The Jewel Read online

  He leaned over the table that divided them. ‘That I love you? But I do. I thought you would see it for yourself. I’m fair daft about you, Jeany. And I think you love me, or why else would you be here?’

  ‘Hush!’ She looked around. ‘Don’t speak so loud.’

  The main room of the inn was busy and they could hear the buzz of conversation. Smoke drifted through. Somebody was tuning up a fiddle. Upstairs the singing school was about to begin. ‘I have to go. The class is starting. They’ll wonder where I am.’

  ‘And that’s another problem. You aye have to go. It’s fair killing me.’ He seized her hand again. ‘If I don’t kiss you properly and very soon, I’ll go mad as a hare in March, and it’s already coming on summer.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh at him. ‘And what did she say to all this nonsense? Katy Govan?’

  ‘She said she’d see what she could do. I was honest with her. I’m an honest man even though you and your friends seem to think I’m not. I said I wanted to court you properly, to become seriously acquainted with you, more than I could ever do in a snatched hour here in the Whitefoord Arms and so often under the keen eye of somebody else, of a great many curious people. I want to walk out with you, just you and me alone. Is that a sin?’

  ‘No. It’s not a sin. But…’

  ‘She’s a widow woman and she knows what it is to pine for a man, and it’s the same for a man when he pines for a woman. She said she’d see if she could help and she had an idea. Well, I’ll confess it was my idea, but she fell in with it immediately.’

  ‘Did she?’

  So many women fell in with Rab’s ideas immediately. He had a bright eye and a coaxing tongue. Maybe that was the long and the short of it. He was charming. But what if that was the whole of it? Nothing more. It was a frightening thought and one that her mother and father would agree with.

  ‘You could tell your mother that you’re going round there to learn some fine sewing. A way of earning an honest shilling or two to add to your household income. Your father would approve of that, surely?’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘She’s an excellent seamstress, and naebody would be any the wiser. She agreed that she would send me a message with her nephew. Willie’s aye going back and forth between the farm and the town, with my letters, chiefly. But Katy is a fond aunt, and sometimes she sends Willie back with this or that sweetmeat of her ain making, or she’s darning his stockings or mending his breeches or I don’t know what else. His ain mother is dead, you ken.’

  ‘So I could maybe let you know when I could get away.’

  ‘You can write, surely?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘Then you could send me a note with Willie, who doesn’t know his letters yet, although he’s learning. But if you keep it to a scrawl, he’ll be none the wiser. Aye, and then you could come out to meet me. Out by the back of Netherplace. Don’t take the road. Too many prying eyes.’

  ‘In the evening? You mean in the evening?’

  ‘I do. When my day’s work is done and yours too. They could have no objection to you keeping an honest widow woman like Katy Govan company for a few hours, could they?’

  ‘No. They couldn’t. But I wouldn’t be keeping her company, would I? And they would find out. You know fine what this toun is like and how everybody kens fine what everyone else is doing.’

  ‘They would suspect nothing. You’re a good girl, Jeany. Who’s to know that you’re spending a scant half hour with her or maybe an hour, so that you have some sewing to show for your time, and then slipping out by the back way to spend another hour or so with me? The nights are light, you’d be back before dark and naebody in your house would ken where you’ve been or who with.’

  The words brought her up short for a moment.

  ‘I’m a good girl,’ she said, quietly. ‘Or I aye thought I was.’

  She had not been tempted before, not even by Robert Wilson the weaver, although he would never have been less than courteous, a gentleman. More of a gentleman than Rab Burns. He would never have pressed her to have illicit meetings with him. He would have thought it immoral. And perhaps he would have been right. But then there would have been no need. Her father would have encouraged any meeting. Rab Wilson would have been made welcome in the Armour house. They would have given the young couple every opportunity to become more closely acquainted.

  ‘It would be sic a risk,’ she said, slowly. ‘I think folk are already talking. We’ve been meeting in here, and do you think Johnnie Dow does not mention it to my father?’

  ‘I think he does not. Johnnie is very close, very quiet on some matters. Men of his trade must be. And besides, what does he have to tell? That I sit here with you, all very proper, and we have an hour of polite conversation, and then I go on my way and you go to your singing school and there is no more to be said or done. Why? Has he asked you about it?’

  ‘My mother has. Somebody must have said something to her.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, was it true that I was meeting with you here at the Whitefoord Arms and I said…’ She hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said John Blane the ploughman was sweet on Chrissie Morton and I had promised to accompany her, as you had John, but that nothing much would come of it because Chrissie’s affections were inclined elsewhere and she was no fool.’

  ‘You have more enterprise than I thought, Jeany.’

  The lie had come so easily. She had surprised herself by how easy it had been to lie to her mother or at least to convince her with half truths.

  ‘And did she believe you?’ he pursued.

  ‘I think she did. But she’s no friend to you, Rab. Neither she nor my father. The more they hear of you, the less they like you. Now there’s your wean with Betty and all that scandal. And you’re friends with Mr Hamilton. They hate Mr Hamilton.’

  ‘Whatever have they got against Gavin?’

  ‘They think he’s shows small respect for the authority of the kirk.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘And they’ve heard things. They’ve heard all the gossip about Jamie Montgomerie and Eleanora Campbell.’

  ‘What does Gavin Hamilton have to do with any of that?’

  ‘You know fine what he has to do with that. A friend to both of them and to you too it seems.’

  He looked uncomfortable, but he only said mildly, ‘Well, what else could he do? Friendship demands no less. Gavin’s a good man and a kind man and a friend in need to Eleanora Campbell.’

  ‘Everything is cause for complaint with my parents. It frightens me.’

  ‘They think me what I’m not – a ne’er do weel who will betray you. But perhaps if they knew me better they might like me more.’

  ‘Perhaps they would. I’m not denying you’re a kind man, Rab. But I’m not likely to find out what they might think, because they would turn you from the door.’

  ‘Ach, Jeany, I’m wanting to court you, not your mother or your father. If I could, I would do it openly. I’m in want of a wife! There, it’s said!’

  ‘Wheesht!’ She was thoroughly alarmed now. ‘People will hear.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘I don’t ken what to think of you, Rab!’

  But she did know what to think. The words just came into her head. Am I in want of sic a husband? she thought.

  ‘I may be a poet, but I’m a farmer too and I’m as good as a weaver any day.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about Rab Wilson. I’ll no be marrying Rab Wilson.’

  That surprised her too, the way the words just popped out of her mouth, but she was suddenly as sure of it as she was of her own name.

  ‘Then your mother and father will be sorely disappointed. Or that’s what the town’s saying. So make up your mind. Will you meet me, Jean? While
the nights are light and sweet? Or will I go home to Mossgiel and never trouble you more?’

  ‘Maybe I will meet you. If you’re speaking the truth. If I can trust you.’

  ‘You could trust me with more than this.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it. I’ll go to Catherine Govan’s. I’ll take my needlework. And if I can, I’ll slip out and meet with you.’

  Chapter Seven

  Stitches, Poems and Kisses

  But blithe’s the blink o’ Robbie’s e’e.

  And weel I wat he lo’es me dear:

  Ae blink o’ him I wad nae gie

  For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.

  The truth was that, like Betty Paton before her, she was half daft with love for him. It had come upon her gradually, like a sickness, and there was no cure for it but to be close to him. Except that being close to him made it worse when they were apart. For a week or two she fended him off and he didn’t press her, contented to bide his time and wait for her to be ready. She didn’t entirely trust him, that was the problem. She saw the way he gazed at other lassies, the gleam in his dark eyes, and she saw the way they looked at him, and she thought that she might be storing up trouble for herself.

  He was a fever in her blood.

  She slept little during that summer. The nights were light and the days were long, and for most people the inclination for sleep lay in abeyance. Everyone here slept less in the summer than in the winter. But she would lie sleepless, while every waking thought was of him. Whatever it was that drew a woman to a man, it lay between them like a fine web. It wasn’t that he had caught her, like the spiders that lurked in all the corners of the house on the Cowgate, because it was so clearly mutual. If she could not keep away from him, could barely help herself, he could not keep his hands off her either. But she managed to fend him off for a little while, afraid of the consequences, afraid of what her parents would say.

  On a Saturday in June, she went to Catherine Govan’s house at the Cross and spent a good hour stitching at a piece of needlework at Catherine’s behest. It was a trim for a petticoat, white embroidery on white linen, and they were seated close to the small west-facing window to catch the light.

  ‘Are you going to meet him, hen?’ asked Catherine, eventually.

  ‘D’you think I should?’

  ‘Lassie, it’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Would you go?’

  Catherine gazed at her. The room was already darkening, but there was plenty of light in the western sky. It would be much lighter outside than it was in this little room. A fine night for a walk.

  ‘I think maybe I would. He’s not a bad lad.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Listen, Jeany. Mostly as we get older, we regret things undone. Unless the things we’ve done are very sinful.’

  ‘Willie Fisher would say this was sinful.’

  ‘Aye, well, he should ken! But seriously, why not go? Talk to the lad at least. He won’t ask you for ought you’re not willing to give. He isn’t that kind of lad.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What I might be more than willing to give him.’

  ‘He’s very fond of you. A fool could see that. He wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble else. You ken fine he can have his pick of the lassies round here. But he seems to want you.’

  Folding the piece of work away for next time, almost sick with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, Jean set off across the fields in the summer gloaming, slipping carefully out of the village that was quiet at this time of the evening. Several times she almost turned around and went home, but the thought of how upset he would be deterred her. She had agreed to meet him by an ancient thorn, a gnarled fairy tree that he had described, standing at the furthest point of the drystane wall surrounding the old house called Netherplace. The estate, owned by William Campbell and his proud wife Lilias, was a large one, and the woods were beautiful in summer. The turnpike road passed the front of the house, with its massive old yew tree, but Jean slipped round the back, well away from the house, and through the woods on the outer fringes of the park. This was a sheltered place, with light still slanting between the leaves, and the branches alive with birdsong.

  He was waiting for her there. She saw him before he saw her. He was standing with his back to her, leaning sideways against the gnarled thorn. She saw his homespun blue coat and his unmistakable black hair, and her heart gave a lurch of excitement. His head was bent and she wondered what he was looking at, and then she realised that he was reading, of course, because he always carried a book in his pocket. In any free moments he would be reading. Her friends despised him a little for that. But she admired it. It was one of the things that made him different: his defiant determination to find out everything he could about all kinds of things. He had once, in one of their conversations in the Whitefoord Arms, remarked that ignorance was a curse, but it was more of a curse for the poor than it was for the rich who could always buy ways to disguise their folly. She couldn’t help but agree with him. Even her father, if he could have persuaded himself to talk to Rab, would have agreed with him. She had not thought about it before, but once he said it, it seemed self-evident. Knowledge was a blessing. The more you knew, the more you understood. And although it might be frustrating for a poor man to be a learned man, it was far better than ignorance.

  ‘Rab?’ she said.

  He turned, slipped the book into his pocket and held out his arms to her. She took his hands and then he birled her round, just as if they were at the dancing again. But it was nothing like the dancing, because he pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips, as he had never done before. It came as shock. His coat smelled of peat smoke, but there was oil of cloves on his breath. Not only did he kiss her hard on the lips, but all unexpectedly he thrust his tongue into her mouth.

  She drew back, frowning, rubbing her hand across her lips. And yet she couldn’t say that she hadn’t liked it, because there was something in her that had liked it very much. She was embarrassed that she liked it so much. It was all new, all surprising.

  He hugged her, running his hands up and down her back, under her shawl, warm hands through the cotton of her gown, the light summer stays, but he didn’t kiss her again. Not then.

  ‘Ach, I’m sorry. You’re that bonnie. Ye shouldnae be that bonnie.’

  The cautious part of her, the sensible Mauchline girl, knew that she was no great beauty. She had a light heart and a light step, a sweet voice and a sweet face, but she was no goddess to be a muse to poets. But then maybe he was no great poet either. How could she tell? He fair fancied himself, as her father said often enough. But was that only self-love? Would his poems ever stand up to the scrutiny of the outside world? She didn’t know. They said in the town that Rab was clever. Too clever by half. Too clever for his station in life. And what was he doing, striking up a friendship with Gavin Hamilton, and even with the Montgomerie family? He should stick to his peers, the young men of the town, the drapers and ploughmen, the weavers and clockmakers.

  He seemed half mad with love for her and she doubted if he could dissemble to this extent. But she was far more certain of her own feelings than she was of his. Hadn’t her mother drummed into her that young men were only after ‘one thing’, and when they had got that one thing without the surety of marriage they would be as likely to abandon a lass as not. There were no half measures with Rab. She already knew that much about him, and nothing since then had caused her to change her opinion. All the lassies knew it and laughed at it. He would fall in love and then the beloved was invested with every virtue known to men in general and poets in particular since time immemorial. He was susceptible even when the lassie was quite plain and homely, far more homely, if the truth be told, than Jean herself, with her dark curls and hazel eyes. But how long would his love last? How long could or would he remain faithful?


  With an effort she moved away from him, but when he took her hand, she didn’t object. He threaded his fingers through her own and swung her arm as they walked. A pathway wound along the back wall of Netherplace and they took it. Above them, oaks and elms reared their summer canopies. The long grasses beside the wall were threaded with the flowers of midsummer: a tangle of vetch, delicate wild roses clambering over shrubs and stones, ranging from deep to palest pink, brambles in bloom – there would be plenty of fruit later – and everywhere a froth of bishop weed.

  These pathways had been familiar to her from childhood, as they were to Rab who had roamed these woods and fields even when he lived at Lochlea. When she thought of that place, she was reminded of the other women Rab was supposed to have courted while he was there – not just Betty Paton, but May Campbell who worked as dairymaid for the Montgomerie family at Coilsfield House. They called her Highland Mary in the town, but she was not Mary at all, not really. She was May or Margaret frae Dunoon, with a soft voice that sounded sweet and foreign. There were rumours and counter rumours about May, mostly asserting that the lass was ‘no as good as she’s cracked up to be.’ But what that might mean, and whether Rab was at fault in the matter, Jean couldn’t tell. Once or twice, back at the Whitefoord Arms, she had attempted to broach the subject of other lassies with him, but he had seemed reluctant to discuss May Campbell and his friendship with her in any way at all. Tonight, she hesitated to mention her misgivings, very reluctant to break the spell that seemed to be encompassing them, happy just to have him to herself for a while.

  They wandered around the back of Netherplace and then headed slowly south-west, towards Barskimming and the banks of the River Ayr that negotiated these woods and fields in a series of slow meanders. Not far from the river, he spread out his plaid against the evening damp, and they sat down together. The sun was very low in the sky now, but the light lingered, as it always did at this magical time of the year. There was a breath of wind, a chill on the air that gave him an excuse, if any were needed, to slide his arm around her.