A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) Read Online Free Page B

Kilmarnock on Friday morning. There’s a train south from there.’ Ross stifled a yawn. ‘I must see to the pony now.’
    Rachel trembled as she climbed into Meg’s large bed. The prospect of living with Mistress Maxwell was daunting. She was not afraid to work, but she sensed Mistress Maxwell did not want her at Windlebrae. Yet what alternative did she have? She remembered the dismay she had felt when she discovered her father had no money to pay the doctor’s fee. She had already killed the pig. When the hens stopped laying she had made them into soup, praying that nourishing food would restore him back to health, or at least keep him alive. At the thought of her beloved father, the scalding tears spilled once more. She wished she could join him. Surely the grave could be no less welcoming than this house?
    Granny Ferguson would have given her a home, but she had no space and little money. Her cottage belonged to the Laird and would return to him when she died. She could not inflict herself on an old woman of ninety, even if she could have found work. Doctor Gall said there were a million unemployed men in the country and work was hard to find even for men in desperate need of it.
    Well, she was young and strong and she would work hard and prove that she was worthy of her keep. A hazy memory of her mother floated into her mind. She remembered the soft voice telling her always to say her prayers each night, and to think of pleasant things before she settled down to sleep. Wearily she scrambled out of bed and knelt down to pray. This was the way Meg found her when she returned with hot milk and bread and butter.
    It would take a great many prayers to win her mother round, Meg thought, in spite of her assertions that she was a God-fearing Christian. Even Meg did not suspect the depth of her mother’s bitterness, much less its cause and a growing obsession for revenge.

Chapter Three
    G ERTRUDE M AXWELL MADE NO effort to hide her resentment and Rachel realised she would extract her pound of flesh at every opportunity. She was young, she was innocent of the ways of the world, but she was intelligent. She sensed that Mistress Maxwell bore her a grievance, though they had never met until now.
    She had not come to Windlebrae expecting charity. She was used to work. Minnie Ferguson had taken her under her wing from the day her mother died when she was eight years old. She had been a stern tutor.
    ‘It’s for your ain good, my lassie,’ she wagged her white head, whenever she made Rachel repeat a task. She had a wealth of experience gleaned in her long years of service in the household of Lord and Lady Danbury. She had started as an under-maid at twelve years old and finished as housekeeper. In return for her labour and loyalty she had been granted the use of her tiny cottage for the remainder of her life.
    Rachel was grateful for her training now but nothing had prepared her for a house so lacking in warmth and laughter as Windlebrae.
    On that first dark February morning Gertrude Maxwell marched her across to the byre as though she was a prisoner. Rachel soon guessed she was to be given the worst of the cows to milk – a flighty young heifer who was bent on kicking, a dejected looking old cow with long tough teats who seemed to grudge parting with every drop of milk, and a fidgety blue-grey young cow with a wild gleam in her eye. Meg gasped a protest. She was silenced with a quelling scowl. Ross was more outspoken.
    ‘You canna expect the lassie to milk Bluey!’ he objected. ‘I’ll milk her.’
    ‘You’ll get on with your own work and mind your business,’ Gertrude snapped. She stood with her hands on her hips watching Rachel settle herself on her stool. She tucked her head firmly against the cow’s flank as her father had taught her to do. She felt drained and deadly tired. It was the morning after his funeral, her first morning in her new home. Home? The memory of her father brought tears to her eyes. She turned