Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  A ripple of excitement moved through the schoolroom. Rose could not keep her own delight from showing. She’d already borrowed the Dumfries Weekly Journal from the basket on Mistress Carlyle’s desk, reading the broadsheet late one night by candlelight. Though most of the political rhetoric gave her a headache, reading words like Sir and Viscount made her heart skip a beat, while the advertisements plucked at her purse strings. A new bridge across the River Nith was in the planning stages, as well as a new prison, which made her squeamish. But a playhouse, not far from the school, was also in the offing, and that was promising indeed. Spring and autumn court circuits were held in Dumfries, and two weekly markets, and three annual fairs … oh, the possibilities!

  But first, the midday meal. Boiled, sliced potatoes, sparingly seasoned, and salted codfish garnished with dried parsley were placed before each young lady seated round the linen-draped dining table. Colorless, nigh to tasteless, the food was dispatched without comment. Rose was too eager to cross the threshold to think about her stomach. She’d visited Dumfries several times but always in the company of family. This was different and altogether more exciting, for Dumfries was home now, if only for a season.

  A few minutes before one o’ the clock, wrapped in her green cloak with her leather gloves pulled on tight, Rose and the other lasses ventured down the narrow Millbrae Vennel toward Saint Michael Street, holding their skirts as they stepped round puddles and refuse. Brick houses stood on either side of the narrow alley, crowded together, with the occasional close offering a glimpse of the barren winter gardens behind them.

  Lizzie Balfour, a delicate creature with enormous blue eyes, fell into step beside her. “Have you ever seen so many dwelling houses? ’Tis nothing like Moffat.”

  “And even less like Newabbey,” Rose agreed, trying not to stare back at the children who pressed grimy faces against their windows to watch the flock of ladies. When the residents of Carlyle School reached a wider thoroughfare, they found themselves sharing the street with gentry and commoners alike. One baldheaded man had the badge of a beggar pinned to his tattered clothes, while other passersby were well shod and wore fashionable hats. Her ears twitched at the strange accents that whispered of places she’d only imagined—Glasgow to the northwest and Edinburgh to the northeast, each a journey of some eighty miles. More than once the clipped, unmusical speech of a Londoner caught her ear.

  “We will worship at Saint Michael’s this Sabbath,” Mistress Carlyle announced. “Dieu est en toutes choses. God is in all things.” She swept her hand upward toward the towering red sandstone church surrounded by gravestones taller than any soul buried beneath them. “Turn here, if you will, ladies. Let us see what Saint Michael Street has to show us.”

  Curiosity pulled Rose forward, with little concern for the damp chill of January seeping through her cloak. Beneath her feet, mud and muck gave way to neatly fitted flagstones. The buildings round her grew in stature and grace, with ornamented windows and arched doorways, neatly swept front steps and polished glass panes. Leana had seen these houses as well, Rose reminded herself. During the bridal week her sister spent with Jamie in Dumfries, her sister had no doubt walked this very street. Leana had been too ashamed to describe the sights when she and Jamie had returned to Auchengray. A miserable day for them all. Rose forced her thoughts into the present, refusing to ruin her outing with such dreary recollections.

  “Nith Place is the fashionable quarter of Dumfries,” Etta Carlyle explained, lowering her voice in deference to the neighborhood’s genteel residents. She nodded toward Irish Street. “At the foot of the close leading to George Inn, you will note the Assembly Rooms, where gentlemen convene to play cards and drink tea. When court is in session this spring, ladies of quality will gather there for balls and exhibitions.” She looked over her charges with a steady gaze. “Perhaps some of you will be introduced to society inside those elegant rooms.”

  Perhaps not. Rose turned away rather than see the hopeful looks adorning their faces. By their eighteenth birthdays they would no doubt be married to older, uglier men with stout purses and figures to match. She shook her head, as if to dislodge the terrible thought, and walked with deliberate steps, following the others.

  “Allons. Let us press on, ladies.” Their schoolmistress waved her hand through the air. “Mill Street will lead us home.”

  Carlyle School was hardly home, but ’twould serve a useful purpose through Whitsuntide. Amid the confines of its drab walls Rose would polish her manners, sharpen her domestic skills, and learn more of the French language that trilled prettily off her tongue. When God saw fit to bring a gentleman of distinction across her path, she would know just what to say to him: “Je suis prête. I am ready.”

  Twenty

  A strange volume of real life

  in the daily packet of the postman.

  DOUGLAS JERROLD

  Look at this, Jamie. Rose is learning French.”

  Leana held out the letter she’d received from Carlyle School, slipping off her spectacles. “Though I can pronounce the words, I cannot begin to make sense of what they mean. Can you?”

  “Oui,” he said, chuckling. “Aubert Billaud, our cook at Glentrool, came to us from Marseilles, so Mother pressed him into teaching me his native tongue. As well, I had instruction in French at university.” He winked at her. “The auld alliance between Scotland and France will remain as long as our countries face a common enemy.”

  “England,” she said, smiling at his jest.

  Jamie studied Rose’s letter. “Le monde est le livre des femmes. The world is woman’s book,” he translated at last, running his finger across the paper. “Rousseau’s words. A fine student, our Rose.”

  Our Rose. The lass had been gone a mere ten days, and already Jamie missed her. Leana could read it in his eyes, which drank in the contents of Rose’s letter like a thirsty man. She could see it in the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and hear it in his voice, filled with admiration. Not for our Rose, but for his Rose.

  Leana could not stop herself. “Does her absence grieve you?”

  “Grieve me?” Jamie looked at her in amazement. “Nae, Leana. I’m happy for her. And relieved for us.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, his gaze warming. “Leana, if I think of Rose as our older daughter, rather than as a charming young lady, I’m able to … well, ’Tis better that way.”

  “I see.” Leana smiled at his candor. Dear Jamie. She’d misjudged him again. Jumped to conclusions. “I should have known you had things well in hand,” she confessed, collecting the letter to read again later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll away to the kitchen to prepare a noony for your son.”

  Jamie chuckled. “ ’Tis all the lad does: eat.”

  “And sleep,” Leana reminded him. Now that Ian’s colic had settled, the babe dozed several hours at a time between his night feedings. Grateful for the respite, Leana was slowly regaining her strength. If her body did not feel quite her own yet, at least it did not feel like a weary stranger’s, dragging through a twilight existence of nursing and changing and bathing their son. Perhaps tonight her husband might turn to her again in the darkness of their box bed and find her wide awake. And more than willing.

  Jamie stood, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders like a large, graceful cat. “Did I mention I’m to visit Dalbeaty with your father Thursday next? Something about assessing the value of a property there.”

  “In Dalbeaty?” Leana gave the notion a moment’s thought. “A favor for Duncan, do you suppose?” Two of the Hastings’s grown daughters lived outside the small village eight miles southwest of Auchengray; perhaps they were considering moving to another farm.

  Jamie shrugged. “When I asked the same question, your father seemed a mite dootsome.”

  “I ken that look well.” Leana wiped the smile from her face and assumed a vague expression so like her father’s that Jamie laughed aloud.

  “You’ve captured him e
xactly, lass.”

  “Then he’s hiding something. My father is seldom uncertain, particularly when it comes to property.” She glanced at the window. “I hope ’twill not be such a weatherful day as this for your outing. Do see that you’re warmly dressed.”

  “Aye, Mother,” he teased, then leaned forward to kiss her. Hugh had not shaved him that morning, so Jamie’s beard felt rough against her skin. She did not mind in the least. “Much can happen atween now and next week,” he murmured, kissing her once more before he turned toward the door. “Come, I’ll escort you to the kitchen. Neda may have deduced something of my duties in Urr parish.”

  They stepped into the room arm in arm and discovered Neda standing atop a small ladder, reaching for a copper-bottomed pot swinging from the rafters high above her head. “Mr. McKie!” Neda called out in relief, easing back down to the floor. “Ye’ve arrived in the nick o’ time to spare an auld woman a nasty fall.”

  “So I see.” He lifted the heavy cooking pot from its hook and handed it down to her. “Whatever are you making in such a large pot, Mistress Hastings?”

  “Applesauce.” She pointed to a basket of pippins with wrinkled, yellow skins. “Been down in the cellar too long, I fear. Duncan will feed them tae the pigs if I dinna put them tae better use. Yer laddie will thank me for makin’ applesauce, I ken.”

  “So will his mother.” Leana claimed a paring knife and reached for the first fruit of many. “Tell us, Neda: What business does my father have in Dalbeaty next week? Jamie’s expected to accompany him.”

  Neda eyed them both while she scrubbed the pot clean in steaming hot water. “I’ve not jaloused the meanin’ of it, but it might involve a woman.”

  Leana gasped. “A woman?”

  “A certain widow by the name o’ Douglas.” Neda heaved the pot to the dressing board and began drying it with her apron. “Duncan found a ledger entry in yer faither’s hand. ‘Purchase of five milk cows for Edingham,’ it says. My daughter in Dalbeaty kenned the rest o’ the story. Edingham is a fine farm in Urr parish. Home tae Mistress Douglas and her three sons. What unco interest yer faither had buyin’ the woman livestock, I canna say.”

  “Nor can I.” Leana glanced at Jamie, who shook his head.

  “Mebbe afore ye go, the laird o’ Auchengray will deem tae tell us mair. ’Tis mony a mile from here tae Dalbeaty. But ye ken what they say.” Neda winked as she reminded them, “Greedy folk have lang arms.”

  “But it appears Father gave her the cows,” Leana protested.

  “Och! For naught? Ye ken yer faither’s ways better than that, lass.”

  “Neda is right,” Jamie agreed. “Lachlan McBride seldom gives a gift without expecting to gain by it.” He consulted his pocket watch, then headed for the door. “Mark my words, there’s some swickerie at work here. If my uncle is not forthcoming before our journey south, I’ll see that you both have all the details come Thursday next.” Jamie touched Leana’s sleeve in passing, warming her with his eyes. “I’ll see you at supper, lass.”

  He disappeared down the hall, his broad shoulders turning at the stair even as Neda turned her blithe expression on Leana. “ ’twould seem yer man has finally come o’ age.”

  “Now, Neda,” Leana chided, reaching for another apple. “Jamie was twenty-four when he came to Auchengray. Old enough to be counted a man.”

  “God niver measures a man by inches nor by years.” Neda scooped up the apples Leana had pared and cored, dropped them into her clean pot with several cupfuls of water, then hung the pot over a well-banked fire. “ ’Tis not the calendar that makes the man but the days he spends wi’ his eye tae the Buik and his ear tae the Almighty.”

  “Jamie has been more attentive to such matters of late,” Leana agreed. “He borrowed Father’s copy of Mortification and Sincerity by Low and a book of sermons as well.”

  “A guid beginnin’.” Neda stepped into the larder and brought out a block of sugar, which she crumbled between her fingers and added to the cooking pot. Already the sweet aroma of overripe apples filled the close confines of the kitchen. “Whan he lives what he reads and means what he says, then will yer Jamie be the faither Ian requires.” She smiled across the fragrant steam. “And the husband ye deserve, Leana.”

  “What of Rose? Does she not deserve a proper husband?” Leana’s hands stilled. “ ’Twas not her fault for losing Jamie. ’Twas mine for taking him.”

  Neda clucked at her like a hen fussing at its chick. “I’ll not see ye dwellin’ on the past, Mistress McKie. Though yer sister does merit a bit o’ concern, I’ll grant ye that. Ye heard the letter she wrote to yer faither. Fu’ o’ pride, her words. Learnin’ this and accomplishin’ that.”

  “But she’s in school!”

  “Aye.” Neda stood before her spice chest, fishing out a stick of cinnamon from the marked drawer. “And do they not teach ye in scuil tae inquire after yer elders? Tae care mair aboot others than yerself? Rose didna ask how Ian had grown nor how Annabel was gettin’ along wi’ her gone. Her letter was Rose McBride, from first wird tae last.”

  “ ’Tis always been so, Neda. Otherwise she would not be our Rose.” Leana deposited another handful of pared apples into the simmering pot. “Suppose I fix a bit of cereal for Ian, then write Rose a long letter filled with all the parish blether. ’twill keep her mind on us for at least the quarter of an hour ’twill take her to read it.”

  “Yer luve for yer sister puts us all tae shame, lass.” Neda patted her arm, sprinkling cinnamon on her sleeve. “Lemme see tae yer lad then. He’ll be wantin’ his noony.”

  While Neda went off to fetch Ian, Leana got on with her tasks, spooning the last bit of breakfast porridge into a small cup, thinning it with boiled milk, sweetening it with a sprinkle of sugar, and then straining the mixture through loosely woven muslin. From the moment Neda arrived with him in her arms, Ian was elated to see his mother, waving his arms and legs, squealing with anticipation as Neda sat down and tried to hold him steady long enough to tie a cloth about his neck.

  Leana laughed at his antics. “Let me nurse the poor lad for a few minutes to calm him, or he’ll wear his porridge rather than eat it.” Neda busied herself elsewhere in the kitchen while Leana put Ian to her breast, a clean apron draped across them both for modesty’s sake. She brushed her knuckle along his cheek as he sighed like the contented child he was. “Such a good lad.” His silky cap of hair was already growing darker like his father’s.

  When Ian seemed more settled, she eased him from her breast and quickly laced up her dress. “Time for porridge,” Leana called, at which Neda appeared with some worn linens to catch the worst of it. The housekeeper pulled a chair close to Leana’s so their knees touched, then planted Ian in her lap. Leana scooped up the cup and a tiny silver spoon, a gift from Jamie’s mother. “Mmm, mmm.” Leana opened her own mouth, hoping he might mimic her. When he did, she slid the spoonful of porridge between Ian’s lips. And prayed.

  He sucked at it. Wrinkled his nose. Sampled it again. Widened his eyes, then his mouth. Another bit disappeared.

  “More?” Leana offered the child scant spoonfuls while she and Neda praised him thoroughly. Before they finished, all three of them were covered with runny porridge, though most of it landed on the linens, which Leana whisked away. “You’ve made a good start, Ian McKie.”

  Neda patted his plump arm. “Weel done, lad.”

  Leana called to Eliza to take him up the stair for a quick bath and a well-earned nap while she saw to her own ablutions. She then went in search of the writing desk Jamie had presented her on Hogmanay, their first anniversary. ’Twas where she’d left it, perched on the sideboard in the front room of the house. Dragging a small table nearer the window, Leana lit a candle, then lifted out a sheaf of paper, reveling at the fine texture of it. Jamie had been most generous.

  Where to begin her letter to Rose? Her pen paused over the paper until she feared it might drip, and so Leana blotted it again. They had not par
ted on the best of terms; perhaps that was the place to start.

  To Rose McBride

  Wednesday, 13 January 1790

  My dearest sister,

  I am so very sorry that our last words before your departure for Dumfries were not kinder ones. Forgive me for anything I might have said or done to ruin what should have been a happy occasion.

  Happy for whom, Leana? Though she would never let Rose hear her say it, Leana was relieved to have her in Dumfries and away from Jamie. Was it wrong to want him all to herself?

  Both of your letters were enjoyed by the whole household. As you might imagine, Jamie was most impressed with the French phrase you included. When you come home for your first visit at the end of the month, I fear the two of you will be speaking a language no one else will understand.

  A slight chill ran along her arm. Perhaps she sat too close to the frost-covered window or the fire needed tending. Shivering yet again, Leana gathered a plaid from atop a nearby chest and wrapped it round her, then perched on the chair once more and took up her pen.

  Ian grows more amiable by the hour. Truly the lad is made in the very image of his father. I hope you will discover the joy of bearing children someday, Rose. Motherhood is a pleasure no letter can adequately describe.

  She paused, dipping her pen in the ink. Would stories of Ian interest her sister or rub salt in an open wound? Did Rose care about her at all, or was their friendship no more than a memory, and a distant one at that? Leana’s hand hovered over the paper as she prayed for the words to write and the strength to write them.

  Dear sister, let there be no uncertainty between us. I love Jamie and Ian with all my heart. But I love you as well, Rose. Nothing, however grave, could alter my fondest affection for you …

  Twenty-One

  Then came your new friend:

  you began to change—

  I saw it and grieved.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Here she comes!” Lizzie Balfour leaned her forehead against the icy window, her eyes and mouth agape, as the other lasses crowded round her. “Will you look at that gown? Red as rowan berries, and velvet besides.”