Castle Barebane

  They were nearing the castle ruins. Pieter had seen them through an archway and came running out. For once he was overflowing with excitement and high spirits.

  “Aunt Valla, Aunt Val, isn’t this the most awesome place? Annot says it’s awesome, that’s a Scots word. I’m learning Scotch.”

  “Yes it is awesome,” Val agreed, looking up at the tottering pile, and out across the German ocean, so grey, cold, and white-capped, and down at the pale dimpled menace of the Kelpie’s Flow. “Pieter, this is Doctor Ramsay, who wants to have a look at Jannie. Where is she?”

  “Why does he want to look at her; she’s not sick?” Pieter demanded instantly and reasonably. “There she is, just coming out with Annot.”

  Jannie came slowly, sucking her finger and clutching Annot’s hand. She looked tired.

  “Good day to you, Annot, found a new pair of bairns to tell your tales to, have you?” Dr. Ramsay said. “Well, you can run off home to your dinner now, Miss Montgomery and I will fetch them home. Is your mother still using the lotion I sent her? Has she plenty of it? That’s good.”

  As Annot, after bobbing a curtsey, ran off down the hill, he added, “Why don’t we all sit here in the moat for a few minutes? It’s quite sheltered and warm.”

  They all settled in a sunny corner and then Dr. Ramsay began to examine Jannie, which he did with extreme care and thoroughness, cracking jokes to allay Pieter’s anxiety. Jannie ignored the jokes, but she did seem to feel a rapport with the doctor and submitted trustfully enough while he peered and prodded and tapped, looked in her eyes and ears and throat, felt her glands, pressed her chest, and tried to make her repeat words after him.

  “Say ah, Jannie. Say Pa. Say Pa may we all go too?”

  “You don’t talk to her properly,” said Pieter, and explained about the intonation.

  “Indeed? Thank you, Pieter, that’s a great help, and most interesting.”

  The doctor tried again with better success and began making Jannie articulate words by the simple expedient of putting her mouth in the appropriate shape with his hands. At length she became tired and rebellious and bit his thumb quite hard.

  “All right, little Miss Silence, I take your point that you have had enough for the time,” he said amiably, wrapping a handkerchief round the injured member. “Here—” and he dug out a paper of treacle candies, “have a sweetie apiece. My mother always makes sure I have some of these on me when I go off on my rounds,” he told Val. “Now we’ll walk home, bairns; if you want to run to the foot of the hill, wait for us there, and I’ll give you another piece of candy.”

  Pieter grabbed Jannie’s hand and ran off.

  “Well, what’s the verdict?” Val asked anxiously.

  “She’s deaf.”

  “Deaf?” Val was utterly taken aback. “Not simple?”

  “Simple?” he exclaimed angrily. “The child’s as bright as a button. Considering the very limited amount she receives aurally from the outside world, it’s amazing how far her mental development has advanced. She can hear certain sounds quite well; others not at all. But someone’s obviously taken pains with her. She has a remarkably keen intelligence.”

  A lot of things fell into place for Val.

  “So that’s why—oh, what a fool I’ve been not to spot it myself.”

  He smiled. “Easier when someone else has pointed it out. Your mind was running on other lines.”

  “What was the cause, do you think?”

  “It might have been hereditary—or she might have suffered from some middle-ear infection; or it might have been caused by a blow or an accident. Hard to say without knowing more family history. Was Kirstie ill, ever, when she was expecting Jannie?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met her. But I remember Nils—what a fool I am—saying something about a maid hitting Jannie on the head, and Kirstie being very angry. Could that have caused it?”

  “Possible, or Kirstie might just have been angry because the child had the condition already.”

  “Can it be cured?” Val thought with painful remorse of the many times she had been impatient with Jannie’s inattention.

  “Helped, certainly. I’ll conduct some more tests on her and find if she would benefit from an appliance.”

  “An ear trumpet, you mean? Oh, the poor child!”

  “She might enjoy it. The old laird had one I believe—it’s probably still somewhere about the house. Yes; very likely her deafness is hereditary. Also she needs speech-training to make up for all the time she’s lost. I’ll try to get over for half an hour every day.”

  “You will?—but that’s unbelievably kind of you! You’ll give up all that time?”

  “Och, I’m not so hard-pressed at present,” he said calmly. “And I’m particularly interested in deafness. Besides, she is a bright, quick little child; she ought to have her chance.”

  “Well—in that case—thank you! We’ll be glad to accept your kindness.”

  And, Val thought secretly, it will enlarge my own chance of getting away from Ardnacarrig.

  Certain that Dr. Ramsay was coming over every day—would she not, with an easy conscience, be able to take herself off at least as far as Edinburgh?

  “I’d like you to do at least an hour a day with her too,” he went on, rather dashing these plans. And he went on, “Er—Miss Montgomery?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I ride to Ardnacarrig every day, folk around here will certainly begin to talk, as they are very prone to do, and say that I am courting you.”

  “Well?” she said rather irritably. “I’m not in the least troubled by talk.”

  “Nor am I,” he said blandly. “That was not what I was going to say.”

  “Oh? What was it then?”

  “I merely wanted to warn you that I do not intend ever to marry,” said this surprising young man. “Just in case you yourself should entertain any false ideas about my intentions.”

  She was really taken aback, but mustered up enough composure to say, “Please have no anxieties on that score, Doctor Ramsay,” rather coldly. “As a matter of fact I am engaged to be married to a lawyer in New York.” No longer true, of course, but at least it would show this odd character that she was not interested in him. She had once been informed by her father that some men preferred the company of their own sex to that of women—very strange!

  “Oh, that’s capital, then,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I need have no anxieties on your score. I am sure I shall very much enjoy being friends with you—you are just the kind of quick-witted, strong-minded woman that I get on with most comfortably. Au revoir! I shall come over tomorrow again.”

  They had walked as far as the stable yard where his grey mare was tethered. He untied the mare, mounted, and rode off, waving his hat to her and the children in the most amicable way.

  And what about me? Val thought rather indignantly as she slowly followed the children indoors. She had decidedly mixed feelings about young Dr. Ramsay and now wished that she had not told that lie about Benet. She wished even—a little—that she had not been so precipitate in writing to break off the engagement. She would have liked to write to Benet now, describing the scene at Ardnacarrig, making an amusing story of it. But pride forbade.

  Failing Benet, she sat down and wrote a strong letter to Lady Stroma at Nice, in which she said that it was not suitable for the children to be left at Ardnacarrig without some trained person to look after them, and she suggested that a nursery-governess be hired.

  Then she added another page to the Journal of a Yankee Lass.

  Chapter 12

  The realisation that she was deaf, not feeble-minded made an astonishing, a humiliating difference in one’s attitude to Jannie, Val discovered.

  “Och, the poor afflicted bairn,” said Elspie. “Nae wonder she paid sae little heed when a body speired her something. And now I come tae thi
nk on’t, I mind fine the auld laird was deaf as an adder in his last years.”

  With a certain shock Val remembered that the old laird in question, Jannie’s great-grandfather, was Elspie’s father; that Elspie, in fact, was Jannie’s unacknowledged great-aunt. No wonder she was somewhat sardonic about her half-sisters’ penny-pinching ways. If I were in her place, Val thought, I wouldn’t just be sardonic, I’d be spitting fire and brimstone. In fact I wouldn’t be in her place. How dare they employ her as a housekeeper and not acknowledge her relationship?

  It seemed incredible to Val that anybody in Elspie’s position should not demand more of her rights from her half-sisters. Why should she be obliged to live alone in this cold, uncomfortable barrack of a house, doing the most menial tasks, scrubbing floors, digging potatoes, feeding poultry, while they took their ease in France or Turkey? True, Honoria had weak lungs; true, Louisa was probably not taking her ease but engaging in strenuous camel travel; true, Elspie appeared healthy, contented, dourly devoted to the house—but still, but still! Principles were principles.

  Val suspected that Dr. Ramsay had laid down for Elspie some strong guidelines regarding her behaviour toward Jannie, for after his first visit the old woman made a definite effort to exercise patience with the child’s inattention, erratic behaviour, and waywardness; occasionally, even, she showed a gleam of wintry kindness to her great-niece which it was not evident that Jannie either noticed or reciprocated. She tended to keep a nervous distance from Elspie at all times, and was almost equally wary in her attitude to Val, despite the latter’s determined display of friendliness. The only person who did not change his ways toward Jannie was Pieter; the fact that her condition had been given a name made no difference to him. Jannie was Jannie, and he continued to treat her with brotherly protectiveness, mixed with a modicum of firm discipline when he thought it necessary; sometimes Jannie submitted to his authority, sometimes she rebelled against it furiously. Often, watching Pieter organise his small sister, Val was reminded of herself and Nils—but with what a difference! Pieter was both kinder and more just than his father had ever been.

  Little by little Jannie displayed signs of improvement; now that the adults concerned with her knew that it was not impossible to make contact with her and were attempting to break through the barrier of her deafness, she began to make some tentative response. By degrees she became less wilful, less hysterical; and after two or three weeks at Ardnacarrig, when familiarity with her surroundings gave her a greater sense of security, less wildly incontinent, less prone to panic. But it was uphill work.

  Dr. Ramsay, faithful to his word, came every day; sometimes, if he was pressed for time, he would spend a scant ten minutes with Jannie; sometimes, if the health of his patients and the state of Jannie’s patience permitted, he might stay an hour or even two, working with her, steadily repeating simple vowel sounds and consonants over and over, making comic faces at Jannie and persuading her to imitate them while at the same time reproducing the sounds he made; he borrowed and brought different instruments—flute, violin, drum—to find which sounds she heard most clearly; he picked out one-finger tunes on the old broken piano, and encouraged Jock Kelso to come up to the Big House and play his bagpipes. Jannie hated the pipes at first and broke into screams of fear and dislike at the sight and sound of them, but later on she began to find them a very good joke and welcomed the approach of the “blow-pipe-bag-man.”

  Val, anxious in case all this extra attention to his small sister might put Pieter’s nose out of joint, began giving him some simple lessons while Dr. Ramsay held his sessions with Jannie.

  She had asked Ramsay if there were no local school Pieter might attend, but the answer was discouraging.

  “There’s only an old dame in Wolf’s Hope called Luckie Mackenzie who teaches reading and writing and a bit of sewing for the girls, but I doubt Pieter is ahead of her tuition already. My father used to run the school, but the new minister comes over from Ravenswood and has his own parish and school to run, as well as ours. It was agreed, you see, that my mother should remain in the Manse until—while she lives. So, you see, Pieter is better off learning from you—if you can spare the time from your writing,” he added with an ironic glance.

  Dr. Ramsay had many reservations about women’s entry into the world of letters. This was one of the chief grounds for dispute between him and Val, and provided material for many enjoyable and inconclusive half hours of argument. Val had told him about her career in journalism and even shown him some of her work; he was exasperatingly unimpressed and recommended that instead of writing snippets for journals—if she must write at all, for which he saw no need whatsoever—she produce something useful: a book of household management, perhaps, or a manual of home medicine, for which he would provide material.

  “But there’s far too many books written already, in my opinion,” he said dampingly. Despite this divergence of views, Val and Dr. Ramsay continued excellent friends. And she continued to teach Pieter, and this added to her feeling of being hopelessly trapped; sometimes she was not far from panic.

  What am I doing here? she would think feverishly, helping Elspie polish floors and peel potatoes (she was taking as much of the burden of housework as she could from the old woman’s shoulders), teaching long division and the capitals of Europe in this freezing, crumbling, mildewy mausoleum? If I don’t get myself away soon my ghost will end up keeping Thrawn Jane company in the Long Gallery.

  Sometimes, on a wet afternoon, as she walked in the Long Gallery herself, she could almost imagine Thrawn Jane keeping pace with her, angry, rebellious, restlessly longing to fly away into the world.

  Val had had several letters from Benet, forwarded on from the offices of Selkirk’s. Completely refusing to accept the breaking of their engagement, he wrote calmly, kindly, affectionately.

  “I understand now that you must have been suffering from an exhaustion of the nerves when you went to England,” he wrote. “And indeed, after that engagement party, I am not surprised! The family all quite understand and think it an excellent plan that you should stay comfortably with your relatives for a while. As you are in Scotland, I conclude that you are with your sister-in-law’s relatives there? I trust you are availing yourself of the chance to visit Scotland’s historic monuments and also to inspect the many centres of weaving, knitting, and homespun industry in which Scotland abounds; our females have much to learn from Scotswomen in this respect. But I understand that Scotland is very damp; I do hope that you remember always to wear rubbers when you go out walking . . .”

  Reading these lines as she walked with the children on the beach, Val glanced sardonically round the landscape. Already winter had the bay in its cold clutch; the last tarnished leaves had fallen from the deciduous trees in the policies, frost lay thicker each morning on the shaggy lawn, and took longer to melt; each day the sun rose later. The winds blew more fiercely at night while day after day high white breakers rolled into the bay.

  Val resolved to lose no more time in paying her visit to Dr. Ramsay’s mother. She had her promise to keep; also she still felt it might be possible to recruit some other help in the village of Wolf’s Hope; surely some reliable person there might be persuaded to come and lend Elspie a hand with the children, mitigate her severities, and give Pieter a little schooling?

  “How can I get to Wolf’s Hope?” she asked Elspie.

  “What for do ye want to go there?”

  “To see it! And I promised Sir Marcus that I’d visit Mrs. Ramsay.”

  “Och, well, ye could walk.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Seven mile over the headland, five along the shore.”

  “But one can’t go along the shore because of the Kelpie’s Flow,” Val said irritably, slapping an iron on to the range; she was helping with the interminable laundering of Jannie’s sheets.

  “Ay, that’s so; forbye ye can walk round the seaward end o?
?? the flow when the tide’s way out at the neaps.”

  Val, however, scouted this suggestion; she certainly was not going to trust her own judgment as to where the quicksand ended. In any case the question was academic, for the tides, just then, were at springs.

  “And I don’t intend to walk fourteen miles there and back, either—that’s nearly five hours on foot. I’d hardly be back by dark.”

  Elspie agreed that this was so.

  “Could I get a ride in the post cart?”

  But the post cart, she found, passed Ardnacarrig at five A.M., which would mean reaching the manse at seven-thirty A.M., an unpropitious time for a social call.

  “Can ye ride horseback?” said Elspie grudgingly. “I daresay ye could borrow ane o’ the coach horses on a day Jock didna want it for the ploughing.”

  Val was not overjoyed at this suggestion, but it seemed the only answer. She had ridden, after a decorous fashion, with her father and occasionally with Benet in Central Park, on hired hacks, but that seemed a far cry from guiding an unfamiliar mount over fourteen miles of unknown rocky country. However she was anxious to keep her promise and write to Sir Marcus about it; she went to consult with the surly Jock, who gave her reluctant permission to take Dunkie, the brown cob.

  “He’s gey slow, it’s true, but he winna rin awa’ wi’ ye, that’s certain,” Jock observed morosely. “I wadna trust ye wi’ the mare, she’s unco’ wilfu’ an’ hot at bit—like some ithers we ken,” he muttered to himself. “Ane thing, wi’ Dunkie, ye canna bring him back hot an’ blown, for he aye takes his ain pace—he canna thole being hurried.”

  So that problem was solved, though Val did not look forward to her ride. The next question was what to wear, for among her limited wardrobe nothing seemed remotely suitable.

  Here, unexpectedly, Elspie proved helpful.

  “There’s a deal o’ leddy Barbara’s claes yet, i’ the kist,” she volunteered, measuring Val with her eye. “She was a bonnie tall lassie—she’d make twa o’ Miss Kirstie—an’ she went off to India an left a’ her warm things ahint. I doubt they’d no’ be a bad fit for ye; forbye we might have tae take them in a wee bit.”