The Patriot (35 page)

15

The two riders reined up on the birch-clad ridge above the Birns Water, to gaze out over the spreading, rolling countryside which sank before them in ever more gentle waves and folds, from these foothill braes down to the comparative levels of the fertile Vale of Tyne, pasture and old woodland and tilth, as fair and rich a prospect as was to be seen in all Lowland Scotland, all backed by the blue waters of the Firth of Forth and the distant hills of Fife beyond. Yet fair as it all was, and so much of it his own birthright, the man's eyes surveyed it with less than satisfaction and not merely with the hot resentment which went with his temper that this meantime was
not
his, because of unjust laws and royal spite, but with a more constructive and calculating frown, assessing, planning.

The woman watched him rather than the vista.

He pointed, there and there and there, and shook his head. "A waste!" he said.

She raised her lovely brows. "Surely not? Beauty, rather. Is it not one of the finest estates in Lothian. Few that I know can compare. Certainly none that the Carnegies own.''

"Beauty, yes, I'll grant you. But neglect, failure to cherish and improve."

"Henry does his best." That was defensive, almost reproachful. "What can he do? He is allowed to spend little or nothing. All has to go to the Douglas . . ."

"No, no - I do not mean that, Margaret. It is not Henry's fault. Indeed, if faul
t there is, it is my own - for I
did not develop Saltoun as I could have done when I was lairding it. I did not know, to be sure, did not see it all as I can now. I have learned much on my travels - more than just soldiering and politics and the like."

"And you would change it here?"

"Aye, change much, improve, make it blossom and yield and flourish, as it could, as it should. Look yonder - there, beyond Lempock, and there. Bright green. That is bog, marsh, flooded ground - but good bottom land, gone to waste. These, and others should be drained, ditched and dried out, to grow grain, barley. Those long slopes, the Skimmer Hills and Greenlaw and the rest - they carry cattle, yes, but they are too good for beasts. They could almost all be ploughed, the stones cleared and built into dykes, and grow corn and crops and good hay. Much of the scrub woodland should be cleared, the roots grubbed out and the land turned to use. The braesides up here should be cleared of whin and broom and thorn, to carry the beasts from the lower slopes. This rig cultivation, in long strips, is wasteful, in land and in labour. Large fields are better, walled-in. The ground should be fed, with dung and sea-wrack and marl, as they do in Holland . . ."

"A mercy, Andrew! Who is to do all this? And how? Are you for playing God? Thinking to change the very face of the land!"

"Far from playing God, lass -
worshipping
God! Making two or three or four ears of corn grow where only one grew before — is that not a true worship? Are we not to make the land blossom as the rose? This land of mine - or what
was
mine - could yield fourfold and more."

"To what end? The greater wealth of Andrew Fletcher?"

"That might be. But that is the least of it. You have read of the sin of burying talents in the ground. Here is a talent indeed, going unused. Or not used as it should be. To bring work and prosperity and betterment to all the country and folk around. You must see it, Margaret? In Holland every yard of land is used, worked, more ever being won from the sea, drained, lovingly tended. What we see here would be unthinkable. I lodged in a farmhouse in Holland, near Rotterdam, a miller's farm. I learned much."

"Henry says that Cockburn of Ormiston talks of this. Not of Holland but of land improvement. Henry was interested -but could do nothing meantime."

Henry Fletcher was away on one of his quarterly visits to Douglas Castle in Lanarkshire where he had to go to render account of his stewardship of Saltoun to the Marquis of Douglas, Dumbarton's brother - who was also Hamilton's brother, of course. The moneys he took would be sent on to Dumbarton, in France, a sore and sorry business for the Fletchers. But at least this occasion provided opportunity for Andrew to see Margaret lacking his brother's presence which, however bitter-sweet a privilege, he greatly desired. It was not proving any easier, with time, to accept that he had lost her to Henry. This ride over the property was the first they had had together.

"It is not only land improvement I learned from the Dutch," he told her. "But milling - barley-milling in especial, such as we know not here; pot-barley, as they call it. And weaving of linen - Holland's. And flax-growing, likewise. They have much to teach us."

"And you intend to do all this, put what you have learned into effect, when you get Saltoun back?"

"Aye. Or
if I
get Saltoun back!"

"Surely you must, in time, Andrew? They cannot leave it in the hands of a Jacobite exile! Will Dumbarton not be forfeited, in turn, as a rebel?"

"Who knows? He is Hamilton's brother, after all. And Hamilton is powerful, and now very close to William. And he does not like me! It could be long enough before I am the Laird of Saltoun again . . . !" And smashing down a clenched fist on his knee, he jerked his mare's head round harshly in his anger and frustration. "Come - let us have a race! Yours is the faster beast. To yonder sheep-stell on the hill - a race, to run the grudging devils out of me!" Without awaiting her agreement, he dug in his heels, kicking his mount forward.

Threading the scattered birches and pounding over the slanting grassland beyond, tossing up clods and scattering cattle and sheep, he thundered on downhill, to splash across the Birns Water in a shower of spray and on up the braeside, making for a circular dry-stone shelter for sheep, the best part of a mile ahead, beating the same clenched fist on his horse's flank as they went. Exhilaration took over, an elemental relief which had served him well before this.

At the stell he wheeled round it - and was surprised to see that his companion was still a long way off, just across the burn indeed - which was not like her, for she was an excellent horsewoman and mounted on a fine animal, a gift from her father. He rode back towards her at a canter, wondering, his mare snorting.

"I am sorry," he called, contritely, as they came together. "I should not have done that, dashed off, assumed that you would wish to race also. I have an evil temper — as you know well. It helps, at times, to ride at the fastest. You are not displeased, Margaret?" That was urgent.

"No, no - not that," she assured, smiling. "It was . . . otherwise. I did not wish to ride too fast. Not today."

"Forgive me, lass. I am headstrong, I know. I should have
asked you. But
...
I was hot against fate, just then. As not infrequently I am! Henry now, would not have done that."

"No, Henry would not!" she agreed, with a short, almost nervous laugh. "But then, to be sure, Henry would have known. I am to have a child, you see."

He stared at her, varying emotions expressed in his eyes. "Margaret - you are? You . . . you
...
a child!" He flung himself down from his saddle and ran to reach up to her. "My dear, my dear!" he cried.

Biting her lip she looked down at him, and a hand went out to touch his cheek, briefly. She said nothing.

"My God - I
am sorry!" he exclaimed. "Fool that I am! I had no notion of it. You are not
...
?"

"I am very well, Andrew, I assure you. Nothing amiss. It is just that I am best not to risk . . . upset. Perhaps there is no danger, as yet. I do not know very much about these matters -my first, after all!"

"How long?"

"Five months yet."

"And you have not told me!"

"Should I have done so? I did not think that
...
I wondered whether you would . . ." She left the rest unsaid.

"Whether I
would approve!" he finished for her. "Sakes, Margaret - what do you think me? A monster?"

"Scarcely that, Andrew," she smiled. "But - you were not pleased at my marriage. I know. You might well not be pleased at the, the fruit of it?"

He shook his head. "I am a selfish man, yes. Much concerned with my own advantage! But, lassie, lassie - in loving you, think you that I will not love this part of you ? Because you are not, not for me, am I to begrudge you joy?" He scanned her face keenly. "It
is
your joy? You wanted this child?"

"Yes."

"Then I rejoice. With you. And with Henry. He will be. . . most happy." "Yes."

"Then why not I, who love you both?" She reached down again, to grasp his hand. "Andrew, dear," she said.

Impulsively he kissed her fingers. Then he stepped back. "Now we must get you home. And needfully. If we go round by the riverside and through the wood. It is longer but more gentle, easier riding . . ."

"Mercy, Andrew -1 am not so fragile a flower as that!" she protested. "Not yet awhile, if ever. We rode here safely enough, did we not? We can ride back as easily as we came-or ride on, if you wish. No need for cosseting me . . ."

Nevertheless they went back to West Saltoun by the roundabout, low-lying route and at a walking-pace-which, of course, had its own compensations on a fine late-May afternoon, with the cuckoos calling from a dozen braesides, the woodpigeons croodling and the first martins darting around them. Oddly, Andrew was more at peace with himself and at ease and in harmony with his companion than he had been these many weeks. Why, he did not ask himself. Margaret responded.

At the dower-house they found visitors, half a dozen strange horses tethered champing, in the yard, armed men drinking ale in the stabling. Andrew was immediately wary, at the sight, ready to bolt, since he was still legally an outlaw and any man could arrest him. But Leezie Duncan came out to announce that these thirsty scoundrels were in the tail of Sir Patrick Home of Polwarth, who was ben the house awaiting the Laird.

It was Home's first visit to Saltoun, and he was obviously uncomfortable; yet as obviously he had come for some specific purpose. Of late he had exhibited something like a guilty attitude towards Andrew, almost as though he blamed himself that his situation should be so much better than that of his friend, his forfeiture remitted, his rights and privileges restored, indeed enhanced. He had lain noticeably low throughout the recent Convention, most evidently at pains not to get on the wrong side of the new regime. He was not, to be sure, one of the Penston's Tavern club.

So there was just a little constraint, at first, in this encounter. But a glass of wine and Margaret's friendly reception presently eased matters and Sir Patrick began to shed his stiffness. He was, in fact, full of news. The trio of representatives were back from London. William had agreed to the Claim of Right provisions, accepted the Scottish crown and indeed, with his wife, had taken the coronation oath in the Scottish form there and then, before the three emissaries, in some haste, evidently. He had hesitated a little at only one item, the swearing to maintain the Presbyterian form of national Church government and to root out all heretics and enemies of that religion, declaring that he would never be a persecutor, like his predecessor - the commissioners as hastily declaring that such was not implied or intended. So now the Convention was to be reconvened as a full Parliament, which would formally proclaim William and Mary as King and Queen of Scots. A new chapter in the nation's story would commence.

Yet, all was not entirely well, it seemed. William was not all amenable. Two of the three representatives had come home dissatisfied, Montgomery especially so. He was an ambitious man and had made no secret of the fact that he hoped for high office, preferably that of Secretary of State. Argyll, too, had expected some major position, preferably Lord High Commissioner to the Parliament. But the new monarch had other ideas - or, since he knew nothing of Scotland personally, listened to other advice. Lord Melville was to be High Commissioner and Secretary of State for Scotland also. Moreover, the highly influential office of Lord Advocate, which Montgomery had sought as second-best, had gone to Sir John Dalrymple, the youngest of the trio, displacing the Jacobite Sir George Mackenzie. All Montgomery had been offered was the decorative but far-from-pivotal post of Lord Justice Clerk -which he promptly refused. So only Dalrymple had come home happy, however important the tidings they bore - and Montgomery, it appeared, had stormed off to his own Ayrshire in high dudgeon.

"And . . . my Saltoun?" Andrew asked, levelly.

"I fear .
..
nothing," Home had to report, with some embarrassment. "William, it seems, once he had the crown and swore the oath, was not in a receptive mood. Or was receiving contrary advice."

"From whom? Who has his ear in London, now? Hamilton? Or his chaplain Carstairs, still? Not Gilbert Burnet, for sure."

The other shrugged. "Who knows? Save that it must be a fr
iend of Melville and Dalrymple.
" "But no friend of mine!"