Free A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) by Gwen Kirkwood

concern.
    ‘Just a bad night,’ Gertrude mumbled. ‘If you’ve finished eating you can get away with the eggs. It’s a long walk across the fields and you will have to go carefully and not chip any.’
    Meg shook her head, her mother talked as though she was still a little girl of three instead of a grown woman. She sighed. She was getting old. Her thoughts were melancholy as she set out across the fields, pulling her shawl closer against the October chill. There was a damp mist in the air. She was certain it would turn to rain long before she returned.
    As soon as Meg had left the house Gertrude shook her husband awake.
    ‘Cameron! ’tis time you were waken. If you sleep much longer you’ll be wetting the bed again.’ Cameron Maxwell was only vaguely aware that his wife was speaking, much less that she was addressing him as though he was a child. He grunted and closed his heavy eyelids but Gertie pulled the blanket back and shook him with grim determination.
    ‘Come on I’ll help you on with your breeches and across to the closet.’
    ‘I’m not ready to go to the closet,’ Cameron mumbled, slurring his words even more than usual.
    ‘Well I’ve work to do. Rachel isna well. She’s staying in bed. I’ll take you now before I start churning the butter. I’ve hung up some fresh squares of newspaper behind the door. You can read some of them until I come back for you. Cameron felt too groggy to argue. He allowed himself to be helped into his boots. His head was swimming and he would have lost his balance in spite of his two sticks if Gertrude had not grasped him under the arm.
    She settled him onto the wooden seat and placed a few of the paper sheets near at hand, then she removed his walking sticks and closed the door behind her.
    There was little time to waste if she was to get the girl well away from Windlebrae before Meg returned. She whisked into the house, snatching the long horsewhip from the stand behind the door as she went. Dolly never needed a whip so it was rarely used. Its leather thong was sharp. She paused only to unlock the bedroom door. She was beside the bed, the whip raised. Rachel was sleeping like a child, on her stomach, her face cradled in her hand and she was the image of her mother. Gertrude’s teeth clenched at the sight of her. The lash of the whip scorched through her thin night-gown, instantly drawing a raw weal across her shoulders. Rachel yelped with pain but before she could gather her senses the thong descended again, and again. Rachel tried to shield herself. She managed to pull a blanket over her head. Gertrude was breathing hard. She flung the whip aside and pulled the blankets off the bed.
    ‘Get up! Get out of my house! You wicked, ungrateful wretch,’ she hissed. She tugged at Rachel’s slight figure. ‘Get dressed!’ Her voice rose shrilly as she pushed and pulled, scarcely giving the bewildered Rachel chance to put on her petticoat and dress. ‘I took you in. I gave you a home. How do you repay me? You sin! You sin!’ She was almost screaming now. ‘Fornication is a sin! A sin, do you hear me?’
    In her mind she was reliving her own sin, and the penalty she had paid. At that moment Gertrude was scarcely sane as she sought to take her revenge. This girl was the daughter of the man who had used her. He had cast her aside for another. Rejected her! The anguish. The terror. Memories rose in her like bile. She forgot the part she had played. The scheming to steal Connor from the girl he loved, Mhairi Maclean.
    ‘Please, please do not hit me again,’ Rachel pleaded, shielding her face with an upraised arm, trying to pull on her boot with the other. ‘Ross!’ she called, ‘Ross, please help me!’
    It was her shout, and Ross’s name, which brought Gertrude back to the present. There was no time to lose. She grabbed the cover from the pillow and bundled Rachel’s few belongings into it, almost flinging it at her.
    ‘Now get out of my house! Don’t ever come