Sarah longed to be alone, to calm the tumble of emotions that had begun to fill her waking hours

Mary Ellen relented and the little cluster of children at the school door were allowed in. A bargain was struck. Boots had to be removed and left on the step. The children who were barefoot edged in first. “We were playin’ in the burn ’n’ Isaac wouldna take off his boots.” One little girl tugged Sarah’s skirt.

“Don’t touch anything.” Mary Ellen tried to keep order. “That varnish is wet.”

Isaac had managed to open the wardrobe door. “Here’s a hidey-hole,” he announced, creating instant interest. “Come out o’ that, Isaac, and keep an eye on that brother o’ yours.”

The smallest child in the group was halfway into the scullery. “Ah’ll get him, Mrs Walker,” a little girl piped up. There was a bit of scuffling before Abie was cornered and given a scolding by his sister.

“That’s Rachel. She’s the manager of the family. A bright wee thing,” Mary Ellen explained.

Sarah stared in astonishment, noticing for the first time that all the children had hair as dark as a raven’s wing and equally dark eyes.

“They’re one family? All of them?” she asked. “Seven, an’ I delivered every one of them.” Mary Ellen nodded. “There’s Isaac, Jacob, Rachel, Ruth, Abie – that’s Abraham – Sarah and Benjamin.”

“My da reads the Bible a lot,” Rachel added, her bright eyes studying Sarah’s face. “Mam says you’re stayin’ here an’ you’ll be oor teacher. Nellie Burnett next door saw it in the tea leaves, an’ you might even get that empty hoose in the Front Raw.”

“Away you and play, Rachel Makin, and mind your ain business.” Mary Ellen suddenly became severe and shooed the family out of the door.

Village gossip

Later, as Mary Ellen locked up the new schoolroom, she turned to Sarah, who had grown quiet. “Dinna think that the Langrigg folk are talking about your business, Miss Ogilvie,” she said. “Nellie Burnett’s the village gossip. We’re no’ a’ like that.”

On the way back to the Front Raw, Mary Ellen pointed out the empty house. It looked smart enough – the windows were clean and the paint on the front door quite fresh.

“The McGills,” she said. “No’ that long married, but she was a city girl and missed the bright lights. Away back to Edinburgh.”

She noticed that Sarah’s step had slowed and that she seemed to have more than a passing interest in the empty house.

“You’ll stay for your tea,” she said to Sarah. “Daniel goes for his walk after his tea. He’ll see you home safe.”

Hurrying away from Langrigg, Sarah felt a pang of guilt at having refused Mary Ellen’s invitation. She’d had no wish to encounter Daniel, or indeed share a meal with him in the confines of the Walker kitchen.

Then, she felt sure, their secret would have been out, because Mary Ellen was eagle-eyed and had a mind as sharp as a needle.

Indeed, she’d given Sarah such a penetrating glance when she’d started to make her excuses that the reluctant guest had been glad to escape into the coolness of outdoors and make her escape across the fields to the Brodies’ farmhouse.

“You’re back early, lass,” Mrs Brodie remarked. “Were things no’ to your likin’ at Langrigg?”

Sarah, anxious to retreat to her room and be alone with her thoughts for a while, was obliged to relate every detail of the Wee School to her hostess.

Evening tryst

Sarah longed to be alone, to calm the tumble of thoughts and emotions that had begun to fill her waking hours, keeping her awake and staring out into the darkness of the night.

Later, when the men had been fed, the kitchen cleared up, the dishes washed and the fire banked up, Sarah went upstairs to get ready for her evening tryst with Daniel.

She chose her second-best dress of softest blue and brushed her hair up into the butterfly clasp. As an afterthought, she took with her the little shawl in blue which her mother had knitted for her fifteenth birthday. “It’s a present for a young lady,” she’d told Sarah. “Because a young lady always keeps her shoulders covered.”

Sarah’s eyes misted over as she held the shawl, delicate as a cobweb, to her cheek, hearing again her mother’s gentle voice.

Daniel, for once, was late. The evening breeze had stiffened into a light but cold wind by the time he joined her.

“You look sad, Sarah. Did you think I wasn’t coming? I’m sorry to be late.” His words came out all in a rush.

“Look, Daniel. This is why I’m sad.” She held out a russet leaf. “The first autumn leaf. It fluttered down a moment ago. The summer’s nearly over and soon I’ll have to go.”

“Hush, Sarah.” He gathered her into his arms. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Sarah could feel the beating of his heart.

“Sarah, don’t go. Stay with me. We belong together, you and me.”

He held her away from him for a moment. “I know, Daniel, but how?” Her voice died away suddenly, lost in tears.

“There’s an empty house in Langrigg and I’ve been to see the colonel. That’s why I’m late. Mary Ellen came wi’ me and put in a good word for me, so the house is mine.”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped away Sarah’s tears. Then, smoothing her hair back, his dark eyes fixed her in their gaze.

“Sarah Ogilvie, will you marry me?”

Apprehension

Sarah leaned forward and rested her forehead against the coolness of the window-pane. Outside in the yard of the Brodies’ farm were the familiar sights and sounds: the lowing of cattle as they were brought in from the fields for milking, the occasional shout of the cattleman, the rumble of the flat cart loaded with milk churns, the clatter of hooves.

She shivered, feeling a sudden chill of apprehension as she glanced at the letter in her hand. The letter that had taken her the length of a day to write. The letter to her father.

She sat down on the bed and read it yet again. Was she right, she reflected, to have offered no explanation, to have simply stated facts in such a cold and abrupt way? Would it have made any difference if she’d tried to explain her feelings to her father?

Almost without thinking, she spoke the words of her letter aloud. She had read and reread it so often that it was burned into her memory.

“Yesterday, I was Sarah Ogilvie. Today, I am Sarah Morrison, because I have married my Daniel. So tomorrow, and for the rest of my life, I will be his wife and will love him and care for him as he will love and care for me. But I will always be Sarah, your daughter, who loves and respects you. It is my dearest wish that, in time to come, you will find it in your heart to give me your blessing.”

Her reflection blurred as she whispered the final words of her letter through tears.

she finished.

More tomorrow

This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones