Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Jane seemed ready to say something, then pinched her lips and shook her head.

  At that, Lillias turned toward Rose, dismissing Jane as though she no longer existed. “Then ye maun be the one tae tak the feverfew into yer body, Rose. Dinna waste it, for ye’ll sairlie need it as weel.”

  Though she, too, was not suffering from any sickness, Rose stood to do the woman’s bidding, weaving a bit as she bent over the bowl.

  “Closer, lassie.”

  Rose leaned farther down as Lillias laid a thin towel over her head, trapping in the pungent steam. The moist heat felt wonderful, clearing her head of the congestion that had settled there a few hours earlier. The feverfew, whatever it was, smelled musty. Bitter. But not evil. Nothing that felt so divine could be dangerous. When Rose lifted her head a few minutes later, blinking as the cooler air touched her hot cheeks, she smiled and took a deep breath, then coughed.

  “There,” was all Lillias said. “Keep the towel wi’ ye on the ride home. Wrap it round yer neck.” She glanced at the window. “We’ve little time left, Rose, but a bit more tae do. Will ye drink some tea if I brew it?”

  “Aye.” Rose settled onto the stool, eying Jane, who seemed preoccupied studying the laces in her boots. While the widow prepared tea, Rose leaned toward her friend. “Jane,” she said softly, “we’ll drink this tea, and then we’ll hasten home to Dumfries.” When Jane looked up, Rose was struck by a terrible sadness in her friend’s eyes. As though Jane had seen some dreadful thing but could not name it. “Soon, Jane. I promise we’ll leave soon.”

  Jane nodded absently, her gaze wandering to the bones over the wutch’s bed.

  Lillias served only one cup of tea. To Rose. “Drink wi’ haste, while ’tis hot.” The wutch folded her hands, her eyes trained on the cup as Rose brought it to her lips. “Dinna fear what it contains. Naught but black tea, rose hips, and hindberry, though the deer ate most of the last afore I could pick it.”

  Rose nearly burned her lips on the tea, yet felt compelled to drink it. “What is it meant to do?” she asked, wetting her lips to lessen the sting.

  “I’ve already told ye what’s tae come,” Lillias reminded her. “And ye already ken the truth, for the apple spelled his name, and ye’ve seen him in yer glass, and the hazelnuts niver lie.”

  “Jamie,” Rose breathed between sips.

  “Aye.” Lillias consulted the red candle on the mantel. “Yer hour here is nigh tae finished. Have nae worry. I’ll bury the melted wax so the spell will not be broken. Instead ’twill grow like a seed in the earth. I’ve two things ye’ll need to tak wi’ ye.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a blue ribbon from which hung a plain, round stone with a hole through the center. “Since I found it meself, ’twill not have meikle power. Should ye find ane like it by the road, toss this in a loch and wear the new ane round yer neck. Aye? Ye’ll remember?”

  Rose gulped the last of her tea. “I will.”

  “Guid, for ’twill bring ye what ye desire most: a fertile wame.” Lillias removed the ivy, lifting the stiff leaves over Rose’s head. Then she lowered the crude amulet in place. “Keep the stane tucked ’neath yer gown.” She patted the flat stone, smoothed by water, carved by an unseen hand. “ ’Tis best if no one kens what ye’re aboot.”

  “But what am I about?” Rose put aside her cup and stood, anxious to leave. Jane was rather fauchie, and she felt queasy herself.

  “Ye’re aboot tae become a mither. And a wife.”

  Despite her apprehension, Rose giggled. “You mean a wife and then a mother.”

  Lillias said nothing, only reached above her head where dried plants hung from low wooden beams and chose a cluster of pale blossoms. Like Leana, she’d no doubt picked them another season and left them to dry upside down, so the potency remained in the flowers. “Milfoil,” the wise woman explained, holding the plant aright. “Yarrow, if ye like.” She produced a black-handled knife from her pocket and cut off a smaller stem, then pressed the dried flowers into Rose’s hand and closed her eyes. The words she spoke sounded like music. “Say it wi’ me, Rose.”

  I will pluck the yarrow fair,

  That more benign shall be my face,

  That more warm shall be my lips,

  That more chaste shall be my speech.

  “There’s more tae it, but none that ye need. Awa wi’ ye now, for the nicht draws near.”

  Without warning, Jane stood to her feet, tugging her hood over her head. “I’m ready,” she said in a hoarse voice.

  Rose hid the yarrow in a pocket of her cloak, then pulled on her gloves, eager to be off, yet sensing there was more still to be said or done. Some show of gratitude perhaps. “However may I thank you, Lillias?”

  Lillias waved her hand toward the long wooden table where earlier she’d unwrapped the bundles collected at her door. “Leuk what me neighbors have left me. A sack o’ meal. Eggs, butter, rashers o’ bacon. A new wool bonnet. Wax candles by the pound.” Her wrinkled face creased even more when she smiled. “ ’Tis fear, ye ken. They think I’ll ruin their crops or sour their cows’ milk.” Her crooked teeth seemed to grow more yellow. “So then. Have ye brought me a praisent as weel?”

  Chagrined, Rose looked at Jane. She’d used all her own silver for the horses. Might her friend have a single coin to spare? A fancy hairpin she would not miss? Jane, looking dazed, shook her head, and Rose’s heart sank. It was up to her then. When she nervously clasped her hands, the answer presented itself: her gloves. Tearing them off with due haste, she thrust them at Lillias. “My gloves are yours to keep. They’re made of good doeskin and will warm your hands until spring comes to Nethermuir.”

  The wutch took a step backward, her eyes widening. “I’ll not have them.”

  Rose’s feelings were hurt. “Because they belonged to me?”

  “Nae, nae, lassie.” She hesitated, wetting her cracked lips. “Yer gloves have traveled tae a place whaur I durstna go. Ye’ll bring me anither praisent someday, aye?”

  “I will,” Rose promised as sincerely as she could. She pulled her gloves back on, then circled her hand through the crook of Jane’s elbow. “ ’Tis time we were going, dearie.”

  Lillias stood at the door as they left, her face tipped up toward the approaching night. “Darkness waukens the owl,” the old woman said, tapping at her brow. “ ’Tis a guid visit we had, young Rose. Tak care o’ yer friend, for she’ll need yer help afore lang.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Danger past,

  God forgotten.

  SCOTTISH PROVERB

  Rose waved a cautious farewell with one hand as she dragged Jane along the forest path with the other. “Mind the roots, Jane. Are you feeling as feverish as you look, poor girl?”

  “I do feel warm,” she confessed, rubbing her forehead where Lillias had laid her hand. “And strange. Like I’ve awakened from a nap I never meant to take.”

  As the lasses approached their waiting horses, the animals whinnied and shook their shaggy manes. Without a stable lad or a lowpin-on-stane to help them mount, Rose did what she could to help Jane, nearly tossing her friend over the saddle. Rose made very sure Jane’s foot was firmly balanced in the stirrup and her knee well placed round the pommel. Riding sidesaddle was an art and Jane a master. But not this day when her legs seemed to be made of pudding. If she did have a rising fever, then the sooner they returned to Dumfries, the better. The Griersons would collect Jane in the morning and see her well cared for, though a good night’s sleep might be all that was required. Jane was healthier than the horse she was riding. ’Twould take more than an outing on a bitterly cold day to stop so valiant a heart.

  Rose found a sturdy tree stump and was soon seated on her gelding as well. Guiding the horse to Jane’s side, Rose was relieved to find her friend rallying a bit. Jane’s eyes were fully open, and she was sitting up straighter. “Shall we make for the road to Dumfries, Jane?”

  “Aye,” was all she said, though a faint smil
e crossed her lips.

  Retracing their steps was easy at first. The watery shore of Craigend offered a natural pathway to follow and only a scattering of fallen trees to slow them. Once the girls entered the murky forest, however, rotting logs and thorny shrubs seemed to lie in wait at each curve of the icy burn, putting horses and riders on edge, making them both skittish and uncertain. “Careful!” Rose said, hearing the gelding behind her stumble.

  “Not to worry,” Jane said, her voice a bit stronger. “Carry on, Rose.”

  “ ’twill not be long until we reach the main road, and then we’ll ride like the wind.” Instead the wind rode them. Blowing down hard from the Lowther Hills, a wintry blast bade them a harsh greeting as the two lasses turned onto the road bearing northeast, leading to Dumfries. Thick clouds, heavy with rain since morning, at last released their burden. As the first cold drops began to fall, Rose shook her fist at the sky, taking the heavens to task. “Och! Could you not wait until we were safe in our beds?”

  Darkness soon fell, and so did a blinding rain. Riding side by side, if only to stay in sight of each other, Rose and Jane pressed their horses into a swift gallop. Hooded wool cloaks served them well against the cold but not against the rain, which crept between the folds of fabric and nestled like icy fingers along their throats, leaving them cold and wet. Rose touched a gloved hand to the linen towel wrapped round her neck. The cloth, heated by her skin, still smelled of feverfew. ’Twas good the wise woman had refused her gloves; clutching the reins, Rose could not imagine facing such fierce weather with her hands bared to the elements. “Bethankit!” she whispered, praying that Almighty God would still listen to her prayers.

  “Rose!” Jane called into the wind. “Can you see the road?”

  “Nae!” she cried. “Pray the geldings find the way.” Guided by instinct and the sound of gravel beneath their hooves, the horses avoided the shallow ditches and moved on at a steady pace. By the time Rose and Jane reached the first cottage of Brigend, the wind and rain had both eased considerably, but the cold and damp had not. Rose could not feel her foot in the stirrup, and her hands held the reins with a painful grip. But she dared not stop; she dared not tarry. A storm had kept her from going home once before. Never again.

  All through the village stretched rows of crooked windows lit by candles and hearth fires. “Should we find shelter?” Jane’s voice sounded hoarse again and desperately tired.

  Much as it grieved her, Rose shook her head. “We’re almost there. The stables are just over the bridge, remember?” As the Midsteeple bell chimed the hour of five the girls crossed the red sandstone arches into Dumfries, their horses eager to get to their oats.

  ’Twas the stable master himself, a round hillock of a man, who came marching out of his hovel to greet them. He grabbed the reins of both horses at once. “Whatsomever are ye doin’, lassies, ridin’ in this frichtsome weather? I thocht tae niver see the horses again!”

  Rose dismounted, wincing when her frozen feet landed hard on the muddy ground. “We had little choice, I’m afraid. I gave all the silver in my purse to the lad who works for you and promised him we’d return by five o’ the clock.”

  “Och!” He exhaled loudly, filling the air with steam. “I’d not have charged ye mair if ye’d stopped along the way.” The man helped Jane down, eying her with obvious concern. “As tae the stable lad, I sent him hame wi’ an ugsome cough.”

  “He did sound rather poorly,” Rose agreed, feeling sorrier than ever for the child.

  “Aye, barkin’ like a chicken wi’ the pip.” The man slapped his bare hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “If ye’ll not be needin’ oniething else, ladies, I’ve horses tae feed and a family of me ain tae see aboot.” He led the geldings in the direction of their stalls as Rose took Jane’s arm and steered her toward the High Street.

  Nigh to running, Rose and Jane made their way to Carlyle School, avoiding the shadowy vennels until they reached the one marked Millbrae. Rose paused to catch her breath and say what needed to be said before they reached the door. “I’m sorry, Jane.” She could not even meet her gaze. “ ’Twas a foolhardy notion. A wutch’s cottage! Whatever was I thinking?”

  “You were thinking it would be novel. And dangerous,” Jane said between gasps for air. “And it was.”

  “Too much so.”

  “Nae.” Jane tugged affectionately on her cloak. “ ’Twas grand. You promised me an adventure, Rose McBride.”

  “Aye!” She laughed, her relief so complete she nearly collapsed on the steps outside Carlyle. “You were just so … so quiet at Nethermuir.”

  Jane tarried on the bottom step. “I’ll not lie to you, Rose. I grew feverish for a time and did not feel at all myself.” She cleared her throat, then swallowed, wincing as though it hurt. “But fresh clothes and a warm bed will set me to rights. See if they don’t.”

  Rose slipped the linen cloth from round her neck and offered it to Jane. “There might be a hint of feverfew left.”

  Jane laughed. No sound could have pleased Rose more. “Nae, lass. The wutch’s herbs and spells are for you alone.” She reached up to tap on the door. “You let me spin the story of our day at Aunt Catherine’s in Lochrutton, aye? About the salmon we had for dinner and the honey cakes we had with tea and how my auntie is embroidering me a scarf and what the doctor told her yestreen.”

  “Oo aye!” Rose nodded emphatically. “ ’Tis all yours to tell.”

  When Mistress Carlyle opened the door at their knock and found them standing there, exhausted and soaked through, not a word was said about their late arrival or about their disheveled appearance. “I have done nothing but pray since the first drops landed on our window sill,” the schoolmistress confessed. “We shall see to hot baths, then supper, then bed.” Escorting them both up the stair, past a dining room filled with their saucer-eyed schoolmates, Etta the Grim was in her element, ordering about her small household staff, opening the girls’ well-packed trunks to find gowns that, if not fresh, were at least dry.

  “See that your hair is well rubbed with a towel,” the schoolmistress cautioned, as servants gingerly carried two large bowls of steaming water into the sleeping room. “We cannot be too careful in winter. Mary Carruthers is still in bed with a fever, you know.” She handed the girls clean linens and did her best to appear compassionate. “I’d hate to see two of my brightest pupils spend the rest of the school year beneath their bedcovers.”

  “Yes, mem,” Jane agreed, though Rose detected a thread of sarcasm in her voice. “That would be most unfortunate.”

  Mistress Carlyle, it seemed, heard something else. “Your throat sounds hoarse, Jane. Are you feeling quite well?”

  “Yes, mem, I’m—”

  “Come, come, I’ve the very thing for it. A simple herbal remedy. You’ve only to lean over a bowl of hot water and draw it into your lungs.”

  “Really?” Jane looked at Rose, who looked at the floor and bit her lip so hard it bled. “I don’t think I’ll be needing that,” Jane murmured, “but thank you.”

  The minute the woman left, the lasses fell onto their beds and buried their faces in their pillows, laughing. It had been a very long day; Rose could not think of a more fitting end.

  Friday morning dawned with a touch of pale blue behind thin clouds and no hint of rain. “The temperature rose overnight,” Mistress Carlyle explained to the whole school over breakfast. “ ’Tis an answer to prayer, of course, for you all have journeys to make.”

  She consulted a list in her pocket, slipping on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles to read her notes aloud. “Miss Balfour will be some time reaching Moffat and so will not return to us until Tuesday. Miss Johnstone will spend a good part of this day reaching Ruthwell, though I’m pleased to say we’ll see her Monday afternoon along with the rest of you. Miss Herries will be enjoying an early dinner today in Torthorwald, while Miss Grierson and Miss McBride will still be in their carriages, traveling in opposite directions. Thou
gh very much the same distance, I should think. Nine miles to each of your doorsteps, isn’t it ladies?”

  “Yes, mem,” Rose and Jane said in unison, then winked at each other, unseen by the headmistress, who still had her nose buried in the handwritten list.

  When Willie arrived to escort her home, Rose said good-bye to Jane in the parlor, grateful her friend did not spy the common chaise at the foot of the vennel. Next to the Griersons’ ebony coach-and-four, the two-wheeled carriage from Auchengray was a sorry conveyance. “ ’Tis only three days, Jane, but it feels like ’twill be a lifetime until I see you again.”

  “You are a silly girl, Rose McBride.” Jane grasped her hands and squeezed tight, blinking hard. “I will be here Monday, and so will you.”

  Rose lowered her voice and tried hard to sound stern. “And you’ll keep your head dry and your lungs moist?”

  “Yes, mem. Round the clock.” Jane tipped her head, a wistful expression on her face. “I’m glad to have met you, Rose. What you did yestreen was very brave, and all because you wanted us to be friends again.”

  “Aye.” Rose dropped her chin. “Though it nearly turned out quite the opposite.”

  “That’s not so.” Jane pressed her cheek to Rose’s and whispered in her ear, “Nous serons toujours amies. We will be friends always.” They stood very still for a moment before stepping apart, both of them smiling through their tears. Jane touched a sleeve to the corner of her eye. “Wait until Mr. James McKie sees what a month of polishing and refinement has done for his fair, young Rose.”

  Rose turned toward the looking glass hanging near the door for a swift appraisal. “Do you think Jamie will notice a difference?”

  Jane’s laugh was low and raspy. “The man will be hard pressed to notice anything else.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Be to her virtues very kind;

  Be to her faults a little blind.

  MATTHEW PRIOR

  Jamie, she’s here.”

  He looked up from his reading to find Leana standing in their bedroom doorway, her hands clutching her skirts. The note of distress in her voice was unmistakable. He rose and joined her at once, Gulliver’s Travels forgotten. “Come, we’ll greet your sister together.” Taking her hand in his, he led her into the hall, keeping his voice down. “You have no need for concern, Leana. ’Tis you whom I married. Remember that.”