Little Bird Flies Page 9

  “Well, I told the Laird that the strength of the trees suited his character. But in truth? He didn’t deserve the loveliness you showed me,” says Mr Samuel, lowering his voice and smiling wryly.

  “You have his likeness very well,” says Ishbel, joining me at the window.

  “Yes, you have made him seem just as overly proud and mean-spirited as he is,” says Donal Matheson, deserting the barrow as I have done, to get a glimpse of the work Mr Samuel has been so diligently perfecting.

  “Shush!” says Ishbel, hitting her beau on the arm, her tone worried and warning. “What if the Laird hears?”

  Donal responds by planting a quick kiss on her cheek, and saying, “Don’t you worry; I’m too clever to get caught by the likes of him!”

  Another time, I would be as surprised as Ishbel at Donal’s brazenness. But I am too upset by what I see before me. The painting; it looks so very nearly finished. And if that is so, then Mr Samuel will be taking his leave of us, and packing his things to go back to Glasgow and––

  “Donal!” comes a shout, as Fergus clatters up to us with his solid-shouldered workhorse and now-empty cart. Empty of goods, that is: now George and Will, their lobsters put away in the kitchens, are hitching a lift away home, or perhaps back to the harbour. I give Will a quick smile – but he gives me nothing but the strangest of looks in return. What is that about? We are to meet later; Mr Samuel wishes us to show him the distant lochan this afternoon. I will find out then what troubles my friend.

  “But I am helping Bridie with this…” Donal’s words fade as he looks, as Ishbel and I do, at the tight-lipped, angry faces of his brother and George. “Sorry, Bridie. I must go.”

  And with another quick kiss planted on a startled Ishbel’s cheek, Donal leaps up on to the cart, and he and his brother and the others hare away as if the very devil were after them.

  Ishbel and I turn to watch them go, and both start when we see the Mistress herself glowering at us from the corner at the front of the house.

  “You – a word, please,” she says, ushering Ishbel to her.

  I hang back, not sure what to do as Ishbel walks towards the Mistress, her dark head bowed low…

  “Here, let me help you with that,” I hear Mr Samuel say, and turn to see him jump down from the open long window, and bound over to lift the handles of my barrow. He is not expecting it to be so heavy I think, and as he lifts it, the barrow tilts to one side – I leap to his aid as he has leapt to mine, and catch a ham before it rolls to the ground.

  “How hungry does Mr Palmer-Reeves think the Queen will be?” Mr Samuel jokes, as we lurch towards the back of the house, him steering our way, myself keeping a hand on our unsteady load. “Perhaps he hopes for some royal favour. A knighthood for a ham! Or––”

  Mr Samuel halts in his jesting as two sleek giants clip-clop towards us from the direction of the stables; Mr Palmer-Reeves is riding the finer of the two horses, with his lawyer friend Mr Jenkins astride the other. The two men might normally think themselves above everyone, and today, from their lofty heights, they do not even seem to acknowledge those busy on the ground on their behalf. And so they converse as if their worthy voices will not drift down to us mortals below; us mortals who know very little English beyond commands, they stupidly think. In fact these “gentlemen” are so stupid, so careless, so taken with their own self-importance that they do not even notice that Mr Samuel is among our ranks.

  “…as Kitty says, Her Majesty will hardly want to be introduced to such a drab creature!” Mr Palmer-Reeves guffaws.

  “Shall you order her to keep to her quarters while the Queen visits?” asks Mr Jenkins.

  “Yes, it’s for the best,” says the Laird, as they pass us. “Oh, if only I could marry the damned woman off and be done with it. But who decent would have her?”

  I glance at Mr Samuel and he meets my gaze; he knows, as I do, that the “gentlemen” can be talking of one person only.

  “Listen,” I hear Mr Jenkins say, as their steeds clip-clop towards the front gardens and entrance gates, “I’ve told you before, there is another way to deal with your burden, and it’s one that’s far better for you. I have all the details of the place at Gartnavel. One signature from you and…”

  They are gone from us, or at least far enough away that we cannot catch the remainder of their words.

  “What are they talking about?” I whisper to Mr Samuel, as my mind translates the English words as best it can. “What does ‘gartnavel’ mean?”

  “It is an area in Glasgow,” Mr Samuel answers, frowning. “I cannot think what place they refer to there…”

  With the curiousness of the overheard conversation, we have stalled in our walking, I realise – Ishbel has just hurried past us, looking neither left nor right about her.

  “Ishbel? Ishbel!” I call out, and scamper after my sister, leaving the barrow and Mr Samuel behind me.

  She carries on walking at speed, heading for the back of the house and the kitchens, even when I come in front of her.

  “Ishbel?” I say again, grabbing hold of her arm to slow her. “What is the matter?”

  At last she halts, and I see that her dark eyes are pooled with tears.

  “I am to work till the Queen’s visit is done, and then I am dismissed,” she says in a tremulous voice, not able to meet my eyes.

  “Dismissed? What for?” I gasp.

  “For disgraceful and disgusting behaviour, the Mistress says,” Ishbel replies.

  I shake my head, understanding nothing. How could my graceful, well-mannered sister be described this way? And then I guess at the truth of it…

  “Because Donal stole a kiss from you?” I ask, knowing this must be the answer.

  Ishbel nods and tries to say yes, but the word is stuck in her throat. With a cough, she takes her leave of me, muttering, “I must go about my business or I will not get my final wages…”

  “What is happening, Little Bird?” Mr Samuel asks as he and the wobbly barrow catch me up. He awaits my explanation, but I cannot give him one as a sudden new sound has struck further fear into my heart.

  The barking is incessant, and I remember that Lachlan is somewhere around the front of the house, chasing after Patch with his prize. Knowing the Mistress to be in the foulest of moods, I do not want my brother to cross paths with her.

  So I scurry back the way I came (darting sideways to avoid another horse and laden cart that comes careering through the gates) and glance quickly around.

  And there – there is the scene I did not wish to see.

  Over by some ornamental flowering bush stands a panting Lachlan, clutching the ham, while Patch the dog barks and jumps, half playing, half disappointed at the loss of his thieved treat.

  The Mistress, shouting, “Stop where you are!” is bearing down on my brother, her heeled shoes crunching on the stones of the driveway.

  “Don’t worry, Mother! I have him!” cries a shrill voice, and Miss Kitty comes out from under an arched bower of roses, where she must have been sitting.

  She rushes towards Lachlan with clipped but forceful steps, one of those tiny fool’s umbrellas dipping up and down above her head. The look of her is so comical I almost feel like laughing, till she reaches up and pulls the umbrella flat to its stick – and transforms it into a dainty club…

  Without a word, but with teeth gritted like a wolfhound who has cornered a rabbit, Miss Kitty lifts the club she has made and brings it down hard.

  In that second, before the shock hits me, I feel so very foolish. For at first I thought it cruel of her to hit the small dog, until I realised her aim was not meant for Patch. The blow hits my brother’s cheek with a resounding whack, causing him to stagger and drop the rescued leg of ham.

  “Lachlan!” I call out, grabbing my skirts as I hasten towards him, for once cursing my bad foot for slowing my progress.

  But I think the blow has left Lachlan reeling with fright; like a wild beast, it is as if he thinks flight is his only path, and w
ithout looking my way, he turns and runs, runs through the open gates, darting between men carrying sacks across their backs.

  I go to follow my little brother, but not before I see Miss Kitty stare my way. Perhaps I might have hoped to see her contrite, shocked at what she has done in the spur of the moment. Instead she is like some half-crazed creature, her eyes glazed with something like hate or delight, I cannot tell which.

  Then she gives me a slow-spreading smile that curdles my blood.

  And in that moment, I feel my family is quite undone.

  CHAPTER 11

  The lochan is the most peaceful spot on the island, its still waters ringed by the raggedy beauty of Scots pines.

  But those gathered around it this afternoon have no peace in their hearts. The only one that is content is Patch, who Will came across in the woods that back on to the Big House this afternoon as he waited for Mr Samuel. The dog abandoned what was left of his stolen goods and followed Will and Mr Samuel here, despite their urging him home. He is now lying near Lachlan, sleeping off his bellyful of ill-gotten ham, while Lachlan lies with his head in Effie’s lap.

  It was a surprise to me that our sister joined us here this afternoon. But I think she had no taste nor energy for chores, not once her anger and tears were eventually spent over the sight of the weal on Lachlan’s cheek and the news of Ishbel’s dismissal. Indeed, a listlessness came over her and she trailed along with Lachlan and myself to the lochan. Since we arrived she has sat staring at the rippling water, stroking Lachlan’s still head and softly singing, “A ghaoil, leig dhachaigh gum mhàthair mi…”

  “Love, let me home to my mother…”

  The way that she is, I am not sure Effie is even aware that she is singing, let along what she is singing. It is a very old song about a young girl in danger, which seems fitting for this moment, after the news Will told me when he called for me at the cottage earlier, on his way to meet Mr Samuel. For is not every Tornish girl in danger, along with every boy, man and woman who calls the island their home?

  “So your father does not yet know what has befallen your sister and brother, Bridie?” asks Mr Samuel, taking a seat upon a tree stump.

  “He is gone to the furthest west township to advise them of the Laird’s intentions to increase rents,” I tell him, “so no, he does not yet know.”

  “And you do not know the worst of it, Mr Samuel,” says Will, balancing on his haunches as his hand searches out stones in the shingle by the water’s edge. “I dared not tell you till we were far from the Big House and any crofts as we walked here.”

  “What is it, Will?” Mr Samuel asks with a concerned frown. “I cannot believe you have worse news to tell me?”

  Will stands, shoots me a look and shrugs as he tells his tale to our gentleman friend.

  “Aye, it’s worse. Before Fergus left the yard earlier, he took his horse to the water trough and overheard some lads talking; the groom and another of the Laird’s London staff,” says Will, breaking his story every few words to angrily skim stone after flat stone over the water’s surface. “It seems the Laird’s plan is to raise rents so high that tenants will eventually come to realise they cannot pay what he asks and so will begin to leave the island, having no other choice, and no means to survive. In the meantime, Mr Palmer-Reeves is to arrange to have a herd of deer brought across from the mainland to breed.”

  “Deer?” Mr Samuel splutters in surprise. “From what I know of the sad history of this part of Scotland, I thought you to mean sheep were to soon be farmed here for their wool. What good are deer?”

  “Deer may have no wool to sell, but they can certainly make the Laird money,” Will continues, a dark rage boiling just under his skin, I can tell. “For this time next spring, Tornish will be but a sporting ground for rich folk to come shoot the stags and hinds at will on what once was our crofts and pastures…”

  Mr Samuel drops his head into his hands.

  “So help me … I cannot stay in that house, with those people, a day longer,” he moans. “That they can treat dear Miss Caroline the way they do; that they can treat your family the way they have today; that Mr Palmer-Reeves can have so little regard for his tenants… I tell you I would forgo my fee for the painting and throw the wretched thing on the fire, if I could get off this accursed island before the ferry comes again next week!”

  “Please, sir. I beg you, do not talk of our home that way,” says Effie, suddenly stirring. “It is not the island that is accursed, but the people who now call themselves our Laird and Mistress!”

  “Forgive me, Effie; my temper led me astray,” Mr Samuel apologises. “I did not mean to slander this perfect place. I only…”

  The darkness suddenly lifts from his brow, and his eyes open wide in shock.

  “I have it now, Little Bird! I know what Mr Jenkins spoke of when he and the Laird rode by,” he mutters, turning to me. “Gartnavel … the lunatic asylum is there!”

  “What is this?” asks Effie, looking from Mr Samuel to me, and understanding as little of the English words as I do.

  “It is where they send people…” Mr Samuel casts around for something we might understand “… people who have quite lost their minds!”

  “But Miss Tulliver is not like that,” I say urgently. “Her only trouble is that she grieves still for her mother, and feels she must hide her scars from prying eyes. On what grounds would the Laird’s lawyer suggest sending her to such a place?”

  “On the grounds of her wealth, perhaps?” Mr Samuel suggests, pulling agitatedly at the floppy cravat at his neck to slacken it.

  “She has nothing … her house burnt down,” I remind him.

  “Yes, but the land it stood on will be worth something,” says Mr Samuel. “And her deceased father no doubt left Miss Tulliver and her mother a reasonable allowance. If Mr Palmer-Reeves consigns Miss Tulliver to the lunatic asylum in Glasgow, then – as her guardian – he may have access to it all!”

  Mr Samuel is now beside himself, quite sure of some dreadful plot.

  “But the new Laird has inherited Tornish; Will has just told us of the plans he has to make himself quite rich from it,” I say, trying to make sense of the awful suggestions Mr Samuel has put forward. “Why would he need Miss Tulliver’s land and monies too?”

  “Because rich folk are not like us,” Will says fiercely. “They are never satisfied with their lot. They will never pass up an opportunity to get richer.”

  But I don’t think Mr Samuel hears Will; he looks off across the bristling surface of the moor, his face lighting up as if he is a castaway on the ocean who has spotted land.

  “Caroline!” he shouts, standing and waving as the girl all dressed in black comes running over the bumpy, coarse grasses, like a carefree child. And she runs unhindered, with her new-made veil unpinned and held carelessly in her hand.

  “Hello!” she calls out giddily, almost lifting the spirits of this gloomy party.

  “What are you doing here, my love?”

  Mr Samuel says the last two words so easily, so naturally, that they almost go unnoticed.

  Almost.

  Effie and I exchange glances, then look to Miss Caroline. She is so pink-cheeked with the effort of running that it is impossible to tell if she blushes at those affectionate syllables. But her stumbling words show that she is taken aback.

  “Oh! Oh, well … I … I have quite run away! Ha!” she laughs lightly. “But only for an hour or so. My guardian is newly ridden off to the furthest township, and Mrs Palmer-Reeves and Kitty are taking an afternoon nap.”

  And then her smile fades as she notices our downcast expressions.

  “What is wrong? What has happened?” she asks, looking from one face to another.

  My heart beats in my chest, waiting for Mr Samuel to tell her the awful truth he has guessed at. But before he can gather his words, her questioning gaze settles on Lachlan and the angry mark in plain sight on his cheek.

  “Miss Kitty struck him,” Effie says softly, her han
d moving our brother’s flop of hair from his forehead.

  “What? Oh, surely not! I cannot bear it. Lachlan, are you all right?” Miss Tulliver asks, dropping to her knees, the better to regard our brother.

  Wearily, Lachlan props himself up, causing Miss Tulliver to gasp as she sees for herself the fiery, raised skin with bruises ripening. A tear trickles a zigzag route down Miss Tulliver’s own marked cheek as she peels off a black glove and tenderly strokes her hand on Lachlan’s downy skin.

  “What is to be done…?” she says in a gentle but desperate voice.

  As she speaks, I see Will’s face darken and his jaw clench in a way that does not suit him, and puzzles me some. He is staring off towards the rocky outcrop that rises behind the pines. Perhaps he wishes he could scramble up there and roar his rage to the sky.

  But I cannot think of that, not now Mr Samuel has done something so urgent and peculiar. For he has rushed over and dropped down by Miss Tulliver’s side. Dropped down on one knee!

  “I wish I had answers to all the wrongs that are happening here, but I do not,” he says. “Though there is one thing I can do. One way to right one wrong. One way to help that would make me the happiest of men…”

  What is happening here?

  Is this a proposal?

  Mr Samuel – does he mean to wed Miss Tulliver, to save her?

  For if the “problem” of Miss Tulliver is solved this way, then the Laird will not have to consider his lawyer friend’s outlandish notion of the asylum!

  Effie suddenly sits up stiffly, her grey eyes widening as she too grasps Mr Samuel’s meaning. I fancy we both hold our breath, awaiting Miss Tulliver’s response.

  “Samuel … I – I don’t understand,” she says, flopping back on the grass, as if she does understand but that the surprise of it has quite bowled her over.

  Her suitor drops to the grass too, on both his knees and holding his hands together, as if to entreat Miss Tulliver of his earnest feelings.

  “Hear me out, Caroline, I beg you,” he begins. “If we had all the time in the world and you had a loving and dear family, then I would court you in the most steady and slow fashion. But we do not have all the time in the world, as I will leave for Glasgow next week. And more to the point, you do not have a loving and dear family, though no one deserves it more. And yes, I am much too lowly for you, dear, who should be the wife of some man of stature. But marry me, and I promise you will be my light and my love and my joy…”