The House of Lyall (15 page)

Thomson slipped out to give the organist the signal and then sat in the seat Mrs Carnie had kept for her. When the Wedding March rang out, Marianne made sure that her two maids of honour had a firm grip of her long train before going forth to link arms with Miss Edith, who had been waiting just inside the church door for her moment of glory.

The little procession moved slowly and gracefully down the aisle – Miss Esther and Miss Emily in the midnight-blue shantung dresses they had considered suitable for both funeral and wedding, though they had not known beforehand that they would be bridesmaids, and Miss Edith regally tall and erect in a clerical-grey moire two piece, as if she had known she was to act as ‘father of the bride'. The gasps from those in the rear pews were enough to make all heads swivel in order to have a good look at the bride, the girl who had flouted convention by wearing a gown fit for a princess when she should be in unrelieved black to show respect for the woman who had died before becoming her mother-in-law.

As though to the manner born, Marianne kept her head aloft and her step slow and measured. She knew that this day would be spoken of in the glen for many years, and hoped that these women would not hold it against her. Surely they would realize that she'd had no option?

‘You are very quiet, Andrew,' Edith observed when they were homeward bound in the early evening. ‘I hope that you are not –'

‘I'm all right, Aunt Edith. I must admit it was an ordeal, but not quite as bad as I expected. I was really proud of you three, though. You carried out your duties to perfection.'

As he had hoped, this took their minds off him, and they proceeded to discuss the funeral, the wedding, the meal, the friendliness of the glen folk, leaving him free for his own thoughts. The sight of Marianne walking so determinedly down that aisle would have amused him in other circumstances, but he had been overcome with love for her, she looked so ethereal, so virginal, swathed in yards of ivory lace, and he had been hard pressed not to fold her in his arms and defy anyone to take her away from him. But … she was not his!

He had known, of course, that Marianne did not love Hamish – which was what had made it easier for him to bear his heartache – but he hadn't realized until today that Hamish did not love her. Hamish had stood like a statue while she came nearer, had shown no sign of emotion when she reached him, had not had the slightest tremor in his voice when he made his vows. The minister had to tell him to kiss his bride, and the kiss itself was a token gesture. Andrew didn't know whether to be glad at Hamish's lack of response or sorry for Marianne. Most girls would want to be loved, for that love to be proved in front of the congregation, but Marianne was not most girls. The thing was, would she be satisfied to spend the rest of her life with a man who had come across as completely indifferent to her?

There was a suggestion of dawn in the sky, yet Marianne Bruce-Lyall was still lying wide awake, remembering, conjecturing, but not, for one single moment; regretting. She had savoured to the full the impact she had made. Apart from the thrill she had got from the audible reactions in the church to her gown, there had been the standing inside the ballroom to be introduced to the handful of relatives present and better still, to every resident of the glen. Although nothing specific had been said or done, she had been left with the distinct impression that Hamish's kinfolk looked down on her, but the estate workers, those she would be most likely to come in contact with, had made her feel welcome amongst them … as their better.

Her mind now went over her leave-taking of the Rennies. She had expected Miss Emily and Miss Esther to be weepy, but she had been astonished that Edith had openly dabbed her eyes and then hugged her closely. ‘You know I wish you happiness, Marianne dear,' she had whispered, ‘but I would like you to look on us as aunts to whom you can come if you need advice, or if …'

Her voice breaking there, Marianne had said shakily, ‘Thank you, I'll not forget.'

The Andrew had taken her hand, his eyes dark with the hurt she had inflicted on him. ‘I'm truly sorry, Andrew,' she'd murmured, his pain reaching out to clamp around her heart.

His finger had risen to dash away the tear that she couldn't stop edging out. ‘No tears, my dear,' he'd told her. ‘I am happy that your wish came true, and I sincerely hope that you will find happiness as well as contentment in your new life … but remember, Marianne, if things do not work out the way you envisaged, I will gladly come and take you away from him.'

Before she realized what he was doing, he had swept her into his arms and given her a kiss that came within a hair's-breadth of being passionate. Then, with a stifled moan, he had jumped on the landau and it had moved away. She
had gone back to Hamish, who had been standing in the doorway to give her privacy to say her goodbyes. He'd looked even greyer than before, despite the feverish spot in his cheeks.

‘There's still a few left,' he'd muttered, ‘but my father is helping them to gather all the left-overs … Ah, here they come.'

The few he mentioned – about ten over-happy men and perhaps six women – had reached the foot of the curved steps as the first of the traps returned, and Marianne had had to smile when she'd noticed the boxes that clinked being loaded much more carefully than the ones which presumably held the left-overs from the meal.

‘Thank you for everything, your Lordship,' the oldest man had grinned and, after shaking his employer's hand, he'd turned to Marianne. ‘My best wishes to you and your man, m'lady, and dinna tak' lang to gi'e us the heir we need.'

The sturdy woman who was obviously his wife had pulled at his sleeve. ‘Behave yoursel', Tam! Get up on the coach, for ony sake.'

The drive empty at last, Hector had turned unsteadily, and Marianne had helped him up the steps, smiling as she noticed how high he was lifting each foot, as if uncertain where to set it down. Recalling having seen Dick, his valet, staggering around in an advanced stage of inebriation quite early on, she'd realized that the servant would be totally incapable by this time of attending to his master. ‘Will Hamish help you get undressed?' she'd asked her father-in-law inside.

‘I can manage to take off my own clothes,' he'd said, but it was the bridal couple themselves who had half carried him up to his room, where, giving up all pretence of joviality, he'd sat down on his bed with tears streaming down his face. Never having seen a grown man cry, Marianne had felt most uncomfortable. ‘I'll leave you to deal with him,' she had whispered to Hamish, and withdrew before he could say anything.

She'd felt pleased to have the chance to undress without being seen, but had forgotten that she could not unfasten the hooks and eyes down the back by herself and she had not wanted to ring for Thomson. Sighing, she'd sat down at her dressing table to wait for her bridegroom.

It had been twenty minutes before he'd appeared. ‘Too much whisky made Father very emotional,' he'd muttered, ‘but he's fast asleep now.'

‘That's the best thing for him. Hamish, will you help me out of this gown?'

When he'd come closer, she'd seen that his face was ravaged by tears. ‘Hamish, I'm sorry. I should have known how upset you'd be. I'll ring for Thomson.'

‘I'll manage!' With what was almost a grunt, he'd grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her round with her back to him, so that he could undo the tiny fasteners. Letting her go abruptly when they were all open, he'd burst into tears and she'd thought it best to let him get it out of his system. Eventually, he had said brokenly, ‘I am truly sorry, Marianne. I don't know what you must think of me, but I couldn't help it.'

Knowing that he was ashamed of himself for giving way, she'd tried to reassure him. ‘I was the same when my mother died. Everybody's the same. After all, your mother's the person who feeds you and takes care of you when you're small …'

‘I can't even use that as an excuse,' he'd hiccuped. ‘My brother and I had a succession of nurses to feed us and care for us.'

She could have bitten her tongue out. ‘Your mother gave birth to you, Hamish, and there's always a close bond between children and their mothers, especially boys, I've been told.'

‘Perhaps that is it, then. Ever since my brother died, I have felt it my duty to make it up to her. She was almost inconsolable at the time, and made such a fuss of me after she recovered.' He'd stopped, and there was a long pause before he had whispered, ‘I know what you are expecting of me, Marianne, but I can't, not tonight!'

‘I understand,' she'd soothed, but to his rapidly retreating back.

It shouldn't have come as any surprise to her, but she could not help feeling let down. It was their wedding night and he had left her in this huge bed on her own.

Because of the ill-feeling he had engendered by having the wedding immediately after the funeral, Hector had decided to offer a kind of sop to the offended relatives who had stayed all night.

Sitting down to breakfast the following morning, he looked around the table with a somewhat shamed expression. ‘I have been thinking more clearly since my beloved wife was laid to rest,' he said sadly, wiping away a non-existent tear, ‘and I realize that I ought to have listened to …' He cleared his throat noisily. ‘I should have let Hamish and Marianne postpone their marriage as they wanted to, but what is done can not be undone, and I pledge, before all of you here, that my entire household will observe the customary full year of mourning. We will not, therefore, attend the Queen's Jubilee on the twenty-second as we had planned.'

The satisfied murmurs proved that his strategy had worked. Only Marianne's disappointed expression pricked his conscience and, as soon as he got her alone, he murmured, ‘I am very sorry, my dear. I know how much you were looking forward to going to London to join the celebrations, but it is best that we do not flout convention again.'

Marianne nodded her head. ‘I
am
disappointed, but I do understand. I heard Lady Glendarril's two … cousins, I think, say yesterday that they were shocked at you for …'

‘If I tried to count the times I have shocked Eunice and Rosemary over the years,' he chuckled, ‘it would be in the hundreds, perhaps even the thousands. They are sour old maids – they were sour even when they were young. It would have done them the world of good if one of their brother's friends had ravished them.'

Marianne's smile vanished when Hector went on, ‘Speaking of which, I hope you will soon be telling me that I am going to be a grandfather.' He clasped her hand tightly for a second and then walked away.

Wondering what he would have said if she told him what had happened the night before, Marianne went upstairs to the room where she had lain alone in the darkness. The vast bed had curtains all round, which she intended to remove as soon as she could. She had left them open last night, but she had still felt as though they were smothering her when she tried to get some sleep.

When would Hamish come to her bed and make them truly husband and wife? Surely he wasn't such a Mammy's boy that he'd take weeks to get over her death?

She took a deep breath. What was the good of looking on the black side? It was early days yet.

*    *    *

Moll Cheyne had waited impatiently all forenoon for her husband to come home, and the minute he walked in, she burst out, ‘Have you seen the day's paper, Alfie?'

‘I havena time to sit about readin' papers,' he growled, setting his hard backside on the equally hard chair at the table. ‘I hardly get time to draw breath.'

Always worried that the sawdust he breathed in would eventually clog his lungs completely, Moll let him finish his soup before she handed him the
Aberdeen Journal
and pointed to the photographs accompanying a prominent article. It had been written by a cub reporter on the
Observer
– the local paper for Laurencekirk and most of the county of Kincardine – whose editor had deemed the Bruce-Lyall funeral-cum-wedding worthy of much wider circulation.

Peering at the pictures short-sightedly, Alfie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Lord preserve us! It's my Marion!'

‘Read it,' his wife urged. ‘Read it an' see why she's never wrote or let us ken where she was.'

Still only concerned with the photographs, he studied the first – a host of black-clad men and women over-shadowed by a girl in a dark costume standing at the rear of the group but in the foreground of the picture – then read out the caption: ‘Marianne Cheyne is one of the mourners at the burial of Lady Glendarril of Castle Lyall, in Glendarril churchyard on Saturday.' Alfie's head shot up. ‘She must be in service at the castle.'

Moll shook her head then pushed back the greasy lock of hair that had fallen over her face. ‘It doesna say onything aboot her bein' in service, but maybe that's where she met him.' Her husband's puzzled expression made her snap, ‘Get on, Alfie!'

His eyes moved slowly to the other picture – the same girl emerging from a church wearing a wedding gown and accompanied by a tall young man with a sombre expression. ‘ “The Honourable Hamish Bruce-Lyall leaving Glendarril church on Saturday with his bride, the former Miss Marianne Cheyne,” Alfie read out. His brows crawled together in puzzlement. ‘There's some mistake here. It says the frunial was on Saturday, so the wedding couldna have been on Saturday an' all?'

Moll stood up. ‘For ony sake, read it a'!' She moved over to the fire to make a pot of tea for him. It's all he would feel like after reading the rest.

At last, Alfie took a look at the headline: ‘GLEN MINISTER CONDUCTS WEDDING IMMEDIATELY AFTER FUNERAL OF GROOM'S MOTHER.'

The reporter may just have been learning his profession, but he knew how to attract attention … and how to hold it. Much was made of the fact that Marianne had been befriended by the Rennies when she arrived in Aberdeen, and that she had shown her gratitude by asking them to take on the duties of bridesmaids and of giving her away. This information had been gleaned mostly from those of Hector's relatives who had been denied the privilege of being wedding guests, and thus were loud in condemnation of Hamish and Marianne for not cancelling their marriage, but the journalist had taken great pains to cast no slur on the bridal couple. In fact, he made it appear that Clarice herself had begged them before she died not to change their plans, and that they had agreed reluctantly.