On Carrick Shore Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication and Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1 Monday July 30th 1781

  CHAPTER 2 Tuesday August 7th 1781

  CHAPTER 3 Wednesday August 8th

  CHAPTER 4 Thursday August 9th

  CHAPTER 5 Friday August 10th

  CHAPTER 6 Monday August 13th

  CHAPTER 7 Sunday August 19th

  CHAPTER 8 Monday August 20th

  CHAPTER 9 Tuesday August 21st

  CHAPTER 10 Friday August 24th

  CHAPTER 11 Sunday August 26th

  CHAPTER 12 Tuesday August 28th

  CHAPTER 13 Wednesday August 29th

  CHAPTER 14 Friday August 31st

  CHAPTER 15 Saturday September 1st

  CHAPTER 16 Sunday September 2nd

  CHAPTER 17 Monday September 3rd

  CHAPTER 18 Tuesday September 4th

  CHAPTER 19 Wednesday September 5th

  CHAPTER 20 Thursday September 6th

  CHAPTER 21 Friday September 7th

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE SEPTEMBER 28th

  September 29th

  On Carrick Shore

  ALEX J. WRIGHT

  The Choir Press

  Copyright © 2018 Alex J. Wright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

  The right of Alex J. Wright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  The Choir Press

  ISBN 978-1-911589-58-7

  Dedication

  For Andy and Simon, and in memory of my grandparents, Bob and Jean Dalziel.

  Acknowledgements

  Grateful thanks for their help and encouragement to Gordon and Lesley Wright, Alice Mayoux and Theresa Sowerby.

  Thanks also to Miles, Rachel and Adrian at The Choir Press for their advice and practical help.

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday July 30th 1781

  “Bloody Ailsa Craig,” he muttered. “I thought I’d seen the last o’ ye.”

  From the top of the rise, the rider surveyed the scene before him. In the mild early afternoon sunshine the rigs of green barley sloped down towards the sea, the gulls wheeling and squawking in the still air. The waters of the Firth of Clyde were calm, the surface like green-blue silk shot through with lighter and darker shades above the lazy currents. He could see the blue hills of Arran and behind, the low hazy outline of the Mull of Kintyre. To his left, offshore, rose the sheer cliffs and perfectly conical top of the vast rock which haunted the dreams of every exiled Carrick man.

  He wheeled his horse round and set off reluctantly towards Ayr, to face the wrath of his father.

  *

  Thomas Boyd, twenty years old, graduate of the University of Glasgow, was going home after two years in Paris, where he had served an apprenticeship with the prosperous wine merchant Alphonse Lefèvre. This post had been procured for him by his father, Sir Malcolm Boyd, who had serious doubts about his second son’s ability to make his way in the world, and preferred him to make that way as far from Ayr as possible.

  Somewhat against expectations, Tom had proved to be a quick learner with an agile mind and a good deal of initiative, but just as his employer was about to offer him a permanent position, disaster struck and he was dismissed in disgrace. Lacking the means to support himself in France, a country still at war with his own, his only solution was to return to Scotland. The journey had been long and weary, and he had no doubt that his reception would not be warm.

  *

  An hour later, Tom clattered into the stable yard of Barnessie House, scattering hens and geese as he went, and slowly dismounted. Any joy he felt at seeing his old home again was overlaid with the dread of facing his family.

  “Aye, it’s yersel’” said a voice, “It’s guid tae see ye.” Tom turned to see the grinning face of Bob Balfour, his father’s groom and a friend from childhood. A short wiry man of twenty-six with a big nose and slightly bandy legs, Bob came into his own on horseback. He also seemed to have shrunk in the two years since Tom had last seen him.

  “Man, ye’ve fair grown,” said Bob, clasping Tom’s arm affectionately, “and ye’ve no’ turned oot sae bad. Nae wonder the lassies is a’ efter ye.”

  “It’s guid tae see ye, Bob,” said Tom hurriedly. “How are ye keeping? And Jeanie? Nae bairns yet?”

  “Och, we’ve time enough. Jeanie’s in the kitchen. Awa’ ye go ben, seeing you’re no’ minded tae gang roun’ tae the front door. I’ll see tae yer horse. She looks fair wabbit an’ a’,” he added, stroking the mare’s flanks.

  Tom crossed the yard and entered the kitchen, where Bob’s wife was rolling pastry while supervising the work of two kitchen maids.

  “They’ve ca’d for tea upstairs,” she was saying, “and Sir Malcolm’s no’ in the best o’ moods, so mind ye dinnae cowp onything. Tak the shortbread and the scones, and serve it on the guid china.” She broke off when she caught sight of Tom.

  “Aye, it’s yersel’” she said, repeating the words of her husband in a somewhat different tone, “the prodigal son.” A plump, fair-haired young woman, Jeanie had a sharp tongue and a clear idea of her place in the world, which was the equal of anyone, high or low, and of her right to speak her mind. “Ye’ve a bit o’ a nerve coming back here efter a’ the trouble ye’ve caused. Is that no’ right, Bob?” she added as her husband entered the kitchen. Bob grunted but offered no opinion.

  Tom coloured and quickly withdrew his hand, which had been straying towards a tempting pile of apple slices on the table. Suddenly he was tired, hungry and sorry for himself. He resolved to get whatever was coming to him over with as soon as possible and turned towards the door leading to the front stairs. Jeanie’s voice rang in his ears.

  “Aye, awa’ ben the hoose. Whaur dae ye think you’re going, Bob? I need ye tae rise this pie shell. Ye’re better at it nor me, but wash yer hands first.”

  Tom made his way up the handsome staircase to the first floor, past the row of portraits of his forebears, censorious to a man. Why did they all have to look so accusing, so like his father?

  *

  Sir Malcolm Boyd was taking tea with his wife Margaret, his elder son David and his twelve-year-old daughter Kate in the well-proportioned family parlour of the house he had had built ten years previously. Barnessie House was a testament to the prosperity he enjoyed as a landowner and one of the leading lawyers of his day. The large windows looked out over green lawns to the stand of beech and rowan trees and beyond to the enclosed fields farmed by David. He reflected that life had been good to him; he had a loving wife, a fine, upstanding son who would inherit his estate and a lively daughter who would no doubt make a good marriage or care for her parents in their old age, or both. He had worked hard for his position in life and intended to enjoy it. The only fly in the ointment was his second son, whose arrival was expected in a few days’ time and who would be dealt with severely.

  He was about to take another sip of tea when a noise on the landing made him look up. There, framed in the doorway, stood his younger son, a sheepish expression on his face.

  “Guid day faither, mither,” said Tom.

  The teacup rattled in the saucer and tea was spilt all over the tray as Sir Malcolm leapt to his feet, incandescent with rage.

  “It’s you, ye skellum,” he roared, “the ne’er-dae-weel that cannae keep his pintle in his breeks!”

  There was a nervous giggle from Kate, quick
ly hushed by her mother. “Go to your room, Kate” said Lady Margaret.

  Kate left the room slowly, with an inquisitive stare at Tom as she passed him. She only went as far as the landing, where she settled down on the floor by the door to listen.

  “What hae ye got tae say for yersel’?” asked Sir Malcolm in a deceptively quiet voice, “after ye’ve lost a’ yer prospects and made me the laughing stock o’ Ayr?”

  “Sorry, faither,” mumbled Tom.

  “Sorry?” roared his sire. “I’ll gie ye sorry. I’ve a mind tae hang ye up by the lugs and use yer baw-bags for golf balls!”

  Lady Margaret looked down, embarrassed; David studied the scene beyond the window and outside the door Kate’s eyes widened in a mixture of horror and glee.

  “Better gowf ba’s than the use ye’ve made o’ them, it seems,” went on Sir Malcolm. “I sent ye tae France tae learn a respectable trade, no’ tae mak free wi’ yer employer’s daughter an’ lose yer guid name.”

  “But faither, nothing happened, I . . .”

  “Nothing?” roared his father. “I’ve had a letter frae M. Lefèvre. Dae ye deny ye were found in bed wi’ the dochter, what’s her name, Madeleine?”

  At the mention of her name, Tom had a vision of golden hair, laughing blue eyes and a pert smile he had been powerless to resist. He sighed.

  “I cannae deny it,” he said. “But nothing actually happened. We didnae . . .”

  “Just as weel ye were caught in time. It’s bad enough that ye’ve lost yer reputation and near ruined the lassie, withoot an unwanted bairn.”

  “She’s no’ ruined,” protested Tom. “Madeleine’s family are standing by her. They’ve said nothing; she’s just gaun tae her aunt’s in the country for a month. No’ like here – it seems a’body kens aboot it. Jeanie ca’d me a prodigal son.”

  “Ye’ve yer aunties tae thank for that,” said Sir Malcolm bitterly, with a glance at his wife. “Yon pair o’ bletherin’ beldames hae spread the news a’ ower the toon. I ken they’re yer sisters, Margaret, but I’d pit them baith in scold’s bridles if it wasnae ower guid for them. As for “standin’ by ye”, what dae ye expect me tae dae, ye skellum?”

  There followed a seemingly never-ending tirade in which the words poltroon, wastrel, cuif, glaikit sumph and fushionless gowk recurred frequently. Delivered with the full force of Sir Malcolm’s powerful lungs, it could be heard throughout the house and penetrated as far as the kitchen, where Bob and Jeanie paused in the construction of the pie. “Weel, he’s in guid voice,” opined Jeanie. “I nearly feel sorry for the laddie.”

  “Dae ye think we should dae something?” asked Bob.

  “I think he’s near finished. It’s quieter noo.”

  And sure enough, an ominous silence fell.

  Upstairs, as her husband ran out of steam at last, Lady Margaret crossed the room and reached up to embrace the prodigal. “Welcome hame, son,” she said. David too, came to clasp his brother’s shoulder affectionately, and Tom felt tears gather behind his eyelids. On the landing, Kate breathed a sigh of relief.

  But Sir Malcolm hadn’t quite finished with Tom yet. In a deceptively quiet voice he asked, “What are ye gaun’ tae dae for money? I suppose ye’ve nane left.”

  “No, faither,” said Tom shamefacedly. “I spent the last in London, on Sadie.”

  “Sadie?” roared his father. “Wha in the name o’ the wee man is Sadie? Anither jade?”

  “No, faither. Sadie’s my horse.”

  David’s loud guffaw almost drowned a delighted giggle from the landing.

  “Humph,” said Sir Malcolm, but there was a gleam of reluctant amusement in his eye. “Aye, weel, I’ll no’ turn ye awa’ frae the door. Ye can bide here for the time being, but ye’ll need tae mak yersel’ useful, mind. There’s some tea left in the pot.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Tuesday August 7th 1781

  Useful. During the following week, Tom tried his best. He went to the fields with David, but had little aptitude or inclination for the work. He hung around the kitchen till Jeanie rapped his fingers with her wooden spoon, declaring he’d pinched one piece of pie-bound fruit too many, and sent him outside. In the stables Bob, when offered assistance, replied “No’ just the noo, maybe later,” until Tom didn’t ask any more.

  He missed Madeleine. She had befriended him during his first anxious days as an apprentice in her father’s business, when no-one seemed to care about an awkward lad from Scotland with gauche manners and limited French. Madeleine had asked him about his home and family, introduced him to her friends and, although she teased and provoked him, had educated him in the ways of polite French society. As a result he had fallen in love for the first time, and his enforced parting from Madeleine had hit him hard.

  As the days passed, time hung heavy on his hands. His only occupations seemed to be teaching Kate, a willing pupil, the kind of French not found in her school books, and riding around the lanes and fields and through the woods down to the shore, to watch the shifting moods of the sea and count the waves breaking on the shingle beach. He sometimes ventured into Ayr, but too many people in the cramped, bustling streets knew his story and he had to put up with knowing looks, scornful laughter or, in the case of church elders and pious matrons, a visible drawing aside of coats and skirts. His young adventurous spirit chafed at the confines of this small town and he longed to be back in Paris where everywhere new ideas were being discussed and the air was charged with a coming storm.

  After a week or so, his mother sent him into Ayr to call on her sisters, the Misses McFadzean. “They’re keen tae see you.”

  “Aye, they just want some mair tae gossip aboot.”

  “What’s done’s done,” said his mother. “They cannae help gossiping, whiles, an’ they mean nae harm. Be polite tae them, and mak’ yourself useful.”

  “Useful, aye useful,” he grumbled as he set off. “How can folk no’ just be pleased to see me?”

  The Misses McFadzean, spinster ladies approaching forty, occupied a handsome house in the Sandgate, home to those of the gentry of Ayr who had not yet moved to the country and to such fashionable shops as could be found in a small but increasingly prosperous town. The broad airy street contrasted with the noisy bustle of the High Street with its fish market, stinking gutters and smoky taverns.

  The maid showed Tom into the first-floor parlour where Miss Letitia and Miss Euphemia McFadzean were enthroned, each in a delicate silk-upholstered chair on either side of a neat square window which afforded them a view of the ever-shifting panorama of the street and its attendant sources of gossip. A substantial sum inherited from their father enabled them to live in comfortable idleness, some compensation for the passing years and their dwindling hopes of a good marriage such as their elder sister Margaret had made.

  Tom stood uncertainly on the threshold for a moment, dazzled partly by the sunshine coming through the window but more by the colours in the room. The walls were hung with a bright yellow paper on which exotic birds of every hue perched in a painted jungle of acid green. His aunts were equally colourfully decked out in satin dresses, Miss Euphemia in puce and Miss Letitia in green, each trimmed with a complicated arrangement of lace and ribbons.

  Tom blinked, sketched an awkward bow and advanced into the room.

  “Ah, the prodigal son,” squawked Miss Euphemia. (How many more times? thought Tom wearily.) “Come awa’ in and tell us aboot Paris. Is it as fashionable as they say?”

  Thinking that he had certainly seen nothing in Paris to compare with the monstrosities his aunts were wearing, Tom perched warily on the edge of a fragile embroidered chair which creaked alarmingly under his weight, wondering how soon he could decently make his escape.

  “Did ye go to court?” asked Miss Letitia eagerly. “Did ye see the Queen?”

  “Is she as elegant as they say?” chimed in her sister.

  Tom sighed. How could he explain that the Versailles court was a closed world which he could never enter; few did. T
hat his knowledge of Paris came from frequenting clubs and coffee houses, mixing with young lawyers and journalists who belonged to a very different France, and hearing their heated discussions of a future which did not include the hated aristocracy symbolised by Louis XVI and his wife Marie-Antoinette, l’Autrichienne.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never seen the Queen, or the King,” he said.

  “But ye were in Paris!” cried Miss Letitia. “That’s where they live, is it no’?”

  “No’ exactly,” said Tom. “They live at Versailles, that’s like from here to Maybole, but they dinnae gang oot much.”

  “Oh.” Miss Letitia was visibly disappointed. “But you must hae seen some wonderful things in Paris.”

  Yes, he had, thought Tom. There was Madeleine, for a start. He could not talk of her to his family, nor could he explain to his aunts the excitement he had felt in the teeming streets, the turmoil of new ideas discussed in crowded coffee houses, the feeling of being at the centre of an old world on the brink of change. He glanced out of the window at the sedate progress of horses and carts in the Sandgate, accompanied by the persistent squawking of seagulls, and wondered for the hundredth time if these were the limits of his horizons now. He blinked and realised that he himself was now the subject of the conversation.

  “It’s Malcolm I feel sorry for,” Miss Euphemia was saying with a certain relish. “Spending a’ that money tae send the young pup abroad and getting nae thanks for it.”

  “Getting mair like a slap in the face,” opined her sister.

  “It’s a slur on the guid name o’ a’ the family.”

  “Aye, I’m feart tae show my face in decent society noo.”

  “Never mind at the kirk.”

  “And the young wastrel doesnae seem the least bit sorry.”