Little Bird Flies Page 6

  “Here,” Ishbel says with a weary sigh. “Give me your foot, Bridie, and I’ll try to ease it.”

  At her for-once-kindly order, I hop around so that my back now leans against the hard, cool stone of the wall, and let my sister take my ankle in her hand.

  “I can manage, you know,” I tell her, though I am glad of her help. “You could go and be with your friends…”

  I mean that she can be with Donal Matheson, but I dare not say so for the glower I would get.

  “Oh, I am not much enjoying their talk just now,” Ishbel says, also struggling with the reluctant fastening. She does not see that Donal has already stepped away from his own brother Fergus and Will’s brother George and the other lads and has walked over to seek her out. And she has not realised that he has heard her last remark.

  “I can’t say we are much ‘enjoying’ our talk either, Ishbel,” he says, a dark look clouding his face. “But these things need to be said, do they not?”

  With no proper sightings of Mr Palmer-Reeves, the island folks’ thoughts have begun to turn troubled – especially those of the young men, like Donal, Fergus and George.

  “But what purpose does it serve to fear the worst?” Ishbel chides him. “We all may do well enough when the new Laird is quite settled. And once Father has a chance to talk with him, I am sure he can put folks’ minds at rest.”

  “And when will that be, eh, Ishbel?” Donal demands, losing patience with his beloved for the first time ever, I am sure. “Mr Palmer-Reeves has not set a date for an audience with the elders. And when, if, he ever does, what happens should he announce that every one of us is to be driven away, and fine flocks of Cheviot sheep take our place?”

  At that I have a sudden memory of Mr Palmer-Reeves and his lawyer friend, examining the paintings in the great hall of the Big House, when first they came to Tornish.

  “But that will not happen – the new master does not like sheep!” I blurt out, hoping that foolish-sounding snatch of remembered conversation would help reassure Donal and the others.

  But Donal pays me no mind; his passions are high and he is already impatiently turning back to his friends.

  “Ach, Donal supposes we all must think as he does, or we are fools!” Ishbel mutters, without realising I would describe her in the very same way.

  She stares after him, but I am staring at who is coming towards us. Effie’s frowning glare is firmly fixed on me.

  “Bridie!” she calls out.

  What now – is she about to scold me for having too much knitted stocking on show or the like?

  “Is it paining you?” she asks as she reaches us, and lays a warm hand on my raised ankle.

  I am lost for words for a moment, as I am in those rare moments that Effie or Ishbel soften towards me. Even in the cramped box bed we share, I am at the mercy of their digging elbows and thudding knees as they harshly claim the space in their sleep, with me in the middle, inching in my turns lest I disturb them.

  But before I manage to form my words into an answer, Effie turns to Ishbel. “We must ask Father to buy her new boots. Softer ones.”

  “Yes,” Ishbel agrees. “We’ll ask him later if––”

  “No, no!” I say quickly.

  I understand, as my sisters do, that Father has money set aside. Money he has earned down the years from the good stone-work he has done on Tornish and on the mainland too, as news of his skills spreads. He keeps this treasure trove of coins and notes in a prettily decorated tin box that was once Mother’s. It is tucked away in the eaves somewhere, and there it must stay till Father decides that the time is right to spend it. Ishbel says Mother once told her the purpose of it, and it is for us. For Ishbel and Effie, for me and for Lachlan. It is money to help us when we marry, to buy us things for the homes that we girls will have with our husbands and Lachlan will have with his wife.

  Something curdles in the pit of my stomach at the thought of that money and its purpose. The idea of my own husband and my own croft here on the island, and my own kettles and pots and beds and chickens makes me want to do one thing and one thing only: grab my foot away from Ishbel and run, run, run for the Glas Crags and the view and the sea and the sky and the clouds.

  Where I can fill my tight lungs with clean, sharp air.

  Where my eyes can seek the horizon; oh, that faraway horizon to the west and America and freedom…

  But the truth – in the here and now – is that I cannot seem like an ungrateful daughter who would reject such a loving gift. So the next best that I can do is reject new boots, which would take away from the money that my sisters and brother deserve more than me.

  “I will get some fat, and work it in the leather,” I say keenly. “That will ease it, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not sure that will be enough,” Ishbel says kindly but firmly. “I think Effie is right and––”

  “Ha! Is this some strange Highland Fling?” comes a voice that I instantly know, with a rush in my chest, to be Mr Samuel’s.

  I ignore the flutterings of shyness; I have had no sightings of the artist since he arrived and I am more than pleased to make his acquaintance again.

  My sisters immediately curtsey, but I cannot, since Ishbel still has my foot in her hand.

  Instead I hop a little to keep my balance and say, “It is indeed. Would you like me to teach it to you?”

  Ishbel and Effie gasp at my cheek – and Mr Samuel smiles even more brightly. Till he shocks my sisters by putting his hand out to greet them.

  “You are Ishbel; I remember you from the first day I arrived at the house,” he says with a courteous nod of the head, before turning to Effie. “And you are so very alike, and must be another sister to Little Bird?”

  Mr Samuel’s belief that we have some similarity makes the three of us turn to each other and laugh; it is such a fanciful notion! What we have in common is a shared feeling that we are so very different from each other, and not just in looks… Ishbel, serious and grown beyond her years; Effie, bossy and superstitious, and I … what am I? Small but irksome to my sisters, and full of secrets in my own eyes.

  “This is Effie,” I say, taking the trouble to name our middle sister, since she is too affronted to talk in front of this stranger.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Mr Samuel says with a bow, and in this moment I see that he is not too much older than Fergus and Donal Matheson, who are both a little past their twenty-first year, I think. “Now, Little Bird, I have been very busy painting your Laird in his study. But he wishes the background to be some scenic panorama of the island that I must find and paint without him, as he has much business to attend to. Would you fulfil your promise and show me some splendid vistas? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  My sisters look lost for words and slightly scandalised. But of course I will say yes. Having no school at the moment, Will and Lachlan can come with me, so Father will not mind.

  I am about to ask when Mr Samuel would like to set off, when we are joined by three unsmiling ladies. Though the third, I suppose, might be smiling, but I would not know of it because of the veil she wears.

  As soon as Ishbel becomes aware of their presence, she lets my foot fall to the ground, and we MacKerrie sisters do our best, most polite bob to the new Laird’s wife, daughter and Miss Tulliver, hidden in her wraps of lace and mourning.

  Well, perhaps it might be expected that Mrs Palmer-Reeves would engage us in some pleasantries, but it seems she has no taste for that.

  “I hear you work at the house,” she says directly to Ishbel, in a manner that has no warmth. “Do you understand me? I expect you would have some English, thanks to Mr Menzies.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ishbel replies politely.

  “Good. Well, Miss Kitty has alerted me to your hair,” Mistress Palmer-Reeves continues in a stiff, dry tone. “And now I can see she is correct in what she has told me; the style of it is very fanciful for one of your standing. I would expect it to be of a plainer nature when you work for us.”

  “Ye
s, ma’am,” Ishbel answers in a voice now no louder than a whisper. A blush of red flushes on my sister’s pale, hollowed cheeks.

  A blush of red flushes on my own cheeks. Why should these women belittle my sister so? What is it to them if she likes to braid and coil her hair, as long as she cleans and scrubs their chamberpots well?

  Oh, I see that my face must be showing my flare of anger; Miss Kitty stares at me so, as if she would very much like to reach across and slap me with the soft, white kid gloves she is holding in her hand.

  “So is Mr Palmer-Reeves quite determined on a walk this afternoon?” Mr Samuel says suddenly, in a most agreeable tone, as if he is trying to pour balm on this painful exchange.

  “Yes, yes … as long as the weather holds in this blessed place!” says the Mistress, glaring up at the sky as if she wishes it ill for not behaving.

  And now I am relieved to see her move off, with a heavy shuffle of her puffed skirts, Miss Kitty following with her own shuffle and rustle, and a look of disdain for us as she goes. The silent Miss Tulliver attempts to join them, but – thanks to the veil that must hamper her sight – she stumbles, and both Mr Samuel and myself are the first to reach her, each of us grabbing an elbow to steady the old lady.

  And with that steadying grab, on my side I notice the soft cloth of the Black Crow’s sleeve ride up, making a gap between cuff and glove. I cannot help stare at the skin on her wrist; it is very wrinkled, as you might expect of one of advanced years. But the wrinkles are puckered in an unusual way, and are a very dark pink. It reminds me of something I have seen, or perhaps been told…?

  And then I hear words spoken in a way I did not expect.

  “Thank you,” says a quiet, uncertain voice from beneath the veil. “You are very kind.”

  And that voice confounds me … for it is – I am suddenly very sure – a young person’s voice.

  Wait… I have been mistaken all this time? A quick glance at Ishbel shows that she is equally surprised to know that this lady living under the roof of the Big House is not who either of us supposed her to be.

  I quickly turn back to stare at the Black Crow – at Miss Tulliver, I mean – with new eyes, but her head is bowed, as if she stares down at her feet to remind them where they need to be placed.

  What of Mr Samuel … having met the family in Glasgow and stayed with them this last week, did he already know what we have only just discovered? The expression on his face is not one of surprise, certainly, so I must guess he is aware that he is in the company of a young lady. But what his expression does convey is something I saw just now in my sisters’ eyes as they fussed over me: tenderness and concern.

  My secret self shivers a little at the thought of tomorrow, when I might see Mr Samuel again.

  For I will keep my promise and reveal to him the special places of the island – and perhaps he may reveal to me what he knows of the Black Crow…?

  CHAPTER 8

  Tomorrow is still not here.

  Yet I am once again – unexpectedly – in the company of Mr Samuel.

  Sadly, it is not only Mr Samuel.

  For Mistress Palmer-Reeves, Miss Kitty and Miss Tulliver are in our kitchen, in our home.

  Outside, the new Laird is getting Father to show him the byre, the field, the cattle in the sweet green pastures.

  Inside, the ladies – accompanied by Mr Samuel – wish to take tea, after their tiring afternoon stroll, it seems. The group arrived a few minutes ago with this order, rather than request. How lucky it was not any earlier; we girls have only just taken a turn each with the tin bath, washing ourselves and our hair in front of the fire. But it is bad enough; we are in our oldest work clothes, with our good stuff set away again in the chests. Our hair is loose and damp down to our waists, and certainly not tidy, as it should be. And I know the visitors will have seen our petticoats and drawers fluttering on the washing line nearby (for shame).

  Confused, poorly dressed, with hair wild as banshees, Effie and I hover either side of the fireplace, not knowing quite what to do with ourselves. Ishbel, at least, has the role of host to keep her busy. She is perched on the stool in front of the fire.

  “The water will boil shortly,” she says, settling the big black kettle on the grate, now that she has stoked up the fire. “Won’t you take a seat?”

  She asks this because Mistress Palmer-Reeves and Miss Kitty are walking about the room, examining our things with a look of curious disdain. The plates on our dresser, the wooden bowls and tin cups and horn spoons laid neatly on the table, the candlesticks and china dog ornaments and clock on the mantle above the fire … they may not be as expensive and special as the painted porcelain and polished silver they are used to, but our things are clean and good and precious to us.

  “Sit!” Mistress Palmer-Reeves says smartly to Miss Tulliver, as if she were the little dog that Lachlan is playing with in the yard just now.

  The Black Crow perches quickly on the long, wooden settle, with a lightness and speed that shows that she is indeed a younger lady, and not some stiffened elderly woman, as I’d supposed her to be. Mr Samuel immediately sits beside her, an open book of some kind in his lap.

  It is most peculiar to see them both there, as this bench is where Lachlan and I sit of an evening, while Father and Ishbel and Effie take the three good chairs.

  “Are there cattle through there?” Miss Kitty asks, pointing to the rooms beyond this one, her nostrils quivering as if she can already smell their dung.

  A rattle crosses my chest at her words. Yes, there are still a few ancient blackhouses and cottages across the island where folk – old folk mostly – live in this time-honoured way, with one half of their building made cosy and homely for themselves, while the other room is a safe, dry shelter for their animals. But so many of the crofters have better houses now. And Father built us the best on Tornish after Lachlan was born. We have three rooms; this fine one we are in now, to cook in and sit in and talk and read and hear Father play his whistle of an evening while we sing along. The other big room is where myself and my sisters sleep in the box bed, with its doors that we can close when the winter winds do their best to chill the walls of our sturdy house. And in between the two big rooms, there is the small one that Father and Lachlan share.

  “We have a byre outside for the livestock,” Ishbel tells Miss Kitty plainly, talking of the old cottage in the yard, that was the home all we children were born in.

  She says no more than that, but I see Miss Kitty peering, as if she wishes to be shown what rooms are next door. With all my heart I do not wish this yellow-haired poppet to look with her mean, pitying gaze on the places where my sisters and I lay our heads and dream our different dreams…

  It seems Effie feels the same.

  “Will you not sit? Here, these will make you more comfortable…”

  As quick as a darting sparrow my sister takes some of the cushions from the settle and places them on the wooden chairs, then hurries to her spot by the mantle once again.

  Mistress Palmer-Reeves checks the cushions to see if they are to her liking, or to check if they are clean enough for her liking, and finally deigns to sit down. Her daughter follows suit, I am relieved to see.

  “So where is your mother?” Mistress Palmer-Reeves asks bluntly, as if she thinks Mother wanting indeed not to be here to greet her.

  The rumbling in my chest becomes painful.

  If folk here speak of our mother, it is with softness in their voices and fond memory in their hearts – especially the womenfolk, young and old, who loved her dearly for her kindness and friendship towards them. And I want it no other way.

  “She died some years ago, ma’am,” says Ishbel, trying to tie her hair into some kind of braid, though wet tendrils still spill about her shoulders like black seaweed.

  At that, myriad thoughts connect in my mind, like links in a chain. I see the churchyard where Mother lies, alongside two little brothers and a sister who lived only days each before they were gone. But one litt
le sister, Mairi, may have been hale and hearty and still the eldest sister to us all if she had not met with a terrible accident. This firstborn of the family had just learned to walk, but not yet learned to heed danger, and so tumbled into the fire, where her little clothes caught alight.

  No one in our family ever talks of it. But I have heard of that wretched time… Will’s own mother told him and he told me; the awful pain that poor Mairi suffered. The hope felt by our parents, when, after a few months, she seemed better, healed – though she carried pink wrinkles of the burns on her arms and chest as unhappy mementoes. The sadness when winter came and her lungs were too hurt from the smoke of the fire for her to stand the illness that finally struck her down.

  And there – that scrap of thought; the pink wrinkles of Mairi’s burns.

  I sensed some familiarity when I saw Miss Tulliver’s wrist outside church earlier today.

  So she has suffered in a similar way?

  With a wrench of pity, I risk a glance over at the settle – and see that Miss Tulliver’s head is down, and her shoulders are heaving. Mr Samuel sees it too, and – quickly shoving his book in his coat pocket – puts an arm around her.

  “Are you unwell, Miss Tulliver?” he asks.

  “Caroline!” barks the Mistress. “Sit up straight! Compose yourself!”

  I cannot stand still and hear the Black Crow be spoken to as if she is an annoyance, when she is clearly in some distress.

  “Will you come outside for a moment?” I ask, my bare feet crossing the flagstones before I get to the door and open it wide; wide to the rolling hills, the blue sky that meets them – not to mention our washed, white underthings doing their whirling dance. “There is a seat out there and you can get some air…”