Alison allowed herself to be guided to a chair where she slumped dejectedly, tears flowing

It was a chance remark, as Thomas McLean breakfasted, that suggested the best means of tracing those whom he sought. He’d spent a restless night on a hard palliasse which had obviously been a refuge for bedbugs. In foul mood he had stumped downstairs and had snarled at one of the serving girls to bring him ham, bread and ale. Despite his sour demeanour the girl tried to engage him in conversation.

“You’ll be a stranger here, sir? You’ll find lots to do here in the city. You can eat and drink your fill, play dice and card games, attend a goose race or . . .”

“Girl,” he’d said sharply, “I’m not here for pleasure – I’m on business. There are those I seek, though where they are in this midden God alone knows.”

“A cadie, sir! You need the services o’ a cadie. ’Tis his job to know who bides where in the city. And it happens my brother’s one! I can fetch him, if you wish.”

“Aye, do that.”

Last words

The last words of her song over, Kirsty stood, hands clasped, while Alison played the final chords. “Bravo!” Duncan McAllan shouted, clapping enthusiastically. “That was lovely, my dears, really lovely.”

“Are we good enough for Lady Catherine and her guests?” Alison asked.

“Good enough? You’ll have her Ladyship’s guests spellbound.” Drawing his old timepiece from his pocket, Duncan peered at it. “The hour of your departure approaches.

“I suggest you retire to your room and prepare yourselves.” He beamed fondly at them. “Not that two such bonnie lassies have much need of embellishment.”

“Och, Father, you’re biased,” Kirsty said, hugging the old man. She was pleased to see Alison flashing him one of her rare smiles. “Coming, Alison?”

The two girls headed off upstairs to the room all three girls now shared, Ellie having given up the damp and dingy room she’d been renting.

No sooner had they flopped down on their beds than Ellie appeared, bearing a ewer of hot water.

“I thought you’d have need of this,” she said, placing it by the wash bowl on the stand.

“You’re an angel, Ellie,” Kirsty said. “Do you want to wash first?” she asked Alison.

“It’s up to you,” Alison replied, shrugging.

“I’m bringing up another jug,” Ellie said. “Just give me a minute.”

Alison soaked a cloth in the warm water and dabbed at her face.nAs she waited, Kirsty laid out her best white dress. “I hope this will do,” she said, fingering the material. “It’s not terribly fashionable.”

“True,” Alison said bluntly, scrutinising the dress. “If I’d thought, I could have given you one of mine to wear.”

Kirsty stifled her irritation. Why must Alison always be so hostile?

“I admit it’s not new but I’m fond of it. It belonged to a girl we knew in Perth who grew tired of it.” “Huh. I’m glad I’m not a pastor’s daughter.” “Oh, Alison,” Kirsty scolded. “I eat well, I’m warm and have a roof above my head.”

“And have tatty clothes, no jewellery and no dowry to offer any young man keen to wed you.”

“Ah.” Kirsty’s voice became sharp. “So that’s it – no dowry. Has this anything to do with Malcolm?”

“I’m sure he’d never actually ask little Miss Poverty to marry him.” Alison’s face registered spite.

“Have you talked to your parents about this?” Kirsty asked, appalled.

Ellie teetered into the room at that moment trying not to spill the large jug of water. Noticing Alison drying her hands, she turned to Kirsty and bobbed.

“Your water, ma’am – unless you’d prefer to wash in Alison’s leavings?”

Handful

“Enough.” Alison bundled Ellie out of the room, slamming the door in her face. “That girl,” she muttered.

“She can be a handful,” Kirsty said lightly, “but she’s nice for all that.”

She began washing herself. “Has Ellie ever discussed her background with you?”

“Not really. She did say she was a foundling. Dumped on the doorstep of a manse somewhere.”

“Don’t you think it must be awful not to have parents, or to know who they were?” Kirsty asked, her voice soft with sympathy.

Alison stared at herself in the wall mirror. Then she turned to face Kirsty. “It is.”

In the act of drying her face Kirsty paused. “What do you mean, Alison?”

“Just what I said. Not knowing who your parents are is awful.”

Kirsty saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “Come and sit down,” she urged and Alison allowed herself to be guided to a chair where she slumped dejectedly, tears flowing.

Kirsty kneeled down and took her hand. “Do you want to tell me?” She saw the girl stiffen.

“I’ve never told anyone, but the fact is, I don’t know who my parents are,” Alison finally confided. “Surely it’s John and Agnes?”

“No. They’ve raised me, but they’re not my real parents.” She turned her head away. “Many years ago, when I was five or six years old – just a few days before you and your father came to visit us at Ardrishaig, remember?”

Kirsty nodded. “I do. That was when I pushed you and Malcolm into the loch.” She frowned. “I can’t remember why, though.”

“I can. It was my fault. I was jealous of you and began to torment you.”

“Jealous of me, a parson’s daughter? But why? What had I that you lacked?”

Alison rose and walked to the window. “Shortly before you came I overheard Agnes and John talking. They know nothing of this. I was in the box bed and they thought I was asleep.”

She turned to face Kirsty.

Payment

“Do you know they get a payment every few months for my upkeep? I’ve seen the banker’s drafts in my father’s – sorry, in John’s bureau.

“That’s what they were talking about that night. The money had been late in arriving and they were struggling to make ends meet.

“I was just another mouth to feed, another person to clothe.”

Alison dabbed at her eyes. “John was saying how he wished he’d never agreed to take me but Agnes was telling him to hush and that what they were doing was what good Christians would do.”

“Oh, Alison, I can see how that must have hurt you.” “Yes, it hurt all right. That night, the next day and every day since.”

Alison frowned. “And then you came a few days later with your ‘Father’ this and ‘Father’ that. I cried each night, thinking how dared you have a real father when I hadn’t?”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Who have you told apart from me?” Kirsty asked.

“No-one.” Alison made a despairing gesture. “I was going to tell Sandy. I even gave him a hint but the time wasn’t right.”

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon By Roy Stewart