He shifted in his chair, the silver threads in his hair catching the hearth light. “But I’ve paid for the full term. Through Whitsuntide.”
“ ’twill be a week, perhaps two, and she will be ready to resume her studies. Rose is doing quite well, with her French especially.”
Lachlan McBride snorted. “Sans valeur. Worthless. Unless your sister imagines herself an aide to the Comte de Mirabeau.” He sipped his whisky in silence, though she noted the smile playing about his lips. “ ’Tis amusing to think of your sister in Paris, fending off the mobs, going without meat or bread, when she cannot manage a day without sweets.”
Leana tipped her head in acknowledgment. She knew about the revolution in France, of course—’twas the favored topic of discussion from kirkyard to drawing room—but caring for Ian had taken precedence over foreign politics. Perhaps when she and Jamie reached Glentrool, she might have more time for keeping up with such news. “What say you, Father? May we care for Rose under our roof until she is truly well?”
“Aye, if you must. Though I’ll expect some reduction in her tuition if she misses more than a few days.”
Leana looked down at the letters in her hands, wondering how to proceed. At Rose’s request, she’d added a postscript to the one for Mistress Carlyle: Enclosed you will find your Candlemas Bleeze, with our family’s compliments. Now she must make good that promise. Few things in life were more daunting than asking Lachlan McBride to part with silver. “Father, since the morn is Candlemas, ’tis appropriate that we send a … a small donation for Mistress Carlyle. Tradition, you ken.”
He abruptly stood. “My own daughter,” he growled, “telling me what’s to be done on a festival day.” Yanking his thrifite from the broad shelf above his desk, he unlocked the wooden lid and threw it back on its hinges with a thud.
From where Leana sat, the box looked quite full. Colorful Scottish guinea notes and coins in all sizes—copper and silver—nearly spilled over the edge. Stretched across her father’s fortune lay a thick, gold cord tied with knots. Had it always been there?
“Send the woman this.” He drew out two shillings and tossed them into her lap, closing his money box as quickly as he’d opened it.
“Very well, Father.” Leana held the coins in her palm, warming them. A shamefully small gift. She was glad Rose did not have to present it to her schoolmistress in person. “I’ll ask Willie to deliver it for us with a letter.” She would not mention that it was already written, lest her father accuse her of scheming behind his back.
Lachlan motioned toward the door, the corners of his mouth turned down. “See if Willie cannot take some of those wastrels with him, before they demand to join us at our dinner table.”
She kept her tone even and her voice soft. “Father, they’re our neighbors, our parish friends. They’ll think well of Auchengray and of you if you simply bid them welcome. Thank them for their concern. Urge them to visit another day perhaps, when Rose is better. ’Twould only take a bittie of your time.”
He flung open the door without comment and strode into the dining room, waving his arms expansively and greeting their visitors with such a lairdly air that all felt they were standing, not in the mains of Auchengray, but in the gilded rooms of Maxwell Park itself. His smooth words masked the fork in his tongue that prodded them out the door. Within minutes they’d all departed, congratulating themselves for having such a fine neighbor.
Leana, watching from the spence door, was nigh to speechless at his performance. “Father, you amaze me.”
He brushed past her, a self-satisfied expression on his face. “ ’Tis a matter of giving folk what they want. Recognition. Some acknowledgment of their existence. A nod to their sense of importance, however poorly deserved.” He busied himself at his desk, straightening papers that were already neatly in place. “People are made happy by the smallest things, Leana. Take you, for example.”
“Me?” She touched her hand to her heart. “What small things make me happy, Father?”
“Ian, for one. Jamie’s love, for another.”
Leana bowed her head, disconcerted that he would speak of so personal a matter. “My husband’s affection is not a small thing.”
“Heaven knows you’ve waited long enough for it. Maybe now you see the wisdom in all that I did for you, Leana.”
Her head slowly rose. “All that you did?”
“Meeting with the kirk session after your wedding. Seeing that the record was altered so you were marked as Jamie’s bride and not as an ill-deedie woman.”
Leana opened her mouth to object, then shut it tight. ’Twas not fair to call her wicked. But ’twas more than right to call her a sinner. Even so her sin was forgiven and forgotten, for the Buik said God was faithful to forgive sins and to cleanse his people from their unrighteousness. Aye, she was scrubbed clean in the eyes of God. But in the eyes of her father, she would never be clean enough.
“I’m grateful for what you did.” And she was appreciative, hard as it was to confess. Lachlan’s efforts had proclaimed Jamie her true husband and she his true bride, to the satisfaction of both kirk and village. “Father, I pray you are thankful as well for a healthy grandson worthy to be called your heir.”
“My heir,” her father repeated, his voice flat. “So you say.” He waved his hand toward the door, dismissing her. “See that Rose’s Candlemas offering is delivered at once. And make certain Willie understands that two shillings are to be placed in Mistress Carlyle’s hand. The woman is as greedy as she is genteel and will want them both.” As Leana departed, he called after her, “You can be sure those coins will line her own pocket and not the candle maker’s. Isn’t that so, Daughter?”
What had he said earlier? ’Tis a matter of giving folk what they want. She heeded the man’s advice as she closed the door behind her. “I’m sure you’re right, Father. You always are.”
Candlemas Day dawned anything but dry and fair. Rain fell in sheets on the already saturated earth, swelling the burns to torrents and turning the parish roads into rivers of mud. No visitors braved the elements, not even Reverend Gordon. The household took turns maintaining a sickbed vigil, offering comfort and prayers but mostly wringing their hands.
Though Rose’s fever had abated slightly, her cough had grown worse. She seemed to choke on her own phlegm at times and had begun to drool, though Leana made certain she was kept clean and presentable. “Poor dearie.” She dabbed a cloth at the corners of her sister’s chapped mouth. One minute Rose struggled to take a deep breath; the next her breathing became shallow and rapid. She was losing weight too, for her collarbones poked through her nightgown, and her once rosy cheeks were sunken and colorless.
Leana grew more fearful by the hour. As she sat nursing Ian in his cheerful little room, she bit her lip to hold the tears at bay. Almighty God, whatever am I to do? She searched her heart and mind for some neglected remedy. Warm air and bright sunshine were not to be had in Galloway for many months. Rose needed to exercise her lungs, but her coughing spasms were painful to see and worse to hear.
She prayed that Reverend Gordon would find his way to their door come the morn. Across Scotland’s parishes, the ministers were often the most educated among their flocks and so did what they could to offer medical advice when needed. Doctors, a rarity in the countryside, were reserved for dire situations. Her father would object to the expense, and she’d disagree with a surgeon’s intrusive methods. Perhaps Rose would improve with another night’s sleep. Or the minister might come bearing news of a certain cure.
She was seated in the nursery, touching a handkerchief to her nose, when Jamie came looking for her. Her anxious thoughts must have been stamped on her features. “Leana, would you like me to ride to the village and bring Reverend Gordon back with me?”
“Oh, Jamie, I would, but …” Her shoulders sank, listening to the rain thrashing the windowpanes in the hall. “ ’Tis too dreich a day for man or beast. I fear you might find yourself in a
sickbed as well.”
“While we are speaking of such things …” He paused and bent to kiss her, then planted a tender kiss on their son’s head as well. “ ’Tis you I worry about. Tending to Rose round the clock, then tending to Ian. We might all of us contract this terrible disease, whatever it is. I care not for myself, but I care very much for you and for my son.” Jamie pretended to look stern, though his eyes gave him away; he was afraid, just as she was. “Promise me you’ll let the others help nurse her back to health. Please, Leana? For my sake? For Ian’s?”
She could not resist teasing him a little. “Would you miss me? If I died, if I were no longer your wife? Would you not simply find another?”
Jamie bent his knees, lowering himself until they were eye to eye. Now with his jaw firmly set, he did look stern. And very dear. “I could never find another wife like you, Leana. Nor do I care to try.” He leaned forward to kiss her once more, lingering a moment before he rocked back on his haunches, then stood. “Our shepherds say the skies will clear tomorrow. They’re seldom wrong about such things. Better weather will bring the reverend and perhaps a respite for Rose.”
Brighter skies and Reverend Gordon both appeared soon after Wednesday’s breakfast. The laird of Auchengray was already bound for Edingham when Leana escorted the minister to Rose’s bedside. Jamie stood, offering the minister his chair, then joined Leana in the doorway.
She clasped her husband’s hand, needing his strength. “We’re grateful you’ve come, Reverend Gordon.” She resisted the temptation to add, “finally.” The minister was a busy man with many souls to attend—some two hundred in the village, another four hundred in the countryside. “Our Rose is not well.” Leana looked across the room at her sleeping sister, her heart as swollen with love as the streams were with water. “See for yourself, sir.”
Reverend Gordon drew near. Though his brown hair had given way to silver sometime ago, his thick eyebrows retained their color, drawing two dark slashes across his visage. The minister punctuated his sermons with his bushy brows, knitting them together through sobering passages and lifting them heavenward when he delivered a surprising word of grace. At the moment his forehead was creased with worry as he bent toward the box bed, brushing aside the curtains to get a better look. He touched Rose’s forehead, then pressed his fingers to either side of her neck. “Worse than I’d expected. Some malady of the lungs and throat. More pernicious than the common cold, I can assure you of that.” He let the curtain drop into place with obvious reluctance. “ ’Tis the sound of her breathing that concerns me most. What have you given her to relieve the congestion?”
Leana outlined the numerous herbal remedies she’d cautiously administered—chamomile to help Rose sleep, wild cherry to suppress her cough, goldenrod and elder for excessive phlegm, mugwort for fever. Each of them was greeted with a grunt of approval.
“You’ve done well, Mistress McKie.” From beneath his coat the minister produced a worn copy of Primitive Physic, or an Easy and Natural Method of Curing Most Diseases. “I brought this, thinking it might be of some use to you.” He then held up a leather pouch the size and color of a hedgehog. “And this I found on your doorstep. Perhaps you’ll recognize the contents.”
“Bless you, sir.” She tucked the book under her arm, curious to discover what the pouch might contain. Sliding a finger between the leather pulls to open it, she bent to take a whiff, then jerked back, eyes watering. “Och! Feverfew.” She sniffed it again, to be certain, then pulled the pouch strings taut. “A more bitter herb you’ll not find, though it has many good uses. In truth, I should have thought of it myself. You’ve seen it in my garden, Jamie. Feathery stems with tiny yellow and white flowerets, like wee daisies.”
“If you say so, Leana.” He eyed the mysterious bundle. “But this pouch is not from your garden. From whose then?”
The three exchanged glances, though no one offered an answer. Finally Leana said, “I can only assume it was a thoughtful neighbor, someone who saw Rose’s condition on Monday and thought feverfew might help her coughing. Which it very well might.” She stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve an inhalation to prepare.”
When Leana turned toward the stair, Reverend Gordon snagged her sleeve. “Tarry a moment, lass.” He inclined his head down the hall. “Is there somewhere I might speak with Jamie in private? An empty room perhaps?”
Leana heard two words—Jamie and private—and her nerves stood on edge. Had her good husband done something wrong? Had she? A quick look at Jamie’s face assured her that he, too, was taken by surprise. “If it’s not too small, the nursery is empty.” She gestured toward the adjacent door. “Neda is busy feeding Ian in the kitchen. You’ll have the room to yourselves.”
“Fine.” The minister steered Jamie past her, no longer meeting her gaze. As she started down the stair, she heard him explain to Jamie, “Inquiring after Rose’s health is not the only task that brings me to Auchengray. I also carry news of a rather unfortunate oversight that requires your attention.”
“What oversight?” Jamie said, already defensive.
Leana paused at the landing as Reverend Gordon ushered Jamie into the nursery. Though she did not mean to eavesdrop, her anxious heart would not let her move.
“Now, lad,” the minister said as the door began to close. “You ken what the kintra folk say: There is a time to gley and a time to look straight.”
Thirty-Two
He went like one that hath been stunn’d,
And is of sense forlorn.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Whatever are you getting at, sir?” Jamie’s heart began to pound. Unfortunate. Oversight. Reverend Gordon’s words raised more questions than they answered.
The minister pulled the room’s single chair away from the wall, dusting the seat with his oversized handkerchief. Annabel had already done a thorough job cleaning the room. ’Twas plain Reverend Gordon was stalling.
“Sit you down, son, for we have much to discuss.” His uneasiness was apparent, from the faint sheen of perspiration on his brow to his long fingers fiddling with the buttons on his coat.
Jamie sat, but not comfortably. “What is it, Reverend?”
The minister pursed his lips, pressing a forefinger against them, as if weighing his words. “Early this morning I had occasion to open the kirk session records from December 1788. Looking up another matter entirely, you see.” His gaze flickered toward Ian’s empty crib, then landed on Jamie. “As expected, I noted the three Sundays on which the banns were read for the impending wedding of James McKie and Rose McBride.”
“Aye.” Jamie relaxed a bit. That was hardly a newsworthy discovery, nor was it the final entry for the year. “ ’Twas indeed James and Rose for the banns. But then—”
“Wait.” Reverend Gordon held up his hand to stem Jamie’s words. “You were there, lad, and you heard your names cried out in the kirk, did you not?”
“I did.” He could not deny the truth. Nor could he deny that he once delighted in hearing his name spoken in the same breath as Rose’s. “Go on, sir.”
“In truth, ’Tis not the banns that concern me,” the minister continued. “ ’Tis the clerk’s entry for the last day of the year that gave me pause.”
Ah. Jamie smiled with relief. Reverend Gordon had found the change of names noted on their wedding day and had forgotten how that came about. After all, the event occurred some thirteen months past. Much took place in a parish. Who could remember it all? “You mean where it was amended to read ‘James and Leana McKie’?”
“Nae,” the minister said, his expression darkening. “For then we would have no need for this discussion. I mean the recorded entry in the session clerk’s hand, indicating the legal and binding marriage of James and Rose McKie.”
“Rose?” Jamie nearly choked on her name. “That cannot be right.”
“Right or wrong, that is what appears on the page. Your name and Rose’s, in the clerk’s ow
n scrawl. There is no other notation.”
“But ’Twas meant to be changed!” Jamie’s voice stretched taut as a hangman’s noose. This was no oversight; it was an abomination. “My Uncle Lachlan met with the kirk session in early January and had the record amended.” Or didn’t he? Jamie gripped the arms of the chair and said as calmly as possible, “I’m not certain which day Lachlan met with the session, for Leana and I were in Dumfries that week.” Leana. The very thought of her hearing this news made his stomach clench. “No later than the sixth or seventh of January, I’d say. Were you not there, Reverend?”
“Aye. ’Twas in fact the fifth of January, the first Monday of the month, when the kirk session regularly meets. I sat in the very room where your uncle presented his case.”
“Well then!” Jamie took his first full breath since sitting down. “You ken the truth of it.” All this trouble for naught. “You have only to strike through Rose’s name on the entry for 31 December and write the name of my true bride, Leana, in its place.”
“Which is what should have been done,” the minister agreed as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But our session clerk … och!” He swatted at the air as if the clerk were a bothersome fly. “Perhaps you remember the man: George Cummack.”
“Nae, I do not. Should I?”
“Bit of a dotard, I’m afraid, though he was as sharp as any man in his youth.” Leaning back against the closed door, the minister released a heavy sigh. “George was in attendance at the January meeting when your father presented his testimony on your behalf. However, George neglected to purchase a new recording book for 1789, and the one from 1788 had already been shelved in my office.”
Jamie’s hands grew clammy. “Are you saying he took no minutes of the session?”
“On the contrary, George wrote down every word of it on loose leaves of paper. He assured us he would purchase a bound book at once and copy his notes into the official session records within the week and have them signed and approved.”
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