The Unreliable Death of Lady Grange

Part One

Chapter 1

Rachel

I have at last managed to secure some rudimentary writing paper, a quill and ink. And so I write down my account to dispatch with a kindly envoy, in the vain hope that my hus­band, Lord Grange, once advised of my pitiful circumstances, might set about arranging my repatriation to civilised society. If not, perhaps one of his eminent colleagues on the bench in Edinburgh might concern themselves, but that is unlikely. Or my adoring children? Admittedly, some are too young, but Charles is now twenty-three and surely able to plead on his mother’s behalf once he hears news of me, although he is of course busy with his new position at the Court of Session. And so, my only hope is that Mary, though a mere girl, might be permitted to intercede on my behalf through her husband the Earl. My Angel must be so distraught.

I am ill and weary and exceedingly disquieted living here in this godforsaken place, with no one for company but a glaikit serving wench. The only sound, apart from the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the waves, is the squawk of the seabirds: the purring puffins, the screeching guillemots, the harsh, croaking solan geese.

The inhabitants speak in their still largely indecipherable tongue and I can expend only so much energy using signs and gestures. It is tiresome and monotonous, but not as cruel as the means by which I arrived in this barbaric place. And now I abide here, the only Lady so far from civilisation and my beloved family.

But I am jumping ahead. I ought to begin this tale in 1708 when I was but eighteen years old. I had travelled from Edinburgh down the coast into East Lothian one unusually warm day in early May. I was with my mother and sister and we were to visit the splendid grounds of Preston House, which were open to the public every Saturday afternoon. The three of us strolled along the shaded alleys between the tall hedges of elder and briar to the high stone walls that had obviously been built to protect the estate from the fierce winds of the River Forth; that day there was nothing but a balmy breeze. From there we entered the maze and, as I stopped to admire some trailing ivy, I let my mother and sister continue on. I was drawn towards a glorious aroma emanating from the hedgerow and I leant in to inhale the scent of honeysuckle, shutting my eyes as I did so. On opening them, I noticed a tall young gentleman at my side. I looked around but we were completely alone. The man inclined his head and addressed me in a courteous manner, asking if I should like to take a walk with him.

Sir, I can’t possible agree to your request, it would be unseemly. I don’t know who you are.

With this, a smile flickered on his full red lips and he inclined his head.

I am James Erskine, proprietor of Preston House.

I was taken aback at how young he looked, as I recalled some talk about this very man in the coach earlier. Mama and my sister Margaret had been arguing over the gossip that was currently rife throughout Edinburgh, about the degeneracy and carousing of James Erskine, also known as Lord Grange.

Margaret had been told about it by her friends, the Dalrymple sisters; Mama hushed this talk as nonsense and insisted he was a good man, intelligent and, most importantly, of noble stock.

As I studied his face, I realised that Mama had been correct and Margaret’s claims must be untrue: his blue-grey eyes looked so innocent, those boy-like freckles on his full cheeks suggested naivety, something childlike.

I should like that very much, Sir, I said, smiling, and he gave me his arm.

We emerged from the maze and he led me along a stone wall with a bower in it. We sat down there and he turned to point over towards the wide river.

That island in the Forth over there is the Isle of May. It has been a place of pilgrimage for centuries; people used to come from far and wide to drink the water of the well. Many poor folk with terrible ailments were cured. God works in wonderful ways, don’t you agree?

I nodded.

If I hadn’t decided to study law and become a judge, I should like to have trained as a minister of religion, he told me as he continued to gaze over at the island.

I swallowed. My handsome companion not only owned this whole estate, he was a man of high intellect who was about to become a judge, as well as being a devout, religious person.

I don’t yet know your name, he said, taking my hand from my lap.

This was untoward and I found my heart begin to beat faster. As I turned to face him, the plaid around my shoulder slipped a little and I saw him glance down at the lace around my bodice. Thankfully I was wearing my family’s fine Belgian lace.

I am Rachel Chiesley, Sir, I whispered, awaiting the usual reaction from anyone acquainted with both Edinburgh and the law on hearing my family’s name. But there was no such response. Instead, he smiled and touched my face with his other hand. He was leaning in towards me and my eyes were opening wide when I heard them.

Rachel, Rachel, where are you?

I leapt up and pulled my plaid tight around my shoulders.

Here, Mama, I cried and glanced at the young man, who had also arisen.

They rushed towards me and James Erskine bowed deeply then introduced himself.

Ladies, he said, smiling, I hope you are enjoying the grounds of my estate. Perhaps you will permit me to show you the hothouse and the walled garden?

Mama looked taken aback but managed to stutter a reply. Thank you, we should like that very much.

As he took Mama’s arm and guided her back along the terraced wall, past the doocot and towards the back of the house, Margaret and I followed on behind. My sister tugged at my elbow and leant in close. Does he know who we are? she hissed.

I found myself beaming from ear to ear. I told him who I was, Margaret, and he didn’t look troubled at all.

There followed the most ardent, albeit swift courtship. James took me to two grand parties, the first of which I shall never forget, at Corstorphine House, where we danced our first minuet. I had always adored dancing, but this was different. We had partaken of supper and punch and as the music struck up once again, he took my hand and guided me to the dance floor. I believe this was the moment we both fell madly in love.

Mama could not, obviously, be there, since Edinburgh society was slow to forgive and forget, so James’ sister Jean was my companion that evening. I must admit I found her rather haughty and unfriendly, not the kindly soulmate I had hoped to spend the soiree with. It was as if she knew perfectly well about the Chiesley family history, even if her brother seemed oblivious to the facts, and she was making it all too apparent that she thought me unworthy of her noble brother. She seemed to know many other ladies and they too shunned me; I noticed two lean behind their fans and nod in my direction. I took a deep breath, raised my head high and ignored them; I had had six years of rejection and I would not give up on happiness now.

But then, when we danced, everything was put to rights. He gazed into my eyes with such fiery passion that I was thankful the beat of the music meant I had to swing away from him, as I found my face redden with delight. Holding his hand was also an unexpected joy; I had been used to either my brothers’ grimy, fidgety hands or the sweaty hands of my uncles. And the man Jean had forced me to dance with before James had hands so greasy, it was as if he had washed them in a basin of fatty mutton broth. But James’ hands were silky, soft and cool; I will never forget his touch. I quivered all over when, at the end of the dance, he held both my hands and raised them to his lips. His eyes burned with fervour and mine opened wide as I stood transfixed. Returning to my seat, trembling, I ignored Jean’s scornful scowl and took a long draught of punch, which made my fluttering heart steady once more.

Our second outing was to a gathering at the Assembly Rooms in the West Bow and thankfully his sister was not in attendance. We danced and talked to other grand people of the city as if we were already a married couple.

This time I noticed no one appeared to be in any way disdainful when he introduced me; but I did detect a difference in the way he pronounced my surname. He uttered it as if it were spelt Chessle, not Chiesley. Perhaps that was the reason I was addressed as an equal at all times; but no matter, it suited me well.

On the way home, he leant over to me in his carriage as we left the Assembly Rooms and headed up over the cobbles towards my home. His hand lifted the plaid a little off my shoulder and he peered through the dark to admire my gown once more. His breath smelt sweetly of claret and punch as he whispered to me that he wished he could have spoken to my father, but instead he would speak to my uncle, Aunt Margaret’s husband John, for my hand in marriage. It was all so romantic and when he touched the silk around my neckline, brushing a finger over my bosom, I felt that this was not improper, for I would soon be betrothed to James Erskine, Lord Grange, and without delay. And to think it all began at Preston House among the hedges of elder and the mazes and labyrinths of one of the finest gardens in Scotland. And soon it would all be mine.

Chapter 2

Rachel

The preparations for our wedding were swift. I had only met James on that auspicious day early in May, but a mere five months later, I was upstairs at Preston House with Mama, who was attempting to force my voluptuous body into the pale blue, silk gown my cousin Marie had worn a few months earlier. She did not care that the stomacher – something she admitted was more often worn by older women like herself – was causing me agony. The stiff panel dug into my stomach and I found it difficult to breathe. But, as she and Margaret kept reminding me, it was essential for a bride to look radiant on her wedding day; and radiance seemed to somehow include a slim waist, which I had never owned.

The sacrament was held at Prestonpans kirk and led by the Reverend Elibank, a pious man who was already a confidant to James, with whom he discussed many spiritual matters. As I walked up the aisle towards the communion table in the kirk that glorious day in early October, I saw a shaft of sunlight fall upon James, resplendent in his stockings, silk shirt and breeches adorned with silver buttons. I looked down at his feet and noticed his shoes had wonderfully shiny buckles that sparkled in the sunlight. And I felt such love for this man who would soon be my husband; I was blessed to be marrying such a handsome, noble creature. Our eyes met and I could not help but smile at the sight of a face – and body – I now knew so well. His expression, though, was not one of undying ardour that I had become used to. Indeed, it was difficult to read what he was thinking, for he did not smile; as a religious man he probably thought that to do so would be improper in the church. But as the ceremony proceeded, I also became aware of a spiritual presence and felt that our relationship, which seemed to be already blessed, was reaching new peaks. As the Reverend Doctor continued and James closed his eyes tight while mumbling in prayer, I was reminded that I was marrying not only a law lord, but also a devout person.

The wedding breakfast at Preston House was splendid and Mama was thrilled with the buffet tables, laden with potted pigeons, boiled beef, roast hens, salmon, hare, fricassees and ragouts. The fine sauces to accompany the meats and fish were French style, enriched with butter. James’ brother, the Earl, had brought his cook to Preston House kitchen to oversee the preparations, and his fancy accompaniments were the talk of all the guests; he had trained not only in Paris but also at the royal court. There were so many fine sweet things too – flummeries and fools flavoured with sack and mace, and trifles infused with rosewater, all strewn with dainty French comfits.

We were so happy that day and indeed every day and night thereafter for the first glorious couple of months, especially when it became common knowledge that I was with child; the joy spread throughout the entire household. According to James’ sister Jean, this boy – for surely I was carrying a boy – would be the first to be born at Preston House for over two decades. She pressed upon me how great this honour was.

Then one misty, grey morning, I awoke to find blood on the sheets. And the pain that ensued was horrific. My maid Annie rushed off to fetch James, who bellowed at Old Peter to send the carriage to Edinburgh for the physician. Even through my anguish, I was able to shout to my husband that I did not need the family doctor from the city, but a local medical man from nearby; time was surely not on my side. But he insisted and, as the pains continued and still no doctor arrived, I fell into some sort of stupor. When I awoke, both Annie and my mother were at my bedside, anxious looks on their faces. I did not even have to ask them what had happened.

When James eventually strode into the room, he did not even look at me; all he demanded to know was if it had been a male. I stared at my husband in disbelief and bellowed out some profanity, but Mama put her finger to my lips and swept my hair up over my sweaty brow, muttering some niceties to James as if excusing me. This after what I had just been through? I yanked my hand away from hers and turned instead to Annie who, as ever, knew just what I required to steady my nerves. She handed me my glass.

For some time my feelings for him were altered; he seemed dispassionate and cold. But as Mama kept insisting, I had made such a good match, I was lucky he wanted me and I must make the best of things.

And so, with him so eager to produce an heir, thankfully I gave birth to our first son, Charlie, on the twenty-seventh of October the following year. Our family would grow even more over the next few years. And what a family we were to become, well loved and respected throughout the county. I admit, I was at my happiest in those early days when Lord and Lady Grange were the talk of the town – and for once, given what my family had suffered, being spoken about in public for all the right reasons.

Chapter 3

Annie

I had never heard a lady use language like that before. Her mother looked horrified, but said nothing, always eager as she was to placate His Lordship. He too looked shocked, but instead of comforting his wife – she who had just been through such an ordeal – he swore back at her. I scraped back my chair to leave the room, thinking I should not be there, when My Lady turned to me and gestured towards the claret, so I refilled her glass and she began to regain her composure as he trudged towards the door.

As I watched her sip, I noticed her expression change from ghastly to calm, just like those mornings when she awakes gasping for air, so distraught. But then I pour her morning draught and she begins to breathe normally as she tells me of her nightmares. The bad dreams are always about her father. There was a heavy silence in the room as I kept thinking about what Lord Grange had just said – or rather, not said. He had not spoken to his wife at all; he had not even looked at her. He had merely asked her mother if it had been a boy or a girl. When she told him she had no idea, perhaps the doctor was the one to ask, he harrumphed and motioned to me to tidy up the mess of old blood-stained bedclothes that still lay in a pile on the floor.

He then moved the frame of a portrait on the wall a fraction to make it straight; he was always a perjink, but he was getting worse. He flung open the door and slammed it behind him.

He had not even asked how My Lady was feeling. She looked terrible, so pale and wan, but he seemed to care only about the lost baby. When she started sobbing, her mother tried to comfort her, but she was having none of it.

I despair, Mama. You saw what just happened. He is no longer interested in me.

Dear child, what you have just been through is horrid. But these things happen. You will be with child again very soon and that will make him happy. Remember, you must keep him satisfied, that is your role as a wife. And when he has his heir, he will be glad once more.

I am not just his wife, Mama. What about me? Rachel Chiesley?

Sssh, remember only I and your brothers now bear the burden of our shameful family name. You and your sister thankfully take your husbands’ names. Now lie back down on the pillow and get some rest.

My Lady turned away from her towards me and nodded at the bedside table. I lifted the decanter and poured her another glass of claret, which she took in trembling hands. She downed it in one then reached out her glass for more.

I had heard talk in the kitchen before the wedding about the Chiesley family scandal, but did not choose to believe the gossip about her father’s madness and how she might have inherited it. Admittedly, she sometimes flew into rages, but only if provoked.

There was that time the week before the incident when she was taking breakfast in her bedroom and he knocked on the door then entered. After his usual straightening of items on her dressing table and checking the pictures were exactly in place on the walls, he went towards the bed, took her hand and raised it to his lips. I shuffled a little on my feet, uncomfortable to be witnessing such an unexpected display of affection.

My dear Rachel, I must be off to London for a few days. I do hope you have all you might need during my absence? I have asked your mother to come and stay. Be sure she does not go to the village in case the name Chiesley is heard.

He kissed her fingertips once more then lowered her arm gently. His smile disappeared at once as he stared at her other pale white hand lying on the bedclothes.

I have told you before about wearing this ring! he shouted. Take it off. At once!

She tucked her hand under her other arm. I cannot, James, my fingers have swollen.

This was true; I had helped her try to pull off the ring the night before, without success. He yanked her hand out and tried to pull the ring off, but it was indeed stuck. The finger looked red and sore.

You’re hurting me, James, please stop.

He stomped his foot then turned on his heel. I’ll have Old Peter make up an oily solution so it can slide off your finger. I will not have that man’s ring in my house. Do you hear me?

That man, as you call him, was my father, she yelled, then breathed heavily. She began to sniffle, then wiped her nose, hissing, I am not your servant, James. I am my own woman, you know. She thrust her chin forward and glowered at him as her voice grew louder. And always will be. She was yelling even louder now. Don’t you forget it!

I sneaked a sideways glance at her; she had a rather unhinged look about her. I crouched down as she picked up the book on her bedside table and flung it at him.

He ducked then shook his head. I think not, My Lady. This is my house and you are mine. For ever, God help me.

And, I am sure, as he turned around to head for the door, that I saw him crossing himself, something I had not seen since my granny converted. But it must have been the dim light; no devout man of the kirk like him would make such a papist token, surely?

Chapter 4

James

She held a pistol to my head. I had no choice; I repeat, no choice but to marry her. I had no inkling before I agreed to this marriage that she was deranged. I had simply fallen des­perately in love; or rather, let me be frank, in lust. But the madness soon became evident; well, look at her family, for God’s sake. Her father brought shame and dishonour to the Chiesley name, not only in Edinburgh, but all over Scotland, as word spread. Everyone knew the family was tainted, but I had elected, in my besotted, prenuptial state, to ignore all the talk. However, as I realised more fully what a disgrace he had been and the attendant implications for his daughter, who was obviously marred by it, my feelings for her began to cool. As a religious man, I became aware of how evil he had been, how he could surely never be forgiven for his transgressions. And it soon became obvious that the daughter had also inherited his madness and his temper.

Admittedly she was only twelve years old at the time of the scandal, but she remembered it well and still had never denounced him. Can you imagine? Ah, but you do not yet know the crime; allow me to explain what evil act he committed.

John Chiesley of Dalry and his wife, Rachel’s mother Margaret, did not enjoy