Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Och, such a stramash!” Neda fussed, grinning all the while. “Ye’ll have ashes in yer hair afore ye’re done.” She bent down to stir the water with her wooden porridge spurtle, sending the apples bobbing along the surface. “Who’ll be first tae dook his head?”

  Rose volunteered at once. “I will.” She wrapped her hair in a linen towel, then tied another round her neck and knelt beside the tub on the brick floor. “Truth lies at the bottom of a well,” she announced, taking a deep breath. The wise wags insisted if folk captured an apple between their teeth that night, they’d have the power to see the days to come. Down into the water she went, chasing one apple after another until she pinned one to the side of the tub and sank her teeth into it amid much cheering. She rose, holding the apple aloft, and whipped the linen from her head. Her hair unfurled like a flag from a rampart, signaling victory, and her eyes were bright with triumph. “Your turn, Cousin Jamie. Or do you have no wish to see what your future holds?”

  “I ken verra well what it holds.” And so do you, Rose. “Let someone else take my turn.”

  Brushing off his cool response with a toss of her head, she invited Annabel to have a go at the apples instead. A red-haired serving lass, tall for her fourteen years, Annabel served as lady’s maid to Rose, along with performing every other household chore Lachlan found for her to do. The girl dooked her head and came up with nothing in her mouth except water. Jamie leaned against the door to the larder, content to watch the others soak their shirts and drown in laughter. Rose stood across the room, polishing her apple on her sleeve, her gaze unfixed. Thinking about Neil Elliot, no doubt.

  At ten strokes of the mantel clock, Leana appeared, her tired features telling Jamie what he already knew: Ian’s colic had not abated; his muffled cries could be heard above the din in the kitchen. She made her way across the crowded room, reaching for his hand. “Jamie,” was all she said, resting her head against his shoulder.

  When the gathering moved to the dining room hearth, leaving a sopping mess behind, the servants carted along bowls of nuts and treacle scones, hot tea for the lasses, and warm ale for the lads. Jamie found a quiet corner where Leana might sit comfortably and nicked a scone from the tray, breaking it in half to share with her. She smiled at the gesture. “You fed me black bun on Hogmanay.”

  “So I did.” His memories of that New Year’s Eve were awash with too much whisky and ale, a mistake he would not make again. “Eat well, my wife.” He broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth, aware of Rose brushing past them as she moved toward the hearth.

  “ ’Tis Nutcrack Night,” Rose proclaimed, holding up two hazelnuts. “Gathered from the forest along March Burn.”

  A gasp went through the assembly, Jamie’s among them. Whatever was Rose thinking, harvesting nuts in that forsaken place? She’d never have confessed it had her father been in the room. No wonder Lachlan was eager to send her off to boarding school; she’d been given too much freedom of late. As he watched her move toward the hearth, his neck grew warm, guessing what she had in mind. One hazelnut would be named Rose. But what of the other one?

  Her eyes gleamed as she bent over the grate and placed the hazelnuts next to it—not close enough to catch fire, but near enough to burn slowly, telling a tale as they did. If the nuts fretted and fumed, rolling about in the heat, the lad and lass were considered ill matched, and the faithless one would jump away. If the nuts remained close and burned steadily until they were reduced to ashes, the two named were a good match and meant to marry. Rose called out a simple rhyme, and others joined in.

  If you hate me, spit and fly,

  If you love me, burn awa.

  Willie teased her, “Will ye tell us the laddie wha shares the fire wi’ ye, Rose?”

  “ ’Tis Neil Elliot,” she announced, then ducked her head when the assembly clapped with obvious delight. “Promise you’ll not tell the man, or you’ll scare him away.”

  Jamie stared at the pair of filberts. ’Twas good news, was it not? He had begged Rose to let him go, and she had.

  As the feasting continued and others added their hazelnuts along the grate, Jamie noticed how exhausted Leana looked. “Shall we be off to bed?” he offered. She stood at once, her blond head nodding. When they reached their room, Ian’s crying had ceased, though they were met at the door by a bleary-eyed servant.

  “He’s all yers,” the maid whispered, disappearing down the hall.

  The couple tiptoed inside the bedroom lit by a single candle near the cradle. Leana smiled down at Ian while she unlaced her dress, then reached for a volume of Clarissa that had rested on the mantel untouched for weeks. “Will you read aloud to me while I see to Ian’s supper? I cannot keep these borrowed books much longer.”

  “If you like.” Jamie sat on the edge of the bed, opening the leather-bound book where a feather had marked the place. “Letter 216,” he read, his voice warming to the task. “From Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esquire. Now have I established myself for ever in my charmer’s heart.” A vision of Rose flitted through his mind but was swiftly dismissed.

  “Go on, dear husband.” Leana settled into an upholstered chair, Ian nestled at her breast. “I’m listening.”

  Jamie read for an hour or more, until Ian was well sated and Leana nigh asleep. He lowered the child into the cradle with exceeding care, then helped Leana to her feet and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Shall I call Eliza to dress you for bed?”

  “Nae, I can manage.” She looked at him through half-closed eyes. “Though I confess, I’m thirsty from nursing. Might you have Eliza bring me a cup of buttermilk?”

  “I’ll get it myself,” he said, glad to find some simple way to please her, and hurried down the stair. Voices no longer rang through the house. The hour was late; perhaps they were all in bed, the servants included. As Jamie turned at the bottom of the stair, bound for the kitchen, a footfall in the dining room caught his ear. He paused, his eyes drawn toward the glowing hearth where a figure hovered over the peat fire. Rose.

  Curious, he drew nearer the doorway, careful not to make a sound nor to be seen. No candles were lit in the room; the fire alone illuminated Rose’s face. She was staring at the hazelnuts straggled across the flagstone hearth. Many had cracked open or rolled into the fire but not the two that Rose was studying. They were reduced to two small mounds of ashes, so close they were nearly one. As Rose and Neil will be.

  When her skirts rustled, Jamie looked in time to see her produce an apple—no doubt the one she’d caught between her teeth at the earlier dookin’—and begin peeling it with the same knife he’d used for the turnips. She sliced away the skin with short, measured movements as the peel grew into a long curl like a ragged red ribbon. If it broke, some said, the cantrip would be broken as well, and she would not marry for another year.

  He watched in grim fascination as the last of the apple skin was cut free. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, then held it aloft, letting it dance in the firelight. As the clock began to chime the hour of midnight, Rose turned her back toward the door and swung the paring ever so slowly round her head. Once. Twice. Still it had not broken. She circled her head once more, then flung the apple peel over her left shoulder with a slight cry, spinning round to see where it landed.

  It had landed at his feet.

  “Jamie!” Though she walked toward him, it was the paring on the floor that held her attention. “What does it spell?” she breathed. “Tell me the first letter of my true love’s name.”

  He could not bring himself to look at it.

  She stepped beside him, their shoulders almost touching. He heard a sharp intake of air. “I don’t understand. ’Tis a J. Do you see the shape of it? Straight at the top, then a long curl of a tail.”

  Reluctantly he looked down at the floor, where his own initial stared up at him. “This means nothing, Rose, and you ken it well. A silly rite of the season.”

  Even in the faint light of the fire,
he could see her blush. “Aye, but I thought … that is, I expected …”

  “The letter N for Neil?”

  “Nae, Jamie.” She glanced toward the tarnished looking glass over the hearth. “I’m afraid I expected you. For when I looked in the glass, I saw your reflection over my shoulder. You ken the meaning of that, don’t you?”

  “Aye.” The auld wives said when a lass ate an apple in front of a looking glass at midnight, her intended’s face appeared over her left shoulder. “But what of the hazelnuts?” He pointed to the hearth. “Yours and Neil’s remained side by side.”

  “Nae, they did not. One of them jumped into the fire soon after you and Leana went up the stair.” She turned to look at the ashes. “Those were another pair of hazelnuts that I … that I found in the woods. One named for me and the other named … for you.”

  The heat drained from Jamie’s face. However he might ignore them, three omens on Hallowmas Eve were three too many. “Do not speak of this, Rose. Not to anyone.”

  “You can be certain of it.” She inched her toe from beneath her skirt and nudged the apple peel until it spelled a different letter. “I shall not tell a soul.”

  Thirteen

  I should have known what fruit would spring

  from such a seed.

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  Rose pulled a handful of wool across the sharp teeth of her paddles, then lightly brushed the cards first in one direction, then the other, rehearsing what she would say if Neil asked for her hand in marriage that afternoon: Aye. Nae. Aye. Nae. Mere hours remained, and she still did not have a proper answer.

  The gray November light did little to warm the second-floor sewing room where Leana sat before her wooden wheel, spinning at a weary pace. Rose eyed her sister, a wave of sympathy swelling inside her, Neil forgotten for the moment. “I ken why Ian suffers every night with colic.”

  “Oh?” Leana lifted her foot from the treadle. “And what would my young sister ken of such troubles?”

  “ ’Tis no fault of yours,” Rose hastened to add. “On the day of Ian’s kirkin, did you not see the way Lillias Brown stared when you held up the babe, cursing Ian with her eyes, frowning at his sweet face?”

  Leana shook her head, resuming her spinning. “Colic comes from poor digestion, not strange looks or unkind words.” The wheel spun beneath her hands as she guided the wool, drawing it into a slender thread. “Besides, ’twas weeks ago we crossed her path. I make my tea with rose hips now and try to keep calm while I’m nursing Ian. Neda says the lad’s body will sort things out soon enough.”

  Rose slapped her paddles together in frustration. “You cannot sleep, you barely eat, and Jamie drags about like a soul untethered.”

  “Rose!” Leana swung round on her three-legged stool, her chin trembling. “I am well aware of my husband’s exhaustion. And of my own. Lillias Brown is responsible for none of it. Especially not Ian’s discomfort.” The strain in her voice hinted at a week of sleepless nights. “Many a babe in Scotland suffers with colic.” Leana turned to face her wheel again, though not before Rose noticed a spot of pink on each cheek. “I have begged Jamie to be patient and would ask the same of you.”

  Mortified, Rose leaned forward to stroke Leana’s back. “I have no quarrel with you, my sister. Only with Lillias Brown.” Rose knew the wutch’s ill treatment of Ian was not what truly concerned her. It was the seed the old woman had planted in her own heart, one Rose knew she must not water or nurture: There is only ane man for ye, lassie. The two hazelnuts came from the wutch’s hand; the omens in the apple peel and looking glass were another matter, not easily explained. Did Lillias’s powers stretch as far as Auchengray?

  No matter what spells the wutch might cast, Jamie was not hers to choose this day. Neil Elliot, however, was. Then choose, Rose.

  She yanked her paddles apart and tore at the rough fibers—carding the wool back and forth, back and forth—giving vent to the struggle raging in her head. She enjoyed Neil’s company but did not love him. They would live comfortably but never know great wealth. He thought of her as charming. She thought of him as safe.

  Aye then? Or nae? Heaven help me, what should I do?

  “Rose, mind your work,” Leana said gently.

  With a guilty start, Rose looked down at the wool she’d been carding, now hopelessly tangled among the sharp teeth. “Och! ’Tis no use.” She stood in a huff and threw aside the paddles, shaking the curly remnants from her apron. “Wool is the very last thing on my mind.”

  “What is on your mind, Rose?” The wheel slowed to a stop as Leana spun about, her blue eyes filled with compassion. “You’ve been so kittlie the last two days. Will you not trust me with your secrets anymore?”

  Jamie had spoken with their father about Neil’s visit, but no one else in the household knew why the young man was joining them for dinner. Rose had sat quietly through services yestreen, avoiding Neil, avoiding Jamie, keeping her own counsel. If she told her sister, would Leana understand? Or simply be relieved to have her out from under Auchengray’s roof—and away from Jamie—with due haste?

  When Leana reached out for her hands, wrapping them in hers, Rose could no longer keep the truth to herself. “Neil Elliot may very well propose today.”

  “Oh, Rose!” Leana did not mask her elation, or her relief. “He’s a commendable young man. Have you decided? Will you accept?”

  She felt a sting between her eyes, warning of the tears to come if she was not careful. “I … don’t know.” Rose recited a litany of his many good qualities, hoping she might convince herself in the process.

  Leana saw right through her. “But you’ve not said that you love him, Rose.”

  She looked away, ashamed. “Nae, I have not.”

  “Listen to me, Rose.” There was a note of urgency in her sister’s voice. “You do not want a marriage without love.”

  Like yours. Leana not only cared for Rose’s happiness, it seemed; she also wanted to spare Neil.

  “He must cherish you, Rose, and you him. ’Tis not the fashion these days to marry for love. Most marry for land, or silver, or convenience, or bairns.”

  “I would marry for children,” Rose confessed. “After a month with Ian, I long to be a mother.”

  “And I pray you will be someday. But choose the father with care. The children will grow and leave, but the man will be with you all the days of your life.” Leana pressed a light kiss on Rose’s brow, then stood. “Come now, where is my blithe and bonny sister?”

  “Not so bonny today.” Rose stood as well, frowning at her plain attire. “Neil Elliot has seen every gown I own twice over.”

  A smile bloomed on Leana’s face. “What if you wore my claret one?”

  Rose gaped at her. “Are you certain?” It was the gown Leana had worn on her wedding day.

  “It hasn’t fit me for many months,” Leana reminded her, pressing a hand to her waist. “Neil Elliot will think you’ve had the tailor fashion a new gown just to please him. Whatever your decision, you’ll want to look your best.” She steered her into the hall. “We’ll have Annabel press it for you.”

  Within the hour Rose stood before the looking glass mounted over her dressing table, ducking her head to take it all in. The wine-colored gown was a perfect fit. She’d had Annabel pull the laces tighter, accentuating her small waist and blossoming figure, then piled her black tresses high on her head to make her appear more sophisticated. A grown woman, not a green lass of sixteen. She dared not touch any rouge to her cheekbones, or her father would banish her to the washstand. Instead she pinched her cheeks hard and sank her teeth into her lips, hoping they might appear rosier as well.

  A knock on the door sent her spinning toward it. “Aye?”

  Annabel called, “Miss Rose, they’re here.”

  They? Rose hurried into the hall, the rustle of her petticoats a distinct counterpoint to the male voices booming up the stair—among them a jovial one that belonged to
the grocer from Newabbey. Mr. Elliot! She backed away from the top step, her heart in her throat. Neil’s father had not come to deliver the necessary foods for their Martinmas feast. Nae. He had come to do business with her father. Marriage business.

  “Baith father and son,” Annabel confirmed, peering down the stair at the commotion in the front hall. “My, aren’t they a pair? Look, here comes Neda tae collect ye.”

  The housekeeper reached the top step. “ ’Tis guid that ye chose sae fine a gown this day,” Neda said with a broad smile. “Baith Mr. Elliots will see what a loosome bride ye’ll make.”

  Father and son stood side by side, watching Rose descend the stair. Why did she feel as though she were a loaf of sugar to be bought and sold at market rather than the daughter of a prosperous bonnet laird? The elder Elliot wore a bright blue waistcoat with silver buttons. Neil’s suit of clothes were cut to a smart fit, though his hair cried out for scissors. If she married the man, would that task fall to her?

  “Mr. Elliot.” She offered her hand as any lady of quality would. Colin Elliot obliged, looking amused as he bent to brush an airy kiss across her fingers. Neil followed suit, taking his time, pressing his lips to her skin with uncommon tenderness. Dear Neil. He truly did care for her.

  “Enough with your highborn manners, Rose.” Her father, standing behind their guests, glowered at her. “We are not dining at Maxwell Park. Gentlemen, if you’ll join me at table, I’ll see our meat served.”

  Rose grasped her skirts to calm her nerves and trailed after the men into the dining room, where Jamie and Leana stood waiting by their chairs. Brightening at the sight of her in the claret gown, Leana stretched up to whisper in Jamie’s ear. He offered a smile as well, brief though it was. If Jamie admired the dress Rose wore, his expression did not tell her so. Neil’s face, however, was an open volume, with an earnest declaration of love written across its pages in a plain, sure hand.