The Jewel Read online

  * * *

  In March, unable to ignore the evidence of her own body any longer, she plucked up the courage to tell him. It was hard to know the right words to say, and so she just came right out with it.

  ‘Rab, I think I’m going to have your wean.’

  She saw his face freeze, the small intimation of dismay, quickly followed by a kind of satisfaction, before he turned to her and embraced her.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not sure and I can’t ask anyone, can I? But I think so. I feel so strange. And I’ve been sick in the mornings, though not so much now. Are you angry?’

  ‘Why would I be angry when it’s nane of your doing?’

  ‘Well, it’s some of my doing, surely.’

  ‘Aye, but it isn’t possible to get a wean all by yourself, Jeany, even though some folk seem to think a lassie can.’

  Jean knew exactly what he meant. ‘She’s got herself wi’ a wean,’ they would say in the town, disparagingly. Then the kirk session would have to step in because they didn’t believe a lassie could get a wean all by herself either, and they would force the guilty lad to do the right thing and marry the lass. Jean didn’t want to be forced into marriage, not with somebody who didn’t want her, much as she loved him.

  ‘What will we do, Rab?’

  Nothing if not impulsive, he said, ‘We’ll marry of course! I’m not having Daddie Auld and Willie Fisher pursuing me and accusing me of scandalising the parish. We’ll marry as soon as we can. It’s always been my intention. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘But how? How can we do that? My father…’

  ‘James Armour will not be a happy man. But no matter! What can he say if we’re legally wed?’

  ‘He won’t agree. He’ll show you the door, and he’ll be so angry with me.’ So disappointed, she thought, but didn’t say it.

  ‘He would never be so foolish, Jean. Not if you’re carrying my wean. I’ll draw up an agreement, and we must both sign it and then that’s us married, legally married, and nobody, not even your father can separate us.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘As true as I’m sitting here.’

  ‘But who would mak the papers for us?’

  ‘Oh I can do that myself. I’m sure I can. I’ve signed enough agreements in the past aye, and drafted one or two myself. It’s a simple enough thing to do. If I need any help I can ask Mr Hamilton. He’ll keep his own counsel.’

  ‘Can it be legal to do sic a thing, though?’

  ‘Aye it is. I remember talking about it one evening at the Bachelor’s Club in Tarbolton. It may not be usual, but it’s legal for sure. I’ve known others do it when the young man in question had few resources but wanted to make the marriage legal and above board. Folk, couples like us, do it to prevent a lass from being forced into another marriage against her will. If I draw up the agreement, will you sign?’

  ‘Of course I will. Gladly. But what about witnesses?’

  ‘There’s no need of witnesses, if we two can agree and put our names to the document. That’s all that’s needed. And then we’ll be married and you can have your wean – our wean – in peace, without being summoned before the session for fornication, although we’ll need to make it a regular marriage according to the kirk, sooner or later. But that’s a small matter, and there’ll be nothing James Armour can do about it.’

  She quailed a little at the thought of her father’s anger. She thought that Rab did not know the full extent of it. Could not conceive of such rage. But what else was to be done? She was certain she was carrying Rab’s wean, he was offering to marry her without further ado, she loved him, he surely loved her, and what other solution was there?

  A few days later, he came to Catherine Govan’s house with the papers all carefully drawn up. They represented a simple but formal agreement of marriage, and Rab assured Jean that nobody could contest such an agreement if both of them signed their names under no duress. Catherine was present but would not sign as witness. She was as sympathetic as ever to the young people, but still very reluctant to be drawn into any future conflict between the Burns and Armour families, and she foresaw that nothing would turn out to be quite as easy as the young couple seemed to think. In this, she was quite right. Privately she wondered if Rab was being too impulsive. In her experience, three month weans were often lost, and perhaps there would be no need to go to the trouble of marrying the lass, but she would certainly not have said as much to Rab or pointed out the possibility to Jean. Besides, it was clear to her that the couple were as much in love as ever, and she was very reluctant to spoil their mutual fondness by warnings about a harsh future. They would find out all too soon that the words of the old song were right. Woeful want had a habit of dampening desire. A hungry care was indeed an unco care.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Curling Match

  An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;

  For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,

  Because we stang’d her through the place,

  An’ hurt her spleuchan.

  There was a cold spell in early March, and the shallow and roughly circular Loch Broun, not far from Mossgiel, froze over, as it so often did after New Year. The ice was deep enough for curling. Jean took her younger sisters to watch: Helen, just coming up to twelve years old and six year old Mary. It looked as though the whole town had turned out for what might be the last match of the season. Rab was there, of course, and he was out on the ice, taking part, but she doubted if they would be able to do more than smile at each other and even that was fraught with risk.

  Jean found the walk out to the loch something of a trial. She could not catch her breath in the extreme cold, but mostly this was because she had begun to lace herself more tightly in an effort to disguise her condition. Her breasts and her belly were beginning to swell, and she was terrified that her sharp-eyed mother would notice. But Mary Armour was busy with a Robert of her own, the youngest in the family, wee Robbie Armour, who was two years old and up to all kinds of mischief, while four year old Janet, who was supposed to keep an eye on him for her mother, seldom did. Jean had offered to mind the older weans, and Mary had sent them on their way to Loch Broun to get the lassies out of her hair for a while, which had been Jean’s intention all along. It alarmed her how easy it was becoming to dissemble, to twist the truth in her own interests. She supposed that this was how it must be, once you set your feet on the paths of sin, as Daddie Auld was always telling them in the kirk on Sundays. Damnation was easy. It was salvation that was hard.

  The older lads were working, but Adam Armour, fifteen and full of his own importance, was hanging around the fringes of the curling with a gang of lads of his own age or a little older. Jean knew that she would have to be careful, lest he should carry tales back to his father or back to Willie Fisher with whom he seemed to be on remarkably friendly terms these days. She had a strong suspicion that Willie, the eyes and ears of the parish, was paying some of the young lads the odd sixpence for such information as needed to be brought before the kirk session, information about scandal, about illicit relationships, about assignations and affairs of the heart. There were spies everywhere and Jean realised that, if the truth were known, she would be seen as indulging in fornication with a man who was only a little better than the devil himself. Worse, she was actually married to the man. She had certainly signed a paper to that effect and so had he. What would any of them say if they knew? Soon, they would all know. Her condition would betray itself as surely as the sun rose in the morning and set at night. What would she do then?

  For now, the cold weather helped, because she could tighten her stays and wrap herself in her cloak against the frosts. Rab, with a sharp eye and a strong arm, was good at the curling and was a popular participant, but Jean had to pretend to ignore him. Nevertheless, she would occasionally catch him staring at her and once or twice, dar
ingly, he would wink at her and she would frown, shaking her head, trying hard not to laugh.

  ‘Jeany, is that Rab Mossgiel looking at you?’ asked Helen.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Why would he?’

  ‘Well I think he’s very handsome, so I do,’ said Helen. ‘All the lassies do. I wonder why father hates him so much?’

  ‘Hush. Don’t look at him.’

  ‘But he keeps looking this way. And I’m sure he winked at you just now.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing, Nelly?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  As usual at these gatherings, plenty of drink was taken: strong spirits and strong wine, anything that might drive away the chills for the spectators, and by the end of the day, there was a certain amount of drunken hilarity. The men in particular, young and old, were laughing in that loud, showy way they had when they had taken too much whisky, throwing their heads back and roaring like bulls. Whisky either made men daft – and she fancied that was the way Rab was, thank goodness – or it made them angry and ready to fight with their own shadows. The respectable women were taking themselves homewards and Jean was moving that way too, seeing that Rab was still playing and she would not be able to speak to him in such a public place with her sisters and brother watching her every move. The atmosphere was growing uneasily aggressive, there was something in the air, and she was aware of the need to shepherd the youngsters home before things became downright dangerous.

  She got the girls safely home as the sun was setting and made them take off cloaks and shawls and shoes, chafing wee Mary’s chilly toes to warm them. She settled them by the fire with their bowls of hot porridge and a little butter, cupped in their hands against the cold. The youngest were already asleep in the bed in the wall, which was a blessing, and her father had just come in and was taking his snuff and his ale.

  ‘Where’s Adam?’ he asked. ‘Was he not with you at the curling?’

  ‘Aye, he was and I thought he was behind us on the road, but he isn’t here yet.’

  ‘Was he with the other lads?’

  ‘He was, aye, a whole group of them. But he’ll likely be home soon, when his belly is bothering him.’

  James Armour said nothing, frowned, buried his face in his mug.

  They heard the racket from some way off, like the sound of rough music coming through the town, although there was no music, just voices singing and shouting and whistling. They only found out exactly what had happened later, and Jean was very glad that she had shepherded her sisters home when she did. The previous year, one Agnes Wilson had turned up in the town, destitute and desperate, and been hired as maid at Poosie Nancy’s that lay on the opposite corner of the Cowgate to the more respectable Whitefoord Arms. The hostelry was run by Geordie Gibson and his wife, Nancy. It was, so James Armour was fond of saying, a den of thieves, vagabonds and whores, but however Daddie Auld might thunder retribution from the pulpit on the Sabbath, nothing seemed to deter them. Rab had remarked to Jean that he had been in there once or twice out of curiosity and it was mostly the haunt of people who had fallen on hard times, but it might happen to the best of us, and the impecunious and impoverished must go somewhere, mustn’t they? Nothing deterred Rab when he was in the mood to investigate something.

  ‘Because Johnnie Dow wouldn’t be wanting them in his respectable change house, after all, would he?’ His stress on the word ‘respectable’ in the light of all that they had done in the upper room there made her blush.

  Jean saw the truth of that, but found big black-bearded Geordie very frightening, disliking the way he gazed after her in the street, and the way his wife, who never seemed quite sober, would stand watching with folded arms, laughing at her discomfort. Geordie and Nancy had a grown-up daughter called Jess, fleet of foot but very childlike. It seemed to Jean that the girl had never really grown to maturity. She was a simple soul who would do any man’s bidding for a few coins or even a drink or a piece of cake held in her hand. She would gladly do as she was told, whether it involved innocently running with a message or letting a man lie with her, although lie was perhaps not the right word, since most of these transactions were carried out standing up in the alleyway at the back of the inn or, scandalously, in the kirkyard by night. Knowing what she knew now, Jean doubted very much if there was so much as a kind word for Jess when the men had done their work. They called her Racer Jess in the town, setting her to run and making wagers with strangers as to who would win. It was always Jess, of course. No incomer would have guessed how fast she was. But although they made money out of her from time to time, the men despised her and the women might pity her, but did nothing to help her. Sometimes Mr Auld would come along and speak to the parents, solemnly berating them about the need for morality and sobriety, but they would nod and agree with him and then ignore him. Jean thought he pitied Jess, but was at a loss as to how he could help her.

  If Jess was oddly innocent, Agnes Wilson was clearly no such thing. She was an older woman with a broad pink face that put you in mind of a ham, buxom, loud-mouthed and wanton. She had so much surplus flesh that it seemed to spill out of her too-tight clothes. She was no maid, they said, in any sense of that word, and although she was employed by Geordie to clean the rooms for the customers, it was common knowledge that she was employed to service them in other ways, with her employers taking their share of the proceeds and giving Agnes such money as they thought fit. ‘Geordie’s jurr’ – Geordie’s whore – they called her. While some of Jess’s transactions might have a certain ingenuousness about them, just a wee feel up an alleyway by a lad who was too nervous to do much more, Agnes was more blatant about the whole thing. There had been complaints to the kirk elders that she was corrupting the morals of the youth and disturbing the peace. If there had been a local magistrate, they would have applied to have her removed, but there was none in the town.

  And yet Rab refused to condemn her, even to Jean. Or not in so many words. He would avoid her, but he would not scorn her. ‘She’s a poor havrel body,’ he said. ‘She’s older than Jess. Too old to be able to change her ways. And God help her, what else is she to do? Where is she to go? She would be destitute and cast on the mercy of the Parish, and I can’t see any of them rushing to assist her, can you?’

  Once again, Jean was forced to admit the truth of his words, even though the sight of Agnes with her breasts half exposed, arms folded to push them higher, and her skirts kilted up showing plump legs, disgusted her. She couldn’t help it. She had been taught to fear and despise these women and, kindly as all her inclinations were, it was hard to change.

  That March day, at the curling, Agnes Wilson had been moving through the crowd doing what she did best, taking a drink and disappearing for the odd ten minutes, hardly more than that, every now and then. Jean had seen her young brother and his cronies watching from the fringes of the crowd, at first nudging each other as though they were egging each other on to approach her, but then, aware that they were being watched by Jean and others, retreating.

  Adam was small of stature. Jean’s parents were not exactly tall, but at fifteen, Adam was still smaller than Jean herself, smaller even than twelve year old Nelly. It was a source of irritation to him. His friends were outstripping him, and he got up to all kinds of mischief to prove himself a man, to prove himself grown. His mother tried to comfort him by telling him tales of her own brothers who had suddenly stretched out by the time they were sixteen or seventeen.

  He was also very drunk. That much became apparent later. They had been handing round a flagon of whisky, possibly illicit whisky from some hillside farm where there was a rough and ready still, brought down by another of the lads, and Adam had taken more than his fair share of the spirits, too much for a lad of his age and size. At some point on the way back to Mauchline, the group had come across Agnes Wilson, also somewhat the worse for drink. She had goaded them, swaggering along, ‘Are you wantin to try me, la
ds? D’ye have the siller?’ and Adam, seizing a wooden fence pole that was lying by the side of the track, had shouted ‘Come on lads, let’s stang the jurr and see how she likes it! Let’s stang her through the toun!’

  It took very little persuasion, none at all really, for the other lads to follow him, seize a suddenly bewildered and protesting Agnes, set her astride the rough wooden pole and, with a lad or two on either side of her holding her roughly in place, carry her, bouncing her up and down on the wood, through the town. They were mostly strong lads, a few ploughboys among them, and she could not fight back. You could hear the din of it from one side of the town to the other, the lads roaring and bawling, laughing and jeering, and poor Agnes, shrieking that she was bleeding, that the rough wood was cutting her down there, that there were – God help her – splinters in her spleuchan! She could be heard cursing them for all she was worth, in words that made James head for the door, telling Jean and her mother to ‘get the lassies intae their beds for God’s sake!’

  It only stopped when James Armour and a few other men rushed out from neighbouring houses and dragged their sons away, while Geordie emerged from Poosie Nancy’s throwing punches right, left and centre, unceremoniously pulling a weeping Agnes from the now bloody pole and hauling her into the inn. Adam was even fighting his father, while James was administering a series of resounding slaps to the young man’s head, presumably in an effort to bring him to his senses, which at last it seemed to do. He fled out the back of the house and into the relative safety of the outhouse, banging the door behind him. James was heaving with rage.

  ‘I really thought he might kill him,’ Jean said to her mother afterwards, when the house was quiet.

  ‘Well I thought so tae, if I’m honest,’ said Mary, shaking her head. ‘What are we tae dae with the lad? But after a’, she is a whore, so she is. And you ken fine how seriously Adam taks his religion!’