Lady Magdalen Page 8

  She was relieved when Lady Magdalen suggested that she might like to go and have a chat with her friends in the kitchen. She needed to be with her own kind, in surroundings fit for them and herself. This splendour was too much for her. At any moment she might burst into tears.

  20

  WHAT CONTINUED TO impress Magdalen more than all the works of art, the sculptures, paintings, cabinets, chandeliers, and carpets, was Nancy’s artless love for her husband. It was almost worship and yet it had humour in it too. She saw his faults and boldly teased him about them. For instance, she accused him of preferring people in paintings to ‘real people’. He did not deny it. In front of a large painting of a Christian saint being burned at the stake, with a crowd watching, he turned to Magdalen. ‘Did I ever tell you I went to Dundee to see them burning Jessie Gilmour? You remember old Jessie?’

  ‘Yes, I remember her.’ She still saw Jessie in dreams.

  ‘I wanted to see for myself if it was possible that people – Nancy’s “real people” – could find entertainment in watching an old woman being roasted alive. Well, I found that they could. There they were, in holiday mood, holding up their children for a better view.’

  ‘Was this Jessie a witch?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘She was an old woman whose wits wandered. There are no witches. There never have been.’

  ‘When I was a wee lassie, there was an auld wife that frightened horses. They got nervous whenever she went near them. Everybody said she was a witch. But I don’t think she was burned.’

  ‘I came to the conclusion,’ said Francis, ignoring her, ‘that human beings are incurably depraved, some of course worse than others. Those people boasted of all the burnings they had seen. They had walked as much as twenty miles to see them.’

  Magdalen remembered her father’s pessimism about human destiny. ‘The artists who made all these beautiful things, were they incurably depraved?’

  ‘Bloody-minded tyrants have commissioned magnificent works of art.’

  ‘So there are no exceptions?’

  He smiled at her. ‘I can think only of one.’ He meant her.

  She shook her head. She had her faults too: one of them was still loving him though she was married to another man.

  Nancy was laughing. She touched her swollen stomach. ‘Here’s someone who’s going to make you change your tune, my love. He’s not going to be incurably depraved, whatever “depraved” may mean.’

  Francis sneered. Anyone who did not like him, thought Magdalen, would have called it an evil sneer. His own son or daughter, it indicated, would, simply because he or she was human, be depraved, in some degree. But then did not Mr Henderson and all the ministers of the Kirk believe that too? Was not one of their favourite sermons about Eve bringing evil into the Garden of Eden or rather into Adam’s heart?

  She was glad now that she had not married Francis, though she still loved him. Jamie might become a soldier and take part in battles but he would never belittle or hate the men he fought against and perhaps killed.

  In one of the paintings there was a nun in a black robe, on her knees praying. That, thought Magdalen, is the kind of life I would have chosen if it had been possible. Then it occurred to her that by that wish she was betraying her children. In a way the nun was like Francis: he confronted humanity with a contemptuous face, she turned her back on it.

  In the kitchen the Mintlaw servants were praising their young mistress. They had long ago got over their scruples about serving someone no more blue-blooded than themselves and not much more refined in speech or appearance. They had decided that a shopkeeper’s daughter with a kind heart and a lot of money was a more rewarding person to work for than a lord’s daughter with hardly any money and too high an opinion of herself. There were none of the penny-pinching economies that went on in many big houses and hurt servants most. Wages were above average and were paid regularly. Mr Dick of Edinburgh must be a staunch Presbyterian: his having amassed so great a fortune was proof of that; and he had brought up his daughter to be one too; she went about the house, singing psalms lustily.

  As for Mintlaw, well, maybe it was true that there was a small room which he reserved for himself and kept locked, but many noblemen had similar dens where they liked to get away from the family hubbub. In any case – here their voices dropped – even if it was fitted out as a Papist chapel, it didn’t follow that Mintlaw himself was a Papist: he had had it done for the sake of those French and Italian craftsmen. If Janet was going to cast up what he had shouted out in Kinnaird kirk five years ago in defence of old Jessie Gilmour, well, they, for their part, weren’t sure any longer that he hadn’t been right. Even at the time they hadn’t been convinced that Jessie was a witch and, even if she had been, burning her alive had been too cruel.

  Janet was dumbfounded. She had known some of those men and women for many years. They had had no education. They couldn’t read or write. Yet here they were, just because they had been given soft beds to lie on and coal fires to heat them, daring to criticise the wise men of the Kirk. She saw in their faces something she had never seen before, a pride in themselves, which ought to have been ridiculous in cooks, scullery maids, laundry girls, coal-boys, ostlers, and gardeners, but somehow was not.

  Later in Lady Magdalen’s bedroom she was dour and sulky.

  ‘I never thought a house could be made so beautiful,’ said Lady Magdalen.

  ‘A’ it taks is money.’

  ‘No. It takes good taste too. Kinnaird will seem very gloomy after this.’

  ‘No’ for me. Kinnaird’s for living in, this is jist for show.’

  ‘Those wonderful chandeliers!’

  ‘I wadna like the cleaning o’ them.’

  ‘The servants all look very content.’

  ‘No’ only that, they’re sae prood o’ themsel’s, like a bunch o’ bairns.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be proud to work in so beautiful a house?’

  ‘It’s naething to smile at, my lady. Your ain faither willna smile nor ony gentleman that employs servants. They’ll a’ want whit Mintlaw’s gi’en his.’

  ‘Don’t you think servants’ lives should be made more comfortable?’

  ‘Their lives were never meant to be comfortable, my lady. Ask Mr Henderson. He’ll tell you. If they’re too comfortable, they’ll get lazy, baith in body and soul. The Children of Israel in the wilderness werena comfortable. You’ll see, my lady, retribution will fa’ on this hoose and its maister. The Lord will see to that.’

  ‘I prefer to think that He will give it His blessing and protection.’

  21

  TO MAGDALEN’S distress, John, and little James too, as soon as they could walk, showed a liking for military games, as if it was inborn in them; which, her father drily assured her, it certainly had been: many of their ancestors on both sides had been redoubtable warriors. Aged six and three respectively, the boys marched about the house wearing wooden swords and banging drums. In vain their mother tried to entice them with picture-books of animals and flowers. Janet tartly reminded her that it was the nature of boys to play with swords and bows and arrows. One day they might have to fight to prevent the Papists from taking over Scotland again. Their mother would be proud of them then.

  Magdalen was not all that sure that she would. Killing other men who disagreed with you seemed to her a strange way of proving your love of God.

  She still longed for that little girl.

  In fairness to their father, she often praised him to them and took them to the great hall to study his portrait. They asked many eager questions. Where was Papa now? Was he fighting for the King? When was he coming back? Why was he staying away so long? Would he bring them presents?

  Though James had now been away for three years, far longer than most young husbands and fathers, she never let bitterness or disappointment show. Their father, she told them, was not fighting anyone, for there was no war. He was visiting foreign lands and meeting important people. They would do the same themselve
s when they were older: it was part of a nobleman’s education. He would tell them all about it when he came home. It wouldn’t be long now. Yes, of course he would bring them presents.

  Then one day a letter arrived from London, addressed to her father. It was curt and almost surly. James expected to be home in two or three weeks: there was nothing in London to keep him there. He asked for preparations to be set in foot so that he could remove from Kinnaird to his own castle at Kincardine as soon as possible. He intended from now on to stay at home and look after his estates. He had had enough of great men and their caprices.

  ‘I fear his meeting with the King did not go well,’ said her father.

  ‘Surely the King has forgotten about the coronation?’

  ‘Kings do not forget insults.’

  ‘But Jamie did not intend to insult him.’

  ‘God knows what James intended. The King certainly took it as an insult.’

  ‘But he was very gracious to you, Father.’

  At his coronation in Edinburgh Charles had been complimentary about Carnegie’s work on behalf of the Crown, and his father’s before him. He had made him an earl and had promised him further favours.

  ‘When I spoke to him about James he cut me off.’

  ‘Did he not take into account that Jamie was only twenty-one then?’

  ‘Men have been hanged who were younger. I hope James has now learned that this is an age of intrigues and conspiracies, with every man looking to his own advantage. Even honourable men are compromised. The King, alas, has surrounded himself with time-servers and sycophants. Chief among these is Hamilton, who for some reason is not well disposed towards James. It could be that he is jealous. Everyone knows that James is much more able. But he must learn to curb his tongue and subdue his pride.’

  ‘Do you think he is in earnest when he says he intends to stay at home in future?’

  ‘He was in earnest when he wrote it. I have no doubt, but I cannot see a restless spirit like his content to nibble straws and watch neeps grow.’

  ‘He will seem like a stranger. He will have met so many people that he will have forgotten me.’

  ‘It will take time, my pet. You will have to be patient.’

  ‘I have been very patient, Father.’

  ‘So you have, and I commend you for it. At Kincardine you can both make a fresh start.’

  ‘We had so little in common before, it will be worse now.’

  ‘You have your children in common.’

  ‘Yes.’ But she wondered if in a few years’ time that would still be true.

  She did not want to leave Kinnaird where she had been born and lived most of her life. There were many places, in and out of the house, which she would touch in passing, to reassure herself, as cats did. It would be a long time before there were any such places in Kincardine. She had heard it was a damp gloomy house.

  She could not help remembering the beauty and brightness of Mintlaw.

  PART TWO

  1

  ON SPECIAL ALERT, the watchmen on the ramparts were quick to espy and report the approach of Montrose and his two companions, on a dry clear afternoon in May. With one exception, the whole household flocked noisily into the courtyard to greet the returning earl. Southesk held back, though the news had been shouted to him by several. Himself an earl now and, as a Privy Councillor, superior to James in official position, he had decided that not only would it be beneath his dignity, it would also be an unwise policy, for him to make too public a fuss of his son-in-law’s return. Until he knew how things stood between Montrose and the King, he had to be discreet. Montrose might well be in mutinous mood. As the King’s officer, Southesk must be careful not to appear to be encouraging him.

  Magdalen did not at first notice her father’s absence. She was too agitated and anxious, indeed almost in tears, and she had her two little sons to hold by the hand. They had gone from being very excited to being very shy and might have run back into the house if she had let go.

  It was hard to recognise her husband in this grim-faced, bearded, dusty horseman, who gave her and the two boys brief glances before dismounting and calling for an ostler to take care of his horse. Then he stood staring at the doorway of the house, where her father ought to have been, welcoming him. Whatever rebuff he had suffered at the Court in London, his pride had not been lowered by it; on the contrary, she had never seen him so proud and haughty. Somehow it made him look vulnerable, so that she felt she ought to run forward to comfort and, what was even more absurd, protect him. The doves which had so pleased him at his setting forth were now unheeded. He muttered his displeasure to his two companions who had also dismounted. They looked uncomfortable, as if they had been hearing many grumbles from him recently. They were his servant, Mr Lambie, and his clerk, Mr Saintserf. Young Graham of Morphy had come home by himself more than a year ago.

  At last Magdalen found the courage to go towards her husband, pulling the two boys. They were afraid of this scowling stranger, so unlike the portrait in the great hall. James indeed was whimpering.

  ‘Welcome home, Jamie,’ she said. She could not stop her voice from trembling.

  He gave her a glance calculated and callous in its casualness and then gazed longer but in hardly more kindly a fashion at the two timid little boys.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ he asked roughly. ‘God’s blood, woman, you have made milksops of them.’

  She turned pale. ‘They’re excited, James. They’ve been looking forward to your return for weeks.’

  She had called him James. Never again would she call him Jamie. That part of their marriage was over.

  ‘Is your father at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he then? Is he deliberately avoiding me? Am I in future to be treated like a leper?’

  Just then, her father appeared in the doorway, in no hurry, clad in his usual black, and with his gold chain of office round his neck.

  ‘Welcome back, James,’ he said, coming forward and holding out his hand.

  Montrose took it briefly. ‘Did you receive my letter, sir? Have preparations been made for my removal to Kincardine?’

  Southesk remained calm, though he resented being addressed as if he was the steward of the household and not its master.

  ‘Yes, James, preparations have been made. Magdalen has been very busy but, no doubt, you will oversee them yourself. In the meantime you will want to refresh yourself. Later we shall talk.’

  It was as if they were meeting after only a week or two’s separation; so quickly had the old animosity revived.

  Magdalen could see that James was wound up, on edge. As his wife, it was her duty to help him relax and feel at home, but he looked ready to repulse her if she tried. Perhaps he was used to being soothed by ladies grander and more practised than she.

  He made for his own quarters in the house. She followed, leaving the two boys in Janet’s charge.

  In the hall he noticed her portrait and went over to stand in front of it.

  ‘Good God, is that supposed to be you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, James. Mr Jameson came to Kinnaird and painted it.’

  ‘You never were very blithe, but he has made you positively mournful.’

  ‘It is considered a true likeness.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we can always get rid of it and find a more cheerful artist.’

  Francis Gowrie had offered to buy it if James didn’t like it.

  While he was having a bath and changing his clothes she went to the kitchen and arranged a meal for him. She was as courteous as always to the servants, though they had all seen her being slighted. They were careful not to show their sympathy but she was aware of it.

  So that they could talk in private, she served him herself.

  He ate angrily. ‘Why is your father treating me in such an offhand manner?’

  ‘He is not sure how to treat you, James. None of us is. You have been away so long.’

  ‘I did not know I
had to ask anyone’s permission as to how long I stayed away.’

  He was being petty and knew it and hated himself for it.

  ‘Did you look for Katherine?’ she asked.

  She knew the question might anger him but not as much as it did. He banged the table with his fist, making the dishes rattle. ‘Do you think that because this is not my house but your father’s that I can be badgered in it?’

  She faced up to him. ‘I am not badgering you, James. I would like to know if you have any news of Katherine.’

  He was the one who lowered his eyes. ‘Well, I have none.’

  ‘Did you not meet anyone who could tell you anything about her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or about him?’

  ‘No. As you can see, this is a topic I find very painful.’

  Because, she thought, you did not make much of an effort to find and rescue your sister.

  He looked up then and grinned. ‘So your old sweetheart Gowrie married his horse-faced shopkeeper’s daughter after all. It’s the talk of Edinburgh how he’s squandered her fortune on turning Mintlaw into an Italian palace.’

  ‘She is not horse-faced and Mintlaw is beautiful.’

  He was interested in spite of himself. ‘Have you met her? Have you seen it?’

  ‘Yes, I have visited Mintlaw.’

  ‘Did your father allow it?’

  ‘He would have preferred me not to go. He thought you might have objected.’

  ‘I certainly would have. You know my opinion of Gowrie.’

  She did not let herself be provoked. She had not yet worked out what her rights were, as a woman and as a wife. They had never been defined. Many would say she had none but this she resolutely rejected.

  ‘If you had brought a great fortune with you, Magdalen, do you know how I would have spent it? On fitting out a regiment.’

  And she could have done nothing to prevent it.