The House of Lyall (58 page)

‘It's all right. I understand how you must have felt.'

‘Your twin sister is not with you?'

Quite taken aback by such an unexpected question, Ruth stammered, ‘My … my twi-twin's name is Samuel.' Then, remembering that the old lady hadn't been told about him, she said timidly, ‘I don't have a sister … well, I thought I had, but now I've found out Gladys isn't really my sister.'

‘I was right all along, you see, Mother-in-law.' Melda couldn't resist saying it. ‘I did have a boy. He was the first of the two babies, though I didn't know I'd had two.' Her face darkened suddenly. ‘But
you
knew there were two, and you must have known they were still alive.'

Marianne did not appear in the least abashed. ‘I knew there were two, but I thought they were both girls, and I'd no idea what happened to them. I left all that to Andrew.'

In an effort to curb her arrogance, Ruairidh said, ‘The less you say the better, Mother. I have only recently learned what you did, and if it wasn't that you're over seventy, I'd have thrown you out when Melda told me your actions, and the pain you caused her.'

Every vestige of colour left her face, and Robert stood up in alarm. ‘Shall I take you upstairs, Marianne?'

‘Leave her there,' Ruairidh ordered harshly. ‘I want her to hear everything that's said. Maybe then she'll realize the extent of the damage she caused, to Ruth as well as Melda, and possibly also to … Samuel.'

Uncertain of what to do, Robert latched on to the last word, and gave Ruairidh a playful slap on the back. ‘Just think, though. You have a son and heir at last, Ruairidh. Isn't that good news?'

‘No! No!' Marianne's sharp cry startled them. ‘Duncan Peat's grandson can
never
be Lord Glendarril! For one thing, he is not legitimate!'

Robert cleared his throat nervously. ‘I thought you would realize, Marianne. He was born illegitimate, certainly, but –'

Graham Dalgarno broke his long silence now. ‘By law, the parents' subsequent marriage legitimates any previous issue.'

There was a long, brooding pause before Marianne muttered, ‘I can't remember Andrew ever telling me that, but maybe he did. Anyway, I take it that there is nothing I can do about it?'

Ignoring this, Robert addressed his next remark to Ruth. ‘As a matter of interest, my dear, what type of work is your brother engaged in? Has he a trade, or a profession?'

She related what the solicitor had told her about Samuel's early career, then dropped her innocent bombshell. ‘He took up the ministry after the war, and he's in Germany now.'

There was shock on all three Bruce-Lyall faces, but Marianne's was greatest. She opened and closed her mouth as if gasping for air, then let out a sudden screech of desperation, which went on and on until Robert leaped across and gave her a stinging slap on the cheek. The noise stopped instantly, and Graham and Ruth looked at each other in astonishment, while Melda and Ruairidh exchanged apprehensive glances, none of them knowing what to say or do.

They were thankful when Robert turned round and began to speak. ‘I had better tell you something, all of you. I originally intended to make my confession only to Marianne, but she wouldn't listen, and present circumstances demand that I make a clean breast of it here and now.'

All eyes were on him as he returned purposefully to his seat, looked at Marianne and said, quite calmly, ‘I hope you can forgive me, my dear. I should have told you this long ago, but I could not say anything as long as Flora was alive. I couldn't bear to hurt her in any way. Yes, I am well aware that it is three years since she died, but I mistakenly thought that you had forgotten your silly nonsense about Duncan Peat and all ministers, and I didn't want to stir it up again.'

She held her hand up weakly. ‘Nothing you can say will make me change my mind about him.'

‘I'm not even going to try. Just cast your mind back fifty-odd years and listen … and don't say another word until I've finished.'

He spoke now as if he were telling a story, a story about a young wife who was longing for a child but whose doctor husband could not prevent her losing the three she managed to conceive; of another young woman married to a dour minister whose quick temper made him ill-treat her at the slightest provocation, and who made her douche every time he used her because he did not want children. Furthermore, he had become impotent over several months as a result of prostate trouble, which was why he knew that he was not the father of his wife's child.

‘Grace came to me so often for treatment for bruises and cuts that I felt deeply sorry for her,' he went on. ‘Unfortunately, as you are no doubt aware, pity is but a small step from love, and I began to call on her when I knew
Duncan was out. I despised myself for being unfaithful to my dear Flora and tried to be extra loving to her, so I was mortified when … well, I'm sure you can guess – I impregnated both of them.'

Gasping, Marianne burst out, ‘Oh, Robert! I never dreamed! You should have told me!'

‘I was deeply ashamed, and for Flora's sake, I couldn't admit it, not even to you,'

‘But good God, Robert, it was me you should have told. You know what happened because I got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It's because of you Melda had to give up her twins.'

‘You covered that up too well. I didn't know she was pregnant. If I had, I'd have told you everything, I swear!'

‘But you didn't even tell
her
! Not even after she was married.'

He bowed his head in abasement, then, deciding that he had to explain further, he went on, ‘She looked on me as her father, and she got far more love from me than she would ever have got from Peat. I didn't want to turn her against me …'

The others in the room had listened to his story unfolding like a stage drama, but now Melda said, a little sadly, ‘I wouldn't have turned against you; I haven't, not even now. In fact, I admire you for shielding … your wife. I loved her, but I didn't realize what a wonderful woman she was, taking in her husband's child by another woman and treating her like her own.'

‘She
was
a wonderful woman, Melda.'

Marianne tutted loudly. ‘Haven't you forgotten something, Robert? You knew how I felt all those years, yet you let me go on believing that man was her father.'

‘I
did
try to give you a clue that he wasn't,' the old doctor defended himself.

‘You did?' She looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Ah, yes, I remember. You tried to make me think it was that tinker.'

‘Duncan thought it was him.'

‘
I
never thought it was. I couldn't imagine Grace having anything to do with a tinker. But I
can
see her taking up with a doctor.'

The sneer on her face infuriated him. ‘It wasn't like that, Marianne! You make it sound so sordid, when we truly loved each other. She, too, was a wonderful woman, putting up with that man for so long, and you have no idea how much I despised myself for what happened.'

Ruairidh had been far too astonished at his father-in-law's confession to take any part in what transpired, but he suddenly realized that he had to stop it. ‘Robert,' he began quietly, ‘I think we should let the matter rest there. I am glad you've told us, because it will save Mother making any scenes when Samuel comes, but I must make it quite clear that I consider you equally to blame for the heartache that was caused. And now, the subject is dead and buried and will not be resurrected again by anyone.'

He smiled at Ruth now. ‘I don't know what you must think of us, my dear, but I would very much like to hear a little about your life.'

She told them that she had started work as an office girl at fourteen, rising to bookkeeper typist before being called up to the ATS when she was twenty-one. It was while serving as a clerk that she had met Mark Laverton, a young corporal in the RAOC, who later became her husband.

‘We married in 1941 and we only had six years together,' she said, her eyes misting, ‘though I did have his son. After Mark was killed in a road accident in France, my mother …' She paused in confusion. ‘… the woman who fostered me …'

‘Please keep thinking of her as your mother,' Melda said quickly. ‘She brought you up and cared for you … and I'm very grateful to her.'

‘Well, she suggested I give up my house and move in with her – Dad had died a year before. It was a good arrangement, because I was able to take a job, and the extra money helped us to live quite comfortably. Then Mum fell ill, multiple sclerosis, and it developed so quickly that I'd to stop work to look after her. That was when things got tough. We only had two widows' pensions coming in, ten shillings each, and that had to cover everything, and for about four months before she died, she needed attention twenty-four hours a day … and it was very tiring. I don't know if I could have gone on like that for much longer.'

Graham Dalgarno had been marvelling at how well Ruth had stood up to the hardship of being left a widow with a small son, so he was pleased when Ruairidh murmured sympathetically, ‘So you've had quite a hard life?'

‘Not as bad as some, I suppose. It was a funny thing though, when I think about it. Mum fostered me because she hadn't had a child of her own, and she had Gladys thirteen months later.'

‘That happens,' Robert said. ‘If a woman has been trying unsuccessfully for a child, it is often her anxiety about it that prevents conception. When that anxiety is removed, as in your mother's case when she decided to foster you, nature takes its course.'

Something made Melda ask, ‘What's your son's name, Ruth?'

‘Colin. He's nearly ten.'

Ruairidh clapped his hands in glee. ‘We have a grandson, Melda!'

Marianne, who had been sitting rather chastened since her son's homily, cut through his delight. ‘I hope you do not expect any money from us? Tell her, Ruairidh.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘What Mother means, Ruth, is that the mill was doing extremely well until the war ended. We'd been supplying uniforms to the army and air force, you see, and then … phutt! Nothing! And things kept on going downhill.'

‘There wasn't the money going about,' Melda reminded him. ‘People couldn't afford to buy clothes even after they stopped needing coupons for them, and, to be honest, after our daughter was killed, we both let things slide for a while. We're in pretty bad straits at the moment.'

It had taken Ruth several moments to get over Marianne's attack, but now she looked at the solicitor with her eyebrows raised. ‘Graham, could I possibly …?'

He grasped her meaning at once. ‘It's entirely up to you, Ruth.'

She spoke now directly to Ruairidh. ‘Apparently, Mr Rennie left most of his fortune to my brother and me –'

Marianne heard only one word. ‘Fortune?' she muttered feebly.

It was Graham who leaped to his feet and scooped her frail body up in his arms. ‘Show me the way to her room,' he said briskly, standing aside to let Robert go first.

Once Marianne was laid on her bed, the old doctor took a bottle of smelling salts from her dressing table and wafted it under her nose until she came round, then he ordered his daughter, who had followed them upstairs, and the solicitor to go. ‘You know, Marianne,' he chided, when they were alone, ‘you are the most stubborn woman I have ever come across. If you'd just sat quietly and listened like I told you, instead of interfering …' He wagged a reproachful finger at her. ‘It's not your business who Andrew Rennie left his money to.'

‘You don't understand, Robert,' she whispered. ‘It's the irony of it. He always loved me, you know, and I didn't marry him because I thought he would never be rich. I wanted a husband with lots of money. I wanted a standing in society … but …' She shrugged woefully.

‘It was your own fault you got nowhere in society. I remember Flora saying you told her you weren't going to mix with such a bunch of snobs.'

‘Yes,' she agreed wistfully, ‘that was my own fault, but I'd never have felt easy with them.'

‘Still, you had years and years of being Queen of the Glen. Every man, woman and child looked up to you, and you enjoyed every minute of their adulation, didn't you?'

‘Of course I enjoyed it, but that was years ago. I'm speaking about now. What have I got? Nothing! No money, a son and a daughter-in-law who'll probably never forgive me for keeping their children from them –'

‘Marianne! They don't hold anything against you … not now.'

‘Ruth said Andrew left them a fortune. If I'd married him, I'd have been rich for a lot longer than I was. Of course, if Melda hadn't let the mill run down … Oh, I shouldn't blame her, should I? I know what it was like to lose a grown-up child.' She stopped, looking stricken as a new thought occurred to her. ‘I took advantage of Andrew. I realize that now. I played on his love and expected him to do all sorts of things for me, be there when I needed comforting, and … at the end … I killed him.'

‘You mustn't blame yourself for that. It was an accident!'

‘It felt like I was to blame.' She looked up into his concerned face, her eyes pleading for understanding. ‘Fate has played a dirty trick on me, Robert. After all my dreams of wealth and power, I've finished up a penniless, lonely old woman.'

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself! How can you be lonely with so many people around you?'

They were interrupted by a soft tap on the door, and Ruairidh held it open to allow Melda, Ruth and Graham to go in. ‘We came to see how you were, Mother, and I'd say, by the look of you, you've recovered enough to hear what we have to tell you. First of all, in spite of all I could do to persuade her against it, Ruth is determined to sign her entire inheritance over to us as soon as it can be arranged. And that's not all, but I'll let Graham tell you the rest.'