Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  He shifted his attention to Jane. “Ye’ll be wantin’ the snuggery, I venture.”

  Jane pulled off her gloves with great ceremony, obviously enjoying his amusement. “ ’Tis the only proper place for two gentlewomen.”

  “Aye, if ye say, ’Tis so.” He rubbed his bearded chin, the curly brown hairs thick as wool. “The door’s closed, Miss Grierson. Could be the room is spoken for. Unless a certain poet has laid claim to it, I’ll see the patron finds another room.”

  The beefy proprietor tapped on the snuggery door, eased it open, and stuck his head inside the room. “Well, if it isna Rabbie, sharin’ a dram wi’ Alastair Waugh!”

  “Mr. Burns,” Jane mouthed to Rose, as if all her concerns might melt away at the thought of meeting so notable a character.

  The innkeeper pushed the door open further, stepping aside so the parties might catch a glimpse of one another. “Gentlemen, I’ve twa special guests who’d be pleased tae have use o’ the second table, if ye’ll allow it.”

  A man with dark, soft hair and eyes like pools of chocolate stood at once and bowed. “Miss Grierson, I believe. You are quite welcome to either table.” He was perhaps thirty years of age and robust in appearance. Though Rose knew the poet was a farmer in Dunscore parish, his manners more bespoke a drawing room than a milking parlor.

  “Mr. Burns, Mr. Waugh, I am pleased to introduce to you Miss Rose McBride.” Jane tipped her head toward her. “From Newabbey.”

  As if stuck with a pin, the other gentleman bolted to his feet. “Mr. Alastair Waugh of Dumfries at your service, ladies.”

  Rose moistened her lips, lest they crack when she spoke, and stared forlornly at a decanter and two well-drained glasses on a table stained from years of use. “You are most generous, sirs, but I fear we’ve interrupted you.”

  “Not at all.” The poet waved his hand toward the empty table and chairs. “ ’Tis merely a birthday we’re celebrating, Miss McBride.” He eyed them both. “Rest assured, dear ladies, we’re kintra folk and harmless as they come.”

  “Harmless?” Jane repeated, offering a dazzling flash of teeth. “Because you reside in the country?”

  “Nae, miss.” His smile bore an equal measure of charm. “Because we are both married men.”

  Twenty-Four

  We married men, how oft we find

  The best of things will tire us!

  ROBERT BURNS

  Poor Jamie, you look exhausted.” Leana ushered him into the house, slipping off his coat and dispatching a servant for hot water. “Where is Father? Did he not ride home with you?”

  “Nae, lass.” Jamie dragged the tricornered hat off his rain-soaked head, grateful for a dry house and the prospect of a bath. “Morna Douglas welcomed us to her table for dinner again. ’Twas an invitation I declined, but your father was quick to accept.”

  Leana nodded, as though considering that bit of information, but said nothing. Jamie was relieved she didn’t ply him with questions, for he had few answers. Her father’s interest in the Widow Douglas seemed little more than neighborly, but one could never be sure with a sleekit man like Lachlan McBride. All afternoon Lachlan had pored over her ledgers—in full view of the widow this time—and at considerable length. His uncle had muttered to himself as he added figures in his head and jotted notes in a small volume he kept hidden beneath his waistcoat. The brothers came and went, no doubt making notes of their own.

  While the widow was away preparing tea and her three sons busy elsewhere, Jamie had pressed him for an explanation. “Is there some purpose for this second visit, Uncle?”

  Lachlan had drawn himself up, as if preparing for a fight. “The Buik says ’Tis pure religion and undefiled before God to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.”

  Jamie was proud of himself for not quoting the rest of the verse about keeping oneself unspotted from the world. Lachlan McBride worried more about a single blemish on another person’s moral fabric than the mass of black marks that sullied his own. How the hatesome man had fathered a good and gentle soul like Leana was beyond Jamie’s ken.

  She stood before him in the hall now, looking up expectantly. Her hair, freshly washed and brushed, gleamed in the candlelight. “How fine you look,” Jamie said, touching her cheek. “The gathering at the Drummonds’ is still planned for this evening, aye?”

  Her joyful expression told him all he needed to know. Indeed, who deserved an outing more than Leana, confined to the house for months with Ian? A few hours of merriment at nearby Glensone would provide a welcome respite from winter’s bleak sameness. “If you aren’t too tired to escort me,” she quickly amended. “And if you won’t object to going out again in this wretched weather.”

  “Not to worry. We’ll take the chaise.” He captured her hand in his and turned toward the stair. “Come and tell me what our son has been about this dreich day.” Leana followed him up to their bedroom, where a tub of hot water and a clean suit of clothing awaited him. Jamie tossed aside his damp, filthy attire and sank into the steaming tub, while Leana pulled her chair a modest distance away.

  Her voice rang with maternal pride as she described Ian’s progress. “I read to him this morning. Of course, he can’t begin to understand a word, but he babbles along as I read.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard him when he coos,” Jamie agreed. “Sounds like he belongs in the doocot.”

  “And look at the rattles Neda made for him.” She held up the dried gourds with painted faces. “Berry juice, Neda said she used. ’Tis a blessing to have such a thoughtful woman under our roof. I wish your mother lived closer so Ian might ken the love of his grandmother, too.”

  Jamie scrubbed his arms with a rough cloth, grinning broadly. “Rowena McKie has many admirable qualities, but I cannot picture her as a doting granmither.”

  “Have you ever seen her with a babe in her arms?” Leana was clearly challenging his assessment. “Her own grandchild, that is, not another’s?” When he shook his head, she laughed. “Wait ’til we ride up to the gates of Glentrool this May and tuck Ian in your mother’s arms. Children have a way of turning sensible women into Scotch pudding.”

  He gazed at her across the rising steam. “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Aye, well.” She ducked her head, a becoming shade of pink coloring her cheeks. “Suppose I see to the lad’s supper while you dress.” With that, Leana was away to the nursery, a small storage room down the hall that she’d claimed for Ian. Jamie had watched her direct the servants over the last week, preparing the room. She often scrubbed the surfaces herself to be certain they were clean enough for their curious son, who explored things as much with his mouth as with his eyes and hands. No father could want a more dedicated mother for his child than Leana.

  With his chin scraped smooth and the bathwater grown cold, Jamie unfolded himself from the narrow wooden tub and stood, rubbed his skin dry with a linen towel, then pulled on his clothes. The clean shirt felt good against his still-damp back. Hugh, who’d gone after the boots Jamie had discarded by the door, reappeared holding them at arm’s length, the leather polished to a rich mahogany. Jamie motioned toward the bed. “Just leave them there. And see if you can’t do something with this neckcloth, will you?”

  Hugh lit two more candles, for the winter sun had set long ago, and put Jamie’s cravat to rights. The manservant, his graying hair pulled into a sleek tail, fashioned the same style for Jamie, tying his brown hair in place with a bit of ribbon.

  Leana stepped back into the room bearing a drowsy-eyed boy. “Look, Ian. Doesn’t your father look braw?” She’d no sooner propped up the child in her arms than his head drooped to the side. Laughing softly, she turned Ian about and draped him against her shoulder, where he let out a muffled sigh and collapsed into sleep. “Rest assured, lad, Mr. McKie is a sight to behold.”

  “So is Mistress McKie.” Jamie said the words easily, meaning them at last. She had no need for Rose’s dark beauty or speeritie personality;
for Leana was her sister’s superior in a dozen ways. She had a sweet nature, a kind tongue, a patient spirit, a keen mind, a trusting heart. Above all, Leana was filled with unquenchable faith. And she loved him far more than he deserved.

  Now he was doing his best to return that love, in every manner at his disposal. With gifts, with affection, with words, with deeds. Was it enough? Did she believe him when he confessed his love for her? Did she sense it in his embrace, feel it in his touch?

  Perhaps his eyes gave away his thoughts. For after she handed over the sleeping child to Eliza, waiting silently behind her, Leana turned to him and said, “Tonight I am not a mother, nor a wife duty bound to her household. I am a woman, Jamie, and yours alone.” The frank longing in her eyes spoke louder than her words, pulling him across the room.

  He closed the door on the startled maidservant and drew Leana against him, then kissed her soundly. Aye, she knew that she was loved. Before the night ended, he would make certain of it.

  “Jamie,” she whispered at last, smoothing her hand along the back of his neck, “we’re expected for supper at six.”

  “Aye.” Somewhere on his person was a pocket watch. He fumbled to find it. “We must leave at once, I’m afraid.” Jamie straightened, releasing her from his embrace but not from his gaze. “When we return home, good wife, we shall have our own midwinter festivities, you and I. Consider this a formal invitation.”

  They arrived at Glensone with little time to spare. The elder Drummonds were already ushering guests into the dining room when Peter, their son of twenty years, greeted Jamie and Leana at the door. “Our closest neighbors, yet the last to arrive,” Peter teased as he relieved them of their wet cloaks. “Come, we’ve saved a place for you at table.”

  Candles brightened the four corners of the low-ceilinged room. At the hearth, pine logs were ablaze, the welcome heat drying the damp hems of skirts and trousers hidden by the long, cloth-covered dining table. “ ’Tis good that we came,” Jamie murmured in her ear, guiding Leana to an opening along one of the narrow benches. Since he’d arrived in the parish, Jamie had given the gossips plenty to blether about, but no more. He was a father now, a husband, and a hardworking head shepherd. Though Auchengray would only be their home for another quarter, Jamie wanted the neighborhood’s last impression of the McKies to be a favorable one for Leana’s sake.

  No sooner was he seated than his stomach growled in anticipation of the feast spread before him. Up and down the table were displayed heaping plates of thinly sliced pickled salmon and roast grouse wrapped in bacon, soft-curd cheeses and sharp-flavored cheddars, freshly baked scones and barley bannocks. Jamie spread his napkin across his lap and waited. Grace before meat.

  Peter Drummond stepped behind Jamie to plant a solid grip on his shoulders. “Now the McKies are here, ’tis time to pray.”

  Mr. Drummond spoke a short grace over the meal, then hands and plates went to work for a jubilant hour of eating and drinking, laughter and spirited conversation. The staid atmosphere of Auchengray’s table was noticeably absent at Glensone. When the guests had done their best to polish off every last bite of food, a fiddler presented himself at the door on cue. The red-headed musician struck up a merry rendition of “Johnny McGill” that brought the assembly to their feet to form two lines in the adjoining room, where the furniture had been pushed against the walls.

  Jamie took several turns with Leana, as lithe and graceful a dancer as any in the room. Every time he looked at her, the corners of her full mouth were curled upward. How it pleased him to see her enjoying herself, surrounded by friends. He begrudgingly released her when Alan Newall of Troston Hill claimed her for a strathspey.

  “Jessie’s at home with Annie,” the young farmer explained, “preparing for the arrival of our second. The heidie lass sent me out the door on my own. To give her a moment’s rest, or so she said.” Alan held out his hand. “Come along, Mistress McKie. Let’s see if I can’t do better than your man from Monnigaff.” Jamie laughed as the two joined the line in time for the bow and curtsy. A tassie of hot punch was pressed into his hands by Mistress Drummond as the fiddler struck the opening notes of “Green Grow the Rashes.”

  While the others danced, Peter Drummond sidled next to him, hands clasped behind his back, a tentative expression on his face. “If you’ll not think me too bold, Mr. McKie, might I inquire as to Miss Rose McBride’s … er, health? Is she well? Enjoying school?”

  “Aye, she is well.” Jamie smiled when he said it, pleased that not even a slight twinge of jealousy stirred inside him. It seemed his feelings for Rose had faded even as his love for Leana had grown. “My sister-in-law is learning a great deal in Dumfries. I dare say we won’t recognize the girl when she comes home for a visit at week’s end.”

  Peter looked away but not before Jamie noticed the spot of color on his cheeks. “Might there be a time when Rose … uh, that is, Miss McBride … would be at home? A time when I might … ah … call on her? At Auchengray?”

  Jamie studied the lad’s earnest expression. Five years his junior, Peter Drummond was sole heir to an excellent property, as well-dressed and well-mannered a young man as any in the parish. Peter would make a fortunate match for Rose. Particularly after her disastrous blunder with Neil Elliot. Jamie clapped Peter on the shoulder and squeezed hard. “I’m certain a visit can be arranged once Rose arrives home on Friday.”

  When Alan delivered Leana to Jamie’s side a few minutes later, his face was full of apology. “Why did you not warn me of your wife’s skills on the dance floor? I grushed her toes at least once in every chorus.”

  Jamie ordered a maidservant to bring a second tassie of punch. “Your farm and ours share the same march, Alan. I thought surely you’d danced with Leana before.”

  “Oo aye, many a time. But not with her husband laughing at me over his punch cup.”

  “I see.” Jamie winked at Leana, then offered a toast, and the men drank to their mutual good health. “Afore it slips my mind, Alan, the bothy in the glen between Troston and Auchengray needs our attention. Stones that have tumbled loose and all. Might you help me set it to rights when the weather breaks?” Since the bothy stood where the properties met, both landowners were obliged to maintain it. Alan agreed, then tossed down the last of his punch and looked round for another lass to trample in a reel, leaving Jamie and Leana standing out of harm’s way.

  “Rose and I often played in that bothy when we were children.” Leana took a sip from his tassie, then described how the girls had set up housekeeping in the rough stone hut and pretended they were married to shepherds.

  “And now you’re married to a herd who doesn’t even have a bothy of his own to offer you for shelter.”

  Leana smiled up at him, warming him more than the punch ever could. “Your love is all the shelter I need, Jamie.” She fished out the watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened the silver case. “The hour is late, and we’ve another engagement to keep, you and I. Unless you’d rather dance the next jig—”

  “Say no more, lass.” He set down their cups. “I’ll get the chaise.”

  Twenty-Five

  In general, pride is at the bottom of all great mistakes.

  JOHN RUSKIN

  Désolé!” Rose grasped the lace cuff of her gown and wrung it beneath her desk. “I’m sorry, Jane. Truly sorry.”

  From the front of the classroom, the schoolmistress pinned her with a sharp look. “That is quite enough whispering, Miss McBride.”

  Jane did not turn in her seat or acknowledge Rose with other than a slight tilt of her head before looking forward once more, leaving Rose no recourse but to do the same. Och! How could this have happened? Befriended in a day, discarded in an hour. An hour that began as a clandestine errand and ended with Rose in tears, fleeing the Globe Inn before a drop of whisky had been served or a seat taken.

  That fateful Monday evening Jane had followed her out into the frigid evening air, her breath as heated as her words. �
��Rose, how could you be so rude! You greatly offended Mr. Burns and Mr. Waugh.”

  “But they’re married men, Jane!”

  “Naturally,” she’d said, folding her arms across her fur-trimmed cloak. “Unmarried men are to be avoided at all costs.”

  Standing on the flagstones of the High Street, Rose had listened in dismay while Jane expounded on the merits of being seen in public with men who were properly wed rather than with eligible bachelors. “The first may lead to gossip, but the second could lead to the kirk door. And I, for one, am not ready to marry.”

  They’d walked home in chilly silence and parted company as soon as they’d stepped inside Carlyle School. Though they had sat near each other at supper, they did not speak. Though their beds were side by side, not a word was exchanged.

  Now it was Thursday. Lessons were to end at noontide so that each young lady might pack her trunk and prepare for her first weekend at home. Home was the last place Rose wanted to go, not until the breach with Jane was mended. Rose did not regret leaving the Globe Inn, but she did mourn the loss of her friendship with Jane Grierson. Was there no way to restore Jane’s confidence in her? ’Twould be a dreary, lonely spring at Carlyle without shortsome Jane to add color to her days.

  All through their French lesson, Rose’s mind was in a whirl, wondering what novelty might tempt Jane to forgive her. A daring adventure that would prove Rose a worthy companion. An exploration of something unknown to Jane, yet of exceeding interest. And there must be some risk involved. “Dangereux,” Jane would say. Oui. Dangerous.

  Then it came to her. Lillias Brown. Rose almost swept her papers onto the floor in her excitement. Of course! Jane knew half the residents of the shire, but she’d not mentioned crossing paths with a wise woman. Did they dare visit Nethermuir? ’Twas a frightening notion, which made it all the more ideal. Rose jotted a brief note to Jane, pausing until Etta Carlyle had her back to the class before reaching forward and placing the folded paper beside Jane’s hand. Suppose I took you to meet a wutch? Prepare to leave at noon.