Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Rose bowed her head for prayer, grateful for any diversion. Please God, she would know what to say to Neil when the moment arrived.

  While her father intoned a lengthy blessing on the food, her thoughts drifted back to a Sabbath conversation beyond the Elliots’ cottage door. Suppose we save those words for a more private time and place. Without meaning to, she’d welcomed an offer of marriage from the first. Now that time and place had come.

  Rose blinked back tears while three maidservants swept into the room bearing dishes of steaming hotchpotch. The pungent aroma of stewed mutton and well-seasoned vegetables set her stomach churning. While the lasses ladled the thick soup, Rose watched naught but Jamie, praying she might find sympathy there. Her cousin glanced up in time to catch her staring at him, imploring him with her eyes, Do something! She noticed the faint lines across his brow. Was it concern? Or irritation?

  “So, Uncle.” He looked toward the head of the table where Lachlan McBride busied himself with his soup. “As the Elliots are here at my invitation, when might we address the issue at hand?”

  Oh, Jamie! She’d hoped he might stall the proceedings, not hurry them along. What was the man thinking? She held her breath and gripped the round spoon next to her untouched plate as her father prepared to speak.

  Fourteen

  So comes a reckoning when the banquet’s o’er,

  The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.

  JOHN GAY

  Tis nothing that concerns you, Jamie.” Lachlan McBride’s words were a slammed door. “Mr. Elliot and I will discuss the matter later. In private.”

  Colin Elliot started to make a comment, then glanced at his son, who shook his head without shaking it, so slight was the movement. Jamie must have noticed, for he shifted his gaze to Rose, who’d seen it as well. From one corner of the dinner table to the other, unspoken words hung in the air like stale peat smoke.

  Her father seemed oblivious to the awkward lull in conversation, consuming his soup with noisy relish. After a lengthy pause, Mr. Elliot introduced the subject of Martinmas, which led to a spirited discourse on the changeable nature of weather and market prices. By the time her father called for the last course, Leana had disappeared to tend to Ian, and Jamie had returned to his ewes, leaving Rose to fend for herself. She offered a wan smile when necessary and ate her cranberry tart in silence, while the men talked all around her. Soon they would talk about her, and that would be exceedingly worse.

  When Eliza and the others came in to clear away the last of the pewter plates, Lachlan stood to his feet. “Mr. Elliot, join me for a dram. I believe these two can entertain each other.” His eyes narrowed. “From a respectable distance, of course.” The two fathers disappeared behind the spence door, shutting it firmly behind them.

  It seemed the men had taken all the sound from the room with them. Rose and Neil sat mute, eying each other across the empty table. Even the north wind, which had rattled the panes all through dinner, had fallen quiet.

  Neil spoke first. His voice cracked, as if he were a hauflin no older than twelve. “R-Rose? W-will … ah, that is … will you …”

  In his timid question came her certain answer: Nae. I will not.

  “Mr. Elliot,” she said tentatively, then stood and began again. “Neil, we must come to some understanding.”

  “Aye, Rose, we must.” Neil vaulted to his feet and skirted the table, ignoring her father’s edict. A moment later he stood beside her, taking in great gulps of air. She tucked her hands behind her skirts before he could reach for them, though he touched her elbow and confessed, “I … I should not have … have kissed you, Rose. But you seemed so …” His freshly shaved face turned scarlet. “So … taken with me. So interested. When I told my father about … about our walk through the abbey …”

  Her eyes widened. “Whatever did you tell him?”

  “Well, that I … that we kissed. That I intended to marry you. He agreed to speak to Mr. McBride at once. To …” He looked away, unable to meet her unflinching gaze. “To discuss the terms of your … bride price.”

  “My price?” She had not even given him an answer yet, and already they were discussing financial matters. “Do you intend to purchase me like a ewe at Keltonhill Fair?”

  “Rose! I—”

  “Would you have my hand and not my heart?”

  “Nae!” His eyes flew open in shock. “I would have them both, Rose. In truth, I … I thought I had your heart.”

  Oh, Neil. “Forgive me, Mr. Elliot.”

  His eyes widened in confusion. “Will you not even call me Neil?”

  Rose dropped her hands to her side, taken aback by his obvious despair. Amends must be made. “I do care for you, Neil.”

  His head shot up, hope lighting his brow. “You do?”

  “Aye, as a friend.” She hastened to add, “Or a brother. As a lad I’ve kenned all my life.”

  His countenance fell. “But not as a husband.”

  Biting her lip to keep from hurting him further, she only shook her head. “The fact is, I’m too young—”

  “Och! I would wait for you, Rose.” He tugged on her elbow, pulling a hand free for him to clasp. “A year, if need be. Twa, if you like.” Neil squeezed her hand with a firmness born of desperation. With his other hand he touched her cheek. “You’re the bonniest lass in the parish. As fair as any flooer that e’er bloomed in Scotland.”

  “But I’m not the flower for you,” she said, stepping back, tugging her hand free as she did. “I’m far too headstrong and full of opinions. You’d be miserable in a fortnight, Neil. Besides, you deserve a lass who loves you alone. And I …” She glanced away, swallowing her pride, speaking the truth at last. “I love another.”

  Behind her, the spence door banged open. “What’s that you say, Rose?”

  Father. She froze, afraid to answer. How much had he heard? He walked across the room with Neil’s father close behind. The two men—one older, one younger by a dozen years—positioned themselves between the young couple, oblivious to their strained expressions.

  Her father pressed a forefinger to his lips, as though considering something. “I’m certain I heard you use the word love with young Elliot here. Am I to assume you’re ready to move forward with the arrangements his father and I have discussed?”

  She nearly fainted. “Arrangements?”

  “Aye.” Colin Elliot beamed, obviously pleased with himself. He held up a parchment between two stout fingers. “As this marriage contract states, Neil is the eldest of my children. My property—the shop, cottage, and farmlands—will belong to him someday, which well pleased your father.” The men nodded at each other. “Since I’ve enough silver in my thrifite to meet the price set by Mr. McBride for your hand, there was little left to do but drink to your guid health and give you both our blissin.”

  “Blessing?” Her lips were so parched she could barely form the word. “Perhaps …” Rose sought Neil’s gaze, pleading for him to speak. “Perhaps your son might explain.”

  “But I am the one who is confused, Miss McBride.” Neil’s bewilderment was clear, from his knitted brow to the nervous manner in which he tugged at his waistcoat. “I thought your intentions matched mine. That you loved me, as I do you.”

  “Och!” Her father jerked his head to the side, as though he might spit on the hearth. “She’s confessed her love once, lad. Press her no further. Marriage has little to do with love and meikle to do with carrying on the family name.”

  Neil grimaced. “When your daughter spoke of love a moment ago, sir, ’Twas not directed at me.”

  “Who then?” Lachlan barked, staring hard at Rose, then back at Neil.

  “She … did not say.”

  “Aye, but she will say!” Her father planted his foot a step closer, scowling as he did. “What manner of man would woo my daughter without my knowledge or permission?”

  “None,” she hurried to say, grateful for a slender thread of tr
uth to offer. “No stranger has wooed me, of that you can be sure.”

  “So you’ve no other suitor than young Elliot here?”

  She shook her head. “No sir.” Jamie was many things, but a suitor was not one of them.

  Her father persisted, “And you do not wish to marry this prosperous grocer’s son?”

  Rose looked away, unable to bear another glimpse of Neil’s pain or her father’s fury. “Forgive me,” she murmured.

  Collin Elliot threw up his hands. “Is there to be a wedding this Yule or not?”

  “Not,” Neil answered, his shoulders sagging. “Come, Father. ’Tis best we take our leave. Whatever family business the McBrides have to settle, ’twill not involve us.”

  Rose’s apology was ignored by all three men, who turned their backs on her and made their way into the hall. Staring at the hearth, her hands clasped before her, Rose heard their voices fade out the front door, carried away by the strong winds. It was just as well, for though the words they spoke were true, they were not kind. Thoughtless. Immature. Flindrikin.

  The front door banged shut. Rose swallowed the knot of apprehension that threatened to choke her and prepared to face her father’s wrath. He came directly, his coattails flapping behind him, his gray eyes ablaze.

  “What the de’il were you thinking, lass? Playing our young neighbor for a fool and his father as well!” He stormed about the room, his fist raised as if he were General Hawley at Culloden Moor. His voice rose with it. “Do you not see? The disgrace you’ve brought to my doorstep with your capricious behavior will leave a black mark no amount of silver can scrub clean.”

  “Father, Neil and I were naught but friends—”

  “Friends?” He spun on his heel. “ ’Twas not the word young Elliot used. He said he loved you, Rose. You can be sure he’s ground that sentiment into the dirt beneath his boots by now. ’Tis a long ride back to Newabbey with a sullen father and a broken heart.”

  She gripped the wooden back of a chair for support and stared out the window at the bleak, gray sky. “I did not mean to hurt him.”

  “What did you mean to do then?” He walked in front of her, blocking her view with his menacing stance. “Dishonor the Almighty? Shame this household? Or did you hope to make a certain cousin jealous enough to forget his marriage vows?”

  “I did no such thing, Father!” Her heart leapt into her throat. “Jamie belongs to Leana, not to me. You of all people ken why that’s so, Father.”

  Lachlan McBride did not flinch at her clear accusation. “ ’Twas the will of the Almighty.” He spoke with such conviction she almost believed him. “The burden falls on me to find you a proper husband. How can I manage, Rose, when you confound me at every turn? Pining after your married cousin for months. Trifling with a neighbor’s son and refusing his honest offer of marriage.” He glanced at the mantel clock, then shook his head with a decided frown. “The village gossips will not soon let go of this meaty bone, I can promise you that.”

  His gloomy prediction trailed after her the rest of the day like a cat slipping into the house unseen, getting underfoot, disappearing round corners. Might the glib-gabbit women of the parish put abroad a story that she was a tairt no worthy suitor would consider? If so, her marriage prospects would be ruined.

  Rose fell into a fitful sleep that night, dreaming of the Newabbey kirkyard draped in a moonless mist, its headstones poking from the ground at odd angles. Perched atop the graves were cats of every hue, calling to one other in high-pitched yowls. When Rose stepped into the nightmarish scene, their whiskered faces pointed toward her. In a fierce and frichtsome chorus they screeched out her name.

  “Nae!” She sat up, suddenly awake, flailing at the curtains of her box bed until she spied the faint glow of the taper on top of her dresser. The light dispelled the last vestiges of her dream but not the uneasiness that had settled over her. Whatever the hour, it was still too early to rise and dress. She climbed into Leana’s old reading chair with a volume by Defoe clutched in one hand, the candle in the other, and tried to concentrate on the plight of beautiful Roxana. But the words swam on the page, and the story thread grew tangled. When blessed sleep tugged at her eyelids once more, Rose replaced the taper and slipped under the covers. Please God, she would not dream again this night.

  The new day arrived draped in pale silver with no wind to stir the chilly air. Rose dressed, giving little thought to her choice of gown. No suitor would darken her door today. Annabel helped with the last of Rose’s buttons and plaited her hair in a thick braid before sending her mistress down the stair, her steps slower than usual.

  Neda greeted her at the breakfast table with a look of mild concern. “Ye’ve not slept weel, lass. ’Tis not like ye tae have plum-colored smudges ’neath yer eyes.” When Rose described her nightmare, Neda’s gaze sharpened. “Dreamin’ o’ cats, ye say?” She clucked her tongue, stirring the porridge more forcefully. “ ’Tis an ill omen, Rose. Someone has in mind tae do ye a bit o’ harm.”

  Rose looked at her, aghast. Not Jamie? Or could it be Neil, with his wounded pride? “A man, do you think?”

  “Nae.” Neda spooned out her breakfast. “Mair likely a woman.”

  One name came to mind. “Lillias Brown,” Rose breathed, a chill skipping down her spine.

  “Och!” Neda banged her wooden spurtle against the metal pot, making an awful noise. “What business have ye wi’ sae wickit a soul as the Widow Brown?”

  “None at all,” Rose hurried to explain. “We saw her the afternoon of Ian’s kirkin. Do you recall her strange mumblings that day?”

  “Aye,” Neda grumbled. “Unco words indeed. Keep far awa from that woman’s path, and see that ye niver seek oot her counsel.” Once Rose assured her she would do no such thing, Neda’s taut features relaxed. “Mebbe yer dream meant ye’ll soon be seein’ the kittlins ye took tae Miss Elliot’s hoose.”

  “Maybe,” Rose said, lifting a spoonful of hot porridge to her mouth and almost burning her lips. She hastily put down the spoon and reached instead for a mug of milk, grateful for the cool, sweet taste. Susanne’s admiration for her older brother knew no bounds. Would she be vexed at the news? Or might Susanne simply roll her eyes, knowing Rose’s capricious nature as she did?

  Before Rose emptied her porridge cup, a knock at the door sent her scurrying to the front of the house, patting a napkin to her mouth. Johnny Elliot, the middle son in the grocer’s family, stood waiting in the hall, holding out a letter. “For Miss Rose McBride,” the lad said. Two missing teeth spoiled the formality of his delivery, but his expression was as solemn as a session clerk’s.

  Rose took the letter, her heart quickening. “Might you wait while I read it, Johnny? I may want to send you home with a response.”

  “Aye.” He looked about the hall for somewhere to sit, while Rose unfolded the letter, leaning toward a window for light as she began to read.

  To Miss Rose McBride

  Tuesday, 3 November 1789

  Rose,

  However could you wound my brother so? I trusted you to treat him fairly. It seems my faith was misplaced. Neil is inconsolable, and my father is stamping about the house in a fine temper.

  Rose fell against the wall. ’Twas worse than she’d imagined. Susanne’s words cut like scissors sharpened on her own thoughtlessness.

  Should you feel compelled to visit, I fear you will find no welcome at our door, nor can I continue to call you my friend with any sincerity.

  Her eyes growing moist, Rose stared at the letter in disbelief. Were they no longer friends? Could Susanne possibly mean that?

  It grieves me to write this after so lengthy a friendship, but I feel I must convey the depth of my disappointment and the firmness of my resolve.

  With regret,

  Miss Susanne Elliot

  Ingleneuk

  Rose pressed the letter against her heart. Please, God, not Susanne. To think of losing her affection forever! And not only Susan
ne. If the grocer’s daughter put her aside, so might the other girls of the parish. How had it come to this?

  Johnny shuffled his feet, his discomfort obvious. “Will you be wanting to write my sister?”

  “Aye.” Rose brushed away her tears. “ ’twill take me only a minute.” She flew up the stair to her room, where her writing desk contained all she would need to pen a letter—except, it seemed, the right words to soften Susanne’s heart. She stared at the paper, the ink seeping into her fingertips as she gripped the pen too close to the nub. When Neda tapped at the door, Rose knew she could delay no longer.

  To Miss Susanne Elliot

  Tuesday, 3 November 1789

  Dear Susanne,

  You and your family have every right to be unhappy with me. Without meaning to, I led your brother to believe my heart was his for the taking. I am deeply sorry for disappointing him and hurting you as well.

  Susanne, you are my dearest friend in all of Galloway. Please accept my sincere apologies, or I shall leave for Dumfries in January with a very heavy heart.

  Yours in friendship,

  Miss Rose McBride

  Auchengray

  She cast a sprinkling of sand across the page to dry the ink, then shook it clean and folded it into a square. A stick of wax touched to the candle’s flame to seal it, and the letter was finished. Rose found Johnny waiting at the bottom step, staring up at her room as if willing her to hurry. After pressing a coin into Johnny’s palm for his trouble, she tucked the letter into his coat pocket and patted it with a silent prayer for mercy.

  “You were good to wait, lad. Kindly see that your sister reads my letter.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, dipping his head. “Though I cannot promise she won’t feed it to the fire, Miss McBride. Susanne’s that unhappy with you.”

  Rose sighed wistfully. “I ken she is, Johnny.” And so is her father. And so is my father. And so is poor Neil. She pointed him toward the door so he might not see fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

  Fifteen