He hid a smile. “What does he call Leana?”
“Leana?” She looked at him, perplexed.
“You just told me Rab knows every lass in Newabbey, which must include your sister.”
“Ah…well…”
“And does he have names for Eliza and Annabel, your two scullery maids?”
“Nae,” she said with a groan, “he does not.”
“I'm right then.” He stood and yanked on his waistcoat, pretending to be indignant. “Rab Murray has his eye on you. I must see it's plucked out at once.”
She slapped her quill down, spattering ink on the tiny desk balanced on her lap. “James McKie! If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of a poor shepherd.”
“You'll ken when I'm jealous, lass.” He took a step closer, then bent over to blot the stray ink with a bit of rag she kept nearby. He felt her go still and heard the catch in her breath. The same heathery scent that filled his borrowed room now wafted up from her plaid, tickling his nostrils with a heady perfume. “So, lass, are you going to tell me about this unchancie turn of events with the Hogmanay Ball, or will the servants’ version suffice?”
She tipped her head back to look at him, her expression as smooth as the paper in her writing desk. “My father won't allow Lord Maxwell to host my debut. All else is gossip.”
“Very well.” He eased back onto the chair. “You are free then for me to court you.”
Rose held up a slender forefinger. “Ah, but Leana is also free. Better suited for you, in my opinion. Older, more settled, and with a much greater talent for managing a household.”
“I dont want a housekeeper, lass. I want a wife. To have and to hold.”
He'd hoped his honesty would disarm her. Instead, she seemed to draw away from him, fiddling with her pen and ink. “What does my father say to your suit?”
“He's not opposed to it, though he's asked me, in his words, to ‘proceed slowly with my daughter.’” He lighdy touched her chin and turned it toward him. “Am I going slowly enough to suit you?”
In the candlelight he nearly missed the spark that ignited in her dark eyes until he heard the fiery note in her voice. “You are going the wrong direction entirely, Jamie.” She pushed him away, then folded her hands across her lap desk and straightened her back. If she was trying to appear authoritative, the effect was lost on a cushioned window seat, but he wouldn't risk mentioning it.
Instead he swallowed the smile that threatened to take over his face. “The wrong direction, meaning I should be pursuing Leana?”
“Aye, you should. And with great haste before the woman finds another suitor more worthy of her.”
“Rose, Rose.” He cupped her folded hands with one of his, aware of how rough and callous they felt against her soft skin, more like the hands of a farmer than of a gendeman. “You are too young to be so certain of what others want.”
“What I want at the moment is to write a letter to your poor mother and see it posted in the morn's morn. It will take a week to find its way to that lonesome glen of yours. Longer, if the weather does not hold.” Freeing her hands from his grasp, she held the paper steady as she dipped her quill in ink and blotted the excess. Her hand hovered over the paper, awaiting his dictation. “I'm ready, Cousin.”
He could hold back his smile no longer. Rose resembled her headstrong Aunt Rowena more with every passing minute. “We'll begin in earnest then, as we've litde time before the supper bell rings and we must appear at your fathers table. Write as follows, if you please.”
To Mistress McKie of Glentrool
Friday, 17 October 1788
Dearest Mother,
I regret not having written sooner to let you know of my safe arrival at Auchengray. The journey was difficult and cosdy. Walloch, unfortunately, is no longer in my possession, nor is the purse containing the silver you generously provided.
Rose lifted her pen off the paper. “Aren't you going to mention your boots?”
“I am not.” The other confessions were humbling enough, though he'd neady avoided using the word stolen. His mother would think him timid or careless, which would not do at all. “I'll compose the letter, Rose. Your task is to make it legible.”
Her lower lip eased out in a childish pout. “Go on then.”
Your brother is well, as are his two daughters. Leana McBride is a woman of twenty years, fair of hair and face, and skilled in the domestic arts. Her sister, Rose, celebrated her fifteenth year on…
He paused. “Your birthday, Cousin. When is it?”
“Aren't you the canny fellow, leaving me no choice? I'll include it if I must.”
Jamie watched her hand sweep across the page, pleased with himself for gendy wresting a bit of personal information from her. The first of August. “Shall we continue, Rose?”
Your younger niece is the very picture of you, Mother. Dark hair, skin as smooth as fresh cream, a sweet mouth, and eyes that shine like onyx.
“Good heavens!” Her cheeks now resembled strawberries rather than cream. “You would write such things to your mother?”
“We understand each other, my mother and I. Make no mistake, she'll want every detail.” He should have thought of writing the letter days ago. Rose had agreed not only to listen to every word he said but to put it to paper. The perfect way to woo her. Aye, and woo her well.
Of the two sisters, Rose is the one who has captured my eye and my heart. She is not as quiedy compliant as her sister, Leana, but…
“Jamie, that is quite enough!” Rose poked him in the chest with the feathery end of her quill. “I'll not have you telling my aunt that I'm… difficult.”
He arched his left brow, knowing the look gave him a satisfactory air of disdain, and frowned with more disapproval than he felt. “You agreed to be my scribe, Miss McBride, which means you must write whatever I say. Did I use the word difficult?”
“It was bound to follow shortly.”
“If it does, I trust you 11 write it. Now, if you please.”
…but her good qualities far outweigh her disagreeable traits. She is a gracious host at table, at all times entertaining…
“Entertaining? Jamie!”
“You know you are, Rose. Now write.”
…and a fine conversationalist. Hers is the pen that put these words to paper, so as you can see, she writes with an excellent hand. She reads aloud tolerably well and has a good library of books at her disposal.
Her pen stilled. “Leana is the bluestocking of the family, not I. She's read ten books to my one.” Her eyes implored him even more than her words. “Jamie, please say something more about my sister. Your letter speaks too favorably of me and too little of her.”
Jamie rubbed his chin, hiding his irritation. Her obstinate ways could grow tiresome if the lass weren't so charming. “I'll mention Leana if you insist.”
Leana and Rose are kind toward each other and respect their father, as well they should. Your brother has their future prospects well in hand and assures me he will make the best possible match for each daughter.
“That is all I intend to say of Leana,” he said firmly. He cared for his cousin and thought her a wise woman of many talents, but Leana did not make his pulse quicken. The serious Leana literally paled in comparison to her lively younger sister. He would keep telling Rose that until she believed him or married him, whichever came first. “Now, lass, let me finish my letter.”
I hope to send news of the banns being read and of wedding preparations made no later than Martinmas. I tarry only to please my future father-in-law, who insists I give his daughter sufficient time to be thoroughly wooed and won.
“I've yet to see any evidence of your wooing either one of us,” she said with a petulant sniff.
“Och! Are you deaf as well as blind, Rose? Do you not hear me saying that you are bonny and clever, well schooled and well mannered? That you've captured…” He stood and jabbed his finger at the writing paper. “ ‘Captured my eye and my heart.’ There it is, in pe
n and ink. If it's written, it must be true, aye?”
“Aye!” Her sudden smile caught him by surprise. Had her defenses begun to crumble?
Before he could press his case further, the muted sound of the supper bell carried up the stair. “We'll speak more of this in the morning, Rose. Kindly close my letter with these words:”
I trust Evan has accepted the irrevocable decision concerning my inheritance and that Father is in good health and will remain so for many seasons.
Grateful for your prayers and your provision,
Your son,
James Lachlan McBride
He adjusted his cravat, absently watching her write the final words, which seemed to take longer than necessary.
“Go on, go on.” She waved one hand toward the door and with the other fluttered the paper through the air. “I'll be certain the ink is dry before I seal it for you. Willie or one of the other servants will see it delivered as far as Carlinwark and sent on to the parish kirk at Monni-gaffi Your mother will be sure to find it waiting there by Sabbath next.”
“Now who's the canny one, to ken where to send it?”
“Oh, I'm as clever as they come, Cousin.” She eyed the letter, clearly proud of her work. “Off to supper with you. Tell Father I'll be along in a moment.”
“Thank you for writing the letter, Rose.” He barely touched her cheek, then strode out the door, closing it softly behind him. With his concerns about the Maxwell offer of a debut put to rest, nothing prevented him from courting her properly, awkward as it was while living under the same roof.
He grinned. Not awkward, Jamie. Convenient. The anticipation of the chase and her parting smile warmed him all the way down the stair.
Thirty-Four
That's the nature of women…
not to love when we love them,
and to love when we love them not.
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
Leana stared at the linen shirt in her hands, adjusting her spectacles, then holding the fabric up to the window for a closer inspection. The gray November light revealed neat rows of tiny stitches along the seams, precisely as she'd hoped.
Jamie had promised to wear the new shirt to Dumfries next week for Martinmas, a busy holiday of feeing fairs and horse sales, a day when none of the servants worked and the kintra folk flocked to the nearest market town. “You're a dear lass to make another shirt for me, Leana,” he'd said on the Tuesday last. “Won't I look the gentleman again:
She'd blushed beneath his attentive gaze. “Four-and-twenty tailors cannot make a man, Jamie. Nor does a true gentleman need a new sark to prove his worth.”
“You're too generous with your praise, Cousin.” He'd touched her sleeve, so lightly she'd barely felt the warmth of him through the fabric. But felt it she had. “I'm honored that you would fashion me a second one. Mary, the laundress, absconded with the first one you made me, demanding it be washed. Said it smelled like sheep.” When he'd winked at her playfully, Leana wondered if he spoke to Rose with the same ease. “Now I'll look my best for Martinmas. Who knows? Your father may decide to keep me, Leana, rather then let me be fee'd by another farmer in Dumfries.”
Shocked, she'd wrinkled her brow and protested, “Father would never allow his nephew to work anywhere but Auchengray!” then realized too late that Jamie had spoken in jest. Naturally he wouldn't be hired away like some of the other farm workers. They collected their pay twice yearly, at Whitsun and Martinmas. Some chose to stay, while others sold their services for the next term at the feeing fair. With a handshake and a dram to seal the bargain, the lads and lasses would pack their few belongings in a fei and have the chest delivered to their new home.
No, that would not be Jamie's fate. His days at Auchengray were numbered, but for a very different reason. He'd promised to work for his uncle until Martinmas. Only a week remained before he'd choose his bride and name the wedding day, with an eye to returning to Glentrool with due haste. And with his new wife. Though Rose continued to steer Jamie across Leana's path, he didn't remain there long. Lachlan often spoke of the day Jamie would make his choice, but it seemed he'd already done so.
The faint hope that he might choose her instead hung on a slender thread, thinner than any she might spin on her wheel. But she clung to it nonetheless, knowing that Rose did not love their cousin nor long for marriage.
Leana threaded her needle, then pierced the linen to begin a new seam, sewing by touch more than by sight. Grateful as she was to have Fergus McDougal gone from their doorstep, no other suitors had come to take his place. Nor would they, she feared. More than one neighbor had eyed her askance at kirk the last few Sabbaths. No one openly questioned her virtue, but she dreaded to think what cruel words might be whispered behind cottage doors. Her father had promised to see her wed, but to whom? The man would need to hail from a distant parish, far from the close confines of Newabbey. And he would need to claim her quickly, before time and gossip ruined her altogether.
Jamie fit that description like a hand inside a goatskin glove.
No one in his parish of Monnigaff had ever heard of Leana McBride or how her suitor put her aside to ease his injured pride. Since Jamie's parents wished him to marry one of his cousins, he remained her only hope. No one else could save her.
The truth, Leana. She loved Jamie McKie.
No, love was a strong word; admire might better suit. To look upon Jamie—covered with a shepherds muck one moment, then freshly shaven and dressed for Sabbath die next—and know diat he was respected in both worlds pleased her gready. To find him alone and reading by candlelight, as she often did, or to spy him playing Neiveie-Nick-Nack by the hearth with Neda's visiting grandchildren warmed her heart as thoroughly as his fleeting touch warmed her hand.
Even her father had joined in the rhyme as the children gathered around Jamie, trying to guess which of his closed fists held the prized button while he teased them:
Neiveie, Neiveie, nick, nack,
What one will ye take?
The right or the wrong;
Guess or it be long,
Plot away and plan,
I'll cheat ye if I can.
The children adored him, as Jamie did them, mussing their hair and tweaking their noses with gende affection.
If it was not love she felt for Jamie McKie, it was very close.
To win him, she must woo him. To woo him, she would put to use all the skills the Almighty had bestowed upon her. They were naught but the skills of hearth and home but potent in the hands of a determined woman with no time to waste.
“Leana, do you see the time?” She turned to find her father pointing at the clock on the mantel, his own face dark as midnight. “Enough of your needle and thread. Duncan expected your help with his ledgers at three o'clock. That hour is long past.”
She thrust Jamie's half-finished shirt into her sewing basket and placed it a safe distance from the glowing hearth, then slipped her spectacles into the hanging pocket beneath her skirt. “Forgive me, Father. I'll fly up the stair to his quarters at once.”
“Stay a moment, Daughter.” His features were as somber as his tone. “Though it cost me more silver than I could afford, the matter with Mr. McDougal is resolved. The taint of it, unfortunately, remains. We must arrange for another suitor before…ah, before another season passes. Is your heart still set on your cousin Jamie?”
She blanched. Had her methods been so kenspeckle? “Wh-why do you ask, when you know it is Rose he favors?”
“What a lad says and what he knows to be true are oft at odds.” He lifted his gaze to the broad oak beam above his head. “Your sister is a rosebud, tighdy wrapped. But you are a fragrant bloom, ready to be snipped from the stem.” His gaze dropped to meet hers. “Jamie must start a family. And you, lass, are ready to be a mother.”
The frankness of his speech stunned her. “I…am?”
“Aye, and Jamie knows it well. Rose may catch his eye, but you, Leana, will catch the man.”
She shook her hea
d, bewildered by his confidence. “How can you be certain?”
Her father, who seldom smiled, now wore a sly grin. “Fathers ken more than their daughters credit them. And on the subject of credits and debits, you've kept poor Duncan waiting long enough.” He stepped aside and nodded toward the doorway. “Martinmas approaches, with rents to be collected and bills to be paid. See that his ledgers are in order. Your eyes may be weak, but they recognize a tidy row of numbers well enough.”
Leana started for the hall, then could not stop herself “What of Jamie?”
“I'll do what I can to persuade him, lass.” The grin disappeared. “But you must do your part to draw his attention away from your sister. You are older and wiser, Leana. Do what you will, and do it quickly.”
She hastened up the stair, wondering what else she might do to please her cousin. Of late she had taken more time than usual brushing and braiding her hair. She cleaned her teeth with apple skins to sweeten her breath and kept a lemon in her room to scrub her hands free of vegetable stains. Still Jamie's eyes lingered on the fairer Rose.
Leana had helped Neda bake his favorite potato scones and saw that he was served a jugged hare for dinner Thursday last. Though he praised her cooking, he did not speak of her pleasing manner. Yet Rose beguiled him daily.
One rainy afternoon Duncan had filled Leana's head with the particulars of shepherding so she might impress Jamie with her knowledge of his favorite subject. Roses easy handling of the ewes impressed their cousin more.
If she thought her sister loved Jamie—loved him as she loved him—Leana would end her efforts at once. “I am too young for love,” Rose had reminded her Friday last. “And much too young to marry. Jamie is yours, dear sister.” If only that were true!
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