. “I wanted to know what was happening, and I thank you. But I believe that Nigel has been deceived.”

“I hope that is the case,” he said, but she knew he didn't believe it. He swung himself up into the saddle. “What's left in Scotland one day will be a generation of atheists. And who can blame them? Not God, unless He is in the exclusive employ of the landlords, as they seem to believe. I've said too much to you, lassie, but it's not likely I'll be seeing you again.”

“Where will you be going?”

“To Canada. When all of the Highlands is turned into sheep walks, there's no place left for me. I've given Alick Gilchrist what I could spare, to help when the time comes. They could always live from the land and their few beasts, but when they are on the roads, gypsies will be rich compared to them.”

She wanted to speak, but she couldn't. He said awkwardly, “I'm sorry, lassie. You have an honest face and a sweet one. Good luck to you.” He touched his whip to his hat, and the horse trotted off. She had thought at first sight that he was an uncommonly ugly man, but now, as she watched him go, it was as if her only friend were riding away from her.

The hooves beat hollowly on the bridge, and under it the brook still cascaded toward Linn Mor, the primroses still glittered like spilled sunshine, the swallows still glided and swooped over the pond. The earth had moved for fewer than twenty minutes since she crossed over the bridge on foot, and in that twenty minutes her life had changed forever.

Nigel couldn't have known; he'd have never agreed! He had been deceived. Even now he was telling Archie so, and the lawyers, or the sheriff, or whoever was to write out the writs of eviction. Blanched with rage, he was stalking out of that meeting. He would come home and tell her they were leaving Tigh nam Fuaran, leaving Linnmore. If he could not save the tenants, he would not stay here to watch the dissolution.

It was so clear to her that she expected to hear the gray galloping along the beech avenue at any moment. She was frantic to get home.
Home
! It would be that no longer.

She looked back at the mansion. She visualized Christabel behind the red granite walls, going on imperturbably with her tapestry, like one of the more malignant Fates creating evil. She would not go back into that house for anything. She began to run, holding up her skirt and petticoats, and she didn't slow down until the band of trees hid her from any window on the western end of the house.

S
HE WAS CLAMMY
with sweat by the time she reached Tigh nam Fuarran.
I must look like a madwoman
, she thought.
What will I tell them? How can I even face them?
The thought of her glib promises and assurances made her sick enough to vomit, but she fought the compulsion. She crept into the house like a thief; there were merry voices and uninhibited laughter from beyond the door to the kitchen, and with the agility of desperation she ran up the stairs. At least no one would see her in this state.

She stripped off her damp clothes—everything clung perversely to her damp flesh—and standing naked, she poured tepid water from the ewer into the bowl and sponged herself. The first touch sent shivers over her body, and she was glad of the chill. It steadied her brain.

She let the air dry until she was really cold, but revived in both her mind and body. She put on the thin wool wrapper and rang for Morag.

Morag came at the run, her cap askew. “Och, what a start the bell gave us! We didn't know you were home! What is it, Mistress? Are you not well?”

It took an extreme effort of will to meet the girl's concerned eyes. “Not very well, Morag. I was walking around the grounds at Linnmore House when suddenly I felt so ill I wanted to get back to my own bed at once, and I came as I was, leaving my things behind.” She began turning back the bedcovers, and Morag darted to help her. “Mrs. Gilchrist was busy with someone else, and there were no servants around, so I had better send a note by Fergus. Tell him to take Dora; she needs the exercise.” She sat down wearily on the side of the bed. “He might keep her out an hour or so. . . . Will you bring me some tea, Morag, and I'll write the note for Mrs. Archie?”

“The kettle is on the boil now, Mistress. Will you be liking something with it?”

“Only the tea, Morag, thank you. And will you hand me my lap desk, please?”

Telling the lie the next time was much easier, especially on paper and especially because her dislike of Christabel had hardened into something very like hatred.

“Well, it
is
hatred,” she muttered. “She's a wicked woman with a heart of stone.”

Morag returned with the tea tray and more anxious inquiries. Would she like more covers? Was there enough air, or too much draft? Finally she left, taking the note. Jennie knew that her sudden illness would be accepted in the kitchen as a sign of pregnancy. She ached behind her nose and in her throat with wanting to weep, to
howl
; this called for more than a silent rain of tears.

Second by second she fought down the compulsion as she'd fought the nausea, and was relatively calm when she heard Nigel running up the stairs; he stopped outside the door and tried to open it quietly. She took her cup from the nightstand and sipped cold tea so as to be doing something ordinary. He came in on tiptoe, looking worried, and when he saw her smiling faintly at him, with the cup in her hands, he blew hard with relief. He dropped her hat, reticule, and umbrella and leaned over the bed to kiss her. Then he laid his hand on her forehead. “No fever, thank God.”