Mathew's Tale by Quintin Jardine Page B

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
     
    M ARSHALL 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