Her Sister's Gift Read online

  Isa could not believe it. A holiday? This was unheard of. But at the warmth of the offer she felt herself overcome with tears of gratitude.

  “Oh, Your Ladyship, that would be wonderful. I am so grateful.” She dried her eyes. She would not admit to having been through a terrible time because, compared with the death of Eliza and her mother, she knew the recent terror was on a lesser scale. After all, her father had survived; she had found him – and the horrible death from the balcony had been long ago. Yet she recognised she had found it all distressing. A peaceful time at home would be good.

  *

  The week passed in a blur. Isa quickly took charge, cooking, washing, shopping and cleaning. Now Margaret and Chrissie were old enough to be of real help in all the household tasks. Her father was not fit enough to return to the front, but when he had regained his strength he would pick up his old job at the foundry. He took long walks along the canal and round the streets of Falkirk, meeting a few old mates who like him had been invalided out. But most men their age were away at the war, and those who were around were not fit for the drinking sessions they used to engage in, so John drank a glass of beer in the pub on his way back and had a dram before bed. It made for a peaceful family life and Isa found it very comforting. It was a return to her roots among the people she knew, whose voices she recognised and whose smiles and approval she craved. She did not have to check her speech or make sure her hair was tucked in a cap. She did not have to curtsey to anyone. She was in charge, although she deferred to her father always, as head of the house.

  This time she was confident about her cooking and household skills. John looked at her moving assuredly around the kitchen with pans of stew and baking trays and saw that, although barely seventeen, she was a woman now. He’d left them all as children, struggling to be a family, ashamed at his own failure and misery, fearing they would be better off without him. Now here they were reunited, but each had matured, adapted to life without Mary. Even he, although there was still a huge gap in his life, had found a renewal of some kind from being away at war. He wanted to hold on to his life now, not throw it away, after it had been given back to him so fortunately. And it was definitely easier with Isa around.

  His daughter was loath to return to Pitskellie Castle after her week at home, but she was feeling better, so she readied her few things, said her farewells and headed back. But when the household began their packing up at the end of September in order to return to London, Isa could not face the move. London was too far from home. It was alien and noisy. She dreaded the thought of the hard pavements and constant bustle of people and traffic. She had just rewoven herself into the fabric of her family and it was too painful to think of loosening the threads again to head south. Secretly she began to look in the local paper for adverts for cooks. She thought she could cope with a simple household’s demands by herself, especially in the Falkirk area, where nobility were not the main guests at the family table. She listened out in the shops too, in case she heard of anyone seeking to employ a cook. Then, one bright morning, as she cast her eye over the wanted ads she found it. A Mr and Mrs Sinclair, who owned the local sawmill, were looking for a cook to live in. The wage was reasonable and they needed two references. Isa knew she would have no problem getting a reference from her tutor at the college. She wondered what Lady Tolquhoun would say. Mrs Roberts might not want to let her go either. But she had made up her mind. It had to be done.

  A few days later Isa was sitting in the Sinclairs’ drawing room, being interviewed for the position of cook.

  “Well, Miss Dick, these references are excellent. They speak very highly of your character and skills. I must ask, though, why you seek employment here in Falkirk with us when you could be in the household of Lord and Lady Tolquhoun in London?”

  “Well, ma’am, my family are here and I miss them terribly when I am in London. It is impossible to see them on days off or in the evenings as I could do here. I have realised I need to be nearer them. Falkirk is my home.” Isa was tense, worried that Mrs Sinclair was going to think she would be off again, because she had had a taste of working at the grand end of things.

  “Well I must say I am impressed with your references. Let’s say we give you a trial period of three weeks to see if this arrangement will suit. Can you start Monday?”

  “Certainly, Mrs Sinclair. I am most grateful. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Needless to say the Tolquhouns and the staff in the household were sorry that Isa would not be returning with them to London. Mrs Roberts made her promise to write and ask for any help she needed with recipes or staff, for Isa was to have a kitchen maid too. Elsie and Sally had little gifts of a knitted woollen scarf and a pretty brooch made of shells.

  On her way back to the kitchen for the evening meal she bumped into Harry on the stairs.

  “Isa, there you are. I’ve got somefink for you.” He put his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small package, tidily wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “I hope you like it.”

  Isa was lost for words. She stood holding the package.

  “Ain’t you goin’ to open it? I wants to see if you like it.”

  She untied the string and unrolled the paper layers to reveal a box. She lifted the lid and inside was a shepherdess figurine.

  “I wanted you to have one. You said you admired the one Her Ladyship has in the cabinet. This one ain’t the same quali’y bu’ it’s a loikeness. I wan’ed to make it up to you.”

  “Harry, you already did that. You apologised and you said you wouldn’t let me down and you were there for me when I went looking for my father. I couldn’t have had a better friend at that time than you.”

  “Don’t forget me, Isa. Remember me kin’ly. Not for wha’ I did earlier.”

  Isa looked into his earnest face and smiled. “I’ll not forget your kindness, Harry.” She paused and smiled, looking down at the ornament. “Or your sense of humour.”

  Harry knew then he had been truly forgiven.

  “I’ll never forget ye neiver, Isa.”

  *

  The Sinclairs’ house was one of the grander buildings in Falkirk. It stood on the north edge of the town in its own grounds, surrounded by closely mown lawns and carefully tended flower beds. At the back there was a walled garden with fruit trees espaliered on the south-facing walls and bed after bed well stocked with vegetables. September of course meant there were potatoes, carrots, cabbage and cauliflower in abundance. Isa was shown round the kitchen and dining room, and then taken to her quarters. As cook, she had her own bedroom with a proper window on the top floor. It was neatly furnished with pretty curtains and a bedspread sprigged with flowers and there was a comfy armchair and rug beside the bed. There was even a proper wardrobe for her clothes and a small side cabinet for books and personal things.

  She was introduced to the other staff. First there was Phyllis, a kitchen maid of about fifteen who had been trained by the previous cook for six months. Isa realised she could be helpful in showing her where everything was, and the girl looked clean and polite. She was responsible to Isa and would help prepare and serve meals and wash dishes. The housemaid, Bessie, was about fourteen and did all the cleaning. She was answerable to the housekeeper, Mrs Forester, who was formidable. Like Mrs Williams in London, she went around in a severe black dress, with a chain of keys dangling from a belt at her waist, but unlike Mrs Williams she had no respect for any other member of staff. There was no butler, as this was a much smaller team than the Tolquhouns’, and in the absence of such, Mrs Forester took it upon herself to be in charge of all of them. Whether this was ever in her original responsibilities or not was irrelevant. Whereas at the Tolquhouns’, Isa had seen Mrs Roberts, Mr Westfield and Mrs Williams as equals, each in charge of their own domain and giving each other that respect, here she could already sense Mrs Forester did not see Isa Dick as her equal.

  She set about discovering her new kitchen, inspecting cupboards, noting their contents and considering any additi
ons she would like to make to the supplies. The huge cooking stove, the very latest model from the Carron Works, had several ovens and three large hotplates, all kept scrupulously clean, and the heat from it made the kitchen one of the warmest rooms in the whole house. Two deep ceramic tubs with gleaming taps were at one window, with a spacious wooden draining board on either side. Isa approved of this organisation, which allowed dirty dishes to be stacked, washed in the first tub, rinsed in the second and stacked again to dry on the draining board at the other end. The kitchen table was a good size and Isa could tell as she ran her hand over its surface that it was religiously scrubbed. All in all she felt she had taken on an excellent kitchen.

  Each Monday morning she met with Mrs Sinclair in the drawing room for a cup of tea, over which they would discuss the week’s menus, thus enabling the ordering and procuring of foodstuffs needed. Isa and Phyllis would do the shopping at the market and local shops and Mrs Sinclair ordered any other items, which were delivered to the back door at the kitchen. Isa was glad she had some knowledge of slightly fancier fare for the regular occasions when the Sinclairs entertained. Although it was still tough for ordinary folk in the war years, the rich and the nobility always managed to get more than their official share because they had the money. Various “tradesmen” found their way to the back doors of the big houses, telling of sought-after items that could be got for the right sum of cash. Isa was loath to get involved in these deals, but sometimes when cream was what was needed, or when there were no more eggs, or the butcher did not have a big enough joint of meat left, it was very tempting. The household budget she was given for shopping did sometimes find its way into the pockets of the back-door tradesmen.

  Isa found a new confidence in her role as cook. Surrounded by her family and friends in her home town, she was no longer the isolated, strangely spoken Scottish redhead who everyone made fun of. Here she was in charge of the kitchen. She had the knowledge and the experience to command respect from Phyllis and from the Sinclairs, and she got it. She was not the lowly kitchen maid she had been when she first arrived in Cadogan Square. She took to it like a duck to water. She remembered how she had felt as a lowly member of staff in a big house, and was careful of her kitchen maid not to overburden her, remembering to thank her for her assistance with tasks and to commend her on things done well.

  The Sinclairs declared themselves very well pleased with Isa’s cooking and with her quiet ordering of the kitchen. Dishes always arrived steaming hot, beautifully presented, flavourful in the mouth and easy on the stomach, and guests always left replete, praising the skills of the Sinclairs’ new cook. It was not long before Mrs Sinclair found herself asking Isa for her ideas for meals and giving her much more say over ingredients and new recipes, even allowing her to plan full dinner menus when they entertained. Isa loved this new level of responsibility and discovered she could cope far better than she had at first thought might be the case.

  This new confidence affected her social life too. In London Isa had felt shy, alien and unsure of going out on her own to cinemas or dance halls, and truth be told there had seldom been occasions when she had the energy. She had been contented to stay in her room reading or writing letters and falling quickly asleep. In Falkirk, back among old friends and with more free time, she started attending dance lessons with Jessie’s daughter, Jean. There was a dearth of young men, most still away at the war, and so the taller girls sometimes had to take the role of the man. Isa had always loved music. As she’d grown up her father and his family were forever playing the moothie or squeezebox when they met up, and they all sang. She discovered she loved moving to music, enjoying the rhythm and the swaying and the being held, even if it was by your giggling female friend. It was so relaxing. You could forget yourself and get lost in the music and the twirl of your body, the rhythmic moves in your feet. They learned the waltz, quadrilles and the polka, the liveliest one, where you dipped and twirled like dervishes in time to the fast beats of the music. Face flushed and the pins slipping from her hair, Isa was being noticed by all the young men around. But she gave off such a feistiness that most just watched and admired. Few were brave enough to approach her.

  One night there was a new face in the dance hall. William Morrison had just come back from the war. He had been shell-shocked like her father and treated at Erskine Hospital. He was now well enough to rejoin civilian life but not well enough to return to the front. He was tall and strongly built, with soft brown eyes and a calm confidence. As Isa twirled rhythmically around the dance floor, William noticed her bright russet hair, her sparkling blue eyes and the look of pure pleasure on her face. What would it be to hold such a sensual woman in his arms? One who could give herself so fully to the music and to the dance would surely be even more responsive to the attentions of a man. He could not take his eyes off her.

  As she left the floor to take her seat beside her friend, he intercepted her and asked, “May I have the next dance, Miss? My name is William. William Morrison. It would be my pleasure.”

  It was not often there were new young men to dance with and Isa could see he was a good height for her and well built to match her own strong frame.

  “Thank you, Mr Morrison. That would be delightful.”

  “And with whom do I have the honour?” he asked with a slow grin.

  “My name is Isabella Dick,” she said. “Everyone calls me Isa.”

  “Then perhaps I shall call you Isabella,” he said gently, “if I may. It is such a lovely name.”

  Despite her usual reserve, Isa felt a little shiver of excitement at the sound of her full name, which no one ever used. He was right. It did sound lovely. He took her hand and led her back to the floor for a waltz. The tune was one of her favourites. She hoped he wouldn’t spoil it all by constantly chatting. She found that so irritating when she just wanted to dance. He didn’t. He just kept his gaze on her face, one hand firmly on her back, guiding her, and the other holding her hand gently and gracefully as he slowly swayed her to and fro in time to the music. They moved well together. When the dance ended he asked if he might get her some refreshment. They walked over to the table where jugs of lemonade and glasses had been left for people to serve themselves. He poured a glass and handed it to her while filling one for himself.

  “So, William Morrison, I’ve not seen you here before.”

  “No, I’ve been away at the front for three years. Not had much leave to spend at home. But I was injured, sent back. I start again at the foundry next week. They’re glad because they’re short right now. And what about Miss Isabella . . . Dick, did you say? Not one of the famous Fighting Dicks?”

  Isa blushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, please, don’t be offended. I know some of the Dicks that work at the Carron. Tommy and Davie and John.”

  “And?”

  “Fine men . . . to have on your side. And I like them all fine.”

  “Well that’s good, because John is my father and the others are my uncles,” she said proudly.

  “My, it is just as well I get on fine with them then.” William threw back his head and laughed. “Seriously, Isabella, your father is a legend at the foundry. No other man can do as much as he does in a shift. The rest of us are in awe of his stamina. Don’t know how he does it. We have our work cut out doing three quarters of what he can do. But I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

  “He has three,” Isa said. “I am the eldest, then there’s Margaret, who is eleven, and Chrissie, who is nine.”

  “And are they as lovely as you, I wonder?”

  Isa blushed again. He could see she wasn’t used to male attention so he would have to take things slowly.

  “Come on,” he said. “That’s a great polka tune. Shall we dance?” He reached for her hand and she complied willingly.

  They had such a wonderful evening, hardly ever sitting down, and he walked her back to the Sinclairs’, expressing a wish to dance with her next week if she was intending being there
. She said yes and headed into the house, her heart aglow at the thought of it. What a wonderful evening. And she had been asked out on a sort of date, she believed. She was thrilled. Such a handsome man. That night she slept peacefully and her dreams were music filled with swirling figures in evening suits and ball gowns and the only face that was clear was his.

  For the next few weeks they continued to meet at the dances, enjoying lovely, slow walks back to the Sinclairs’ house afterwards. One moonlit night, walking along the canal, as they were approaching one of the locks, William grabbed her hand. “Let’s climb the lock. If we stand above the water we’ll see the moon reflected in the canal.”

  Isa dropped his hand. “What? That’s not safe.”

  “I did it plenty of times when I was a wean. Come on,” he said over his shoulder, as he pulled himself up on to the worn wood. He stood and turned to face her, his arm outstretched. “Trust me. You’ll be fine.”

  But Isa was adamant. She shook her head.

  “Well I never had you down for a coward, Isabella,” he teased. He strode along the broad beam towards the centre. “I was right,” he announced brightly. “The moon is reflected in the canal. A wonderful shiny disc of light.” Still with his gaze fixed on the water, he shuffled nearer the centre.

  On the bank, Isa watched. She would far rather he was on a proper bridge with railings to hold on to. There was no way she would follow him on to the lock. It was too unsafe.

  William looked around to find her face. “It is so lovely,” he called. “If you were here beside me it would be perfect.” He stretched out his hand to her. “Come on, Isabella.”

  Isa was not enjoying this. She had not liked him calling her a coward. What did he know of her life, her character? His bravado bothered her too. He was so young, a daredevil. He had asked her to come by his side. What kind of man would ask his girl to follow him in such a risky act?