The Betrayal of Maggie Blair - By Elizabeth Laird Page 0,133

meal progressed. I told Mrs. Robertson how Mr. Haddo dressed cocks' combs in the Marischal of Dunnottar's kitchens. I explained to her Aunt Blair's method of salting beef and began to describe the fashionable dresses of the high-up ladies of Edinburgh, though I stopped before I had told her of the craze for ribbon knots when I noticed that Mr. Robertson was frowning with displeasure at this show of frivolity.

"So, Maggie," he said at last. "You'll do us the favor, I hope, of reading to us tonight's passage from the Good Book before we go to our beds."

He took a large Bible down from the shelf in the alcove by the fire, opened it, and laid it front of me. It was gently done, but I could tell that he was setting me a test, and my pulse quickened. I hadn't read a word since leaving Kilmacolm all those months ago.

It was fortunate that the story he chose was the Good Samaritan, a favorite one that I had read many times before.

" A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves,'" I began.

I read on faultlessly, and when I had finished the chapter, I looked up to check if he wanted me to carry on. As I did so, I surprised the Robertsons exchanging a look. He was mouthing a question to her. She was nodding with enthusiastic consent.

"That was well done," he said, taking the Bible and replacing it on the shelf.

He sat down again at the table and cleared his throat.

"I have an idea for you, Maggie," he began, nodding solemnly. "It's a kind of—a proposition."

"Oh, do tell her, John!" interrupted Mrs. Robertson, her shoulders heaving with her customary laughter.

"We're trying to set up a school here," Mr. Robertson said, suppressing her with a look. "The teacher has been found, but he can't start until after this coming winter. I believe you could stand in for him and teach the little ones their letters. There's a cottage for the teacher, you know, and a kail yard. You would earn some pennies, enough to live on in a simple sort of way."

His words seemed to buzz in my ears. The idea was too absurd. Impossible.

"I couldn't do that," I said. "I wouldn't know how to do that."

"Say yes, dear! You'd be perfect!" said Mrs. Robertson, clapping her chubby hands.

What do you know about it? I thought, with a little spurt of irritation. The last child I saw in Bute was calling out to me, "Witch girl, witch hag!"

"I don't know." I shook my head.

"You must have time to think it over," said Mr. Robertson. "Let us sleep on the matter prayerfully, and in the morning, God willing, wiser councils will prevail."

"Amen." His wife giggled.

***

I fell into a deep sleep as soon as I had lain down on the small truckle bed they set out for me by the kitchen fire, but I woke very early in the morning. It was still dark, but the faintest glimmer of early dawn was creeping through the cracks in the wooden window shutter.

I had been dreaming uncomfortably of a kind of prison, a vault with a small window, from which a cliff fell away to the sea raging on rocks below. The vault was full of children tugging at me, pulling at me, calling me names as I shouted out the letters of the alphabet.

The Robertsons' strange proposition came back to me with full force.

Me! A teacher! Right here, in Kingarth! How Granny would have laughed. How bitter her laughter would have been and how triumphant.

You show them, girl, I seemed to hear her say. You're better than the lot of them.

But the dream of prison was still upon me, and the air in the little kitchen was close and stuffy. I got up and crept to the door, lifted the latch, and stepped outside.

There is no air like the soft air of Bute, crisp with the tang of the sea, laden with the richness of the earth and the fullness of grass and trees. I breathed it in, long and deep, remembering the stench of Edinburgh, the foulness of Dunnottar, and the lighter air of the moors and mosses of Kilmacolm.

Almost of my own accord, my feet began to move, and I was walking and then I was running up the hill from Kingarth and down the long, long lane to Scalpsie Bay.

The sun had risen by the time I had rounded the last bend. I stopped, the