Chapter Three

Scotland

She's not been able to catch one wink on the train. Her head against the glass of the window, Elsie watches the countryside pass by in the distance. It's seems an age since she's been home and in the bosom of the Highlands. While she's changed so much and she wonders if Argyll has changed, then she shakes her head and bites back a sad smile at her own foolishness. The land doesn't change. Rolling hills don't move and Loch Fyne is still bountiful with oyster, herring, and blue whiting. Sheep still trod over green pastures and wheat and grasses are still harvested. The river that flows beside the magnificent Duneagle Castle is still crystal clear and as unspoiled as the first day water began coursing along its banks.

Fathers and mothers still hold their bairns close and tell them the lore of the land; they tell them of William Wallace and how he lead the revolt against the brutal tyranny of the invaders from the south. They tell them of fairies and sprites that hide among the hills and sea creatures that live beneath the deep waters of the lochs. No, she thinks, the land, the countryside, doesn't change. Much.

And then the train pulls into Glasgow station and takes on more passengers while for others the city is their final destination and they disembark. The busy station is a far cry from the small station near Parkside Hall in scenic Yorkshire. Glasgow is bustling and industrial. The din of the city reminds Elsie of the first time she passed through it many years ago en route to England to claim her position at Parkside. She could have gotten off the train, written a letter to Mrs. Corbin and explained that her situation had changed, that her father had died, and that her mam needed her at home. Mrs. Corbin would have never known that she stayed in Glasgow and found a job in a shop, met a nice young man, married, and become a mother. But she stayed on the train, left excitement and possibilities of the city behind her, and headed south to the beauty and tranquility of the Yorkshire countryside.

She watches young men and their wives hurrying their children along, lifting them up the steps and into the third class carriage where she sits. The mothers apologize as their children bound into nearby seats. Elsie smiles and waves them off. There are very young women traveling alone who are carrying worn satchels filled with all their earthly possessions. She was that young woman once. She reckons that she is that young woman still. In some ways.

Elsie's managed a bit of sleep on the trip from Glasgow to the tiny station where her uncle will pick her up. She's awakened by the the train pulling into the station and she fumbles in her handbag for the ticket to present to the porter for her baggage. Once she's found it, she disembarks from the train and steps out onto the platform, hands her ticket to the porter, and collects her bag. She finds her uncle among the few people who are milling about the station. Her eyes narrow a bit and her face pulls in concentration as she takes in her surroundings; Elsie cannot help but stare a bit. He's in the distance and she knows that he is looking for her but she's not drawn his attention. Instead, she pauses just a moment, stunned at how he's aged in the two years since she's seen him last. His hair is turning white, no longer the patent black of her last memory of him, his shoulders are rounding with the pain of years of work, and his height not nearly as commanding as it once was. Uncle Rab has always been a bull of a man, but Elsie drops her eyes to the ground and rolls her lips tightly together, her face contorting in a mask of pain when the realization hits her that some things do change.

When she's pulled herself together she calls out to him. "Uncle Rab," Elsie calls with a bright smile and a wave of a hand. When Rab's head whips around and his eyes flick up to meet hers, Elsie finds that one thing about her uncle hasn't changed; the clear, blue, kind eyes that she remembers from her childhood smile back at her. The McKay eyes that shine full of life and mischief almost erase the sorrow that fills her heart.

The wagon ride to her mother's cottage is quiet, and after the initial questions are asked and answered about her mother's condition, gentle conversation follows as Rab asks his niece what it's like to work in a grand house and to be surrounded with generations of finery. He asks of her responsibilities and is thrilled to hear that Mrs. Corbin has put in a good word for her with Her Ladyship regarding Elsie's promotion to Housekeeper. Elsie knows by the nature of the questions and the way her uncle's face lights up as she answers, that he is proud of the progress she has made in her career and she feels a surge of pride. After her father's death, her uncle has always been her stalwart supporter. After four children of his own dead before they turned five, Elsie and Becky were "his own daughters" he once told her. Rab is a kind man, a second father to the Hughes sisters and for that Elsie's been grateful.

When they arrive at her mother's cottage it is much as she remembers it. Small and white, on the edge of a wood with a garden spot to one side. Only the garden isn't in bloom now and it's filled with weeds and the bushes are overgrown. The garden hasn't been tended in some time and Elsie's heart sinks. She knows that her mother has been far sicker and for much longer than she has been lead to believe.

"Elsie, I'll not lie to you," her uncle looks off in to the distance as he considers his next words carefully. "Your Mam is very, very ill. The doctor hasn't given her much time."

Her uncle has never been one to lie to her. It's a trait they share even though there are some things that she doesn't always say. Things that not everyone needs to know. She learned that skill on the farm when children gawked at Becky on the schoolyard or when she heard some of the townswomen wondering about Becky and her condition. There was no reason to upset her parents with the hateful murmurings of ignorant people. The skill of discretion has served her well as a housemaid and will serve her well as Housekeeper when the time comes.

"How is Becky?" she finally asks. "Does she realize … "

"I'm not sure, Elsie," Rab begins softly as he helps her down from her seat on the cart. "She's been by Meg's beside the whole time, rubbing her hands, singing to her."

Rab's voice falters a little and Elsie hears the sorrow as the words leave his mouth. Not only does he love his sister, but he's mourning her already. He's crying for the girls that he's thought of as his own since they were born. He's suffered such great loss in his life. The loss of his own children, his wife, and now his sister soon to join them.

"Best go in," her uncle urges gently as he takes Elsie's hand in his.

The cottage is dark and smells of damp, and Elsie breathes in the faintest hint of something metallic and then she sees in the corner of the kitchen, near the back door, a jumbled pile of linens stained and some are bloody. As tears sting her eyes, she brings a hand to her mouth to quiet the cry that threatens. During her years in service, Elsie has cleaned everything from her employers slop jars to soiled bedsheets and underthings, but this is different. Those soiled things were simply part of her job, a means to an end. Every emptied chamber pot, every soiled sheet scrubbed clean, every mended piece of clothing has simply been a step up the rung to her ultimate goal of one day being Housekeeper. But what she's seen today – the bloodstained vestments of her dying mother is something she had never prepared to herself to see. There is nothing good in this, nothing at all.

"I'm sorry Elsie," her uncle begins to apologize. "I didn't mean for you to see them. Meant to burn them. The bleeding comes when she coughs. Doctor Glyn said that Meg's lungs are so very weak. Pneumonia."

"It's all right, Uncle Rab. You've done more than anyone should expect," Elsie replies with a comforting hand placed to his arm.

When they make their way into the back of the house, Elsie finds Becky's room, much as it was when she left home, when they shared it. The counterpane is frayed in places and the bed a bit battered but everything else is still familiar. She smiles when she sees the doll that she gifted Becky one year resting atop her pillow. Funny, Elsie thinks, how Her Ladyship's daughter was ready to toss the doll into the charity bin, all because she was no longer interested in it. When Elsie had mentioned a younger sister who had never had such a fine china doll before, Lady Charlotte gifted it to her. Elsie still remembers her mother her mother telling her how Becky slept side-by-side with the doll for months afterward.

Elsie takes a deep breath and steadies herself as she enters her mother's room. She finds her mother, eyes closed, her skin ghost white, and her breathing shallow. The faint sound of gurgle beginning fills the room and Elsie's first impulse is to flee; to flee and never come back. To board the next train to Yorkshire and forget all of this. But it's a momentary thought and she's not that type of person. She's not a coward and never has been. If Becky can stand it surely so can she.

Becky sits on one side of her mother's bed while a woman Elsie recognizes occupies a chair in the corner of the room. Anne Keith, wife of the local minister, steadies herself and rises from the seat she's occupying to make her way toward Elsie. Mrs. Keith is a woman of late middle age, with greying ginger hair and hazel eyes. Because Elsie's been in Yorkshire a decade now, the minister's wife is more an acquaintance than someone Elsie knows well, but a friend to the Hughes family nonetheless; she's someone they trust. Her husband Michael has been their pastor a long while now and Elsie has heard glowing reports from her mother of his skills. He is a Calvinist through and through, a five-pointer for sure, preaching both hell-fire and heaven's rewards. Elsie attends the Anglican Church near Parkside now, but Calvinism isn't a habit, it is in her bones, and if her mother isn't a member of Michael Keith and God's elect then no one is.

"Hello Elsie."

"Hello Anne," Elsie replies warmly. "Thank you for sitting with Mam and Becky whilst Uncle Rab came to fetch me from the station."

"It was no trouble. I am happy to help." Anne turns toward the bed to observe her dear friend with whom she's sat day and night for the past several days. "Please let me know if there is anything I can do. You know where I am." She and Elsie share a meaningful look and then Anne collects her things leaving the three Hughes women alone.

"Becky," Elsie calls quietly. She waits for her sister to respond. Elsie never wants to frighten her sister, never wants to intrude into her space. "I'm here now."

For a moment Becky doesn't stir, doesn't look up, or acknowledge her sister's presence. Just as Elsie is about to speak again, about to place her hand on her younger sister's shoulder, Becky looks up and there are tears in her eyes. Elsie is reminded of the little girl who couldn't understand why the barn cat didn't come home or why Da was in a wooden box that was lowered into the ground. Elsie reaches and pulls her into a deep embrace and holds on to her for all that she's worth. And for a moment, she's not sure whether Becky is clinging to her for comfort or if it's the other way round. And what does it matter? Soon, they will be the only two left of their little family.

"Essie" Becky whispers worriedly, "I've tried to take care of Mam the best I could. Just like you said."

"I see that and I am proud of you," Elsie replies with a bright smile. That Becky remembers what Elsie told her two years ago and has taken it to her heart doesn't astonish her at all. Becky remembers everything that is important to her. She can recall all of the family birthdays, anniversaries, and stories that granny told her of she and Essie as girls. Though she cannot write them legibly, she can recite all of the Ten Commandments, the full text of the Sermon on the Mount, the Twenty-Third Psalm, and the Golden Rule.

"A sight for sore eyes." The voice is weak, nothing more than a whisper, but against the cottage's old stone walls and for the unexpectant ear, the words ring out as loud as church bells.

Elsie releases her sister and takes a seat on the bed next to her mother. Her mother has lost so much weight and her first instinct is to bustle into the kitchen and prepare some tea and a healthy stew. But Elsie knows that it is all too late for that.

"Hello, Mam."

"My Beautiful Elsie." Margaret tries to smile, but her body is too weary, she's fought to hard and too long, and cannot muster the strength, but the love in her eyes tells Elsie all she needs to know. My beautiful first daughter. I've held on for you. I love you.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What good …?" Elsie realizes that it is a struggle for her mother to breath and urges her not to say anymore.

Rab gently coaxes Becky from the room and out into the yard. There's a pup that came up a few days ago and Becky's become enamored with it; she's named it Brodie after a dog she and Elsie had as children. Brodie's become a welcome distraction where one is needed.

Elsie and Margaret need time alone.

Elsie sits with her mother for hours. She dredges a flannel through cool water and brushes across her mother's parched lips, allows a few drops to slide down her strained and burning throat. Margaret fades in and out of sleep but Elsie stays vigilant, reads to her mother from the Psalms, reads passages of comfort and passages that her mother has marked in her well-worn Bible. Margaret speaks in random thoughts, a few individual words, some with no order or meaning for her daughter. She mentions David, her husband and the girls' father; that makes Elsie weep. Elsie thinks of the times on the farm in the wee hours as she peeked around the corner and into the kitchen as Da pecked Mam on the cheek while she cooked up the eggs he'd collected that morning. And the Ceilidhs where Da played the fiddle and Mam danced the night away. Mam, an excellent dancer laughing and pulling Elsie into the circle, arm in arm teaching Elsie the reels and barn dances of their homeland. The soft lullabies Mam sang to Becky and her while they drifted off to sleep after Da had tucked them under warm covers. Elsie weeps for times that she'd never know again. As she listens to her mother's breathing and to her words of remembrance, Elsie gets swept away in her own memories, the memories of her four year-old self.

The babe that she has wished for is finally coming and Da has sent Uncle Rab for the midwife. Her mother's pregnancy has been a happy one and Elsie marvels at the idea that a baby has been growing inside her mother's belly. She has been a farm girl, watching births all her life, but this one will be different. A brother or a sister (she secretly hopes) to confide in, to be friends with, to roam the rolling hills with.

The day grows long and the sun fades behind the hills as Elsie grows tired, her eyelids growing heavy. Da reaches down as she reaches up, curling her hands around his neck as he carries her to bed. When she protests that she will miss the birth of her sister, for she is so very sure that the babe will be a sister, he smiles and tells her that she will have the rest of her life to enjoy the baby. The last thing she remembers his Da tucking her in and kissing her forehead.

Elsie thinks she's had a bad dream, a nightmare, and pulls the covers up to her chin. She's never heard Mam cry out like this or curses come from Da's mouth like she's hearing now. Da is such a calm man and it frightens Elsie to hear him so angry. Mam's cries are harsh, throaty, and strangled. Elsie knows that something is wrong. She quietly pushes the covers back and puts her feet down on floor. Sneaking around corner she sees commotion coming from her parents bedroom, her father's anguished face, the midwife struggling, and her aunt bursting through into the bedroom with warm blankets and pans of warm water. She clings to the door casing and until Uncle Rab comes into view and catches her out. There are tears in his eyes and Elsie remembers that once, some time back, Auntie's belly had been rounded and big; that Uncle Rab had told her that she'd have a little cousin to teach things to. And then he and Auntie had been very sad and there was no little cousin. She wonders if the same thing is happening to Mam. No one is bothering to tell her what is happening, until Uncle picks her up and walks outside with her but not before she hears scraps of conversation "a little girl," "wrapped around her neck," "infirm."

She remembers the first time she saw her sister, a beautiful little thing.

All soft, big eyes and downy hair; Becky is a beautiful baby. Her mother beckons Elsie sit next to them, to introduce herself to this sister that she has so wanted. Her mother explains that the little bundle's name is Rebecca, that it means both captivating and tied up; her mother explains that it also means secure. That they must always make sure Becky is secure. Elsie understands the captivating part right away, for her sister captivates her. She loves her instantly, from the moment she extends her finger and the little bairn grasps it tightly. It will be fair few years before she understands the second meaning of the name, before she understands the life her sister is destined to lead and the tie that they will share.

Night has turned into day twice over and Elsie and Rab are astonished that Margaret has lived as long. Elsie owes it to her mother's stubbornness, to her sheer perseverance of will. Her mother hasn't opened her eyes or spoken any further, but Elsie has used the time to sit by her mother's side, to read to her, to brush her hair, to tell her of memories, of the love that she will always have for her. The doctor's been by and told them that it will not be long, that it's just a matter of hours, and it is all up to Margaret. That she's the one who will decide how long to hold on. The minister has been by and has said that God isn't ready to take her yet, isn't ready to snatch her away to heaven, that her life still has purpose, and that when the Almighty's will is done Margaret's life will be complete. Elsie wonders what purpose there is in this; this lingering.

"Becky, come wash up for supper," Elsie calls as she leans out the back door. "She's made a friend in that pup." She sighs as she watches Becky bounce around the backyard with Brodie.

"Well, it's no harm is it? Poor girl lost her Da and now her Mam just any moment," Rab answers as he pulls a chair away from the kitchen table and seats himself.

"I suppose not, but it's another mouth to feed when we've barely enough to feed ourselves," Elsie mutters as she begins to place the meager bowls of food that she's prepared on the table; a bowl of bubble and squeak, a bit of roast lamb, some warmed over bread. Elsie feels her blood begin boil as she thinks of how much her family has kept from her over the past year or so. She's so tired and overwhelmed with everything she's facing. Her beloved mother lying in the other room dying, an adult sister who's childlike and needs care, and the prospect of an uncertain future.

"How long have you three been living this way Uncle Rab? Hand to mouth with barely enough to fill your bellies? And why didn't anyone tell me?" Her fingers press into the table until her knuckles are white and fingertips burn red.

"Your mother wouldn't hear of …"

"I really don't want to hear again what Mam wouldn't hear of." The fury in her voice is evident and she's honestly had quite enough of this charade, this series of lies by omission to spare her feelings or whatever the reason has been.

"Elsie don't shout. We'll speak of this later," her uncle tries to soothe her.

Just as she turns back to the stove to fetch the kettle, she almost trips over a blur of brown and white that races by and out of the corner of her eye she sees Becky bounding in the back door.

"Becky, get that dog out of the house," Elsie snaps. "We don't need that mut dragging the outside in after I've just tidied up." The second the words leave her mouth, she regrets it and she sees Becky's face crumble. Elsie sounds as if she's just scolded a new housemaid and she's sorry for it. Tears fill her eyes and her hand flies to her mouth as she races outside, the door slamming behind her.

Rab shoves his chair out, the scraping sound of wood against wood harsh in the silence, and draws Becky into his arms.

"It's ok Becky, she didn't mean to be harsh. Elsie's only upset over your Mam," Rab tries to comfort Becky. "Your sister loves you. Do you understand me Becky?" Rab pulls away from Becky so that he can see her eyes and he wipes away the tears that are falling. "Becky Elsie loves you. She's only upset is all." Becky nods in recognition and Rab smoothes a hand over her hair, plants a kiss to her hair.

With Becky settled, Rab seeks out Elsie to find her sitting along an old stone wall in the back garden. Her face is tear-stained and she's staring at her feet; she's devastated that she's hurt her sister, the sweetest, most innocent person she knows. Rab settles in beside her and for a long moment there is nothing but silence between them.

"I never meant to hurt her," Elsie finally admits.

"I know you didn't," her uncle replies. "And Becky knows you didn't. Elsie, Meg doesn't lie. There may be things she doesn't say, but she doesn't lie. She wanted to protect you."

"I'm a grown woman," Elsie remains defiant.

"You'll always be her wee bairn. Her daughter. Until she draws her last breath, you and Becky will be on her mind," he reminds his niece. With watery eyes, Elsie looks over to her uncle and smiles. "She's very proud of you, you know. Meg is. Told everyone 'My daughter is going to be Housekeeper in a fine house on a big estate.'"

"I don't know about that," Elsie sniffles as she reaches into her dress pocket for a handkerchief and then dries her eyes.

"She didn't tell you about her illness until the end because she knew that you'd leave your position and come home. She has expectations of you Elsie."

"But I don't see how I can possibly…" Elsie and Rab's conversation is cut short when the back door is thrown open and Becky calls for them.

Margaret has awakened from her slumber and called her family in. She's spoken a few words of love to Becky and Rab and then wishes to spend her final moments with Elsie. Becky's fled from her mother's room in tears, with her Brodie in her arms and tucked tightly under her chin; she and the dog have crawled under the covers of her bed and though Elsie is loath that Becky take the dog to bed, she's not said a word to her sister. After all what does it matter now? Becky is but a girl in a woman's body and if holding the pup close gives her comfort what does it matter if they are wrapped tight in the bed linens? Bed linens can be laundered; a broken heart is much harder to mend.

Poor Rab left his sister's room scrubbing a gnarled fist across red eyes and a tear-stained face. He's the last of his generation, the last of the McKay siblings, and Margaret's death will sting. It already stings. He will be alone in the world. He's made his way to the kitchen and pulls out a chair. He settles himself there and stares out the kitchen window into the night's sky. He waits.

Elsie sits on the edge of the bed and she's astonished that her mother has the strength to speak. Margaret's only taken the water that's been washed across her lips, she is awake and astonishingly alert. Elsie has heard of this happening with ill patients, a last moment of clarity before death. She takes one of her mother's thin, frail hands in her own and holds it. For a moment, she wonders if it hurts. She wonders if it hurts her mother to move because she is so frail and her body is so undernourished it seems as if her bones might break.

"Els,"

"Mam, it's all right." Elsie tries to spare her mother the agony of speaking but her mother's eyes narrow Elsie sees that she is determined to push on, that this is something that she must do. Elsie pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and nods her head, a sign for her mother to continue.

"Els, I never meant …" Margaret takes a shallow breath before continuing "to keep things from you." She begins to cough and Elsie places her hand against her mother's back to lift her forward in a vain attempt to clear Margaret's throat. After several moments of fading in and out of consciousness Margaret speaks in phrases. It is so incredibly difficult for her to breathe. "Els, promise me … do the right thing for …."

"For Becky?" Elsie finishes for her mother. " I will Mam. I promise you that," Elsie replies as tears slip down her cheeks.

"And you," Margaret tells her. "Proud of you. Remember what I told you. My life … is … not yours. Sell. Go back to what you know. Who you are." Margaret is growing weaker, but her eyes are fixed on Elsie and she needs to know that her daughter understands her before she can die with any peace. "Do ... you … understand?"

Elsie nods in affirmation then lies down beside her mother. It is the last time that she will ever be cradled in her mother's arms this side of heaven and she feels selfish for not calling Becky in to be with them. But for this moment, Elsie needs to be alone in the quiet stillness of her mother's embrace.

The morning of the funeral is cold, the sky clear and the sun bright. The service in the village kirk had gone according to programme and Becky's been very solemn since Elsie held her hand and told her of their mother's passing. Elsie will never forget the feeling of dread that churned in the pit of her stomach when she had to tell her sister that there mother was dead, that she'd gone to sleep with the angels. That she'd be with Da and they'd be together. Though Elsie knows that Becky is capable of great emotion, laughter, joy, heartbreak, and sorrow - her face was impassive, but tears filled her eyes. Elsie hugged her tight; whispered words of comfort, promises to take care of her in their mother's stead.

At the graveside, when the minister asks if anyone wishes to speak, no one steps forward. Poor Becky stands in stone silence and grips the hand of her uncle. None of Margaret's friends, friends that she's had for decades come forward. Perhaps they believe that the minister has made remarks enough, that they could not possibly add anything more than what many of them offered in eulogy at the church service. Just as the Reverend Keith readies to offer a final prayer, one person moves a sure foot forward.

"My feet shall tread no more

When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree"

Elsie's voice rings true and clear through the churchyard, echoes over ancient stone stones, and blankets her mother's grave. Where most have already bowed in prayer, their heads snap up to find David and Margaret's first born standing ram-rod straight, dry-eyed, strong-voiced, singing for her mother, for her father, for all who had gone before.

" I love thy frosty morn

Where the hunters winds it's horn

And I heathered moors and glens

I'll not roam again

Though on Scotland's purple breast

I no longer take my rest

When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree."

At brave Cunoden's stand

Highland blood like water ran

3000 pounds upon my head

For dear, life one fled

Oh but though no crown I won

I'll always be your yom' native son

So When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree"

A/N: Under the Rowan Tree can be found on YouTube and the remembrance of Becky's birth was lifted from my fic 'Becky' which can be found on this website. This was the most difficult chapter for me to re-write and is greatly expanded from its original version published on Tumblr. I hope that I've done the characters justice. If you've made it this far, thank you for reading. This road for Chelsie won't be easy, but I hope that makes the destination that much sweeter for them.