John came home from work early. That was her first intimation that something was amiss. He greeted her at the door with the smell of whiskey on his breath, and his kiss almost turned her stomach. The second intimation. His face was beaming. She was going to say third, but truly this had her baffled.
“What is amiss, John?”
“Amiss, Susan! Why should anything be amiss?”
“You are home too early. Have you lost your employment?”
“I hae given my notice.”
She looked at him then. This was clearly the third intimation. Her heart was beating so irregularly that she feared for the life of her unborn baby.
“Sit down.” John took her by the arm and led her to a chair. “You are looking ill, my dear.” She sat down. “You have no reason to fear,” he said. “I have good news for you.”
He stood there with his hat in his hand not saying anything. How could this be good news then? The maid was in the room now, seeming to know that something was amiss. “Mary, take his hat please.” Its movement was distracting her.
“Yes, madam.” She took it and hung it on the coat rack.
“Well?” Susan said. “Out with it. If it is good news, let me hear it.”
“I have found employment on a nobleman’s estate.”
Now, this was good news. She smiled, put her hands on each of the arms of the chair and lifted herself up and into John’s arms. He hugged her and kissed her and danced her around the room. As she twirled by, she could see that Mary was smiling.
“Stop! Stop!” she cried, getting dizzy and fearing she would soon need to run to her dressing room to look for a basin. “Tell me the rest. Who is the nobleman? Where is his estate?”
“The nobleman is Lord George Gordon, the third Earl of Aberdeen, and the estate is near Aberdeen in Scotland.”
Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating. For the longest time she stood as if waiting for it to start again.
“Say something, Susan”
“When are we to leave?”
“In a fortnight. The Earl will have a carriage for us.”
She remembered the trip that they had made to Dundee to be wed, days and days of coach travel. It had been grueling then when she had been young, alone and healthy. What would it be like with four small children? “I cannot imagine,” she said, “how I can manage such a journey in my present condition. Is Aberdeen closer than Dundee?” she asked innocently.
“Considerably farther. Several days farther.”
“I am not sure that I will make it, John.”
“Of course you will,” he said lamely.
Mary came to stand beside her, and Susan saw tears streaming down her cheeks. Why was she weeping? “Surely you will come with us, Mary?”
“To Scotland, madam!?” She said it in such a way that Susan knew she would not. She could not blame her and began to cry as well.
“If Mary willna come, the laird has promised to employ a servant to accompany us,” John said.
She and Mary were too busy weeping to respond. Mary might have been her servant, but she was the only friend she had, and the oldest friend she had left from the time before, when Susan was someone besides a wife and a mother.
For several years now, Susan had been grateful for her loyalty while at the same time being sorry for it as well. Mary could have obtained a better position elsewhere with far less work to do and greater remuneration. Or she could have married and had her own babies. She would have made someone a far better wife and mother than Susan did because she knew how to cook and keep household accounts. In the face of such competency, Susan felt useless. So now, though she should have been happy for Mary, she felt selfishly sad because she would miss her so much and because she could not imagine how she would manage without her advice and assistance.
Later, when they were alone in their bedchamber, John and Susan talked of the matter.
“We willna gang,” he said, “if you dinna wish it.”
“But you have already told the Earl that we will, John.”
“’Tis no great matter to tell him that I willna. He will hire another man. That is all.”
“But you cannot continue to work at Vauxhall Gardens, where you do not make enough money to support us! It is not an option that we can afford, John. We have no choice. We must go.”
“But there is another choice, Susan. Now that a peace treaty has been signed with America and the war is over, we can emigrate there, as I have so long wished to do.”
Susan had been expecting John to make this suggestion for several months, ever since September when the treaty had been signed. She had been preparing an argument against such a possibility; she saw it now as an argument to be used in favour of moving to Scotland. “If I am reluctant to move so far as Scotland, how can you think that I would be willing to go to the other side of the world? I am not. However, I will agree to go with you back to your homeland.”
“You are willing to do so even though it means you maun leave your family and friends behind you?”
“What family is that, John? Where have my family been in the last six years? We have sent an announcement at each child’s birth, and never once have my parents come to see any of the children. There will be no forgiveness from them should we wait another six years. Besides, you have family in Scotland, and your family shall be my family, as it should be, as your blessed Bible always says it should be.”
Then he could not help but quote chapter and verse, for that was his nature and the way he had been raised. “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; from the Book of Ruth.”
It was a beautiful piece of scripture, and Susan felt her life was bound by it, then and now, always, whatever her will.
“And what about your friends?” he asked.
Without thinking she answered, “It is pitiful when the only friend one has is a servant.”
He gave her such a look then, and she remembered that he was, in truth, a servant too.
“I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness; from the Psalms,” he continued quoting to assuage his anger.
“Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” she added for good measure.
“Who said that?” John asked, surprised by her erudition.
“Satan said it,” she answered, “in Milton’s Paradise Lost.”
“So, you did have a good governess once. I wish that I had met her.”
“The pair of you would have got on famously!” Then they laughed, and the terrible thought of her future travail, the journey back to the wilds of Scotland, seemed to slip from her consciousness, though it was always there, in the back of her mind, another trial to be endured.
***~~~***
As they were making the arrangements for their trip to Scotland, John sent a letter to Fitzwilliam advising him of their imminent departure. Fitzwilliam replied by return post that he would do his best to accomplish his assigned task. Then John finally broke the news to his wife, unaware that she was already apprised. In anticipation of the meeting, the family remained at home as much as possible during this period, nervously awaiting a knock at the door. On the weekend before the Deans were to leave, the visitors arrived.
Mary started at the sound of the knocker. Then, smoothing the front of her gown, she walked to the door to answer it as a proper butler would have done, closing the anteroom door behind her.
Susan, sitting in the rocker with the baby on her knee, and John, interrupted in his romp with the three older children, could hear only a muffled cry from the anteroom. A few moments later, their suspense was ended and the door opened.
Mary announced the visitors. “Mr. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Kirke,” she said, and then stepped aside.
Fitzwilliam, grinning from ear to ear, entered the room and nodded at both John and Susan. “I have the h
onour to present your father Mr. Kirke.” Then he stepped aside, revealing a man much reduced in stature since Susan had last seen him. When he saw the family, he tottered a little, and Mary took his arm to support him.
Susan placed the baby on the floor and skipped to embrace her father, holding him tightly in her arms. When she finally let go and stepped back, he was weeping, copiously and unashamedly.
“Have a seat, Father.” She led him to the chair she had just vacated.
“Papa, why is the old man crying?” little Johnny asked.
Ellie began to cry in sympathy, and John picked her up to comfort her.
Susan was trying desperately, but with little success, to hold back her own tears.
Her father began to rock himself in the chair, muttering over and over, “Oh my! Oh my!”
“Are you all right, Father?” Susan asked.
He did not answer, but kept on muttering and rocking as if he had not heard.
“Is he right in the head?” John asked Fitzwilliam.
“Well, he seemed right enough on the way here. He was quite excited when I told him where we were going. I expect it is just the shock of seeing you that has put him in this state.”
Mary said, “Do you think some smelling salts will bring him round to his right mind?”
“Why not?” Fitzwilliam said, and Mary made a move to fetch them.
Kirke spoke up suddenly. “I would prefer gin, Mary, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I am not a very wise man,” Kirke stated unequivocally.
“At any rate, there is not a drop of gin to be found in the house,” John said, shifting Ellie, who no longer cried but still had the snuffles.
“What do you have, Dean? Whiskey?”
“The house is dry, sir, save for a little ale.”
Kirke made a face. “Not even brandy?”
“No, sir.”
“Ale will do then.”
Mary nodded and went to fetch the ale instead of the smelling salts.
“You have not changed, Father,” Susan said, her eyes now as dry as the house.
“’Tis not true, Susan. I am not the same man any more. I am all filled up with regret now. But enough of that. I do not expect your forgiveness. Just introduce me to my grandchildren. How many are there?” He looked about him. His eyes lighted on the baby sitting at his feet looking up at him. “Who is this, then?”
“This is the youngest, William. But you must meet them in the correct order. John, bring the children to meet their grandfather.”
John pushed the boys gently forward. “This is the eldest, your namesake, James.” He nudged his son’s shoulder. “Go and shake your grandfather’s hand, lad.”
James, looking very solemn, did as he was bid. The old man shook the offered hand and then kissed the palm that the youngster had touched. His whole body began to tremble and he burst into tears again.
The introductions were thankfully interrupted as Mary arrived at that moment with the glass of beer. Susan was almost sorry that they did not have stronger liquor in the house to assist her father through his ordeal.
When Kirke had recovered himself enough, he took the glass in his two hands and shakily brought it to his lips, finishing it off in one gulp. “Thankee,” he said, returning it to Mary. “Now, who is this?” He looked at the cocky young boy who was glaring at him.
“The correct order,” Susan stated simply. She would not have her daughter passed over.
John understood immediately, setting Ellie down in spite of her protests. He gave her a warning look and she stopped struggling. “Next we have Eleanor. Go and see your grandfather, Ellie.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“I can see she is as eager to approach me as her grandmother, for whom she is named,” Kirke commented.
Susan ignored her father’s remarks and took her daughter’s hand, leading her forward. “This is my papa, Ellie. He is your grandfather. Give him your hand.”
Ellie put out her hand tentatively and Kirke took it. “How do you do, my dear.” He bent his head to kiss her hand, but she snatched it away and ran back to her father’s arms. John caught her up and gave her a hug.
Mr. Kirke straightened himself and stood for a moment watching father and daughter, his eyes shining and his face wet with tears. Then he looked down at the third child. “Now, might I meet the young soldier who is shooting at me with his eyes?”
Susan laughed. “You may. This is young John, named for his father. We call him ‘Johnny.’” She did not need to encourage him as she had Ellie. He stepped forward on his own and shook the old man’s hand vigorously.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Johnny said.
“Good afternoon to you.” Kirke smiled when the young man’s shaking finally ended. “How old are you, boy?”
“I am free,” he lisped.
His grandfather laughed and the youngster glared at him again.
“And now the baby,” Susan said, hoping to defuse her young son’s anger. She picked him up from his seat on the floor. “Would you like to hold William?”
“Well.” Kirke looked hesitant. “It has been a very long time since I have held a baby. You were that baby yourself, Susan.” He smiled.
“’Tis not something you forget how to do.” Susan handed William to him, and he began rocking again, although now he was crooning at the child, who continued to stare.
“Father, have you dined yet?”
The old man, rapt in his attention to the baby, did not respond, so Fitzwilliam, who until now had held himself in the background, stepped forward. “No, he has not. We came here directly from Kirke Hall this morning.” Fitzwilliam’s eyes were rimmed with red and he held a moist, crumpled handkerchief limply in one hand.
Susan smiled at his sentimentality. “Will you dine with us also, Fitzwilliam?” she asked.
“I would be delighted to be included in such a party.”
“Amen to that,” Mr. Kirke commented from his rocking chair.
While they waited for Mary to prepare the dinner, Susan asked after her mother and others of her acquaintance in the vicinity of Kirke Hall. Her father was not very informative in his brief responses.
“What I would like to know,” he asked, “is if I might come to visit you again. I should like to come often, if I may.”
Susan and John exchanged glances.
“Then you have not told him, Fitzwilliam?” John asked.
Fitzwilliam shook his head.
“Told me what?”
“I could not,” Fitzwilliam said.
“I ask you again, Dean. Told me what?”
“We asked Fitzwilliam to bring you here not only to meet your grandchildren but also so that we might say good bye to you, sir. We are moving to Scotland next month. I have found employment on an estate there.”
A strange ungodly sound erupted from Kirke, and all the children turned to look at him. Susan took the baby from him before one of them began to wail.
They all waited until he recovered his power of speech. “Could you not have found any employment closer to home, Dean?” Kirke asked his son-in-law accusingly.
“I could not, sir, as you well know, since it was you yourself who put me on a black list because I married your daughter.” John spoke coldly.
The same strange noise emanated from the old man again. There was a wild look in his eye. “What have I done?” he muttered.
Susan wanted to say something to relieve his obvious suffering but could think of nothing.
Fortunately, Mary arrived at that moment to announce that dinner was ready.
The group found their places at the dining room table and sat down. It was not the sumptuous suppers of Susan’s youth when far more food had been placed in front of the Kirkes than three people could ever eat at one sitting. It was instead the kind of simple meal the family had become accustomed to: a hearty soup with some bread and butter.
Usually, the children would have been fed before the others, but since the visitors were hungry, not having dined on their long journey, the company was quite content to eat at the same time. With only one servant and one table, they were obliged to dine in one place as well, which had they not, old Mr. Kirke would have insisted upon at any rate. William was put in his cradle beside the table, although he was already at an age when he would rather have been included with the company at the table. Mary was constantly interrupted in her serving duties to attend to him.
Kirke gradually regained his equanimity, not wanting to waste a moment of the brief time that remained of the only visit he would ever have with his grandchildren. He began to propose a toast to each of them in turn, not forgetting his daughter and husband.
The health of each member of the family was drunk to, and the children happily lifted their tumblers of milk to join in.
“I would like to make another toast, but we have no more ale.”
William, whose health had just been toasted, cried even more lustily to be picked up.
“Go and fetch the ale, Mary, and I will take the baby,” Susan said, picking up William and sitting him on her knee so that Mary could fill her father’s glass.
Kirke raised his beaker.
“Who is left to toast?” Fitzwilliam said, laughing.
“Saving your kind self, sir,” Kirke spoke sincerely. “I wish to raise a glass to Mary Turnbull, a loyal servant, unjustly dismissed from my household, who is doing the duty of several servants at once at this fine feast. Mary Turnbull!” he exclaimed, lifting the tumbler that she had just filled.
The maid blushed prettily, unused to being singled out, especially by her ex-employer.
After putting down his glass, John said, “If I may be so bold as to speak, I would like to ask a favour of you, sir. Mary will not be going to Scotland with us. As you can well imagine, she does not wish to travel so far from her native country to leave her family and friends behind. But as you say, she has always been loyal and hard-working, so if either of you gentlemen could provide her with a position here in England, we would be most grateful to you.”
“I will make it my first priority to find her a place as a lady’s maid, a position that she so richly deserves after the devotion she has shown to your family,” Fitzwilliam said.
“And I will provide a testimonial of her service,” Kirke added.