Fair Is the Rose
Page 11
Kindle a candle at baith ends
and it will soon burn out.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
Och, lass! There’s no shame in weeping. ’Tis how every mother in Scotland waters her kitchen garden.” Leana dabbed at her eyes with the hem of Ian’s cotton gown, being careful not to wake him. Even after two months, the babe’s sleeping pattern had no rhyme or reason to it, and his colic had yet to disappear. “Jessie, you are a good friend to listen to my woes on a cold December day.” Few neighbors could cheer her like plain-speaking Jessie Newall.
The young woman waved her hand dismissively, shaking her mass of red hair as well. “Haven’t I raised Annie these two years?”
Leana observed the round-faced child toddle about the front parlor of Auchengray. A low-beamed, square room on the west side of the mains, it was cluttered with chairs, small tables, and a narrow guest bed, giving young Annie much to explore. She was dressed in the warm woolen jumper Leana had knitted for her as a birthday present. The blaeberry dye had held fast, its purplish hue a bonny complement to Annie’s orange-marmalade locks, so like her mother’s. Her spirits lifting, Leana watched Annie climb into a high-backed chair, then turn round and sit down, poking her sturdy legs out straight, clapping her hands, and beaming with pride at her accomplishment.
“Well done,” Leana murmured, wiping away the last of her tears.
Jessie eyed her. “I ken it well, that wearisome feeling. You cannot hold up your head at the breakfast table, yet you cannot keep to your pillow at night.”
“Aye.” Leana offered her a shaky smile. “Watching you with Annie months ago, I did not realize mothering could be so …” She could not bring herself to say the words that came to mind: Difficult. Exhausting. Lonely.
Jessie said it for her. “ ’Tis hard, Leana. Motherhood is not for the woman who hates wearing a soiled gown or eating cold porridge.” She smoothed a hand over her rounded belly. “Alan Newall had better prepare for many a sleepless night when this one arrives.”
Leana studied the look of contentment on her friend’s face and wondered how, if the Almighty blessed her own womb again, she would ever care for two bairns. Alan and Jessie had their small farm on top of Troston Hill to manage, as well as Annie to chase after, another wee babe in the house come February, and a flock of blackface ewes lambing in the spring. “However will you do it all?” Leana wanted to ask, though she knew the answer: Long days. Steady work. Short nights.
Jessie’s gaze met hers. “I must call at Auchengray more often,” she said, her tone lightly teasing. “You’ve grown rather melancholy since you married Mr. McKie.”
“Have I?” Leana feared her wan smile did little to dispel the notion. “Jamie is not to blame, poor man. He keeps busy with the flocks.”
Jessie’s brows, bright as her hair, arched in surprise. “Too busy to see to his wife’s pleasure?”
Leana dropped her chin to hide the heat climbing her neck. The things Jessie Newall could say without blushing! “My pleasure is of little concern when we are both so tired by nightfall.”
“So that’s how it is.” Jessie rose to walk the floor, scooping up her daughter and planting Annie securely on her hip as the two circled the room together. “When was the last time Eliza brushed your hair ’til it shone?”
Leana touched her hand to the plaits wrapped round her head.
“My hair?”
“Aye, and that gown.” Jessie paused to look at her and made a face. “Practical, I’m sure, but ’twould appear you’ve worn it for a month.”
“Two,” Leana confessed, looking down at the wrinkled fabric. “The bodice laces in the front, you see. I made it especially—”
“Good, then make another.” Jessie nodded with satisfaction. “And stitch a new shirt for Jamie while you’ve a needle in your hand. No wife sews a finer sark than you do, Leana. See that he thanks you for it. Properly.” She gave a broad wink, then whirled about while Annie squealed with delight, her cherub face shining.
“Anything else that needs doing?” Leana did not try to hide her exasperation. If her friend meant to lift her spirits, her words were having the opposite effect. Leana had plenty of work to do without adding more to the list. If Jamie had not reached for her since she returned home from the manse with Ian, what did it matter? They were both too exhausted to care. Weren’t they?
“Listen to me, Leana.” Jessie spun to a stop, pulling Annie into a tight embrace. The child’s chubby legs twined round her mother’s waist, as Jessie rested her chin on her daughter’s curls, watching Leana all the while. “Love the man, tired or not. He needs to ken you’ve forgiven him completely for that foolishness last winter with Rose.”
Leana started to object but swallowed her words instead. Jessie spoke naught but the truth. “I will love him,” Leana promised, ignoring the fear that coiled in her stomach. Fear that Jamie might reject her. That deep in his heart he still preferred Rose. “Tonight I’ll don a different gown for supper and send Eliza looking for my brush.”
Jessie smiled broadly. “Well done, lass. If my advice proves worthy, I’ll count on you to send me a box of your best tablet for Yule.”
“Done.” Leana laughed. Already her heart felt lighter. “We’ve butter and sugar enough to make you a sweetie. I’ll have Jamie bring it round before the Daft Days are over.”
That evening Leana was true to her word. From the clothes press she chose a gown she’d not worn since last winter, then had it aired and pressed. While Ian napped, Eliza washed Leana’s hair in lavender-scented water, rubbing it dry and brushing it until it gleamed like molten gold. Leana nursed Ian once more and then slipped on her gown, delighting in the feel of silk on her shoulders. “Lace me with care, Eliza. My waist is no longer as small as my sister’s, and for good reason.” She smiled at Ian, already asleep in his cradle. “A verra good reason.”
No bride felt more beautiful than Leana did, gliding down the stair toward supper. Her slippered feet barely touched the floor. The rustle of her gown made a music all its own. When she swept into the room, everyone present turned to gape at her. But only Jamie’s opinion mattered. In a twinkling she had his undivided attention.
“Can this be my good wife?” His eyes widened first, then his smile, as he stretched out his hand, beckoning her forward. “Come, Leana. Tell us what occasion we’re to mark this night, for surely you did not dress so bonny for my sake.”
“Yours alone.” She took the seat next to his, touching his hand as she did. Rose sat across the table from them, silent. Leana felt nothing but sympathy for her sister, for the incident last month with Mr. Elliot was most unfortunate. Perhaps in Dumfries Rose would be introduced to a kind gentleman who might sweep away any memories of Neil. And of Jamie. Leana glanced toward the head of the table, where her father gave her a cursory appraisal before directing the family to bow their heads for prayer.
Moments later the maids served plates of cock-a-leekie soup made from chicken simmered in veal stock, flavored with leeks and prunes. Leana supped with care, not wanting to stain her gown with the rich broth. Later, when she swallowed the last bite of almond cake, Leana caught her husband watching her with a roguish gleam. Oh, Jamie! She folded her hands in her lap while the plates were cleared, clasping her fingers tight to keep them from trembling.
Family worship, an hour-long evening ritual, seemed interminable. Prayers and psalms were spoken and sung and the large Buik spread open with due reverence. When Leana’s mind began to wander, she searched her heart for a verse on which to pin her thoughts. In the multitude of my thoughts within me thy comforts delight my soul. Aye, the Almighty had comforted her, even delighted her, through the long, lonely months when Jamie did neither. Tonight she would know the comfort of a husband. And the delight, please God; she would know that as well.
At last the closing prayer was said and the tapers snuffed. Climbing the stair with Jamie, Leana shivered at the icy December wind whistling past the windowpanes.
“Not for long,” she said, surprising them both. Jamie’s laugh was a welcome sound and her flushed cheeks a hint of things to come. They undressed by candlelight, their gazes locked amid the flickering shadows. Ian, fast asleep in his cradle by the hearth, was still close to their hearts, yet far from their minds at the moment.
She slid between the sheets of their cozy bed, stretching her limbs to touch the wooden walls that encased them. Jamie climbed in and closed the thick bed curtains behind him, blocking out the last of the candlelight. A velvety darkness surrounded them. Not a sound could be heard, save for Jamie’s steady breathing. And her own, not so steady. The close quarters heightened the fragrance of lavender in her hair, of heather in the mattress, of the spicy soap on Jamie’s skin, freshly shaved before supper.
Holding his smooth face in her hands, Leana planted kisses along the razor’s path. On his cheek, on his chin, on his neck. Inhaling the welcome scent of him, tasting his salty skin. “Love me, Jamie.” She’d whispered the same words all seven nights of their bridal week in Dumfries. Perhaps they might have the same effect.
He pulled her close for a lengthy kiss, pausing long enough to ask, “Are you sure? Are you … well?”
She smiled at his concern. “Ian is two months old now,” she reminded him, wrapping her arms round his shoulders. “I am verra sure, my husband. All is well.”
Through the folds of the curtain, through the wooden box bed panels, the wail of an infant pierced the night air.
“Och!” Jamie fell away from her, banging his fist on the wall behind his head. “Did the babe hear you speak his name? Is that what’s to blame for this?”
Leana sat up, as disappointed as he was. “Let me see what I can do, Jamie.”
He rolled aside so she might crawl out, scowling at the ceiling as he did. “ ’Tis not your fault, Leana. The Almighty created bairns to fill every minute of silence testing their lungs. Or so it says in the First Book of Discipline.”
“On what page would I find that?” She touched his shoulder before turning toward the hearth and their demanding son. Ian refused to be soothed. Nursing him eased his hunger, but then his colic sent him kicking his legs against her, bruising her hip in the process. Jamie watched with mounting frustration, wanting to be helpful, yet clearly wanting his wife.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” she said, pacing the floor with Ian draped over her shoulder. It was the one position that earned her a reprieve from the endless crying. “Don’t wait up for me. Go to sleep while he’s quiet.”
Jamie fell back against the mattress. “And when will Ian be quiet long enough for us to share a bed?”
“Soon,” she promised, keeping her voice low as she took another turn about the room. “You’ll have your wife back soon, Jamie.”
But it was not soon.
Not in a month of December nights did Leana have Jamie all to herself. If Ian fell sound asleep, so did Jamie. If Jamie was wide awake, Leana could not keep her eyes open. When both parents were willing to lose an hour of sleep for each other, Ian was prepared to lay claim to it.
“Ne’er have the Daft Days been more properly named,” a bleary-eyed Jamie announced one morning over a saucer of strong tea. “I’ve not had a single lucid thought in weeks. Even the ewes are more canny than I.”
Duncan slapped him on the back, nearly knocking the saucer from his hand. “Ye’ve a lang way tae go tae be daft as a sheep, lad. Instead ye’re a new faither wi’ a healthy son.”
“Aye, healthy,” Jamie grumbled, putting his tea aside to head for the byre and his first tasks of the day. “ ’til supper, Leana,” he added, barely looking over his shoulder as he disappeared through the back door of the house into the frosty air.
Leana frowned at her own tea grown cold. She’d stitched a new gown to please her friend Jessie and her husband as well and had worn it that morning. Had Jamie even noticed? When Neda’s hand tapped her shoulder, Leana looked round, knowing her feelings were poorly hidden.
“While Ian catches his mornin’ nap, Mistress McKie, suppose ye join me in the kitchen. We’ll make a pan o’ tablet tae bless the neighbors. Take a few boxes tae their doors afore we usher in the year 1790 on Hogmanay.” Neda looked down at her, compassion lining every feature. “Might that be a blithe pastime for a wabbit young mither?”
“Aye.” She rose to her feet, pressing her hands into the small of her back, stiff from too little sleep. “Shall we ask Rose to join us? The girl has so few days left at Auchengray.”
“If ye like,” Neda said. “ ’Tis a guid tongue that says nae ill, or so me mither taught me. Yer kindness toward Rose has not gone unnoticed.”
Leana’s smile was faint but genuine. “I love my sister, Neda, though the last year has been difficult.”
“Och! Nae need tae confess yer sins tae me, lass.” Neda stepped into the larder, still talking over her shoulder. “Nor tae yer sister. Only tae God.”
“Which I have done,” Leana admitted, grieved at how often she’d begged God for forgiveness concerning Rose. “Many times.”
“Yer sister flits to Dumfries on Monday next,” Neda reminded her, emerging from the larder with a crock of butter in one hand, a small loaf of sugar in the other. “ ’Til then, I ken ye’ll be guid tae the lass, for she needs ye sairlie.”
“I am her only sister,” Leana agreed.
“Mair than that.” Neda pursed her lips. “Ye’re her only true friend.”
Sixteen
One heart
must hold both sisters,
never seen apart.
WILLIAM COWPER
One will never hold it all,” Rose groaned, tossing a handful of linen towels in the leather traveling case at the foot of her bed. “Whatever can they mean by ‘one small trunk’?”
Leana breathed a quick prayer for patience. It had been a long morning. Dresses and petticoats, shoes and bonnets remained scattered all over the room, enough to fill four small trunks. Rose had worked herself into a high color and had run out of servants willing to do her bidding. Neda wisely kept busy in the kitchen, Eliza was nowhere to be found, and Annabel had fled from the room in tears. Leana alone remained to see the task finished before sending Rose on her way to Dumfries.
“Perhaps an exception might be made.” Leana adjusted her spectacles to review the letter from Carlyle School for Young Ladies. The instructions for new students were numerous and detailed, and the language brooked no argument. Neither did the bold hand, which outlined the personal items that were—and were not—permissible. Lachlan McBride had no doubt chosen the boarding school for its severe restrictions. Had Rose even read the letter? Did she know what awaited her on Millbrae Vennel?
Leana pulled off her spectacles and slipped them into her pocket tied beneath a small slit in her skirts. “I’m afraid your schoolmistress states her wishes quite plainly, Rose: ‘One small trunk allowed each student.’ ” Hoping to forestall another outburst, Leana offered an explanation. “The school is situated in the very heart of Dumfries. Without the benefit of a steading like ours, storage space for twelve students must pose quite a challenge.”
“But what am I to do?” Rose whined, a fistful of dress fabric in each hand. “They’re daughters of the gentry, Leana. Think of the costumes their parents will have delivered to the school’s door! If I’m to be there all spring, I’ll need more than these old gowns.”
Leana spied the truth lurking beneath her sister’s prickly behavior. ’Twas not the lack of clothes that vexed Rose. It was bidding farewell to Auchengray, and leaving Jamie in particular. She gazed out the window, where a dusting of snow carpeted the sill. “Dearie, take your favorite winter gowns now. When you come home for Easter, you can exchange those dresses for lighter spring ones. I feel certain that’s what the other lasses will do.”
Appeased, Rose went back to folding cambric shifts and woolen stockings, while
Leana tucked pouches of dried lavender deep into the corners of the trunk. “For a sweeter scent,” Leana explained. And so you won’t forget me. A needless concern, no doubt, but persistent. More than a sister or friend, Rose was almost a daughter, so involved had Leana been in her upbringing. Though having a quieter house held some appeal, the notion of not seeing her sister for weeks at a time grieved Leana. Even with Ian in her life. Even with Jamie.
The longest Rose had ever been gone was the week she’d spent last winter at their Aunt Margaret’s house in Twyneholm. The week Rose prepared to marry Jamie. The week the lass came home to discover the worst news of her young life.
I trusted you, Leana! I will never forgive you!
Leana shuddered, remembering. For a twelvemonth the two sisters had avoided any further discussion of what had taken place on that dark night when Leana became a bride and Rose did not. Perhaps it was better that way.
“Which is better?” Rose asked. “The jade green gown or the rose-colored one?”
Brushing away her musings, Leana inspected the fabrics draped across Rose’s winter-pale skin. “Save the green for spring, when you’ll have a bit more color in your cheeks.” She glanced at the clothes press, weighing a possibility. A peace offering, of sorts. A benediction. “What if I sent you with my best gown instead?”
Rose’s eyes grew round. “The claret?”
“It looked lovely on you the last time you wore it. Unless …” Leana watched her closely. “Unless the memories the gown stirs might upset you.”
“Memories?” Rose rolled her eyes. “ ’Tis only fabric, Leana.”
“Why not take it then?” Lifting her cherished gown out of the press, Leana shook out the wrinkles, admiring again the intricate embroidery. She recalled the white silk chemise she had worn underneath it, cool against her skin. And the look on Jamie’s face when he had first clapped eyes on her dressed in her rich new gown. Her sister considered it naught but fabric and needlework. For Leana, the claret gown meant a great deal more. But if it sent Rose to Dumfries with a lighter heart, ’twould be worth the sacrifice.