Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Rose’s musical laughter carried through the house. They soon found her in the front parlor. At first Jamie could see only the feathers of her high-crowned bonnet encircled by various members of the household, all crowding round her, welcoming her as though she’d been gone twelve months instead of one.

  “Jamie!” Rose spun toward him, giving him her complete attention. She swept the servants aside and curtsied, bending to the floor like a seasoned courtier. “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  Hiding his amusement, Jamie matched his bow to hers, brushing his hand across the carpet. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Pourrais-je vous présenter ma femme, Léana.”

  Rose smiled and glided toward them. “I know your wife very well.” She embraced Leana briefly, as one might greet a neighbor, not a sister. “Enchantée.”

  “Whatever are you two saying?” Leana scolded them, smiling. “You’ll have us all scratching our heads.”

  Rose stepped back, folding her hands at her waist. “Fear not, Leana. Naught but ‘good afternoon’ and ‘may I present my wife.’ Phrases one learns in a first lesson. Within minutes I will have exhausted my entire French vocabulary, ’Tis so meager.”

  “Nae, ’Tis impressive,” Leana said smoothly. If she felt overshadowed by her sister, neither her manner nor tone revealed it.

  Jamie marveled at them both. If only he and his brother, Evan, could have behaved so civilly. Seldom were the men in the same room without jabbing at each other with sharp words, if not swords. Though by the time Jamie had fled from Glentrool, Evan had good cause for his anger: With their mother’s help, Jamie had tricked their father into giving him Evan’s inheritance. Little wonder Rowena McKie didn’t urge her younger son to return to Glentrool just yet. Soon, Mother.

  “I was told dinner will be served shortly.” Rose waved toward the stair, her hand mimicking a swallow in flight. “If I might take a moment to attend to my toilette before I greet Father.”

  “Of course.” Leana stepped aside as her sister swept past her. “Jamie, I must see to Ian’s dinner before our own.”

  He turned and met his wife’s troubled gaze, chastising himself for watching Rose even for a moment. “Your sister is home for three short days,” he reminded her. “I intend to stay busy and out of harm’s way. By Monday afternoon life at Auchengray will be as it was before your sister waltzed through the door.”

  Leana’s voice fell to a whisper. “I will try not to count the hours.”

  Jamie circled his arms round her and held her for a moment. “You worry too much, lass. She is still a child, nine years my junior. More polished, aye, and armed with a few social graces. But Rose is not the woman I married, nor is she the mother of my son. You are both those and loved besides.” He kissed her brow. “Off you go to feed that ravenous offspring of ours. I’ll be waiting for you at table.”

  He’d forgotten how much attention Rose required; the dinner hour soon reminded him. She kept up a steady narrative of events from the last four weeks, not seeming to notice her father’s glowering expression. Lachlan McBride preferred to eat in silence, a practice Rose disregarded as she skipped from one tale to the next like a child eager to show off her birthday presents. Jane Grierson, an older girl she’d mentioned in her last letter, figured prominently in the various stories, though Jamie sensed there was more to be told than Rose was willing to share.

  “So, Jamie.” She fixed her gaze on him. “What have you been doing all month?”

  He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Mending the dry stane dykes. Tending the ewes. Loving my wife.” He had meant to surprise her; the look on her face told him he’d succeeded. “Leana and I spent a midwinter’s eve at Glensone.” Jamie smiled at Leana, making sure his love for her was evident and undeniable. When he turned back to Rose, he recomposed his features into a bland mask. “Peter Drummond inquired about you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Peter?”

  Jamie looked toward the head of the table, ignoring her response. “What say you, Uncle, to a visit from our neighbor, young Mr. Drummond? We discussed Saturday at four o’ the clock when he and I last spoke.”

  “Och!” Lachlan spat out the word. “ ’Tis a fine time to include the girl’s father in such a discussion. Drummond should have come to me first.”

  “Aye,” Jamie agreed, “Peter ought to have done that verra thing. ’Twas a request made in passing. He meant no disrespect.” Jamie watched his words bank the heated coals of the man’s ire. Rose might not be so easily appeased.

  As expected, she cornered him in the hall after the final grace was spoken over the meat. The girl was flushed, almost feverish, and her tongue was sharp. “Jamie, what swickerie is this, pairing me with Peter Drummond?”

  “The pairing is not mine,” he said evenly. “Peter merely asked if he might call on you. You’d be wise to see what the lad has to offer, Rose.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I have no wish to be Peter’s wife.”

  “Then choose another, Rose, for I am blithely wed.” Instinctively he stepped back. “See that you treat Drummond with the respect he deserves. I’ll not stand by and watch another neighbor humiliated.”

  He left her there alone in the hall while he sought the quiet sanctuary of the byre. Though she was still as bonny as ever, Rose had changed. And so, please God, had he.

  When light appeared in the eastern sky Saturday morning, Jamie was already busy in the farm steading cleaning his shears. Work—hard, grimy labor—would keep his family foremost in his thoughts and Rose far from his side.

  Dinner came and went without him, though his absence was noted. Duncan came looking for him in the barn. “Ye were missed at table,” he said, kicking the mud off his boots.

  Jamie dragged an oil-soaked rag across the blades. “Not hungry.”

  Duncan grunted. “ ’Tis three o’ the clock, lad. Have ye not invited Peter Drummond tae pay a call on Rose?”

  “The lad invited himself. Anyway, my uncle can handle things.”

  Duncan folded his arms across his chest. “Lachlan McBride is not the one wha bade him come.”

  “Speak plainly, man.” Jamie tossed aside the shears. “You’re here for a reason, and it’s not Peter Drummond.”

  “Nae.” A grin stretched across Duncan’s face. “I niver can swick ye, Jamie. ’Tis aboot Rose.”

  Jamie shook his head. Rose, always Rose. “I suppose she sent you to find me.”

  “She did not.” His smile faded. “My faither once said if the de’il finds an idle man, he sets him tae work.” Duncan stared at the freshly sharpened shears, the neat stacks of grain, letting the words sink in. “I’m here because a married man skipped a meal tae avoid a maid.”

  Heat climbed up Jamie’s neck. “And?”

  “Ye ken what the Buik says: ‘Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.’ Are ye prayin’, Jamie? Because ye can be verra sure that I am. There’s meikle at stake here—”

  “I ken what’s at stake!” Jamie snapped, irritated at Duncan’s suggestion. “You’ve seen how it is with Leana and me. There’s no need to fear I’ll go chasing after Rose McBride again.”

  Duncan clapped his hand on Jamie’s shoulder; his fierce gaze fixed on him as well. “Glad tae hear ye say it, lad. Come make Drummond feel welcome then. Offer yer blissin on their courtin’. Let Rose see ye happy for her.” He lowered his voice but not his conviction. “ ’Tis time Rose got on wi’ her life and ye wi’ yers.”

  “You’ll get no argle-bargle from me on that.” Jamie rubbed his hand across his beard. “If I’m to greet Mr. Drummond at four, tell Hugh I’ll need his razor.”

  “Done.” Duncan released his grip with a smile of satisfaction, then headed toward the mains.

  Mindful of the hour, Jamie quickly finished cleaning the last of his shears. The tools wouldn’t be needed until June, but once the lambing started in late March, there’d be no time for such chores. By the time Jamie reached the house, Hugh was waiting for him in his bedroom.
So was Leana.

  She drew him aside while Hugh sharpened his razor on a strop. “Jamie, I’m not certain Rose should see Mr. Drummond today.”

  He groaned. “Don’t tell me the lass has refused him already.”

  “Jamie, the problem is not Peter. ’Tis Rose. She’s not looking well. If you’d joined us for dinner earlier, you’d have discovered that for yourself.”

  A female voice floated in from the hall. “Discovered what?”

  They both turned to find Rose standing outside the doorway, looking a bit unsteady on her feet. Leana clasped her sister’s hand and eased her into the room. “Discovered you, dearie. How tired you look. Feverish.” With her free hand, Leana touched Rose’s forehead. “Ah. Warm but not hot.”

  “Nothing to worry about then.” Rose smiled, though not with her whole face. “I … we missed you at dinner, Jamie.”

  His shoulders sank. “Clearly I cannot miss a meal in this house again, or I’ll ne’er hear the end of it. Forgive me, ladies. As Duncan would say, I have meikle to do and few to do for me.” Pausing to study Rose’s face, he noticed the faint smudges beneath her eyes. She did look tired. “Suppose I tell Mr. Drummond to come calling another day. Would that suit you, lass?”

  She exhaled, and a genuine smile decorated her face. “ ’twould be ferlie. You’re so kind, Jamie.”

  Kind. Kindness had nothing to do with it. He was being selfish, not sensitive, for he wanted Drummond to see Rose at her best and proceed with his suit.

  Leana circled her arm round Rose’s waist. “Suppose I take Rose down to the kitchen for a cup of tea with honey. ’Twould help her throat.”

  The women had no sooner started down the hall when Hugh cleared his throat behind him. “Will ye be needin’ yer shave, sir?”

  Jamie turned to find Hugh holding a steaming towel in one hand, a gleaming razor in the other. “Foolish of me to waste the hot water. By all means, man, do your duty.” Grateful for the servant’s ministrations and a few minutes of uncluttered thought, Jamie sank into the chair and tipped his head back, exhausted.

  Leana found him that way an hour later and woke him with an unhurried kiss on each smooth cheek. “Poor man,” she said affectionately, running her fingers through his unbound hair. “Hugh said you fell asleep like a taper that’s been snuffed out.”

  Jamie sat up, groggy and disoriented, rubbing the stiffness in his neck. The room was shrouded in darkness, with only a flickering candle to light their faces. “Whatever can the time be?”

  “ ’Tis nearing the supper hour.”

  “Och! What of Peter Drummond?”

  “Come and gone. Father explained that Rose was too ill to see visitors today. She’s taken to her bed.”

  Jamie straightened, suddenly alert. “Is she worse then?”

  “Aye.” Leana’s pale eyes shone in the candlelight. “She says her throat aches too much to think of eating supper. I’m hardly a doctor, but the glands along her neck feel swollen.”

  A sense of urgency launched him to his feet. “Should I ride to Dumfries for a surgeon?”

  “Goodness, Jamie! ’Tis not so bad as that. Naught but the common cold, though you can be certain I’ll watch her carefully.”

  He began to pace the floor. “Was it the carriage ride home, do you suppose? The weather has been dreadful all week. Was she out of doors at all?”

  “Calm yourself.” Leana caught his elbow. “Rose hasn’t mentioned any particular reason why she might be sick, though she says not to worry. Come look for yourself.” Leana led him down the hall to the room she and Rose had once shared and tapped on the door. “May we come in, dearie?”

  A single candle stood by the box bed, where Rose sat propped up with pillows. Her cheeks looked flushed but no pinker than if she’d skipped across the orchard. Relieved, Jamie smiled.

  “Do you always greet sick people with such a jolly face?” Her voice sounded thin with a worrisome rasp.

  “Better a smile than a frown,” he said lightly, clasping his hands behind his back lest he touch her by mistake. He couldn’t recall ever seeing Rose so quiet, so subdued. Her newfound confidence was nowhere to be seen.

  Leana smoothed a hand across her bedcovers. “It seems your last two days at home may be spent in this room, Rose.”

  “Aye,” she said, falling back against her pillows. “It does.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapped in damp.

  DAVID GRAY

  Och!” Neda flapped her dishtowel in the direction of the kitchen window. “Have ye ever seen sae weatherful a Sabbath?”

  Leana nodded absently, preparing a tray of tea and porridge to take up to Rose’s room. The servants were busy assembling in the hall for her father’s stamp of approval before leaving for the kirk. Rain, snow, or sun, Lachlan McBride made certain every member of his household was dressed and shod for services. They might go barefoot any other day of the week, but not Sunday.

  “Rose didn’t sleep well last night,” Leana said, covering the steaming teacup with a saucer. “With the rain falling so hard, she ought to stay home from services. I’ll care for her, of course.”

  Neda arched a sparse eyebrow. “D’ye think ye should? Yer hands are fu’ enough nursin’ Ian.”

  “I expect my sister to sleep most of the day, as I’ve a tincture of chamomile to give her. We’ll manage.” She gingerly picked up the tray and headed for the stair, climbing one stone step at a time. However did Eliza fly up and down the stair without spilling a drop? When she glanced up, Jamie stood at the threshold, watching her with obvious amusement.

  “You’ll not think me so knackie if I drop this on your foot, James McKie.”

  He chuckled, stepping back to let her pass. “Your sister is fortunate to have so talented a nurse.”

  Leana paused at Rose’s door. “My skills are limited to what I plucked from my garden last season. Still, I’ll do what I can to make her comfortable.” She stared at the wood panels of the door. “Pray for the lass, for I fear she had a restless night.”

  “As did you,” he said, compassion in his eyes. “I felt you climb out of our bed several times.”

  “Forgive me for waking you, Jamie.” She dipped her chin, careful not to spill her tray. “I am, after all, a mother. ’Tis my task in life to worry.” Offering him a trace of a smile, she leaned on the door, easing it open. “Do you want to see Rose?”

  “I’ve seen you, Leana.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “That’s all that matters.”

  She watched him slip down the stair to join the others, enjoying the bounce to his step and the broad line of his shoulders. She had never imagined such a day, but it was here: She not only loved Jamie with her whole heart; she trusted him. Even with Rose.

  Reminded of her duties, Leana pushed the door open further and entered the darkened bedroom. Her sister was blessedly asleep, though Rose’s breathing sounded congested, and her bedcovers were in a heap. Leana put the tray aside and parted the curtains so she might see to work. Rain fell in sheets against the windowpanes. A good day for sleeping, but the cold and damp did not bode well for healing. Leana folded Rose’s blankets down to the end of the bed, then tucked the pillows in place and brushed the back of her hand against her sister’s forehead. Fever was the greatest concern. Earlier that morning Annabel had carried up a pitcher of fresh, tepid water, ready for Leana to wipe across Rose’s brow if required. One touch to her hot skin, and it was clear the water would be put to use.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Rose.” When she lay the damp cloth across the girl’s brow, her patient didn’t stir. Alarmed, Leana pressed her fingers against her sister’s neck, seeking a heartbeat. There now. She heaved a sigh of relief and turned the cloth over, pressing it against Rose’s forehead, then her cheeks, then her cracked, dry lips. Gingerly pulling open the neckline of her sister’s nightgown, Leana was surprised to find a long, blue ribbon hanging about her neck. Tuggin
g on the ribbon brought forth a stone, as plain and ugly as some discarded rock one might find along the road. The smooth hole through the center was its one distinction. Heated by Rose’s skin, it lay in Leana’s palm like a living thing. Anxious to be rid of it, Leana lifted Rose’s head with one hand and eased the necklace over it with the other, taking care not to tangle the ribbon in her loose, fever-dampened hair.

  The moment Rose’s head touched the pillows again the girl opened her eyes. “Leana, please.” Her voice was hoarse, strained. “Don’t.”

  Leana’s first instinct was to hide the beribboned stone beneath her apron, until she heard Neda’s voice whispering in her head, “Whaur there are suspicions there is nae love.” So she confessed the truth to Rose, holding up the necklace. “I did not like the look of this, dearie. And I feared I might ruin the ribbon with my damp cloth.” She placed the stone inside the table drawer, longing to ask what it signified, where it came from. Not from any jeweler in Dumfries, of that she was certain. Perhaps her new acquaintance at school had presented Rose with the stone as a token of their friendship. “Is the necklace from Jane?”

  “Jane!” Rose’s eyes widened. “Is she here? Is she well?”

  Here? Leana freshened the cloth across her sister’s brow. Poor girl! Perhaps the fever was worse than she’d realized. “I’m afraid I don’t ken what you mean, Rose.” She kept her voice calm, her touch soothing. “Are you talking about your friend from school?”

  “Sick,” she murmured, her gaze blank. “Fever.”

  “I ken you’re sick.” Leana patted her hand. “And you do have a fever.” She rolled up the sleeves of Rose’s nightgown and inched the hem up to her knees. “You might shiver a bittie, but I’m going to keep your heavy blankets off and let your body cool on its own.” No apothecary had taught her this; she had learned it quite by accident three Novembers past while caring for Janet Crosbie, a childhood friend suffering from pneumonia. Janet, too, had kicked off her many covers, and as a result her temperature had started to drop. Until an irate Mistress Bell, the wife of a local bonnet laird who fancied herself an expert on such matters, had insisted the girl be covered chin to toe in one thick plaid after another. Janet Crosbie was dead by morning.