The Rutherfurd Saga. Anna Buchan
She opened a door.
“This is the new bathroom.”
The two girls looked at the white-tiled walls, the gleaming hot-water rails, the glass shelves, the large luxurious bath, all spotlessly kept, then Nicole turned away with a slight shiver. “Poor little boy who liked his comforts,” she said. . . . “May we see the bedrooms?”
Two of them looked to the sea, two to the brae: all good rooms.
“Now for the kitchen,” cried Nicole, “and pray heaven that’s as perfect as the rest.” She turned to her friend the caretaker. “You don’t mind, do you? It seems we’ve simply got to see the kitchen and inquire into the hot-water supply.”
“ ’Deed ye can see onything in the hoose. I’m prood o’ ma kitchen. I’ve cooked in’t for near thirty years.”
“Oh!” said Barbara. “So you were Mrs. Swinton’s cook? That explains why everything is so well kept,” and she said it again with more fervour when she saw the kitchen premises. There was little left except necessities, but the tables were scrubbed white, the stone floors in the scullery and laundry sanded in elaborate patterns, everything showing that there was some one in charge who loved to work.
“It’s awfu’ bare: ye should hae seen it wi’ a’ the braw covers and copper pans, but everything’s been sold.” She shook her head sadly. “A body’s little hert to wark—but still . . .”
“And when the house is let,” Barbara began, and stopped.
“When the hoose is let, I’ll tak a cook’s place in Edinboro’. Ye get awfu’ big wages noo-a-days, but I dinna ken hoo I’ll like the toon.” She answered Barbara, but she looked at Nicole.
“You’ll hate it,” said that young woman briskly. “Besides, think how lonely this old house would be without you. Thirty years, did you say you’d been here? Why, you must love every stone of it. I don’t believe you could sleep now away from the sound of the sea. . . . Won’t you stay on and take care of us? I want to hear all about old Mrs. Swinton and the boy who liked his comforts. You see, we’re leaving our home and coming to a new place, and it’ll make all the difference if we feel that it isn’t a stranger in the kitchen, but some one who belongs. By the way, what is your name?”
“Agnes Martin, mem. I’m no married nor naething o’ that kind, but ma mistress aye ca’ed me ‘Mistress Martin’: she said it was better for the young lasses, ye ken.”
Nicole held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the old servant took it and shook it awkwardly.
“Then that’s settled, Mrs. Martin. You stay with us in your own old place and I promise you will be happy. There’s only my mother and my cousin and myself. Bar the door, please, to all further seekers; tell them the house is taken. We’re going straight now to the post office to wire to our lawyer.” And seizing the hand of Barbara, who was regarding coldly her precipitate cousin, and smiling at the old servant, who seemed bewildered but rather pleased, Nicole left the Harbour House.
* * * * *
Later in the day, Agnes Martin took off her white apron, wrapped a grey woollen shawl round her shoulders, locked the back door of the Harbour House, and went to visit, as was her custom of an evening, her old friend Mrs. Curle. It was only a little way, a step or two round the corner into the Watery Wynd where stood the outside stair that led to Betsy Curle’s one-roomed house. Agnes Martin turned the handle. “Are ye in?” she asked.
“When am I ever oot?” was the reply from the woman sitting by the fire.
Betsy Curle was not a very old woman, but for years she had been getting gradually crippled with rheumatism, and now could do little more than crawl round her kitchen. Yet everything was spotlessly clean. With her twisted hands she scrubbed and polished, remarking irritably when well-meaning people wondered how it was done, that there was no wonder about it, if a body had the whole day to clean a room it would be a shame to see it dirty.
“It’s you, Agnes,” she said to her visitor. “C’wa in to the fire: it’s surely cauld the nicht?”
“Ay, I wadna wonder to see a guid touch o’ frost. How are ye?”
“Fine.”
It was odd the difference in the speech of the two women. Agnes’s sharp intonation, rising high at the end of each sentence, seemed to have something of the east wind and the sea in it; Betsy’s broad Border tones, slow and grave, made one think of solemn round-backed hills and miles of moorland. Betsy had come to Kirkmeikle as a young wife, but the thirty-five years she had spent there had done nothing to reconcile her to the place. Home to her was still the village by the water of Tweed.
Agnes took out a grey stocking and began to knit while she recounted the small doings of the day, which were eagerly listened to, for Betsy took an almost passionate interest in her neighbours, though she was now, by reason of her infirmities, unable to keep them under personal observation.
When various small bits of gossip had been recorded and savoured with relish, the important news was brought out.
“I’m thinkin’ the Harbour Hoose is let then, Betsy.”
“D’ye tell me that? Whae tae?”
“Weel—the day, juist aboot denner-time, the bell rang, and there was twa young leddies standin’ on the doorstep wi’ a caird to see the hoose. I saw they werena juist daein’t for a ploy like some o’ the folk that comes, they were terrible tae’n up wi’ the hoose, specially the youngest ane. The ither ane was aye for haudin’ her back, but she juist gaed a lauch tae me and never heeded her. A bonnie young thing she was, I fair took a notion o’ her! D’ye ken, she shook haunds wi’ me! Ma auld mistress never did that a’ the years I was wi’ her.”
“Mistress Swinton was a proud body,” said Betsy. “She couldna see that her servants were flesh and blood like hersel’; but she’s dust noo, so we needna remember it against her.”
“She was a just mistress to me, and I’d like fine to stay on in the auld hoose.”
“Will the new folk want a cook?”
“Ay, did I no’ say that? The young leddy askit me to bide. She said it wud mak a’ the difference if I was there. She says, ‘There’s only my mother and my cousin and myself.’ It would suit me fine. I like to serve the gentry, an’ I dinna want to leave Kirkmeikle. If I took a place here wi’ Miss Symington they’d ca’ me a ‘plain cook,’ an’ ye ken fine what that means—juist stewed steak wan day and chops the next—but I could see that thae folk were used wi’ a’thing braw aboot them.”
“But whae were they?” Betsy asked. “Did they no’ tell ye whauraboots they cam’ frae?”
Agnes laid down her stocking and fumbled in her pocket.
“Here, see,” she said, handing her friend an envelope. “They left me that address. Did ye ever hear tell o’ that place?”
Betsy, bending down to the red glow from the ribs, read the words on the envelope, and her poor disabled hands shook.
“Never i’ the warld” . . . she muttered, then turning to Agnes, “Rutherfurds!” she cried excitedly. “I’ve kent the Rutherfurds a’ ma days. Rutherfurd wasna faur frae Langhope. It’s a terrible braw place; I used to gang as a bairn to Sabbath-schule trips there, and I mind when Lady Jane Rutherfurd cam’ as a bride. . . . Ye’re mista’en, Agnes, ma wumman, if ye think the Rutherfurds wud want a hoose in Kirkmeikle.”
Agnes knitted placidly. “I d’na ken. Twa leddies cam’, in deep black they were, an’ that was the name they gae me, and they said they were ga’en straucht to the post office to wire to their lawyer to tak’ the hoose. That’s a’ I ken—mak’ a kirk or a mill oot o’t, Betsy.”
Betsy shook her head. “There maun be something far wrang, but I get nae news frae Langhope noo that I canna hand