Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “How like Lachlan, to put so burdensome a task on someone else’s shoulders.” He shook his head, clearly disgusted, as he paced the floor. “ ’Tis no fault of yours, Leana. You’ve done naught but your duty, as I must do by my own father. Alec McKie will not take kindly to the heir of Glentrool being raised three days’ journey from our lands.”

  “You’ll talk to Father then?”

  “Nae, I’ll simply tell the man,” he fumed. “There’ll be no discussion on the subject.” When Jamie turned to look at her, his expression softened. “Come, lass. As Duncan would say, dinna fash yerself. You’ll come home to Auchengray on the Sabbath, as planned, then home to Glentrool before Yule. For good.” He rested one hand on hers, the other on Ian’s head, binding them together as he had on the birthing night. “ ’twill be just the three of us, Leana.”

  Relief swept over her like a freshening wind off the Solway. “You ken what the Buik says: ‘A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’ ”

  “Aye.” The hint of a shadow crossed Jamie’s features, then was gone. “Aye, the three of us,” he repeated, offering a faint smile at last. “Reverend Gordon tells me our son will be baptized this night.”

  “So he will. One of the housemaids promised to watch over him while we break bread with the Gordons. Ian has already enjoyed his supper.” She eased the babe onto her shoulder and rubbed his back in small circles as she moved toward the hearth, listening for the last bit of air to escape from his stomach. “Willie brought our old cradle yesterday. Might you help me get him settled? It’s difficult for me to bend down just now.”

  Jamie hastened to assist her, though his eyes widened as she pressed the bundled infant into his arms. “You can manage,” she assured him. Seeing how carefully he knelt beside the cradle, Leana resisted the urge to correct him—Keep his blanket wrapped tight! Mind his wee head!—though she offered a silent prayer of thanks when Ian was in his bed. The cradle made of oak had once held her mother, then her, and then Rose. Now, lined with plain linen and decorated with a sprig of dill for protection, the sturdy wooden cradle welcomed the newest offspring of the McBrides.

  “I’ve handled many a newborn lamb,” Jamie confessed, rising to stand by her side. “Still, I’ve never held anything so dear to me.”

  “I feel just the same.” Leana slid her hand in the crook of his arm, taking pleasure in the solid warmth of him. “You’ll make a fine father, Mr. McKie.”

  “And you, a finer mother.” His broad hand, grown callused from his ceaseless labors, covered hers. When he inclined his head, she accepted the silent invitation, leaning into him, closing her eyes as she sank against his shoulder. Exhaustion seeped through her bones like treacle.

  The loud knock at the door startled them both. “Mistress McKie?” A young woman’s voice. “Time for supper.”

  Leana straightened, touching a hand to her hair as she reluctantly moved away from Jamie. “Come in.” She nodded at the housemaid as she entered. “The child’s asleep and shouldn’t need me for an hour or more.” Leana paused at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder, apprehensive about leaving Ian. She’d not stepped outside the room for three days, most of which she’d spent cradling him in her arms. Could he manage without her?

  The dark-haired maid curtsied, dipping her white cap in Leana’s direction. “Yer bairn will be weel looked after, Mistress McKie.”

  Jamie brushed away Leana’s concerns like cobwebs as he guided her across the hall. “ ’twill be good for you to spend an hour with your husband.” His breath against her ear soothed her even more than his words. On the night of Ian’s birth Jamie had promised her that he was a changed man; the proof strolled beside her into the dining room, his arm circled round her waist.

  The family stood by their chairs, waiting for the McKies to take their places at the far end of the crowded table. Clusters of candles lit the faces of more than a dozen souls who’d gathered for the meal. The Gordons, their three grown sons—brown haired, brown eyed, and solemn—along with assorted wives and children, hovered over the empty plates, anticipating the supper hour before them. “Good to have you both dining with us this evening,” Mistress Gordon murmured as Leana and Jamie eased past her.

  “We’re grateful for your hospitality.” Jamie paused by his chair and bowed to their hostess. “In particular, you’ve been more than generous to offer the use of your spence for my wife and son.”

  Mistress Gordon, a small woman with a pleasant, round face and hair the color of lamb’s wool, beamed at them. “A healthy child born under our roof blesses the house and all who are in it.” She motioned at her husband sitting at the head of the table, his back toward the roaring hearth. “Will you pray, Reverend, before our dinner loses its flavor?”

  Leana ducked her head and smiled. No chance of that. Mistress Gordon’s mutton, a staple at every parish gathering, was seasoned with enough salt and nutmeg to test the hardiest of palates. After a lengthy prayer, the meal commenced in an orderly manner, served by a staff accustomed to life at the manse, where visitors were commonplace. Reverend Gordon presided over the quiet table with a grim expression, arching an eyebrow at one grandson or another wiggling in his seat. A fancy mold of marmalade pudding appeared at the last, with hot custard sauce drizzled over and round it. The children clapped with glee until their mortified parents hushed them. Leana shared the lads’ delight at the treat, winking at them as the sweet pudding was spooned into their dishes. Already she could imagine Ian sitting at table, spoon in hand, cheering for his pudding.

  Ian. She must not think of him just now, or her milk might stain her gown. Neda had warned her that tomorrow would be the worst day, that her breasts would grow swollen and painful when her milk appeared in earnest. She must meditate on something else, and quickly. Her gaze searched the room and settled on the man seated across from her at the end of the long, linen-draped table. Jamie. Aye, she’d gladly look at him for hours. He glanced up from his dish and smiled as a spoonful of pudding disappeared into his mouth. No words were spoken, but much was said across the table.

  In a matter of days they would share the same bed at Auchengray. Jamie had not reached for her in the shadowy confines of their curtained box bed for many months, in part because of the babe, but more likely because of his feelings for her sister. Would he ever stop wishing he’d claimed Rose for his bride? Leana lowered her chin, afraid of what Jamie might see in her eyes. Moving to Glentrool this winter would not ease the remorse of what she’d done to her sister, but it might let her breathe again. It might let her love Jamie without apology. She looked up and found Jamie’s green eyes fixed on hers, the planes of his freshly shaven face set aglow by the flickering candlelight.

  She started when a servant’s hand appeared before her, whisking away the last of her supper dishes. “It was delicious,” she announced to no one in particular, though Mistress Gordon bobbed her head at the compliment.

  Reverend Gordon opened the family Bible and smoothed the pages with his large hands as his deep voice boomed across the cleared table. “Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the LORD.” She knew the psalm well, and, aye, she would teach it to her children. But she would start with the first line: I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth. She had praised God when Ian was born. And she would praise him when Ian was baptized this night, when the dour minister doused his thumb in spittle and sprinkled the babe’s head thrice. Bless the Lord she would, for mightily had God blessed her undeserving womb.

  Leana tried to pay attention, though like the minister’s sermons on the Sabbath, his words were long on affliction and short on mercy. The younger Gordons, despite many pointed looks from their fathers, fidgeted throughout the hour until at last their grandfather put aside the Buik and folded his hands to dismiss them with a final prayer. The assembly rose at the conclusion of the blessing, the visiting family members drifting toward the front door, collecting coats for the short walk h
ome.

  Jamie and Leana tarried in the darkened hall, waiting for the minister to join them for the private baptism. Without a word Jamie moved closer to her. Leana’s heart quickened as elbow brushed against elbow. By accident or intent, their hands met among the folds of her gown. Leana held her breath. Jamie’s fingers laced through hers. Hidden by the fabric, a thousand unspoken words were shared in a single clasp.

  Jamie, I love you. That was what she would say if she could. I will always love you.

  Though the hall was faintly lit, she could still distinguish the lines of his handsome face. Strong nose. Tapered jaw. Bold brow. Some new emotion decorated his features this night. Tenderness perhaps. A willingness to be loved by her. For the moment it was more than enough.

  Six

  The rose is sweetest wash’d with morning dew.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  Hush,” Rose whispered, “or Father will hear you!”

  Four tiny kittens, mere weeks old, tumbled about inside her sagging apron. Rose clutched them to her waist as she darted back into her bedroom and nudged the door closed with her shoulder. Most of the household was still asleep, though dawn would soon sweep aside the curtain of night and usher in the Sabbath. Her plan was simple: Bear the kittens safely to the village, then seek out her friend Susanne Elliot. Surely the grocer’s daughter wouldn’t refuse so dear a gift.

  “A newborn babe and a litter of kittens will not both thrive under the same roof,” her father had announced yestreen, a sour look on his face. “I’ll see that Duncan drowns them in the burn before nightfall.” Rose had cornered Duncan in the kitchen minutes later and begged him not to do Lachlan’s bidding.

  “Yer faither is right,” Duncan had cautioned her. “Wi’ yer nephew comin’ home after services in the morn, there’s nae place for kittlins at Auchengray. ’Tis ill luck, and ye ken it weel, lass.”

  Aye, she knew the superstition but could not bear the cruel sentence. “I’ll find a home for them, Duncan,” she’d vowed. Now holding the corners of her apron in one hand, she grasped Leana’s willow basket, pilfered from the stillroom, and placed it on the seat of her sister’s reading chair. A small stack of unread volumes—Richardson, Burney, Haywood—stood in a neglected pile by the window. Leana would have little time for books now that she had Ian to care for. And Jamie.

  I cannot love you, Rose. His words still bruised her heart. How was it that her sister had a husband and a babe to call her own, and all she had was a lap full of kittens?

  With a petulant sigh, Rose released the contents of her apron into the cloth-lined basket. The furry bundles, no bigger than Jamie’s fist, rolled on top of one another, tiny claws unsheathed. Two of the kittens were painted with gray stripes, one was as orange as a harvest moon, and the last, her favorite, had coal black fur with white-tipped paws. Watch them drowned? Nae, she would not. Rose tossed aside her empty apron, hastily bathed her face, then braided her hair as the faint light of day appeared in the casement window.

  Jamie would think her rescue efforts childish. “Then I shan’t mention it to him,” she announced to the mewling kittens, her spirits sagging. Jamie had loved her once and now insisted he did not. She had not loved him at first, and when love finally came, it came too late. “So unfair,” she murmured, covering the basket with a loose cloth to muffle the sound. It was hard to imagine life without Jamie at the center of it. Nae, it was impossible.

  She’d told him that if there was to be another man, she would choose him. Nae. Let the man choose me. She would not let her heart be broken again, pining after someone she could not claim. For a twelvemonth she had ignored the other lads in the parish. Much as it pained her to confess it, perhaps the time had come to let them have a look at her.

  Susanne Elliot was the perfect person to advise her, a dear friend since they were eight years of age, when they’d giggled incessantly behind the dominie’s back at the village school. They’d confided their secrets to each other and poured their dreams into each other’s hearts. Aye, Susanne would be just the one to point out an eligible man in the parish. Someone to take her mind off Jamie. Someone to mend her heart.

  Rose sneaked out the front door, the borrowed basket in one hand, her skirts gathered in the other to spare them being dampened by the dew. The slate-colored sky hung low with clouds, and the air smelled of wet leaves and pungent peat smoke. Sheepdogs barked in the distance, unaware of breaking the Sabbath silence. She pulled her wool cloak tighter and shot a wary glance over her shoulder. Might someone be watching from the windows? Rose fairly ran toward the end of the lane, where Willie, the orraman of Auchengray, waited with the two-wheeled chaise. Driving her to the village whenever she required it was among the odd jobs that landed on Willie’s aging shoulders. So did keeping secrets from the laird, though all the servants had mastered that skill.

  Willie guided Rose into the small carriage, then eased down beside her, nudging old Bess forward with a familiar command. The mare took off with a jolt, sending them rocking back and forth on the springs until at last Bess found her gait. Rose pulled the basket closer while Willie loosened his grip on the reins and settled against the cushioned seat. “Have ye warned the Elliots tae expect ye sae early in the morn?”

  She dismissed his concerns with a blithe toss of her braid. “ ’twill not be so early by the time we arrive. Eight o’ the clock, I’d say.”

  Willie grunted, surveying the willow basket that danced on her lap. The short ride east to Newabbey passed without incident, despite the threatening clouds that shrouded the countryside. The village consisted of one long, meandering street with a row of houses tucked along either side, perhaps fifty in all, each one with a name by the door. Bridgeview. Abbeyside. Millburn.

  Bess clip-clopped up to the Elliots’ cottage—Ingleneuk—whinnying as she did, shaking the mist from her dun-colored mane. Round the door grew an old yew, tended by loving hands that had coaxed the evergreen branches to bend and twist. Bright red berries stood in stark contrast to the dense green foliage, where a blackbird perched, stabbing at the berries with his bright yellow beak, ignoring the newcomers. Willie tugged on the reins and brought the mare to a gentle stop, then turned to fix his rheumy eyes on Rose. “Whan yer faither asks why ye’ve left for the kirk lang afore the rest, what’ll I say tae the man?”

  “Tell him I wanted to help my sister prepare for the kirkin of the babe.” Rose handed Willie her basket while she jumped down from the carriage unassisted. “I am, by Leana’s choice, Ian’s godmother. The duty falls to me to see him presented today, aye?”

  Willie nodded. “ ’Tis a meikle task, being the kimmer. Ye’d best keep those kittlins far awa from the babe.”

  “That’s why you brought me here first, Willie. Tell Neda I’ll be waiting for her at the manse.” She waved him off, then tapped on the grocer’s front door, donning her most persuasive smile. It was rather early in the day to pay a visit.

  Mistress Elliot swung the door wide. Her mouth stood agape as well. “R-Rose?” The middle-aged woman’s gaze followed the departing chaise, then shifted to the basket and its noisy contents. “Whatever have you brought us, lass?”

  Rose flicked aside the cloth. “Kittens! Aren’t they dear?”

  Susanne’s mother eyed the basket askance as she motioned Rose into the low-beamed cottage. All was as tidy as a widow’s cupboard, the rooms scrubbed for the Sabbath, the hearth swept clean. The aroma of a cooked breakfast—bacon, porridge, and bannocks—hung in the air. Mistress Elliot, as slender as her husband was round, shook her head. “You’ll have a time of it, Rose, if you mean to leave those kittens here. Mr. Elliot won’t allow the beasts anywhere near the shop.”

  Rose smiled. Unlike her own father, Colin Elliot had a soft heart where his daughter was concerned. “Might I speak with Susanne?”

  “She’s about to have her breakfast. Come bide a wee while. You look as though a saucer of tea would do you good.”

  Rose followed the woman into the di
ning room, where the table was laid. Stout candles like beeswax soldiers marched down the center of the table, and pewter plates shone like silvery moons. Her mouth watered at the fresh bannocks and jars of gooseberry jam displayed on the sideboard. “If it’s not too much trouble …”

  “Och!” The woman waved her toward a chair. “What’s another mouth to feed? Susaaaanne!” Mistress Elliot disappeared into the kitchen while Rose found a hiding place for her basket. The kittens would need feeding as well.

  Susanne hurried into the room, a wooden spurtle in her hand, her face more flushed than usual from stirring the hot porridge. The girl’s brown eyes shone at the sight of her. “Rose! You’ve come to Ingleneuk to break your fast with us, have you?”

  “So it seems. I’ve also brought you a present.” Amid much squealing the litter was introduced and a scheme duly hatched for their safe upbringing. Susanne and Rose tucked them in a dry corner of the byre amid the lowing cows, where they left the kittens circled about a bowl of fresh milk. The lasses returned to the table moments before Susanne’s brothers bounded into the room, shoving one another into their seats before they realized they had an unexpected guest.

  “Miss McBride!” breathed Neil Elliot, his expression torn between dismay and wonder at finding her there. Neil was two years older and two hands taller than Rose, an awkward though earnest young man, who’d fancied her from childhood. February last they’d drawn each other’s names in the Valentines Dealing, from a bonnet full of names passed about a circle of friends. Each lad and lass pulled out the name of someone to be his or her sweetheart, claiming them for a year. Rose had brushed aside the sentimental custom, since her heart had Jamie’s name written on it at the time. Things were different now. Seated at the Elliots’ table, she could at least be polite to Neil.

  “Mr. Elliot,” Rose said demurely, lowering her lashes. She remembered describing Neil once to Jamie—“crooked teeth and more hair than one of our collies”—and how it’d pleased her to see Jamie’s look of relief. As if Jamie could ever have lost her to poor, bumbling Neil! Though he surely was an amiable fellow. And he did seem more than a little taken with her.