BOB CARGILL HAD DECIDED THAT it would be eminently sensible for Kirsty Cameron to marry Matthew Matthews. He knew, from the guarded way that Kirsty spoke about the lawyer, that something had happened between them, but he was, he told himself, really happy to see how they were becoming friends again after the Colonel’s death. Sometimes he thought he saw a special warmth in Kirsty’s eyes when she was looking not at Matt but at him. He ignored the looks. In the hospital in France, he had told himself that there were certain things he no longer had the right to expect: a woman’s love was one of them. This had been confirmed for him by his long-time girlfriend’s reaction to his emaciated appearance.
‘You should hae married Jean afore ye want tae the university,’ his father had said, but oh no, how much worse it would have been to return from hell to find that one’s very wife could not picture the future with a one-armed man.
The teaching job had been a godsend. There were hundreds, if not thousands of returning heroes applying for the vacant positions, or the posts that had been propped up by retired teachers or even, in a few desperate areas, by married women. A not-too-pretty half-qualified French teacher with one arm and a primary qualification would not, he felt, be high on any education committee’s list of ‘must haves’. He had read about the opening of the Aberannoch Castle School and had carefully calculated that, should the school be successful, there would probably be a position within the year. He had donned his best suit – not much, but at least clean and well pressed, and his mother had had it hanging out on the drying green to make sure no fishy smell adhered to it – and had set off for Aberannoch.
He had not recognized Kirsty at once. After all, when he last saw her she had been a buxom eighteen-year-old, and the Mrs Cameron who agreed to see him was a slender, sophisticated head teacher. She had known him at once, though, and he had seen in her eyes not distaste, but pity, and even the pity had gone as the months had passed. He had learned that she had married, had had a child and had lost her husband in the early days of the war. He had not known or even thought about Jamie-John’s parentage until the day she had told him that the Colonel who had gifted the castle and its contents to the Trust was her child’s grandfather. His first reaction to the news had been ‘poor wee Kirsty’ and he saw no reason to change his attitude. Two men dead that she had loved, and now the Colonel. More than anything in the world, Bob wanted Kirsty to be happy, and he never once stopped to wonder why her happiness was important to him. She needed a happy marriage: Jamie-John needed a father and Matt Matthews was the ideal candidate. And so when Jamie-John, in his pyjamas, came stomping over to his rooms to complain that his mother was going out to dinner with Mr Matthews when she could have had a perfectly good dinner in their flat with Grannie, he set himself to becoming Matt’s champion. He even appealed to the small boy’s baser instincts: Matt Matthews had a car, he reminded him.
‘Lady Sybill’s got a car, Bob,’ Jamie told him on the morning after Lady Sybill’s visit. ‘It’s only rented so it’s not too super, but I bet she has a Rolls in London. I’ll ask her when she comes today.’
They were walking together through the castle to the schoolroom floor where Bob was helping with the setting up of the new classroom, and Bob quickened his steps. Was Kirsty all right after her meeting with Lady Sybill? She was standing on a ladder putting a flowerpot on a shelf and again he felt his inadequacy: he could not hold onto the ladder and carry a plant pot at the same time.
She did not appear to be stressed but greeted them sunnily.
‘I hear you had a visitor,’ he said.
‘Pas devant les enfants,’ smiled Kirsty, who had sat in on Bob’s French group.
‘I know what that means, Mummy,’ said Jamie-John scornfully. ‘Olga and me were naughty, Mummy says, Mr Cargill.’ He would not presume to be too familiar in front of his mother. ‘Lady Sybill was nice, and she dragged her fur on the carpet, and Olga and me would never do anything like that.’
‘His French grammar is fine, Kirsty,’ laughed Bob as the child darted away.
‘He’s becoming a real handful,’ sighed Kirsty.
But Jamie-John was about to get much worse.
*
Lady Sybill returned to the castle to see the sports facilities. She was charming. No, she would not dream of taking Mrs Cameron away from her work. After all, she did know her way around the grounds, and Jamie-John and . . . what was her name? . . . little Olga could easily point out features to her.
‘We would be honoured if you would like to stay to lunch, Lady Sybill,’ said Kirsty, knowing that she lied. She never wanted to see Lady Sybill again, and the thought of sitting down to eat a meal with her was anathema.
‘How quaint,’ smiled Lady Sybill, ‘school dinner.’
For the next few weeks everything that either Jamie-John or Olga saw or heard was pronounced ‘quaint’. After three weeks even Jessie no longer found them amusing.
‘Try to be patient, Mother,’ sighed Kirsty. ‘At least we’ve seen the last of Lady Sybill for this year, and the children will forget.’
Jamie-John was not allowed to forget, however. Two weeks after school started a box arrived from a prestigious London toyshop, with a note from Lady Sybill to say that she hoped the small gift would make the return to school less painful. An ecstatic Jamie-John set out an entire battalion of lead guardsmen on the library floor.
‘It’s the regiment Lady Sybill’s son was in, Mummy,’ smiled Jamie-John. ‘He was ever so brave and he was slain by the Hun. All my other soldiers are Huns now, and I’m going to kill them all.’
He set out his Black Watch soldiers and Kirsty watched in torment as he proceeded to mow down Jamie’s regiment.
She tried to smile. ‘You can’t make them the Hun, sweetheart. The Black Watch is your . . . father’s regiment.’
Had he noticed her slight hesitation? He seemed to look at her steadily out of those heartbreaking blue eyes for a long moment.
‘It’s only play,’ he said and flattened the Black Watch with the palm of his hand.
Before she could stop herself Kirsty had dealt him a stinging blow on his bare leg. She could see the marks of her fingers on the skin as he hopped around screaming more in fright and anger – she hoped – than pain.
‘Put your soldiers away, Jamie-John. You have been very naughty, and may not play with your lovely present again today. Besides, you must write and say thank you to Lady Sybill.’
Sullenly and almost insolently he put the guardsmen away in their box. Each one had to lie exactly as he wanted, and Kirsty itched to take them away and do it herself.
I mustn’t lose control, I mustn’t lose control, she kept saying to herself. They’re only toy soldiers, not real men, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Oh, Lady Sybill, leave my son alone!
Jamie-John put himself to bed that night. Kirsty had been working on the end-of-the-month accounts to send to Sir John, and had not noticed the time. When the clock chimed nine, she jumped up and hurried off to find her son, but he was already in bed. She looked down at him and her heart swelled with love and sorrow as she knelt down beside the bed.
‘I should never have slapped him. He’s only a boy,’ she whispered.
A lead soldier on the little table by the bed caught her eye. It was a model of a private in the Black Watch, positioned so as to guard the sleeping child.
‘Oh, Jamie-John,’ Kirsty almost sobbed and moved to pull up the blankets over the child. She lifted his arm to put it under the covers, and saw that his fist was tightly closed around a red-jacketed guardsman.
Kirsty looked down at the child for a moment and then went off to her sitting room to see her mother. It was Jessie who voiced her worry.
‘Do you think that woman has told Jamie-John?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure about what she knows herself. The Colonel said he would take care of everything, and the accident happened as he left her house. She must know, but why has she said nothing to me?’
‘She wanted to have a look at Jamie-John before deciding to acknowledge him.’
‘I don’t want her to acknowledge him,’ said Kirsty almost viciously. ‘I want nothing from her.’
‘Fine words, Kirsty, but what of the child? His grandfather promised to educate him.’
‘He’ll do well enough here with us, Mother, and I think I’ll manage the High School in Dundee if he’s able.’ Kirsty got up from her chair and walked to the window. The trees and the garden always soothed her. ‘What does Lady Sybill want with my son?’ she asked them, but she received no answer.
The autumn term went on and the girls settled in and seemed to add a necessary dimension to the life of the school. Kirsty found herself looking forward to winter. Winter meant large heating bills, but it also meant that there was less likelihood of Lady Sybill making the journey north.
She came in October, a glorious month when Angus was clothed in its finest russets and golds and when local children were off school for the tatties. Kirsty’s children had no need to supplement their income by harvesting the potato crop for the nearby farmers, but they too were given a week’s holiday, which most of them spent walking or picnicking in the area. Kirsty yielded to Matt’s entreaties and went off motoring up the coast. They picnicked in the shadow of an ancient castle; it was Kirsty’s second picnic with a man.
She giggled almost hysterically when Matt’s modest hamper yielded not the wine and delicacies she had been almost dreading but homely man-sized sandwiches and bottles of milk.
‘Are the sandwiches too big?’ Matt asked anxiously. ‘I just can’t get Mrs Dodd to cater for a woman.’
‘You have no idea how perfect they are, Matt,’ laughed Kirsty, and she meant it. She admitted to herself that she had come on the drive prepared to allow the romance of ruined castles and sheltered headlands to weave their web over her. Bob was as far away as ever, and Matt was here and available, and oh, dear God, before she was an old woman she wanted more of love and life than one afternoon in a flowery glade. But there had to be more than sex, and that would be all there was today if she allowed the afternoon to go as she had almost planned that it should.
They ate their picnic and tidied up the basket, then wandered along the edge of the sea under the cliff on which the castle stood.
‘I wonder how many couples that old place has watched over the centuries?’ she mused aloud.
‘I sincerely hope it hasn’t watched any,’ said Matt. ‘I was just about to steal a kiss, my very dear Mrs Cameron, and now you have me worrying that I might be seen.’
‘By seagulls only, Matt, but let’s not give them anything to look at.’
‘A kiss, for God’s sake, only a kiss. Oh, Kirsty, you must like me a little or you wouldn’t be here with me.’ He reached out and grasped her arms. ‘Why did you come to this godforsaken place with me?’
‘For a picnic, Matt,’ said Kirsty, trying hard not to struggle, for the face in front of her was not Matt’s well-known friendly countenance but the twisted one of Mr Buchanan.
‘I hoped there might be more,’ said Matt, and he almost flung her from him.
‘So did I, Matt. Oh, God, we had this same conversation years ago. We should have stuck to the rules we set then. I like you, Matt. You’re kind and generous and I wish I could love you . . . but I can’t.’
‘We’d best get back,’ he said stiffly. ‘It’s finished, Kirsty. I don’t know what you want from life, but I hope you get it. I want a wife and children before it’s too late.’
They packed the car and started back to Aberannoch in silence. When they arrived there was a car parked outside the huge wooden gates that led to the inner courtyard.
‘Lady Sybill,’ said Kirsty in a voice that was almost a groan.
‘I won’t come in to pay my respects,’ said Matt curtly. ‘No doubt if she wants me she’ll send for me. I plan to hand the Trust business over to one of my associates, Kirsty. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Matt,’ whispered Kirsty, then she stood and watched as the car reversed and drove back down the driveway.
‘I couldn’t marry Matt so that he could protect me from Lady Sybill,’ Kirsty told herself, but before the winter was over she was more than once to wish she had done just that.
She found Lady Sybill in the library, standing with sherry glass in hand before the painting of the Regency belle.
‘All her descendants have those wonderful eyes,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘Not that there are too many – descendants, I mean.’
‘Good evening, Lady Sybill. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. Did you want anything in particular?’ asked Kirsty, ‘Like my son,’ she finished to herself.
‘Well, yes, I did, I suppose. Cards on the table, Mrs Cameron. Jamie-John is Hugh’s child. I found it very difficult to believe: my son and . . . you. I don’t mean to be insulting, but Hugh was a very popular young man and he had lots of girlfriends . . . from his own class. I expected to announce his engagement . . .’
She turned to look into the fire and Kirsty said nothing but watched her.
‘My husband was going to change his will. Did you know that?’ She turned swiftly to look at Kirsty who had turned red with embarrassment.
‘Colonel Granville-Baker wanted to assume responsibility for Jamie-John’s education. I had no idea . . .’
‘He was on his way to his solicitor’s offices when he was run down, Mrs Cameron.’
Kirsty said nothing. It was all too much.
‘He wanted your son to have everything. Quite something, Mrs Cameron, but of course his will stands as he originally wrote it.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Kirsty. There was a taste in her mouth like vomit and a feeling in the pit of her stomach like disaster about to happen.
‘I could arrange for Jamie-John to have everything that his grandfather wanted him to have . . .’ Lady Sybill stopped and looked at Kirsty expectantly, but Kirsty was determined to say nothing.
‘All I ask in return is a very small . . . untruth. Change your name, legally – my lawyers have drafted documents – and allow me to tell my friends that you and Hugh were married. That he didn’t tell his father and me because he was sure we would disapprove and – very nobly – you remained quiet when he was killed, and later you married Cameron because Hugh had all the legal documents. Simple!’
‘Obscene. I don’t want your money, Lady Sybill, and neither does my son.’
Swiftly Lady Sybill stood up and all pretence was gone, the surface charm scraped away. ‘I have no intention of giving a gold digger like you a penny of my money, Mrs Cameron. But the Colonel would have given the boy his, and he’s a surprisingly nice little chap.’
Kirsty stood up. The interview was at an end. How dare she? How dare she? So Jamie-John was surprisingly nice, was he?
‘Good day, Lady Sybill.’
Lady Sybill looked at her admiringly. ‘Really, Mrs Cameron. You might be a lady . . . almost. I’ll leave for tonight.’ She picked up the fox capes that were draped over the chair beside her and disposed them neatly around her neck and shoulders. ‘Hugo was worth nearly a million pounds, and it could all belong to your little boy. What price a name?’
She swept out, but Kirsty stayed in the room looking into the young, smooth face with the glorious eyes: Jamie-John’s great-grandmother. Would she have wanted an illegitimate child to inherit her money?
‘God, I’m getting fanciful.’
She left the fire and hurried across the room to the windows that looked down on the driveway. Lady Sybill was just about to enter her car, and Jamie-John in a torn yellow sweater and a too-long Cameron kilt was talking animatedly to her. Kirsty saw her hold the door open and the child disappear into the car.
‘Oh, God, oh no,’ Kirsty moaned and ran from the window to the stairs. She pushed past two of the boys almost without seeing them and, regardless of her dignity, ran down the stone staircase, her heels nipped by desperation. She threw the doors open as if they were made of balsa wood and flew across the courtyard in the wake of the speeding car.
Jamie-John was sauntering back along the driveway and when she reached him Kirsty threw her arms around him and hugged him until he pushed her away angrily.
‘Oh, do stop, Mummy. You’re breaking my plane. Look at it! Lady Sybill brought it. Bob . . . Mr Cargill says he flew in one like it in the war.’
Kirsty’s heart was still beating furiously and she chided herself. Stupid. Lady Sybill would never kidnap Jamie. She would not need to stoop to such an action.
‘I drove to the end of the driveway and Lady Sybill’s chauffeur let me hold the wheel for a bit, the straight bit through the rhododendrons.’
She bit her tongue to stop herself from speaking. He was too small to reach the controls of a car – how could Lady Sybill be so foolhardy?
‘Lady Sybill’s nice, Mummy. She likes me, she says I remind her of her boy.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Kirsty managed to say calmly. ‘She thinks all little boys are alike. They like cricket, was what she said.’
‘No,’ said Jamie, darting away from her, his plane held up in the air. ‘I’m different. I’m special.’
Kirsty sat by her sleeping son’s bed for some time that night. Had she the right to stop him from inheriting nearly a million pounds? Dear God, it was impossible to contemplate that amount of money, but it would have been Jamie-John’s had his grandfather been able to reach his solicitor. And all she had to do was live a little lie. After all, hadn’t she been living a lie for years? She could change her name, and Jamie-John’s, to Granville-Baker and then pretend, no, allow people to believe that she and Hugh had been secretly married. Such a little thing to do for Jamie-John. She got up wearily and quietly left the sleeping child.
Although it was late and already quite dark, she decided to walk in the garden. The sky was clear and the air was cold, so cold that she wished she had brought a jacket. A harvest moon hung low over the orchard, painting the grass silver below the trees as she wandered through them, smelling the night smells and hearing the rustling of small animals and birds. The noises of the night never failed to surprise her. It was only city folk who imagined that the country was quiet at night.
‘Don’t jump, Kirsty,’ said a quiet voice and Bob detached himself from a tree and stepped out on the path before her. ‘I would have let you walk past, but I thought you might see my cigarette and be frightened.’
‘Oh, Bob,’ said Kirsty, ‘I’m so glad to see you.’
She stepped forward to meet him and automatically he enfolded her in his good arm and held her against him. She felt as a small ship that has been severely buffeted by the wind must feel when it reaches safe harbour.
‘You’re freezing,’ he said and tightened his arm.
‘Oh, Bob,’ said Kirsty, ‘I’ve had the most beastly day.’
He looked down at her and saw her shining eyes, her hair silvered and shimmering in the moonlight. He bent and kissed her lips . . . it was so right, so perfect. She leaned against him and slowly, tentatively, lifted her arms and put them round his neck. His arm tightened around her and his lips became more and more demanding. Sleeping feelings began to stir, to waken: it was so long, so very long since she had felt any . . . desire: yes, that was it, desire.
It was Bob who moved away first.
‘A little dalliance in the moonlight?’ he laughed lightly. ‘Here, put my jacket around you and tell me about your awful day. I thought a picnic on the beach sounded delightful.’
‘It would have been, with the right man.’ Could she suggest, more subtly, that he himself was the right man? Kirsty strove to be as light as Bob had been. The moment was over because he had wished it to be over. She could not bring it back.
She told him about Lady Sybill’s suggestion that she change her name and Jamie-John’s.
‘Am I wrong to say no? How can I look my child in the eye and know that I denied him an inheritance of nearly a million pounds?’
‘Lady Sybill told you that the Colonel was going to leave that much to the boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then if she has any honour, she will make sure that he gets it without any stipulation.’
They walked slowly back towards the castle. In spite of Bob’s jacket, Kirsty shivered.
‘Cold?’
‘No, frightened. Of what, I don’t know. Lady Sybill wants my son and she’ll stop at nothing to get him, but she can’t take him away from me. Jamie saw to that. According to law, Jamie Cameron was his father. That’s what his birth certificate says.’
‘Jamie meant a great deal to you?’
Kirsty stopped and forced him to stop too and look at her. ‘Bob, Jamie was an old school friend, no more. He gave me his name to save me from being ostracized and embarrassed in the village and he asked nothing, nothing in return. I can’t sell his name. If he hadn’t been killed I think we could have made our marriage work – I was going to do my best to see that it did. Do you understand me?’
He turned her back towards the castle again. ‘As I said, Kirsty. He meant a great deal to you.’