Sunrise Over The Lake

Scotty pressed his wet nose to the glass, watching the snow fall softly beyond. Impatiently he pawed at the door. The latch finally released, he sprung out. Pawprints dotted all the way down the pathway and out the garden gate.

The sun rose over the lake. An eerie light cut through the early morning fog, casting a shimmer over the frozen water below. A chill wind blew through the trees. Two women walked slowly, arm in arm, along the banks of the Loch Leven. A Scottish Terrier bounding behind them, occasionally disappearing through the snow to chase wildfowl. The women carried wreaths crafted of white satin lilies, with embroidered green foliage. Carefully they walked down the banks toward the icy waters. The dog slowed, side stepping hesitantly before coming to a stop a few feet from the edge. Watching, alert, surveying the surrounds. A wildfowl flew out over the ice, the dog’s eyes darted, staring intently. This day, unlike that tragic day a year ago, he did not give chase. Margaret and her daughter Elisabeth bent to place the wreaths onto the ice. They brushed the silent tears that streamed their faces, each saying a quiet prayer. Margaret’s husband Alexander refused to accompany them to the Loch.

“Anniversary, or no, I will grieve in my own way,” he said as he left the house that morning.

This was the first time they had returned since that fateful afternoon in January.

That day began like any other. Jane, Bathia and Maggie the youngest, just gone twenty-one, arranged to meet friends at the lake. Great Grandmother’s old clock chimed one. A flurry of brightly coloured gloves, hats and scarves, skates in hand, they headed off. Father’s dog followed behind.

“Go home Scotty,” called Maggie.

Maggie’s mother, watching from the kitchen window, shook her head, laughing.

She made several attempts to turn the dog home, each time he came bouncing back. Throwing her hands into the air, she looked back at her mother. Maggie blew her a kiss. Giving up she ran to catch up to her sisters, the dog running ahead.

The sun glared brightly on the snow. Footprints behind them led from the house gate, stretching the two miles to the lake, pawprints dotted alongside them.

Conversation soon turned to the only ‘household topic’ on everyone’s lips, since Robert Paton proposed to Jane.

“Did you bring the invitation?” asked Bathia.

Jane patted her reticule. She smiled. Bathia gave her a playful shove.

“Does he still read you poetry?” teased Maggie.

Jane smiled.

“He does,” said Bathia, “who does he read? No let me guess.”

“Michael Bruce of course! said Maggie, before Bathia got the chance. “Oh Jane, he is so old fashioned.”

Jane’s cheeks flushed red. They all laughed.

Jane tapped the front gatepost of Kinross House.

“Race you,” she called, before dashing down the track towards the lake. And then as they had chanted ever since they were ‘wee lassies’.

“First to find Queen Mary!” they chorused.

Arriving at the lake before the Crichton family, the three sisters sat on the seat beside the loch, putting on their skates while they waited. A plover cried out from above. Scotty stops momentarily to look up. A wildfowl, caught his eye, he gave chase out onto the ice.

Going some way out, before, suddenly, the ice broke beneath him, plunging him into the icy water below.

“Scotty!” called Bathia.

Some workmen, employed at the nearby boat-house, watched as she stepped onto the frozen lake. They called out, warning her off the ice. Ignoring them, she continued on. Panicked, she finally came to the runaway dog. Reaching gently, she lifted him out. The ice gave way beneath her feet, plunging them both down into the freezing water.

“Help me, Maggie!” she screamed, thrashing to stay afloat.

Immediately Maggie ran to her rescue. Grasping her hand; the ice cracked and broke. Jane, seeing both sisters in desperate trouble, raced to save them. The workmen seeing the scene, brought a boat to rescue the young ladies. Alas, it was all too late. Three lifeless bodies dragged from the watery depths of Loch Leven.

The cold depressing scene of the snow-covered gravestones in the Kinross Graveyard, echoed the miserably long cold-hearted year the family suffered through. Their home silent without the laughter and joy three young ladies could bring.

Three white stones sat atop the gravestone; Alexander had already been.

Elisabeth placed three more stones at the base of the grave. Margaret, tears streaming, ran her fingers slowly across the gold lettering carved into the stone.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

3 Sisters

Jane Steedman aged 24, Bathia Steedman aged 22

Maggie Margaret Steedman aged 21

Beloved daughters

of

Alexander Steedman and his wife Margaret Niven Reid

Who drowned in Loch Leven on the afternoon of 22.1.1870

They were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their death, they were not divided. 2 Samuel 1:23

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can rivers drown it. Song of Solomon 8:7

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God”

From inside the church came a mournful wail.

Light streamed from the multi-coloured stained-glass windows, at the front of the chapel. Alexander knelt beneath them, his face in his hands, his body rocking. Reverend Leishman, by his side.

Not once in the past year, had Margaret witnessed her husband cry. Seeing his bottled emotion now flowing unchecked, the sight overwhelming made her heart ache. Her knees buckled beneath her, Elisabeth caught her. Wrapping her arms around her mother, she moved her forward towards him. Margaret clung to her grieving husband. Elisabeth encircled them both in her arms as they knelt together on the floor.

She knew, her father acknowledging his grief, something changed. The past year had been endless, somehow, they had made it through. Although there would be many more bleak days ahead, father’s tears signified a turning to light instead of darkness. A little crack of hope, that their heavy hearts would gradually thaw, and life, although never the same, would move on.