The Pleasure of the Rose

by Jane Bonander

  She turned on her side and took a deep breath, willing herself to relax, trying to get her swelling belly comfortable. Aye, she needed a bit of a nap, no matter who told her to take it. And as long as everything was going well and there were no outbursts or upheavals, she could live with what she had. After all, no one had ever told her that life was always happy or fair.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After months of taking the same route, Kerry took a different path to her hideaway, curious to see more of the island. Far north of the other farms she noticed a lone ramshackle cottage slouched beneath a thicket of pines. At first she thought it was vacant, but then she realized there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Curious, she nudged Mariah closer, dismounted, and sneaked to the window. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she tried to look in but discovered the window was painted.

  How strange, she thought. She walked around to the front and knocked. She received no answer. Against her better judgment, she tried the door. And it opened. She squinted into the room, the only light coming from the doorway. There was nothing particularly interesting for her to see. There were empty sawhorses and tables, and a big bag of something against the wall. She peered at it. The letters S-A-L-T were stamped on the front of the bag. With nothing of interest to get her attention, she backed out and closed the door behind her.

  Odd little place, she thought. It didn’t look like anyone actually lived there. But then she remembered the wisp of smoke that had drawn her there in the first place.

  Shrugging, she mounted Mariah and left for her special place by the sea.

  As she rode on, an uncomfortable feeling crawled up the back of her neck, a feeling as though someone were watching her. She twisted in the saddle and scanned the area, but saw nothing.

  “Must be my imagination, Mariah. After all, I shouldn’t have been trespassing.” But the feeling continued even after the cottage was hidden by the trees.

  The following day, as she was going through the books she had brought with her to the cave over the past weeks, she noticed one of them was missing. Or was it? She had found a volume on horses in the library and she was sure she’d brought it with her. She checked through the books again. It wasn’t there. She sat back on her heels and frowned. She must have been mistaken.

  • • •

  Fletcher and Duncan were returning from a bit of hunting, both using bows and arrows. They had seen a beautiful red doe and a buck, high in the hills, but neither had any interest in killing them. They did, however, bring down a couple of healthy rabbits and decided to have the kitchen crew cook up some rabbit stew like they used to eat it in Texas.

  “Kerry must have the recipe in her head,” Duncan said. “It was Grandfather’s favorite.”

  At the mention of his grandfather, Fletcher felt a deep sense of loss. “I haven’t even asked you how he died.”

  Duncan stroked his mount’s neck. “He had been failing for a while. I think he just wanted to leave. It was hard to lose him, but he went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up.”

  At least he didn’t suffer, Fletcher thought, relieved.

  As they approached the stream going south toward the sea, Fletcher noticed smoke billowing up through the trees.

  “That’s a lot of smoke to come from a chimney,” Duncan remarked. They rode closer. “Oh, God, it’s Fergie the Burn’s cottage.”

  They rode into the clearing and saw that one corner of the thatched roof was ablaze. Fergie’s wife, Birgit, and her children were outside; two of the boys attempted to get water from the stream with buckets.

  Fletcher and Duncan dismounted and helped the young boys with water to stifle the flames. Amazingly, after their added attempts to put out the flames, a good share of the roof was burnt but not gone. And the cottage itself still stood.

  Fletcher returned to Birgit. “I’m sorry. It could have been worse—thatch burns like kindling.”

  She held Clive in her arms, her eyes filled with tears. “I know, but Fergie will be so upset.”

  “Have you any idea how it happened?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  Fletcher looked inside the cottage. Smoke covered much of the room where the roof had caught fire. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” He turned to her. “Have you relatives you could stay with for a spell?”

  Birgit, still tearful, nodded. “Me sis lives up the hill.”

  “Why don’t you let Duncan take one of the boys with him and go tell her what’s happened.”

  She called to her son, Archie, a lad of perhaps ten and slathered in soot. She told him the plan. The boy’s eyes lit up when he learned he would ride with Duncan on his horse.

  Fletcher stayed with her until Fergie arrived and then, when he was sure all would be taken care of until repairs could be done, he left.

  As he rode into the yard, Gavin waved to him from his sunny spot in the garden. After Fletcher stabled Ahote, he told Gavin of the fire.

  “Will they have to use thatching again?” he asked.

  Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t know what else they’d use.”

  Gavin stood. “That building over there, sort of hidden in the brush. Have you ever looked in there?”

  Truthfully, Fletcher had not; it hadn’t seemed an important part of the estate.

  “I looked in there early on out of curiosity. There are stacks of some kind of material. I think it’s slate.”

  “Slate,” Fletcher repeated. “Slate is used for roofing.” He glanced at Gavin. “Why would the old laird have stockpiled slate?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve heard some mighty odd stories about the old man. Maybe he was saving it for something.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  And there it was. Stacks and stacks of slate, dusty from neglect. “Now all we need is someone who knows how to build a roof out of it.”

  As it turned out, a close neighbor, Ferris the Peat, had put a slate roof on his cottage a number of years ago.

  In the weeks that followed, Fletcher, Duncan, Gavin, Ferris the Peat, and numerous villagers put Fergie the Burn’s cottage back together better than it ever was before. There was a party, with dancing and food and fine whisky from the distillery.

  Texans and Scots were no different, Fletcher realized. They worked hard and partied hard.

  At the end of the evening, Fergie approached Fletcher. “I canna tell ye how much I appreciate what ye’ve done for us, Yer Grace. Sorry to say, the old laird would’na been so generous.”

  Fletcher didn’t ask him to elaborate, but the comment stayed with him.

  • • •

  One day, while all the men in the village were rebuilding Fergie’s roof, Kerry skipped her duties with the nurse and rode to her hideaway. She stepped into the cave and a frisson of fear raced through her. Had she stacked the books over there? No. They were on the opposite wall, of that she was certain. She slid to the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. She wasn’t afraid, but she was confused. If she didn’t know better, she’d think someone was trying to frighten her. That was nonsense, of course. No one even knew she had this special place except Duncan and Evan, and they didn’t know the exact location.

  She shook away the dark thoughts and settled down to read the book she’d brought with her. Poetry of Robert Burns. She lifted a wry eyebrow. Apparently Rosalyn’s favorite. Kerry would have to see what all the fuss was about.

  • • •

  A few days later, Rosalyn leaned against the doorjamb and watched her husband change into Duncan’s buckskins; though years apart in age, they were much the same size. She now felt some guilt about burning his, not realizing that they could have been cleaned. “So, this is the day, is it?”

  He turned to her, his expression eager. “I hear there will be quite a crowd there to listen to our stories.”

  “You look very fierce, my dear. Very fierce indeed.” He actually looked delicious.

  “Like the first day we met?”

  �
�Aye, like that day. Hopefully you’ll frighten no one today, though.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She might be big and clumsy and not particularly attractive, especially to herself, but she wanted to see everyone’s reactions.

  “Is Kerry ready?”

  “She’s waiting in the stable with Evan.”

  The whole idea had been Kerry’s brainstorm to begin with. She had come to Fletcher and suggested that somehow the people on the island should get to know the lot of them, get to know where they came from. A few still looked at them with suspicion.

  Later, as they arrived at the tiny town hall attached to the church, they found the place packed with islanders.

  Rosalyn touched her husband’s sleeve. “Your people await.”

  After Fletcher helped her down from the gig, Rosalyn watched as Kerry walked proudly to the building in her festive Comanche wear. Fletcher took Rosalyn’s arm and they followed behind.

  As they had when they’d first laid eyes upon their new laird, they stopped talking and stared, waiting to see what Fletcher was going to do.

  Fletcher looked out over the small sea of faces. “I hope I don’t need an introduction, but I want to introduce my sister, Kerry MacNeil.”

  Kerry, who looked like an Indian princess, smiled at the crowd. Rosalyn decided she could be very endearing when it suited her.

  “First,” Fletcher began, “we want you to ask us any questions you have. I imagine you might have a few.”

  Questions came mostly from the children; the adults perhaps too reticent to expose their ignorance.

  One young lad spoke up. “Have ye ever scalped anyone?” His mam smacked his arm and frowned at him while others murmured, wary of the question and the answer.

  Fletcher was relaxed, at ease in the clothing he grew up with. “You might not know this, young man, but we didn’t invent scalping.”

  “Then who did?” he asked, ignoring his mam’s continued frown.

  “To be quite honest, the Europeans brought it to America. Maybe even the Scots. How do you feel about that?”

  The boy perked up. “Scots? Nay, couldna be.”

  “Tell you what,” Fletcher began. “What’s your name, son?”

  The boy stood. “Mike. Mike MacDougal. Me Pa is Douglas the Lum.”

  Fletcher nodded. “I know your father. Are you in school, Mike?”

  “Aye, I can read, if that’s what yer askin’.”

  “I have a book you might be interested in. Why don’t I bring it by your cottage tomorrow?”

  The boy deferred to his mother, who nodded proudly.

  Another hand was raised. When Fletcher nodded at him, the boy asked, “What’s your clothes made of?”

  “Mostly deer hide. Sometimes we use buffalo skins.”

  The boy’s eyes went wide. “You see a lot of buffalo? I ain’t never seen one except in a book.”

  Fletcher told them of the herds they had in Texas, and the boy was rapt with wonder. When the questions stopped, Fletcher said, “Let me tell you the story of how the Comanche believed the world began.

  “One day the Great Spirit collected swirls of dust from the four directions. From this dust he created the Comanche people. These people had the strength of mighty storms. But a shapeshifting demon was also created and began to torment the people. Great Spirit cast the demon into a bottomless pit. To seek revenge, the demon took refuge in the fangs and stingers of poisonous creatures and continues to harm people to this day.”

  Archie, Fergie the Burn’s boy, shyly raised his arm.

  “Yes, Archie.”

  The boy’s chest puffed up; the laird knew his name. “What is a shapeshifting demon?”

  “I’ll answer that,” Kerry said. “It’s a being with the ability to change its appearance whenever it wants to. So it might appear to be something pleasant, but underneath, it’s very evil and causes people to make bad choices.”

  The boy nodded. “Sort of like Satan, then? In the Garden of Eden?”

  “Very good,” Fletcher praised him.

  “Would you like to hear about the Comanche Trickster?” Kerry asked. Nods and smiles encouraged her. “Do you know what a coyote is?”

  People looked at one another, frowning and shaking their heads.

  “It’s an animal,” Danny McKay, the distillery manager, spoke up. “I’ve read of them. They are sort of like a wolf, am I right?”

  “That’s right,” Kerry answered. “And I understand that the wolf has not been seen in Scotland for many hundreds of years. Can anyone tell me why?”

  Evan, who had been standing in the back, raised his hand.

  Pleasantly, Kerry asked, “Evan?”

  He cleared his throat. “They were a threat to the livestock. Besides that, they used to dig up the dead.”

  “How gruesome,” Kerry answered.

  “What of the coyote?” a boy asked, reminding her of her question.

  “Yes, the coyote, who looks much like a wolf, is a trickster. He’s very clever. During times when the white people were taking over much of the Indian land, the coyote trickster helped our people cope with the many problems they faced. That’s why we call the coyote Brother to the Comanche. But to the white man, he can be greedy, reckless, and dishonest. He takes great pleasure in tricking them into believing something they want very badly is one thing, when it’s actually something that will do them no good, perhaps even do them harm.”

  At the end, people were reluctant to leave and milled about Fletcher and Kerry, admiring the buckskins and the beads, asking about the porcupine quills. Kerry’s was the only outfit that had painted figures on it, and there were many questions about their meanings.

  Rosalyn closed her eyes and sucked in a sigh as a twinge bit into her back. She would be grateful to get home. When she opened her eyes, Nessa MacNab was watching her.

  “Ye got a great bairn in there.”

  Rosalyn almost laughed. “Indeed I do.”

  Nessa’s face was a study in earnestness. “Ye nay ha’e burning, do ye?” She motioned to her neck and throat.

  “Heartburn? Sometimes. The bairn gets wiggly in there and sometimes it’s hard to eat.”

  “Ye know that if ye ha’e the burning, the bairn will be a hairy one, don’t ye?”

  Rosalyn stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She had heard many myths and sayings about pregnancy; fortunately, she didn’t believe in any of them.

  “Thank you for your concern, Nessa. How are you doing?”

  Nessa lifted one shoulder. “I can live wi’ me life.” With that she walked away, but Rosalyn noticed that she limped.

  Fen ambled up next to her. “She’s limping.”

  “Aye. Poor thing, what a life she must have.”

  “And you, dear one, you need to be checked. It’s been two weeks, and I need to see how things are progressing. I want to see you first thing in the morning.”

  By the time Rosalyn got home and went to bed, she realized she had not told Kerry what a wonderful job she had done. She had meant to say something right away, but Nessa MacNab’s and Fen’s appearances had shaken the thought right out of her head. It was no wonder the girl didn’t warm to her; she probably felt purposely ignored.

  • • •

  Although Kerry was becoming more comfortable with her new life, she still loved to be by herself. The afternoon with Fletcher and the villagers had been quite fun, and since then, on her way to her private lair, she had seen some of the children who had attended the function. They waved and smiled, and she did the same.

  Taking the same path she’d taken before, when she’d seen the rundown cottage, she rode by it slowly, noting that today there was no smoke coming from the chimney.

  As she approached her hiding place she tethered Mariah among the clover behind the cave and went inside. She couldn’t see the ocean today—the fog hadn’t lifted. She crossed to the spot where she’d last put the Robert Burns collection. It wasn
’t there. In its place was her volume on horses that had gone missing weeks ago!

  Fear climbed her throat. She had hoped she’d imagined all of it, but someone was being the trickster, and she didn’t appreciate it one tiny bit. She certainly didn’t feel like reading now; she couldn’t concentrate.

  She lit the torch she had brought in weeks before and carefully stepped back into the farther reaches of the cave. It was cool and damp. She loved the musty smell. She always expected to find dried animal bones or maybe even something more sinister, but as usual found nothing. Disappointed, she started back toward the cave opening, then stopped.

  Someone was outside. Her heart racing, she extinguished the torch and flattened herself against the rocky wall. What would she do if that person looked inside? Could it be Evan, playing a trick on her? Or Duncan? It must be one of them. Who else knew she’d discovered this place? If that was who it was, she would give him a piece of her mind. She bravely stepped out into the light but no one was there. It was time to head home. Things were getting too eerie for her. When she went to get Mariah, she was gone. Thinking maybe she’d pulled loose from her tether, Kerry looked around, toward the woods, toward the sea, down the beach. She wasn’t anywhere. Mariah wouldn’t have left her, she knew she wouldn’t!

  Whoever had been outside the cave had stolen her pony!

  • • •

  Fen stopped her gig outside of town, pensive as she thought about Kerry and how she hadn’t spent more than a few hours each morning at the clinic since she first arrived.

  She studied the land in front of her, noting that the heather had been cleared so the grass could grow for the sheep. Every few years some of the crofters burned it, and in a few years it returned, sending the sheep elsewhere until the heather was burned again. A cycle, it was.

  A rabbit sprinted across the path, startling the horse, which whickered and pawed at the ground. Fen knew the rabbits had been on the island for centuries. The sheep were new. Interlopers, like the people.