I have racked my brains since. Was I so very foolish, so unseeing? Was there even the smallest hint of what was to follow? But I can find none. She was always her ordinary loving self with me. She gave me not a single hint of the storm that must have been taking place in her head and in her heart. Afterwards I found myself wondering, are all women like this? Can all women dissemble so completely, when there is something quite different going on behind their eyes? To believe that, of course, would be to call into question every single friendship, every courtship, every marriage. How could you ever trust a lassie again? Well, I did find myself thinking like that for a time, until I brought myself up short with the realisation that you must trust somebody or life itself would become unbearable. But from time to time, I still find myself considering the conundrum, albeit with feelings less sharp, less painful than I once endured.
Are lassies so used to disguising their true feelings, brought up as they are from birth to be pleasing to everyone except themselves, to accede to all demands, to consider themselves so much less than the menfolk in their lives? I sometimes think that must be the case. But then, so often they are bought and sold, so who can blame them? The tocher’s the jewel, as the poet Burns wrote. And so many men are but knotless threids who will slide away from lassies at time of need, so how could they be otherwise than dissembling? That a woman can tell you one thing with wide open eyes and a candid face, like a flower – that a woman can do this but be hiding so many shameful secrets, cherishing them deep inside her – that is the revelation from which I think I have never quite recovered. And even now, I am at a loss to know why she did it, how she could bring herself to do it, when I had given her all my trust and asked for so little in return. Besides, there was another betrayal to consider. Another dissembling. Even more monstrous, because there was far, far less excuse.
I watch my own wee Jenny now, arranging her flowers, a little crossly because they will not go the way she wants them. The lavender is too spiky, the late sweet peas too fragile and the one is warring with the other in her pitcher. Her cheeks have grown very pink. She tut-tuts, sighs, putting one hand on her hip as her mother sometimes does. I tell her to take them all out and start again, putting the flimsy sweet peas and the pinks in first and then coaxing a few of the stiff lavender stalks among them. I would try to do it for her but I know she would not accept my help, would flounce off in a temper, so I have to content myself with telling her what she might do to remedy matters, knowing that she will either take my advice or fall into a temper anyway.
She looks at me for a long moment, frowning and pursing her lips, and I have no idea what she is thinking either. But on this occasion at least, she decides to take my advice, hauls her flowers out, splashing water on my table and my books, which I have to mop up with my handkerchief, and begins all over again, as I have told her. This time she makes a passable attempt at a pretty arrangement. She is satisfied with herself and with my help and consequently with me for the time being. So she smiles at me. Which is reward enough.
‘There now,’ she says. ‘That’s done!’ The scent of sweet peas, lavender and cloves fills the room, and I am back there again in Jenny’s garden, knocking on the door, come to call upon her as we had arranged a few days previously. Thoughtless and happy. One of those moments in life when you look back and think, ‘That was it. That was the very second when everything changed.’
I was surprised when Sandy Caddas came to the door instead of Jenny, his face literally contorted by something. Worry? Anger? I couldn’t be sure but my stomach turned over with anxiety at the sight of him. What was wrong?
He ushered me in and I could see Anna sitting at the table, a grubby handkerchief screwed up in her fingers. She seemed nervous and I noticed that her eyes were red. She had been crying.
‘I only came to see Jenny.’ I was embarrassed by their discomfort. Had there been an argument of some sort? Was I the cause of it?
He stared at me for a moment. ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘She’s gone away.’
I was thrown into confusion. ‘Gone away?’
‘Did she not tell you?’ He said the words almost accusingly, but my stare of blank astonishment must have convinced him that I knew nothing. I was completely unaware that anything was amiss. If it was amiss.
I shook my head. ‘No. She said nothing. We were supposed to be meeting here today.’
He sighed, motioned me to sit at the table, poured out a mug of ale. Anna seemed disposed to talk, but he silenced her with a glance.
‘William!’ It was not often that he used my first name. Mostly he called me nothing, although he always spoke politely enough. ‘William,’ he said, again, ‘Can I be blunt with you? I’m sorry I have to ask you this. What are your intentions towards my daughter?’
I was momentarily surprised by the question. But there was only one answer. ‘Marriage, of course,’ I told him. ‘You must know that, Mr Caddas. I am hoping that as soon as I am properly established down in Ayrshire, with Doctor Brown’s help, I will be able to offer Jenny a home. I have wanted to wed her this long time past. You must know that.’
‘And does she know that?’
It seemed a very odd question. Why would Jenny not know it?
‘Of course. We have spoken of it often. She will tell you herself. You only need ask her. I thought she must have spoken to you about it.’
He had no reply to this, which fairly astonished me. I found myself blustering on, like a fool. ‘I was only waiting for a word from her that you had no objection to the match and I would have asked your permission myself. Where is she?’
He sighed deeply. ‘It’s no matter, son. She’s only gone away for a few weeks. Gone to stay with relatives.’
I couldn’t disguise my surprise.
‘But she never told me that she was going away. When was this decided?’
He glanced across at Anna, who regarded him in silence with large, frightened eyes.
‘She has gone to her cousin’s house. In Dumfries.’
‘She never told me she had cousins down there.’
‘They have never been close, until now.’
‘Then why …?’
‘They have asked her to stay. The old lady is unwell and needs nursing and they are a busy household. Jenny volunteered. She’s a good lass. You do know that, don’t you?’
I had never heard tell of these Dumfries cousins, but then I too had cousins whom I seldom saw.
‘Sir,’ I said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Sir, I must ask you, at the risk of upsetting you. Have you done this to remove her from me? Do you not agree to our marriage? Do you disapprove of me in some way?’
He was shaking his head, but I continued.
‘I am well aware that I have been dismissed by the college, but Dr Brown will vouch for my honour and my hard work. The position there had become untenable for me, as you must know. Now he has found me work as a gardener with his uncle in Ayrshire. There will be a home for my family there too and for my wife, when we are wed.’
He shook his head again. Managed a thin smile. ‘William, I would be very happy to agree to your marriage. I would be glad of it, in fact. You seem like a nice, steady lad to me and I think you will do your best for her.’
‘I will, I promise I will.’
‘She is very precious to me. But no. This is something quite different. She has gone away to … to do her duty by her family. She will return at last and when she does, I hope that you will still … I hope that you will want to marry her. That you can resume your courtship of her and we will talk about her tocher in the meantime. I can do that at least.’
‘The tocher can wait!’ I said, angrily. ‘Jenny would be just as dear me without it. With respect to you, sir, she can come to me penniless in her shift if she likes, and I will still love her and do my best for her. But if you tell me where she is, I can perhaps write to her and reassure her. If you think it is in any way necessary.’
‘Well yes. Perhaps you could write to her. But not immediately, William. You see, she was torn between her duty to go and her desire to stay here. And I think that a letter from you at this precise time might do more harm than good to her peace of mind. Do you understand me?’
‘I think so,’ I replied, cautiously. But I spoke out of politeness only. I didn’t understand him at all.
‘When a little while has passed and we have more idea of how long she might be away, I will tell you where she is, and you might write to her then. But not now, lad. Do you see? Not for a wee while.’
I was very puzzled, but I agreed. What else could I do? I couldn’t imagine what manner of family illness might have made Jenny depart so swiftly for the south of the country. And a long, arduous journey it was too, by postroads over mossy moors, most of which were – so the stories went – infested with bandits and gypsies. You had to have permission to travel down there, through the extensive lands owned by the various factions of the great but turbulent Kennedy family. Twixt Wigtown and the Cruives of Cree, so the old rhyme went, you could not pass unless you courted a Kennedy.
‘The minister gave her the necessary letters of permission,’ he added, as though reading my thoughts.
‘But how has she gone?’ I asked, thoroughly alarmed now. ‘Good God, sir, has she gone on foot? It is such a long way. And she should have been accompanied. Was there nobody to take her? How has she gone?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Calm yourself, man. She has gone by the weekly coach. It transports the wool from the south, and takes the weaving back, and I managed to secure her a place inside the coach. She will be safe enough. With her letters of permission from Mr Blackie, and a little siller in her purse, she will do well enough. And one of her cousins has agreed to come some of the way to meet with her.’
I was somewhat relieved, but still puzzled. I finished my ale and got up to leave. He shook my hand, but he would not meet my eyes as I left the house. I didn’t understand it at all and to compound my discomfort, when I got to the bend in the track, Anna emerged like a sprite from behind a tree. She was panting because she had run to intercept me. She stood there, glancing behind her, all poised to run back again instantly if her father should come looking for her.
‘William!’ she hissed. ‘William, she didnae want to go! I saw her leave. They made her go. She didnae want to go, but they made her! My father and Nancy from next door. They made her go and she was greetin’ so she was. Greetin’ so that I thocht her heart would brak’ in twa!’
I put out my hand to detain her, to question her further, but she had heard some noise, real or imagined, from the weaving shed. She slipped through my fingers and was gone, running like a young hare back towards her father’s cottage. I thought I saw Gilbert’s weaselly face, peering at us from behind a wall. But perhaps I was mistaken. I wondered briefly if I should go back, confront Mr Caddas, demand to know the truth. But I knew that he would tell me nothing else and I thought it unwise to antagonise him. So I went home.
I needed to confide in somebody, and Thomas was the obvious person, but I felt a faint reluctance to do so. It seemed too personal a problem to discuss, even with a man whom I had come to think of as my best friend. I got the length of his house, not knowing where else to go, but the housekeeper told me the family had gone to Edinburgh to visit Marion’s brother and would be away for a couple of weeks. I found myself hoping that Jenny would be back by then. I should have told my mother and I did tell her a sketchy story, half truth, half lies: that Jenny had warned me she might be going away to help with a sick cousin, that she had been called away suddenly because the cousin was worse but would return as soon as possible. If my mother found anything strange about this, she didn’t remark upon it.
That night, and for several nights after, I lay awake, trying to puzzle it all out. Finally, I sought out my sister, Bessie, as soon as was practical and confided my misgivings to her, telling her the whole of the strange tale, right down to Anna’s whispered warnings.
‘What do you think?’ I asked her.
We were sitting in the kitchen at the house where she was in service. Mistress MacTaggart, the cook, was taking an afternoon nap in her room. Young men were not generally allowed in the kitchen, but as Bessie’s elder brother I had privileges beyond the normal rules of the household. The family were out and the kitchen was quiet and private, although Bessie was meant to be cleaning the big copper moulds that hung there and were used for making celebratory jellies and shapes. She had a pile of cut lemons and some silver sand and she was rubbing away at the moulds with sand-filled lemons, greatly to the destruction of her fingernails. She listened while she cleaned. The moulds had bizarre shapes, like castles or strange fruits.. The smell of lemons was very strong in the air and brought Thomas to my mind, and the time he had made me my whisky toddy, when I was so ill. The time he had rested a cool hand on my forehead. I found myself wishing he were here now. Wishing I could confide in him.
‘It might be exactly as her father told you. Why would he lie to you? What reason would he have?’ Bessie asked.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of one.’
‘She had promised to help out with a sick relative and was summoned to the bedside quite suddenly. Perhaps she didn’t want to go, since it meant being away from you. Anna may have seen her in tears, but that would mean nothing. Only that she will miss you as much as you will miss her.’
‘Do you think so?’
She regarded me steadily if a little sternly. ‘Well, could there be any other explanation? Ask yourself!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh William, you know what I mean. The reasons why young women are sent away from home are generally to do with the state of their bellies, are they not? And I don’t mean that they have eaten too many green apples!’
I was shocked by her forthrightness, but that was typical of Bessie. I think I must have blushed, because she laughed at me.
‘You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? Lassies are sent away when they have a whaup in the nest! Especially when there is no man prepared to marry them. But everyone knows you would marry her tomorrow if you could. So I see no problem that would occasion her being banished.’
I must have blushed scarlet because she looked at me inquisitively, pausing with a fresh half lemon in her hand. She was meant to be dipping it in silver sand, but she put it to her lips and sucked at it momentarily. Then pulled a face, licked her lips, dipped it in sand, and commenced her cleaning again.
‘Could that be the reason? Only you know the answer, William!’
‘No. No. We never … never. There is no possibility.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Yes. Of course I am. She’s a good girl. And I never pressed her to more than a kiss or two. I thought it was better to wait.’
I was surprised that my sister knew anything about such matters, but maids will talk to each other I suppose, and I have heard tell that kitchens are very robust places, in big houses at any rate.
She grinned at me. ‘In that case, you have nothing to fear and nothing to worry about. I think her wee sister is just mischief making. I never saw a lass more in love than Jenny Caddas is with you. She has burst into bloom like an apple tree since she has been in your company. She has gone south to fulfil a family obligation and that’s all. Good for her. When she returns you may be that much closer to being able to marry her. In your place, I think I would do as her father says, cherish the thought of her, and wait until he tells you that it is appropriate before writing to her.’
* * *
Which was what I did. It was all I could do. But it didn’t prevent me from worrying. And eventually, a couple of weeks later, when the Brown family had returned from Edinburgh but when there was still no word of Jenny, I confided my worries to Thomas, although without going into too many details.
He seemed very surprised and a little perturbed. ‘So that’s what has happened to her!’ he said, frowning. ‘We wondered where she had gone, Marion and I. She left some work all unfinished, you know.’
‘She should not have done that. They should have told you. It would have been a courtesy, surely.’
‘Well, if there was a sudden illness … And besides, we were in Edinburgh at the time.’
‘Her father says she’s in Dumfries, helping to nurse a sick cousin.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. He can’t say.’
‘It must be something serious. And if so, it’s impossible to predict. Why don’t you write and ask her about it?’
‘He won’t give me the direction.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says it will upset her and make her homesick.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘He says that when she comes home again, he’ll start to think about her tocher and that we should be wed.’
‘He said that to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I would marry her tomorrow if I could.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, William.’
‘I’m worried because she left without saying goodbye. And her sister told me that she was crying and she didn’t want to go.’
‘But she was leaving you. And she didn’t know for how long. And she was being hurried away without being able to say a proper goodbye to you!’
‘You’re right. I know. But it worries me all the same. And to be frank with you, I miss her.’
‘Well, we miss her too,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Very much. We miss seeing her sitting in the library, perched on the window seat with the sun in her hair. We miss the way she would sometimes sing when she was sewing. I loved to hear her sing. She had the sweetest, clearest voice I have ever heard, and that includes all the fashionable young ladies who think that they have a voice because they have learned to string a few conventional notes together. Oh those interminable musical evenings, William. You should thank the Lord that you never have to attend them!’
It was another thing I had never noticed, not consciously. But it was true. She would sing as she stitched, love songs mostly but sometimes lullabies.
‘She could sing “Waly Waly” till it brought a tear to your eye,’ he added, and then, much to my embarrassment, he started to sing the old song of love and loss himself:
‘Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we cam in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel in cramasie.’
I had never yet heard Thomas sing, but his voice was deep and clear and he could carry a tune. I can hear it yet: those bleak words and that eerie melody which seemed to bring a breath of sadness into the room, a sadness which lingered long after the notes of his song had died away.
‘But had I wist, before I kist
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd
And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
And O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee,
And I mysel were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!