‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘And I will take care of her, I promise. But you, are you really able to do this, feed two babies?’

  She laughed. ‘Man, have you never heard of twins? Sir Gregor Cleland and his brother thrived well enough . . . though more’s the pity, some would say.’

  ‘Yes, but twins tend to be smaller babies, do they not? This lad here’s a bruiser.’

  ‘I will have enough,’ she insisted.

  ‘Then I will send you extra milk, vegetables, meat, chicken, all the extra you need. And a cot and bedding and clothing and soft napkins for the child, for both the children, and coal for the fire, and oil for the lamps . . . and I’ll find a wet nurse as quickly as I can, I promise.’

  ‘No!’

  Her sharpness took him by surprise.

  ‘I will foster this child for as long as is necessary, until he is ready to be weaned. It will be hard for you, Mathew, but he must stay here with us until then. I won’t have another woman suckling your Margaret’s bairn. I am fit and I am healthy; you know that. How could you guarantee that in someone else? I promise you, if I find that I canna cope, I will tell you, but I know that I can.’

  ‘Has David agreed to this?’

  ‘Of course. I sent young Matt to fetch him home when Mother Fleming arrived. He is of the same mind as me, be sure of it.’

  ‘Lizzie,’ he exclaimed, ‘that is a great commitment. If you wish, you and David and your children could move into Waterloo House, with Mother and me.’

  ‘And then move out again when the time comes? You are a generous man, Mathew, but this is our home and here we must stay. As you can see, it is one of the biggest of the estate cottages. Your wee man will be fine here with us, and you can come and visit him, every day if you like. “Wee man” indeed,’ she chuckled. ‘What will you call him?’

  ‘That,’ he replied, ‘you will find out at the christening, where you and David will be godparents. If Mr Barclay agrees, that will take place the day after Margaret’s funeral.’

  ‘Then go to him,’ she said, ‘and complete the arrangements, while this wee mite and I attend to our private business.’

  Still stunned by the day’s mournful events and by the speed with which they had transpired, Mathew did as she instructed, with the promise that he would be back in the evening, when David McGill would be at home.

  The cottage was just inside the Cleland estate boundary, a little over half a mile from the parish church. As if to spite him the sun had come out and was shining; it was unseasonably warm. He was perspiring within his heavy coat as he reached the door of the manse. He was about to knock when it was opened for him, by Jessie.

  ‘My condolences, sir,’ she murmured. ‘The meenister is in the parlour wi’ your mither.’

  ‘The things in your life this room has witnessed,’ Barclay said, as Mathew entered. ‘I can hardly credit this. Of all the ladies, I’d have thought your Margaret was the least likely for this to happen.’

  ‘My mother believes it was where the birth took place that was the cause,’ he replied. ‘She may be right. There are cleaner places than the bench in an open cabin, barely a yard from a horse’s arse. When can you do the funeral, John?’

  ‘In two days’ time, on Saturday morning, if that is agreeable to you and to the undertaker.’

  ‘It is acceptable to me,’ he answered, brusquely. ‘Margaret had no family left to need to be advised. As for the undertaker, he will do what he’s told. There should be a reception, I believe.’

  The minister nodded, briefly. ‘Of course. The lesser hall is the usual choice. Jessie will bake for it, she’s still able, remarkably, and you may have alcohol if you wish.’

  ‘I do not,’ he snapped, bitterly. ‘If only there had been alcohol handy to clean that damned seat, Margaret might still be alive.’

  ‘Life is fu’ of “ifs”, son,’ Hannah said, gently, ‘but when we’re lookin’ back the way, nane o’ them mean a damned thing.’

  ‘Your mother is right,’ Barclay concurred. ‘There was nothing to be done. Self-reproach can only harm you and your child. Speaking of whom, in accordance with what Mrs Fleming has asked, I propose that he be baptised at morning service on Sunday. He was born in another parish, but that means nothing to me.’

  ‘I thank you for that. The McGills will be godparents.’

  ‘Have you chosen a name?’ the minister asked.

  ‘I have, subject only to David’s agreement, which I hope he will give. My son will be christened Marshall Weir Fleming, after his mother, and also his foster mother. If anyone looks askance at that, they will be welcome to discuss their feelings with me, but at their peril.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  MARSHALL WEIR FLEMING REMAINED part of the McGill household until he was a year old. As good as his word, his father visited him almost every day, calling in the morning, while the child was awake, before going to the factory, where he was spending most of his time. The only person in the family who felt neglected was Hannah, although she too called on her grandson in Carluke, and as he grew into his third trimester, and the weather grew milder, she often sent a carriage so that Lizzie could bring him, and his foster sister, to Waterloo House.

  On her first visit, Hannah saw that she was overwhelmed by the size of Mathew’s home, and by its grandeur.

  ‘I always knew he would do well, Mother Fleming,’ she said, ‘but this makes me very proud of him. As you must be too,’ she added.

  ‘We both always were, lass,’ Hannah replied. ‘But if ye think this is fine . . . My son speaks to me about his business, now that he doesna’ hae Margaret tae share with. Most of it goes ower ma heid, but that which sticks . . .’

  She smiled. ‘He now has another leather factory, makin’ baggage o’ his own design just as fast as he can sell it. As for the cast-iron cairry-on in Coatbridge . . . that Ah do not understand . . . he says fares better than he and his partner had ever hoped for.’

  ‘That is very good, but does he have time for himself?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘No, but he disna’ want ony. He says he likes tae work, as it keeps his mind frae settling on other things.’ She looked down at the sturdy seven-month-old Marshall, wriggling as he sat in her lap, as if he was ready to climb down and walk. ‘Perhaps when this wee man comes hame, it will help him.’

  ‘I think so,’ the child’s foster mother said. ‘His face seems lighter, and younger, all the time he’s with him.’

  The only days on which Mathew did not visit his son were those when he felt compelled to be at Coatbridge, to involve himself in the iron foundry. Each one was something of a chore, for the industrialised ward of Lanarkshire was a place he had never known before, and he was struck by its contrast with the quiet rural community in which he had been raised. To him, the place was squalid, the air unclean and the people coarse. Every time he went there he travelled in his oldest clothes.

  And yet, there was an energy about it that drew him back; he understood that it was the sort that generates wealth, and as long as that was fairly distributed, it had to be accepted. The only disagreement that he and Sir Graham Stockley had was over his proposal that the workers should be given production targets and paid a small bonus for timely completion of an order.

  The mine owner had been sceptical. ‘Is it really necessary?’ he had asked after the proposal had been tabled.

  ‘No, it is not,’ Mathew had replied. ‘The real question should be, “Will it be productive?” In my experience, in my other companies, it has increased production by up to twenty per cent, with no loss of quality. You are confident, Graham, in the skills and commitment of our workforce? Good, I say, now let us give them a chance to demonstrate those qualities and be rewarded for it.’

  In the two months that followed the introduction of the bonus scheme, production in the Stockley Fleming foundry increased by twenty-five per cent. Three months after that, the order book had doubled, and a second hot-blast furnace had been commissioned.

  The return of Marshall to his family home took place the day after a party held in the McGill cottage to celebrate his birthday and Jean’s, and on the same day as the memorial service for his mother, held in Carluke Parish Church. Mathew had instructed it and had decreed that it would happen annually, as long as John Barclay remained in the charge. The minister was bereaved himself by that time, as his dear old Jessie had slept away two months before.

  The service over, Mathew stood at the door of the kirk, so that he could thank each member of the congregation for their attendance as they left. There had been no dinners at Waterloo House for just over a year, but his friend Sheriff Stirling was there nonetheless, along with several other prominent people in the wider community.

  And two others: Sir Gregor Cleland and his brother were the first to leave. Mathew had not even glanced at their family pew and was surprised to see them. He looked more closely at them than he had on the day of their father’s funeral. They were slight figures, small babies grown into small men, he thought, with pinched faces and no warmth in their eyes.

  ‘Our condolences, Mr Fleming,’ Sir Gregor said, not offering a handshake.

  ‘I thank you,’ he replied, ‘although this is as much a service of celebration of Margaret’s life as of grief for her passing. Since neither of you knew my wife, or myself for that matter, I’m surprised that you have graced us with your presence, but nonetheless, I thank you again.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Gavin retorted, and then gave a small mocking snigger. ‘We simply wanted to cast an eye over you, Fleming, that’s all. Or should I call you “One-lamp”?’ As the brothers walked away, their laughter floated back to him.

  The last member of the congregation to emerge was Philip Armitage, the factor. ‘Did you suggest to your masters that they come here today?’ Mathew asked him, having accepted his formal greeting.

  ‘No, Mr Fleming, I promise you that I did not. I can tell by your tone that you’re not best pleased to see them. Did they give offence?’

  ‘If I deemed that they besmirched Margaret’s memory,’ he replied, ‘they would have, and there would be consequences. But they did not, so I have no regard for them. Tell me, man, how do you manage working for toerags like those two, after the old Laird?’

  ‘It’s a change for the worse, sir,’ the factor admitted, ‘but in truth they do not impinge on my daily life very much, for I rarely see them. They spend much of their time in Edinburgh, and even in London on occasion. All they do is send me their bills for the paying . . . but I imagine McGill has told you that.’

  In that moment he remembered why he had disliked the man. ‘Why should you imagine that?’ he asked coldly. ‘David does not discuss estate business with me, any more than he would discuss mine with you . . . or what he knows of it, which is not much.’

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ Armitage exclaimed, obviously alarmed by his outburst. ‘I meant no slight on Mr McGill.’

  ‘Accepted.’ Mathew’s curiosity had been pricked. ‘How goes the estate, then?’

  ‘Not as well as it did under Sir George. Half the staff in the big house have gone.’

  ‘I knew that some had; Ewan Beattie, the coachman, works for me now. I suppose if the brothers are absent much of the time, they have no need for as many people.’

  ‘True, but it’s not just that, sir. The tenant farmers are all having their rent increased at Candlemas. The Laird wanted it done for Martinmas, but there was no time to give notice.’

  ‘Do they know yet?’

  ‘No, and some of them will find it hard to pay. The brothers will not mind that; they seem to think they can farm the land themselves and make more profit.’

  ‘Can they?’

  ‘Candidly, no. I will find myself hiring on displaced tenants to do the same job for a minimum wage. The factor is usually the least popular man on an estate, Mr Fleming, but that will make me truly hated, if it comes to pass.’

  Mathew was shocked, genuinely. ‘Is Gregor that cruel?’

  ‘In my view, no, not Sir Gregor. The brothers have the same looks, but not the same mind. Gavin is the dominant one, and between the two of them . . . and the two of us, mind . . . what he says is what happens.’

  He was about to say that he had heard such a suggestion before, when they were interrupted by young Matt. ‘Mathew,’ he called out as he ran towards them, ‘Mother Fleming says Ah’ve to ask you if you’re coming.’

  He smiled. ‘That was not a question, Mr Armitage,’ he said, ‘it was a summons. Good luck with your task. It is not one that makes me envious.’

  The two shook hands and Mathew left, with his young near-namesake, to answer the call.

  ‘We’ll miss Marshall when he’s gone,’ the boy declared as they headed for the McGill cottage.

  ‘There will be no need for that, Matt. He will not be going awful far, so you can come and visit him, as often as your mother and your father will allow. That’s when the school is not in term of course.’

  ‘Can Ah bring a friend?’

  The question took Mathew by surprise. ‘Who would that be?’ he asked.

  ‘Jane Fisher. She and I sit together in the schoolroom. She whispers answers to me when I dinna ken them.’

  He smiled, and felt a surge of pleasure. John Barclay’s prayer, and no doubt the prayers of her parents, had been answered those nine years ago. The child who had been baptised on the day of his return had confounded the doctor and midwives by surviving infancy, and was growing up healthy and unblemished.

  ‘Of course you may,’ he said, ‘with her parents’ consent.’

  Life goes in cycles, he mused. Twenty-five years earlier another boy and girl had sat side by side in that same schoolroom.

  Matt and Jane did visit Marshall, often, when he was established in his nursery in Waterloo House, under the supervision of his grandmother, and under the daily care of his governess, a stout spinster named Meg Liddell, who had been recruited through the church. She had come with John Barclay’s personal recommendation, but had only been hired after an hour-long interview with Hannah, from which Mathew had been excluded. She looked formidable, but in fact she was jolly, and seemed to live for the child who was her charge.

  Once again, Mathew’s life had a routine, even if there was a void at its heart, of which he was reminded every time he looked at his son, but most of all when he saw his red hair shining in the firelight.

  His business activity became less frantic, also; the saddles continued to sell, with their international markets growing, but the baggage range soon came to rival them in terms of turnover and profitability. As he and Margaret had anticipated, demand began to spread through the social classes, leading him to introduce lower-cost items, serviceable but made from less expensive leather.

  Yet this growth was exceeded by that of Stockley Fleming. Within two years, Mathew was able to repay the money he had borrowed to invest in the venture. He had done so entirely from the dividends that it paid him, even allowing for investment in the rapid growth of the mill. By 1830, the company was the biggest employer in Coatbridge, and its two founders were known as ‘The Iron Barons’, locally and beyond.

  In that same year, a crisis arose close to Mathew. He and David McGill had both become elders of Carluke Parish Church, and met regularly at the kirk session meetings. On one of those, McGill was so unusually distracted, that the minister had to reprove him for his inattention.

  Business was hardly concluded before Mathew took him into a corner of the kirk’s lesser hall.

  ‘What’s ailing you, man?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so vexed, other than when you lost your wee Wilma. Is Jean sick? I saw young Matt on the way in so it canna be him.’ He paused. ‘Or is it Lizzie?’

  ‘None of us,’ David replied. ‘There’s no sickness in the house, I promise you.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Whatever it is, Mathew, it’s my concern, not yours. I’ll find a solution.’

  He shook his head, firmly. ‘David, man, anything that upsets you so much is my concern, whether you like it or not. Now out with it, for you know I will find out if I set my mind to it.’

  His friend sighed. ‘It’s the estate. I have been dismissed from my position. Mr Armitage told me today that my services are no longer required. If that is not bad enough, from now on I will be expected to pay full market rent for the cottage . . . full market rent being whatever the Laird says it is. I am stunned by this, man. I never saw it coming.’

  ‘Damn the Laird!’ Mathew barked. ‘I know about the Clelands; their reputation is well set among my business friends and social acquaintances. Gregor and his brother are a pair of profligate wasters, with their workers and their tenants paying the price for their excesses. They have crossed me twice, those pipsqueaks. It was of no importance to me then, but when they harm my friends, it is. Well, you can thumb your nose at them, David, for you will come and work for me.‘

  ‘No!’ McGill exclaimed. ‘Begging you for employment is the last thing I’d ever do.’

  ‘You are not begging me at all,’ Mathew retorted. ‘How many times have I asked you if you would join my company? Tell me, please, for I have lost count myself. This is not charity; I have need of a capable man like you to supervise the managers of my leather businesses. At the moment neither of them can do a damn thing without reference to me. The pay will be two pounds a week; Sundays off, of course, and two weeks paid holidays a year.’

  ‘Two pounds a week! Mathew, that’s well over twice what I was paid by the estate. It’s far too much.’

  ‘Hah!’ he laughed. ‘That’s something I have never heard before, a man wanting lower wages. David, it is what the job is worth to me, and whoever takes it, that is what he’ll get. But I would much rather it was you than someone else, for it is you I want, for your skills and experience, not your friendship.’