Journal of Charles Kirkliston Gibb

Sunday, 2nd July 1809

I begin to write − for posterity, I suppose, although God knows I do not expect to have one − in this neat, clean, octavo notebook on the fourth day of my sojourn at Glen Conach House, Forfarshire. The notebook formerly resided at Airthrey Castle, as did I, but since nobody there seemed to have a purpose for it I annexed it, and do not fear that it will be missed. Into it I will now pour my heart, or rather some observations of a witty and amusing nature − amusing to myself, that is, for nobody else presently animate shall ever have sight of it.

I have had until now neither the time nor the energy to record my thoughts about this place and its inhabitants. It will take me some little while to catch up with myself, as there is much to record.

When the family went to church this morning there was no insistence on my going with them, which was an astonishment to me, even though the laird himself told me on Friday that I would not be compelled. It was also a relief, as there has been nothing but a steady downpour all day. In every other part of this self-righteous, God-ridden country one is obliged on the Sabbath not only to attend kirk, whatever the weather, but also to endure additional devotional sessions at home. Here, though, there are no zealous saints to admonish one’s backsliding. If laxity is a benefit of remoteness then let me be remote! I stayed in my chamber until noon and have only just now made my way to the library, where there are pens and ink aplenty − I shall take a supply of both back to my room so that I may make entries in this book in either location.

After receiving Mr Thomas Milne’s inundation of a letter of 4th June, I immediately prepared to throw myself upon his hospitality. I spoke to him in Edinburgh for only ten minutes last October, but in that time extracted enough information about his place of residence and its antique document to add Glen Conach House to my list of possible future retreats. I am pleased and more than a little surprised that Mr Thomson, the Deputy Clerk Register, wrote on my behalf. Being in charge of the country’s public records, he carries some weight when it comes to persuading others of my probity. I thought it rather a long shot when I sought his recommendation but evidently my aim was good.

Mr Milne’s letter reached me about the middle of last month, at Airthrey, where I strongly sensed that my presence was becoming tiresome to my hosts even though I had arrived scarcely three weeks before and was endeavouring to be as unobtrusive as possible. Having no other offers on hand, and undeterred by Mr Milne’s cannibalistic threat, I therefore wrote to him to say that I would soon be on my way. Then, swiftly concluding the ‘investigations’ into archaeological remains in the vicinity of Airthrey, which were my ostensible reason for being there, and assuring Sir Robert (General Abercromby) that I would compile a detailed account of my findings and send it to him in due course, I took my leave. As the General’s eyesight is rapidly deteriorating from a disease he got in India I doubt he will care if the account never arrives, as indeed it never will.

I journeyed on foot through Dunblane to Aberuthven, enjoying the sturdiness and excellent fit of a pair of boots that I had found wastefully unemployed in a press at Airthrey. I then travelled by cart to Perth, on top of a coach to Dundee (at a small cost met by some coins also carelessly neglected by Sir Robert’s household), and on foot again from there to Forfar. I was four days and nights on the road. Each night, accomplished as I am in the ancient arts of ‘thigging’ and ‘sorning’ (which is to say, anglicé, begging and sponging), I found cheap or free food and dry lodging, even if twice I slept in a hayloft and once had to share a bed with a drunken pedlar, than whom the haylofts were far less verminous. In Forfar I secreted myself behind a settle in an inn shortly before it closed, slept badly, and slipped out at dawn ere the landlord awoke. This made a cold and a hungry start to a long day, but ten weary hours later, at half past two last Thursday afternoon, I arrived at my destination.

My second encounter with Mr Thomas Milne, and my first with his wife, Margaret, occurred in what is called the great hall of the house. This is a huge space with a flagged floor from which a staircase of three short flights leads to the upper storeys, while a narrower stair hidden by a door descends to the kitchen and servants’ area. The hall is dominated by a fireplace, which, when I arrived, contained an enormous heap of wood − unlit, despite the dampness of the afternoon. Around the fireplace, on a large, faded, red rug that bears many scorch-marks and holes, as an old soldier bears the scars and wounds of battle, are set a number of chairs and a chaise longue. Pictures of earlier Milnes, whose features all but disappear into the oily gloom of their backgrounds, are hung on the wood-panelled walls.

I walked into this scene unannounced, having found the main door of the house open. I was very tired. It was immediately apparent that a matrimonial dispute was in progress concerning the desirability of lighting the fire, she being in favour and he in opposition. It was also clear, when they suspended hostilities to see who had come in, that Mr Milne, or, as I should more properly designate him, the Baron of Glen Conach − or simply Glen Conach − had no notion of who I was. By luck, as it transpired, he had mentioned the possibility of my visit to his lady a few days earlier and, once I had introduced myself, the Baroness seemed perfectly at ease with the fact of my arrival, and if the Baron did not remember me he at least affected to do so − ‘Aye, of course, Mr ah, Mr Gibb, good afternoon, Sir.’

‘Ye’re gey weet, Mr Gibb, and a wee thing splairged wi glaur,’ the lady said, casting a critical eye over me.

Although of course thoroughly familiar with the Scotch tongue, which I myself spoke as a child before my education began, I found her accent quite different from those of the southern part of the country where I was bred, and it took me a moment or two to confirm to myself that these were the words she had actually articulated. She was quite correct: I was dripping from various tips and angles on to the stone floor, and making quite a lochan around my feet.

‘I am very wet, yes.’

‘In fact, there’s glaur a’ ower ye.’

‘Indeed, I am rather muddy too.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘He anely speaks English,’ the Baron told her. ‘I mind noo.’

‘Then we will need to do the same,’ the Baroness said, changing at once to a confident though still heavily encumbered English, ‘otherwise we will be here all night. You really are soaked through, Mr Gibb.’

I nodded my agreement, showering the floor with yet more rainwater. ‘The weather is evidently not as settled as it was when your husband sent me his letter,’ I said. ‘Admittedly that was almost a month ago. It was dry in Forfar when I set out this morning, but it did not last.’

‘That’s the way of weather,’ the Baron said, and made a lurch as if buffeted by a squall. ‘It will be different again in the morning.’

I should note here some of the characteristics of this Baron of Glen Conach, the fifth of that title to bear the name Milne. Having observed him at close quarters for three days now, and gathered further information from the household, I may fairly describe him as a shaggy tree of a man who, when upright, always seems on the point of overbalancing and crashing to earth. He apparently spent much of his life wearing a wig, but at the start of the new century abandoned all forms of headdress, in or out of doors, after deciding on no particular evidence that wigs, hats, turbans and nightcaps trap germs and make a man ill. He is about sixty-three or -four, and claims not to have had a single cold since he gave up covering his head. He told me himself that he shaves his face and neck twice a week but, on the Samsonite principle that it is the source of his strength, does not permit the cutting of his hair, which is sparse, long and unruly, and sticks out in every direction. This makes him appear not only arborescent but also, regardless of the time of day, as if he has only recently risen from sleep. He finds modern life bewildering and ridiculous and tries to avoid it by staying away from overpopulated places such as Edinburgh and Forfar.

‘You had better get oot o’ thae things and into some dry anes,’ Lady Glen Conach said to me, and I realised that it required some effort on her part to make her linguistic adjustments. ‘I will have some hot water sent to your room. By the time you come down, this fire’ − here she swiftly glanced at her husband − ‘will be lichtit − lit. Where have you left your baggage?’

Of course I had none, but before I could say so she spoke again, to her husband.

‘If we had kent, Jock McLeish could have brocht it on his cairt.’ Then, to me: ‘Jock was here not an hour since with a dozen dining chairs we have been waiting on for weeks.’

‘No baggage for me, Madam,’ I told her. ‘I came on foot.’

‘What we need a dozen dining chairs for is beyond me,’ the Baron said. ‘Four would mair than suffice. We already have chairs. What we want is cheese. Did Jock bring the Dunlop as I asked?’

‘The chairs are either rotten or broken, and the breaking was mostly your doing,’ his lady replied. ‘I have taken the dozen as an insurance against future losses.’ (I am writing this down as fully and in as near to the correct order of their statements as I can recall.) ‘And aye, Jock did bring a whole cheese. It’s as big as a wheel. But Mr Gibb, now that I think on it, he must have passed you. He offered to take you up, surely?’

I knew nothing about any Jock McLeish, but assumed that it was his cart that I had seen departing as I approached the house. That he had not assisted me was not his fault. I explained that I had missed him on account of having taken the wrong road.

‘How could you take the wrong road?’ the Baron asked or, rather, roared. ‘There is only the one.’

I said that I thought I had identified a short cut but it had turned out to be a long cut. And there had been a burn to cross. To be more accurate, although it was probably a burn most days, it was a raging torrent that afternoon.

‘Well, you must get dry at once,’ the Baroness said. ‘Our daughter, Jessamine, will get out some things of Alexander’s for you. He is our son, ye ken. He is away with his regiment just now, the Black Watch, waiting to engage the French once more. You look about the same size.’

‘Sandy is not so fat in the middle,’ the Baron observed, with no thought at all for my feelings. My personal opinion is that I am quite slender, and I once overheard it said that if I were any thinner at the waist I would snap in two. Generally speaking, people regard me as physically feeble, and it is true that although I am quite tall my limbs are not very strong. I had, however, just walked twenty miles and more, in terrible conditions, sustained only by a drink of milk and a bannock, which I had had at the mill where the River Conach joins the Esk. I have since learned that the Baron’s erroneous view arose from an unshakeable paternal pride in Alexander, and a belief that no other young man can match the superlativeness of his son’s manhood. Therefore, whenever a new specimen of masculinity is put before the Baron, he must find fault with it.

His wife ignored him. ‘Did you say you had not brought anything with you?’ she asked, fixing me with a commanding look (one that I have come to know well in the last few days).

A word about this impressive person, Margaret Milne, or Lady Glen Conach. She is tall and tidy, a garden cane to her husband’s unruliness. When she stands at his side they resemble the figure 10. A year or two younger than whatever age he is, she has a long, thin nose above a mouth that seems often about to smile but seldom does, and even then in a restrained manner. On her head she grows a crop of grey curls, which she usually keeps neatly drilled below a lace cap tied under the chin. Her eyes are bright blue and there are little purplish bouquets of burst veins on her cheeks. She is very intelligent and practical, and manages the Baron and the household without fuss and on the principle that nothing will happen unless she organises it. She has a strong desire for order and peace, but whereas in many women this leads to an absence of humour she seems to be constantly amused by life and quite content in herself. Yesterday, for example, I saw her creep up on the Baron with scissors when he was asleep in his chair and snip off the most extreme bits of his foliage, carrying them away without his knowing that he had been pruned. This was obviously both an entertainment and a regular duty to her. The laird must surely wonder that his hair never grows beyond a certain length, but if he suspects his wife of playing Delilah he keeps his suspicions to himself.

As far as I can ascertain, Lady Glen Conach has but two sources of worry. One is the safety of her son, Alexander, lately in Iberia fighting the French and now in Kent awaiting embarkation to some new theatre of war. She understands that the French have conducted themselves abominably for the last twenty years, but she has no personal quarrel with them, thinks that her son is not responsible for their bad behaviour, and objects that his life should be put at risk in order to bring them to their senses. Her other concern is for her daughter, Jessamine, who has reached the ancient age of twenty-four. It is obviously a difficulty, since Miss Milne never gets out of the glen and few eligible men get into it, as to how she is to be wooed, let alone wed. I have felt, these last few days, the mother’s assessing eye upon me, but of course being penniless and without pedigree I am completely unsuitable. This is to say nothing of Miss Milne’s misfortune in her appearance, of which more anon.

‘Only what I carry in my satchel, Madam, which is also somewhat damp,’ I said in reply to the Baroness’s question. Under her stern gaze I felt obliged to provide further details, and confessed to some linen, hose and a spare shirt, and a book or two, which were, fortunately, wrapped in oilcloth. ‘I have brought no more than these,’ I said. ‘In his letter, the Baron said not to.’

‘Not to what?’

‘Not to bring anything. He was very definite.’

‘Mr Gibb, you will soon learn that one thing my husband is not, is very definite.’

‘I told him not to bring books either,’ the Baron said. ‘We have a whole library of them.’

‘That does not stop you adding to it,’ the Baroness replied sharply, and a smile nearly broke upon her face. (Again, I have come to know that half-smile well these last few days.) ‘Dinna fash, Mr Gibb. We can and will outrig you.’

‘I am grateful, Madam.’

The Baron was, I think, beginning to feel superfluous, and intervened as my champion even though ignorant of almost everything about me.

‘Mr Gibb is not a man who fashes about trivialities such as clothing! He is not a dandy! He is a man of spirit and determination who takes short cuts across hills he kens nothing about. He is − as I seem to recall from our meeting in the capital, Mr Gibb − a man of learning, with a great knowledge of − many things. In short, Mr Gibb is a − is a −’

‘What are you, Mr Gibb?’ Lady Glen Conach asked, to expedite proceedings.

Having been confronted with this question often in the past, I was able to answer her with great fluency. ‘An inquirer into our national relics, Madam. An antiquarian. An interpreter of this country’s past.’

‘You see?’ said the Baron. ‘A man of learning, as I said, come to interpret us.’

‘You are too far decayed to be interpreted, my dear,’ his lady told him. She turned back to me. ‘How can you interpret anything about Scotland if you don’t speak Scotch?’

Again, I was well prepared. ‘I can speak it, Madam. I did speak it, but I have outgrown the habit. My father was a scholar and was against it, and after he died my mother chastised it out of me in his memory. We also − she and I − were in England for some years, where we got on better by suppressing it. In justice to both my parents, although I comprehend it fully, I do think it a hindrance to progress.’

‘That’s a fashion, progress,’ the Baron said, bristling (though, in truth, he seldom does not bristle). ‘I am opposed to fashion of every kind, Mr Gibb. I subscribe to a number of different journals purely to inform myself of the latest fashions, so that I can avoid them. As for the noble Scotch tongue, have you not read the work of Mr Burns? If so, you cannot be serious in the opinion you have just expressed.’

‘All that can wait, my dear,’ the Baroness interposed. ‘I gather you have an interest in our Book, Mr Gibb?’

Indeed I had. It was what had secured my invitation. ‘I do, Madam. I believe the Book of Conach to be one of the most important, though neglected, of Scotland’s relics.’

‘But you have not seen it yet,’ the Baron protested.

‘No, Sir, but you spoke about it so eloquently when we met in Edinburgh.’

‘Did I? I canna mind.’

‘You see, Mr Gibb?’ the Baroness said. ‘Not definite. He contradicts himself at every turn. Well, there will be time enough for the Book tomorrow. The first thing is to get you into dry clothes. You are welcome here, but I don’t want you dying as soon as you have arrived.’

I had a brief vision of my corpse being bundled in a sack on to the back of Mr McLeish’s cart and transported down the sodden track to Forfar, or possibly thrown in a bog. I decided to try a joke on my hostess.

‘It would be most impolite of me to put you to that inconvenience, Madam.’

Her lips twitched slightly and I thought I might have scored a point in my favour.

‘Therefore,’ I continued, ‘I would be grateful to borrow a set of your son’s clothes and avoid such, ah, impoliteness.’

‘Very good.’ But she did not smile. ‘I will summon Jessamine. You must not think us too intimate, Mr Gibb, but we do not have as many servants as you may be used to in Edinburgh, and that’s because we do not need them.’

‘Couldna afford them even if we did,’ the Baron muttered.

‘I am not used to servants at all,’ I said. ‘Not my own, that is.’

‘Then you’ll not make yourself a burden on ours,’ the Baroness said. ‘We are a hardy people, Mr Gibb. We set to with our own hands and get on with things. If we did not’ − another swift glance at her husband − ‘nothing would ever be done. For example, I am about to arrange our new chairs, while Glen Conach is going to light the fire. We dine in an hour. Excuse me.’

In three steps she was at the foot of the stair. She let out a piercing shriek which I was amazed to hear issuing from such a neat, light-framed woman.

‘Jessie! Come doon this meenit! There’s a gentleman here wantin your assistance.’

From the floor above, but suspiciously close to the head of the staircase, there came a rustling sound, and then a female voice: ‘Did ye call, Mama? A gentleman, did ye say? I am coming doon the noo.’

Nothing happened. I waited expectantly, but no vision appeared. The Baron and his wife glanced at each other. The Baroness said, ‘Come along, Jessie. You needna be blate. Mr Gibb will catch his death if ye dinna hurry up.’

‘Blate?’ the Baron exclaimed. ‘She’ll be preenin hersel.’

This remark seemed to provoke Miss Milne, who rushed into view, paused on the first landing to say, ‘Papa, that is a calumny!’ and half glided, half stumbled down the remaining steps in a blue silk dress, a woollen shawl flying at her shoulders. She only brought herself to a halt by putting a hand squarely on my chest. ‘You’re very kind, Sir,’ she said, although I had done nothing but act as a post.

I confess that for a moment I felt less kind than curious, as I found it impossible to avert my eyes from the lower portion of her face. Miss Milne has a prominent birthmark, fully an inch in width and of a fiery red hue, which runs from her left ear across her cheek to her lips and has the unfortunate effect of making her mouth seem stretched and misshapen. I looked away quickly and then, as that seemed ill-mannered, returned my stare to her face and found her staring directly back at me as if pleased to have discovered my embarrassment.

‘My daughter, Miss Milne,’ the Baron said. ‘Jessamine, this is Mr Gibb. I forget his first name.’

‘Charles,’ the Baroness said. ‘You may remove your hand, Jessie. Mr Gibb is an antiquarian.’

‘An antiquarian?’ Miss Milne’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a tiny ‘o’, reminding me of some kind of bird. She wiped her palm on her dress. ‘He’s a wee bit damp.’

‘He has come to stay with us.’

‘What for?’

‘To see the Book. He has a great interest in it.’

‘Oh,’ Miss Milne said, ‘I hae an interest in it as weel, Mr Gibb, though I confess I hinna read the haill o’ it. The glen folk hae a wheen o’ tales aboot Conach, or “Saint Conach” as they like to cry him. Perhaps I can tell ye some o’ them?’

She tilted her head at me, and gave a brief display of a multitude of teeth before her lips resumed that tight circle. Her ringlets framed her face nicely and I decided that the bird she resembled was a little owl, albeit one with a great scar upon its visage.

‘That can all wait, Jessie,’ her mother said. ‘Mr Gibb does not like to speak Scotch, by the way, so please will you speak English to him as best you can? It will be good practice for you.’

‘My English is exemplary, Mama,’ the daughter replied.

‘There is nothing human that canna be improved,’ the Baroness said. ‘Away and find Elspeth and tell her to fetch hot water to Mr Gibb. Show Mr Gibb where he is to sleep − the blue room. Then you must select a set of dry clothes for him from Alexander’s kist. Linen, breeks, shoes, everything − he’s as drookit as a duck.’ (She pronounced this, as far as I can represent it, as djeuk.) ‘A nightshirt forby. Let Elspeth take them to Mr Gibb while you redd yourself up for dinner. Glen Conach, set a lunt to that fire. Mr Gibb, dinner is at four. Go with Jessie. I’m away to make sure that there is dinner. Mr Dunning, our minister, will be with us.’

It was evident that when the Baroness gave instructions in this house everybody obeyed. I did not hesitate to obey her myself, but then I have always been quick to learn. It is my intention, if I like the situation, to stay at Glen Conach House as long as I can, perhaps all summer. To winter here, however, does not appeal, even were I not to end up hanging in the larder. I will have to find another nest and fly to it by the close of September at latest.

I followed Miss Milne up the stair, having to catch her at the second turn when she tripped on one end of her shawl. She led me down a passage and dramatically flung open a door. ‘Your chamber, Mr Gibb,’ she cried, and turned her head in the opposite direction as if the room were a temptation. ‘I daurna cross the threshold − imagine! − but Elspeth will see to your needs when she comes.’

I thanked her and attempted to pass her, but she stopped me with an imperious finger that almost took my eye out, and the fiery mark, which for a moment had disappeared from my sight, seemed to leap at me as she spoke. ‘A moment, Sir. Let me survey you. Aye, my brother and yourself are not that different in size. How odd, to be choosing garments to clad the person of a perfect stranger! I will send Elspeth directly, and we will meet again in an hour.’ And she ran off along the passage.

But my hand aches from having written so much, and I had better at least pretend to be engaged in the purpose for which I have come to Glen Conach, so will pause here.

Monday, 3rd July 1809

The room I entered − my room, as I may style it, for as long as I remain here − was sparsely furnished with a bed, a press, a chest of drawers, a chair and a table. On brief inspection it seemed clean enough. The bed was certainly soft enough, the mattress being stuffed with heather rather than straw (as I found on investigating a hole in it, which was perhaps the door of a mouse’s nest). I could have lain down and slept at once. The window looked westward towards what I now know to be hills above the trees, but which at the time were obscured by clouds. There was a fireplace, not made up to be lit, and I thought it unlikely, since we were in what passes for summer, that I would be granted that private benefit. (I was right.) The pale blue distemper on the walls did nothing to make the room feel less chilly.

I was untying my boots when the door was knocked and a young woman, barefoot and in a dress that concealed none of her impressive symmetry, came in. She bore a large, steaming pitcher, which she placed beside a wash-bowl on a stand in one corner. I noted also, to my surprise, a commode in this functional quarter of the room. (I scarcely dared hope that I would not have to share the use of this important item with anybody else − but so it has proved.)

‘Here’s water for ye, Sir,’ the maiden said. ‘I’ll awa for your claes the noo, if ye wid just tak aff whit’s on ye.’ She left again. I removed the boots but then waited, not wishing to embarrass either of us by being half naked when she returned.

I need not have been anxious on her account. She came back in, this time without a knock, and placed a pile of clothing on the bed. ‘Noo,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘will ye no get oot o’ thae things so I can tak them awa to dry them?’ Servants in Scottish houses are generally not servile, but this one had an especially forward manner. I loosed my shirt from my breeches and stopped.

ME: ‘Are you Elspeth?’

SHE: ‘I am.’

ME: ‘And you are from the glen? I mean, you were born and bred here?’

SHE: ‘Deed aye. Whaur else wid I be frae?’

ME: ‘How old are you, Elspeth?’

SHE: ‘Nineteen, Sir, but dinna spier me aw thir questions gin it stops ye gettin oot o’ thae weet things. Just let them fa on the flair. Here’s a towel,’ she added, fairly flinging it at me.

She took her stance by the bed, hardly blinking, let alone looking away, and I saw there was nothing for it but to strip off every item and drop them in a sodden heap. She gathered them into her arms while I covered myself with the towel. She was on the point of leaving when she paused.

‘Forby, whit’s my age to you?’

‘Nothing at all,’ I said, and she gave a little nod, full or empty of meaning, and went out.

Nothing at all! But my reason for asking was that she made me feel like a small child when I am nine years her senior. She seems to have no fear of me, clothed or naked, and little respect either.

I washed quickly, dried myself off and began to dress in the clothes of the son and heir, Alexander Milne.

Dinner commenced an hour later. When I came down a little early, there was much activity between the dining room, which is really a kind of adjunct to the great hall, and the stair that leads to the kitchen and basement. The Baroness was directing operations: a large, ponderous man who I have since ascertained is the stableman, Davie Nicol, was carrying away old chairs and replacing them with the new ones delivered from Forfar. His wife, Kate, is the cook. I heard Lady Glen Conach tell Kate not to break open the Dunlop that day as the minister, who was to join us at dinner, would go at it in a frenzy and it had to last a month. Elspeth, assisted by a diminutive kitchen maid called Norah, was laying out cutlery and glasses. They also received their instructions: ‘Elspeth, that wine is to be poured into a jug, but ca canny wi it’; ‘Norah, dinna touch the table linen till ye’ve washed your hands − they are black wi soot.’ I had a notion that Elspeth was clashing the silverware and letting the glasses ring in order to impress her mistress with her industry. I watched for a moment and then passed through the great hall and outer lobby to the door, to admire the vista. There was nothing to admire but mist and rain. Fortunately, dinner was shortly announced.

Our time at table was marked by the hands of a longcase, drumhead clock standing like a sentry in one corner of the dining room, its heavy, disapproving tick contrasting with cheerful hourly chimes. The food, I am pleased to report, was plain but plentiful: first, cock-a-leekie, with a whole bird in the tureen − the Baron masterfully lifted the carcass out with two enormous forks and tore it into chunks, which he then returned to the broth; next, a boiled hare in an onion-rich stock, served with beetroots, kale and potatoes; then, a bread pudding; and all accompanied by a claret that was perfectly drinkable provided one allowed the debris to settle at the bottom of the glass.

GLEN CONACH: ‘What do you think of that, Mr Gibb?’

ME: ‘Very fine, Sir. There is hardly any French wine drunk in Edinburgh these days.’

GC: ‘I ken. One of many reasons for not going there. It’s the war, of course. Even my own cellar is much diminished.’

ME: ‘And some people think it unpatriotic.’

GC: ‘Then they are imbeciles. Is the wine their enemy? It makes a good alliance with the hare, don’t you agree?’

I did agree. It was all very acceptable and I can, I am sure, survive on such fare for months without difficulty. Glen Conach eats with enthusiasm, his lady with decorum. Miss Milne has a very efficient way of eating. She fills her fork or spoon to capacity and transfers the load to her mouth while parting her lips so briefly and slightly that it seems impossible that the food will go in without mishap, yet it always does. I had to force myself to stop looking for an accident that never happened. I did find, however, that my fascination with this operation meant that I took less notice of the birthmark.

Mr John Dunning, the minister, did not spare himself at any course of the meal, but attempted to disguise his rate of consumption by frequent dabbings at the mouth with his serviette. He is a fat, dark-haired man with a black beard and a greasy forehead, which he also dabbed and wiped. I estimate him to be somewhat more than fifty years old. He deferred to the Baron throughout dinner and never once disagreed with him, seemed resentful that I had come and even more so when it became clear that I was not soon going away again. Twice I caught him leering at Jessie Milne from behind his serviette. Occasionally he blew his nose into it. By now I was feeling much less dismayed − I will not use a stronger term − by Miss Milne’s disfigurement, although it was scarcely possible to pretend that it was anything other than that, but it seemed to me that Mr Dunning’s eye lingered upon it almost lasciviously, as if it in some way excited him. I cannot explain this, but record it nonetheless. I record also that I then and there formed a dislike of Mr Dunning which is as yet undiminished: no doubt this is irrational but I cannot deny it. No doubt he has formed an equally irrational dislike of me.

The ladies retired upstairs and, after a short interval involving the circulation of a bottle of whisky, we joined them in a small but comfortable parlour which is the Baroness’s day room. Miss Milne played, not well, on a spinet − ‘I am aye nervous, Mr Gibb,’ she said, ‘before strangers.’ Dunning said silkily, ‘We are not all strangers, Miss Jessamine,’ and I thought for a moment she was going to be ill. She recovered herself, however, and sang two songs, unaccompanied except for a chord here and there to keep her attached to the melody, and her voice was much better than her playing. The songs were ‘The Blackbird’ and ‘Will He No Come Back Again?’ The listeners, myself excluded, were much stirred by these old Jacobite songs, although the romantic effect of the second one was somewhat diminished when the Baron said loudly during the first chorus, ‘Guidsakes, lass, he’s only just arrived’, which made her blush and refuse to look at me for the rest of the performance. When she was done, suggestions were made about some supper, but I pleaded exhaustion and retired to bed.

What shall I say of Jessie Milne? What have I learned of her since that first day? If one could disregard her disfigurement, one might describe her thus: she is tall and straight like her mother, and has a small, heart-shaped face with a dimple in its chin. She has brown ringlets, blue eyes and a rosy complexion from having spent much of her childhood outside in all weathers − and yet the birthmark is not disguised by, but seems almost exaggerated against, this background. In short, it is not possible to disregard it: it is there like a creature upon her face that nobody wishes to discuss for fear it will bite or grow even larger.

Like her mother, Miss Milne seems to be amused by her own thoughts much of the time. Following the maternal example, she mainly keeps that small, round mouth pursed, which is as well, for when she does open it the view of her many teeth, rather like a portcullis, is quite terrifying. In other ways she is more like her father, being distracted, untidy and unbalanced. She misses her brother, who it seems was her best friend before he became a soldier. They await word from him, day after day. She would like to sail more in society but would be capsized at once if she did, since all she knows about it is what she reads in the journals and magazines taken by her father. If she is conscious of the effect her mark has upon her appearance she hides it well, yet it must be a perpetual torment to her, for she must believe that her looks are not improved by it. She is as fearful, I think, of being married as she is of not being, and this accounts for her panicking a little in male company, even in mine, and appearing idiotic. But she is not an idiot. I believe, on the contrary, that she is quite cunning.