The Road to Rowanbrae Read Free Page A

‘There’s never been nae comin’s an’ goin’s afore, an’ that’ll nae change though you’re here.’
    â€˜You canna stop me takin’ her in, Jeems.’ Mysie held her breath – the retort had come out involuntarily – and, in the deathly silence that followed, she was afraid to look at him, but was thankful that he hadn’t risen to strike her, as she’d been half afraid he might.
    He gave a grunt, making her jump. ‘Ho, so the little cattie’s got claws, has she? You’re nae the sharger I took you for, quine, but you’re a’ the better for that. You can ha’e Jess Findlater in for a cup o’ tea noo an’ then, but just her. I’m nae wantin’ a’ the weemen roon’ aboot comin’ in an’ gawkin’.’
    â€˜I’ll nae tak’ naebody else in.’ Mysie’s thumping heart slowed down. ‘Jess Findlater’s a real kindly body.’
    â€˜She is that. Her an’ Jake are good neighbours, nae like some o’ the other nosey tinks that bide aboot Burnlea. Noo, you’ll ha’e to milk Broonie again afore suppertime.’
    Mysie sat down abruptly when he went out. She had stood up to Jeems and got away with it, but she might not be so lucky next time. It wasn’t really fair, for she had always dreamt of meeting a young man, who would court her gently and treat her like a lady. He wouldn’t have needed to be a rich man – that would have been expecting too much – as long as his kisses made her swoon with love. Then, when he was sure of how she felt, he would have carried her away from Turriff on a white horse to a house where they would live happily ever after. He would have been handsome, with dark hair curling round his ears, and eyes that held smouldering passion in their depths. Oh, that was the kind of man she was meant for, not a dour forty-something-year-old with a face like a sow’s backside, as Jess had so expressively described it.
    Smiling, she rose to her feet and went to the back porch for an old rag to clean the smoke-blackened mantelpiece. Vigorous rubbing had no effect, so she moistened the cloth with water from the kettle, sprinkled on some salt, and within minutes she was rewarded by the emergence of a tiny area of deep reddish-brown. It would take time, she thought, but she was determined to master the house, and maybe lick her husband into some kind of better shape.
    On Friday, Jess took Mysie to the general store in what was euphemistically called ‘the village’ by the residents – a small higgledy-piggledy cluster of run-down cottages. ‘There’s aye a puckle weemen in Dougal’s on a Friday,’ she had told the girl the previous day, ‘so if you come wi’ me, I’ll introduce you. It’s as weel to get it ower quick.’
    The three customers in the shop turned to stare at them when they went in, and Mrs Mennie, behind the counter, lost track of the prices she was totting up. Highly amused by the impact they had made, Jess laughed. ‘This is Mysie, Jeems Duncan’s wife – Jean Petrie, her man’s grieve at Fingask; Belle Duff, fae Wellbrae, the croft nearest the kirk; Alice Thomson, her man’s the souter; Dougal Mennie an’ his wife, Rosie.’
    Mysie was embarrassed at the way the women were sizing her up, but she smiled a shy acknowledgement to each stiff nod, and was glad that at least the shopkeeper gave her a friendly smile in return. It was Mrs Petrie, the farm foreman’s wife, ferret-faced and thin-lipped, who spoke first. ‘We never thought you’d be so young, Mrs Duncan. You dinna look auld enough to be left the school.’
    â€˜I was in service in Forton Hoose in Turra for mair than twa year,’ Mysie mumbled. ‘I’m sixteen.’
    â€˜Sixteen? An’ Jeems must be wearin’ on for fifty, that’s a big difference.’ Jean was