Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Before they reached the entrance, the front door swung open. A woman of some forty years perched on the threshold. With her short, round figure, ruddy face, and fawn-colored gown, she looked so precisely like a goldfinch that Jamie was prepared for her to burst into twittering song.

  “Mistress Douglas,” Lachlan said, hand outstretched, lengthening his stride. She no doubt heard the cordial note in Lachlan’s voice and marked him as a pleasant man. Jamie heard his warbling for what it was: the smoothest of deceptions. His uncle continued, “I am delighted to see you again.”

  Again? There was that business with the five cows, a transaction to which Lachlan had not confessed. Did he think Duncan wouldn’t take note of the ledger entry?

  They were ushered through the doorway, where they put aside the plaids that had kept them warm astride their mounts. His uncle spoke using overstated gestures, common to hawkers and horse traders at Keltonhill Fair. “James Lachlan McKie of Auchengray, my nephew and namesake, I am pleased to introduce you to Mistress Morna Douglas of Edingham, whom I have had the delight of seeing at more than one social gathering in Galloway.”

  Jamie heard little after McKie of Auchengray. Glentrool claimed his allegiance, not a bonnet laird’s farm in Newabbey, however prosperous. Three months, four at most, and he’d bid Auchengray good riddance. For the moment he would be polite to this woman and smile as he bowed, for the plump bird had a kind face.

  “Mr. McKie.” Her voice was soft and high, like a child’s, and her hands fluttered about her face. “How good of you to come.” She blinked her eyes so often he thought at first she’d caught a bit of lint in her lashes. “Mr. McBride tells me you have a clever way with numbers and a keen eye for land.” The widow beamed at Lachlan. “As your uncle is a trustworthy and honorable gentleman, I must assume he speaks the truth.”

  “You leave me no choice, Mistress Douglas. For were I to disagree with his praise, I would be calling my uncle a liar.” Jamie turned toward Lachlan, letting his eyes say what his lips could not. Liar. It felt good to simply think the word in his direction.

  She picked at her sleeve, her gaze darting toward an open doorway. “My sons are waiting in the parlor and eager to meet you.” The widow led them into a room so densely furnished there was little room to sit. “Mr. Douglas was fond of carpentry,” she explained, waving them toward a small, upholstered settee. “Always fashioning something whenever he could find the wood.”

  Amid the flotsam of tables and chests, three young men rose as one. Taller than their mother, muscular where she was soft, they looked anything but eager for this meeting. Wary, Jamie decided. Suspicious. They had something in common then.

  “Mr. McKie, this is my oldest son, Malcolm Douglas, who celebrated his twentieth birthday December last.” Malcolm bowed slightly, and his mother curtsied with him. Habit, perhaps. “And Gavin Douglas, my middle son, who will be nineteen in April.” Another paltry bow. “And my youngest, Ronald Douglas, who is newly seventeen.” He brushed the hair off his forehead.

  Jamie bowed properly to all three, already aware he’d have a hard time keeping them straight, so close were the lads in age, size, and features. Curly, matted hair the color of wet clay. Freckled skin without much evidence of a beard. The broad backs and rough hands of farm laborers. Despite their mother’s diffident manner, it seemed she worked her sons as hard as Lachlan worked him. Jamie sensed the three of them assessing him as well and found himself squaring his shoulders. “My own property is in Monnigaff parish,” he said, avoiding Lachlan’s stare. “Glentrool is the estate of my father, Alec McKie.”

  Malcolm, the oldest, seemed surprised. “So you’ll be leaving Auchengray?”

  “Not for some time,” Lachlan answered for him smoothly, “for as you might imagine, since I have no sons of my own, James is invaluable to the running of the farm.” Lachlan had the nerve to clap his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, though it did not remain there long. “Suppose we see to your mother’s property, lads, for that is why we’ve come.”

  The widow’s mouth flew open. “Will you not take some refreshment first?”

  “ ’Tis dry for the moment with a fair sky.” Lachlan glanced out the window. “I suggest we take advantage of the weather and walk the boundaries now.”

  “Very well, Mr. McBride,” she said demurely. “As you wish. My sons will escort you while I tend to matters in the kitchen.”

  The men trooped out the door, Malcolm leading the way. From the moment they emerged into the cobblestone yard of the steading, Malcolm began pointing out its features—the doocot and granary, the barns and the byres. His voice rang with the pride of their accomplishments. Even in January there were a good number of farmworkers busy about their duties. “We raise black cattle for market,” Malcolm said, though ’Twas hardly necessary to mention it when the beasts stood about the fields.

  Jamie took note of various details as they strode about the steading, calculating the price such a property might command. Surely that’s what this secretive business was about: selling Edingham. Lachlan insisted it belonged to the widow, not the sons, already an odd arrangement. Did they intend to pocket their profits and sail to America as so many in Galloway had already done? Would the poor woman be forced to join them? It was not at all clear what this family’s plans might be.

  Climbing to a higher vantage point, the men were better able to survey the land, a rolling terrain of hills and mosses. To the east stood the granite remains of Edingham Castle. Once a tower house, now a ruinous shell, the keep appeared to be guarded by an enormous elm and held together with an overgrowth of ivy. A single gable rose from the rubble, its two blank windows staring into the Urr parish countryside. Portions of the other walls remained, and in the far corner a turnpike stair climbed into thin air.

  “ ’Twas built for the Livingstones in the sixteenth century,” Malcolm explained, walking up beside him. “But they were hardly the first to claim the property. We’ve found Roman coins in the peat mosses.”

  Jamie turned toward him, ignoring the others, who continued on. Perhaps he might draw the lad out before Lachlan paid attention to their conversation. The air off the Solway was brisk, tinged with salt, blowing hard against his face. “Tell me, Malcolm.” Jamie kept his voice low. “Do you ken what interest my uncle has in your property?”

  The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be asking him?” Malcolm stalked off before Jamie could respond. No help to be found there. Either the lads didn’t know, or they didn’t approve of Lachlan’s presence at Edingham. No matter how mannerly his uncle might be with the Widow Douglas, it was apparent he had no genuine feelings for the woman or for her sons.

  Jamie stamped across the hard soil, kicking at loose rocks as he went. He’d had a dull headache since they had left Auchengray; now it pounded at his temples. The pain did not ease when they returned to the house for a late dinner. Potted herring, smoked beef rump, roasted partridge—fish, flesh, fowl—were spooned onto their pewter plates in alarming amounts. The three brothers shoveled down their food with little concern for etiquette. Jamie ate what he could, though the dishes were not seasoned to his palate. Neda had a more deft hand with spices; the Douglases’ cook reached for pepper in lieu of anything else.

  After swallowing a round of shortbread so dry he feared choking, Jamie was relieved when Lachlan seemed about to end their visit. His uncle offered a second lengthy grace—more intent on impressing the widow than on blessing either the Lord or the meal, Jamie suspected—then rose before the others could push back their chairs.

  “I believe I left my gloves in your spence,” Lachlan declared, already heading for the room. “Jamie, tell them something of our flocks at Auchengray. I’ll not be a moment.”

  Jamie did as he was told, describing the long, coarse wool of the blackface breed, their mottled faces, the curved horns on both tups and ewes, until his uncle’s lengthy absence became awkward. “Suppose I find my uncle and his gloves,” Jamie offered, st
anding.

  With the family half a dozen steps behind him, Jamie arrived at the door to the spence in time to see Lachlan shuffling through a stack of papers. Whatever was the man looking for? His uncle spun round at once, waving the gloves he’d no doubt pulled from his coat pocket moments earlier.

  “There you are, lad. I feared you might tarry at table for another hour.” He strode out of the room without a word of explanation, calling for their mounts.

  After strained farewells, the two rode north toward home. His uncle’s self-satisfied demeanor so sickened Jamie he could not carry on a civil conversation. Instead he rode in silence while Lachlan talked endlessly of cattle and sheep, of market prices and rising fuel costs.

  Only when they made the final turn into Auchengray did his uncle broach the subject of Edingham. ’Twas not a comment he offered nor a question but a simple command: “On the Wednesday next, we shall visit Edingham again, Nephew.” If a badger could smile, it would look like Lachlan McBride. “Truth be told, I believe the Widow Douglas enjoyed having two gentlemen with guid manners at her table.”

  Twenty-Three

  Jane borrow’d maxims from a doubting school,

  And took for truth the test of ridicule.

  GEORGE CRABBE

  ’Twas the last Monday of January, as damp and dreary a winter’s day as any Rose had seen in Dumfries. An icy rain pelted the windowpanes of the kitchen as the young ladies of Carlyle School attempted to create puff paste. Their schoolmistress had engaged the veteran baker from Drumlanrig Castle to teach them.

  “A cool day is best,” the cheerful woman insisted, her sleeves already covered in flour. She nudged back a loose strand of toffee-colored hair with her shoulder, then talked them through the process. “Sift the flour, add the salt, then make a little well for the lemon juice and a bit of water. Not too much!” The sticky mess became a stickier dough, which needed to be rolled and folded and dotted with butter and rolled again. “This is called the first turn,” the baker said. “We’ve two more turns to do.”

  Not a groan escaped anyone’s lips, but Jane’s eyes did a slow roll. When the baker was busy helping another pupil, Jane whispered in Rose’s ear, “What do you say we strike out on an errand this afternoon?”

  “In this weather?” Rose gave her a quizzical look. “What errand?”

  Jane’s mouth curled into a sly grin. “Have you heard of the Globe Inn?”

  “Heard of it?” Heat traveled up Rose’s neck. “ ’Tis where Jamie proposed to me on Martinmas.”

  “So that’s where it happened.” Jane eyed her, compassion plain on her face. “I’ve not forgotten, Rose. And neither should you. When Jamie McKie sees your pretty self at week’s end, I have no doubt he will seek to amend the situation. Seeing the very spot where he proposed should give you all the courage you need to remind him of it.”

  Rose shook her flour sifter, even as she shook her head. “We cannot possibly visit the Globe, Jane. ’Tis a public house and no place for gentlewomen without an escort.”

  “Indeed,” Jane said evenly, plunging her hands into the dough as the baker strolled past to assess their labors. “Leave everything to me.”

  Not long past three o’ the clock, their lessons for the day behind them, the two were bundled in their cloaks and heading north on foot toward the High Street. Though the rain had stopped, a cold wind appeared to take its place. “The school overlooks Queensberry Square,” Jane explained, “though we’ll stop there only long enough to drop this off.” She held up a slender volume with streaks of flour ground into the grain of the leather. “A New and Easy Method of Cookery, written by the schoolmistress at Queensberry. I was meant to leave it in her able hands, but by some coincidence it ended up in my trunk.” She winked knowingly. “I truly cannot imagine how it landed there, for I do not intend to cook a single meal in my lifetime.”

  Rose sighed. “I will have to cook many a meal unless I marry well.”

  Jane, her cheeks reddened by the wind, looked down at her with mock disdain. “And why would you marry otherwise, my dear? Your Jamie is a man of means and quite capable of hiring a good cook. Let us make quick work of our errand. I promised Etta the Grim our visit to Queensberry would include a severe reprimand by my old schoolmistress, which seemed to please her to no end. ’take an hour then but no more’ were her last words.” Jane hooked Rose’s arm in hers and pulled her closer as they crossed the slippery flagstones of Nith Place. “Five minutes for Queensberry. And the rest for the Globe.”

  Rose tried to swallow her fears, but they caught in her throat, straining her voice. “The innkeeper must know your family. Won’t people recognize you there?”

  “Aye, they will.” Jane’s deep, rippling laugh rolled out more smoothly than pastry. “That is to our advantage, Miss McBride, for Mr. Hyslop will tuck us in the Globe’s snuggery where we can sip whisky without threat of discovery.”

  Rose could not speak, so stunned was she with Jane’s audacious plan. Whisky! Aye, she had tasted it, and Neda always stirred some into her het pint for Hogmanay. But to sit sipping whisky like a man … och! Rose prayed the Queensberry’s schoolmistress would not let them come and go in so brief a fashion, detaining them until it was too late to visit the Globe. Perhaps Mr. Hyslop would not welcome a bonnet laird’s daughter without her father. Or better still, the proprietor might be otherwise engaged, and Jane would have no means of securing a table. Two young women of quality drinking alone in a tavern? Unthinkable. And also, Rose realized with a twinge of guilt, deliciously tempting.

  Shaking off the cold mist that wrapped itself round their shoulders in a ghostly embrace, Rose and Jane hurried up the street, ducking their heads to ward off the worst of it. Rose found herself laughing, whether from nervousness or excitement, she could not decide. What a bauld friend she’d found in Jane Grierson! They passed English Street, heading toward the Midsteeple. The masonry courthouse with its pointed white cupola was a bittersweet reminder of the day Jamie had proposed to her. Hadn’t she stood at the base of those very steps searching for her father and Duncan? She hurried past it now, noting the time on the clock face. If they were to return to Millbrae Vennel before the skies grew dark at half past four, they must make haste.

  The newly erected stone pillar, dedicated to Charles, Duke of Queensberry, pointed upward like a slender finger. It stood amid a vast, open market square, frozen and deserted. “And there’s the school.” Jane pointed to an elegant corner building as she dragged Rose in that direction. “This will take but a moment. Mistress Clark will be drinking her tea at this hour. Only a foolish servant would disturb her for the return of a book.” Jane knew the schoolmistress’s habits well. They no sooner had rung the bell and presented themselves to the head servant than the soiled cookbook was plucked from Jane’s gloved hands. A curt word of thanks was followed by an abruptly closed door.

  Jane brushed off his poor manners with a sweep of her long cloak, as the two spun about and made their way back down the High Street, bound for the Globe at a brisk pace. “Rose, ’twill be an adventure you’ll not soon forget.”

  “Aye, if I live to remember it.” Rose shivered, for a dozen reasons. With the wind against their backs and the path downhill, they had to slow their steps to keep from falling. Rose spotted the Globe at last and felt her heart squeeze into a knot. In that very inn Jamie McKie had spoken the words that changed her life. Say you’ll marry me, lass. I’ve waited a lifetime for you.

  Memories swirled round her like mist: the love she’d seen in Jamie’s eyes that day; the greed she’d spied in her father’s; the disappointment that surely had shone in her own. For she had not loved Jamie then. Instead she’d prayed he might marry Leana. Och! ’Twas a mistake she would not make again, throwing away a perfectly good proposal of marriage, waiting for some elusive feeling of love. Her love for Jamie had bloomed too late. And his love for her had faded too soon.

  “Miss McBride!” Jane tugged on her elbow. “A more melanc
holy countenance has ne’er been observed in the vicinity of the Globe. Cheer up, lass. A wee dram will put the roses back in your cheeks. Attendez voir. Wait and see.”

  They slipped through the narrow wooden doors, greeted first by a wave of warm air, then by the strong scent of whisky and ale, punctuated by the sound of tankards banging on tables. Instinctively Rose backed toward the door, her eyes darting about the crowded entranceway. A young tradesman stared her up and down, his impudent brown eyes gleaming. She hastily set her sights elsewhere. Wasn’t that the very thing Father had warned her about? “Your bonny face may open doors better left closed, Rose.” She stole a quick glance in the lad’s direction, distraught to find him still eying her beneath his coppery lashes. She longed for a husband, aye, but this man did not have the look of a bridegroom about him.

  Hovering behind Jane, Rose stared at the damp tendril of hair that clung to the back of her friend’s neck and listened to her chatting with the patrons as though she knew them, as though the braisant woman breezed through the door of such establishments without an escort every day of her pampered life. Words of caution Rose learned one Sabbath long ago echoed through her conscience: Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths.

  Rose longed to be daring, to be different, to explore the world. But not like this. “Jane.” She aimed her gaze at the floor, “I think it best we leave.”

  “Too late, fair Rose, for here’s Mr. Hyslop to escort us to our table.”

  The proprietor, a ruddy-faced man with a barrel for a chest and forearms the size of tappit-hens, waved Jane forward. “Oniething for a lady. And her friend,” he added, leering at them. “And who might this be?”

  Jane answered before Rose could stop her. “This is Miss McBride.”

  Mr. Hyslop peered at her. “Ye wouldna be Lachlan McBride’s dochter?”

  “Aye.” Shame flushed her face to the roots of her hair. Mr. Hyslop’s family resided in her own parish. No doubt he would feel duty bound to write her father a letter and inform him what a tairt he had for a daughter. Heaven help me!