Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Jamie leaned forward, holding his breath. “And?”

  The minister’s shoulders sank. “I am sorry to confess he did not. Nor did he remember to change the entry in the 1788 record.”

  Jamie fell back as though struck. “How could … that is, why didn’t …” His speech stuttered to a stop as the truth reeled round inside his mind. None of it made any sense. If the wedding entry was never changed … if the January meeting was never recorded …

  The minister seemed calmer now that he’d delivered his news. He mopped his brow and tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I’m afraid this means that by the law of the kirk, which is the law of the land, you are not married to Leana. You are married to Rose.”

  Jamie shook his head, slowly at first, then faster, as if he might shake loose the awful truth. “Cummack. He is the one who can fix it. Surely he must answer for this … this ‘oversight,’ as you called it.”

  “Therein lies the crux of the problem.” The minister was no longer looking in his direction but was staring at his shoes. “Cummack’s health was failing. Before the session met again, he quit the parish to live with his daughter. Without procuring a testimonial letter from me, sorry to say.”

  “Quit?” Jamie ground out the word. “And moved where?”

  “Eskdalemuir.”

  “ ’Tis in Dumfriesshire, not London,” Jamie railed. “A half-day’s ride at most.”

  “His place of residence would pose no concern, if ’twere not for the fact that …” When Reverend Gordon looked up, regret was drawn across every solemn feature. “Och, Jamie, there is no easy way to tell you this: George Cummack died within a fortnight of leaving Newabbey. Without his minutes, the record must remain unchanged.”

  Jamie’s composure shattered. “But I am married to Leana! Do you understand me, sir? I care not for your kirk sessions and your record books and your dotty clerks. Leana is my wife and the mother of my son. Not Rose.”

  “I ken, lad. I do. But the record stands differently.”

  “Then fix the record!”

  “That I cannot do, and you ken it well. Where would we be if people changed kirk records to suit themselves? They represent a legal document, Jamie. Even I cannot alter that.”

  Jamie was stunned to silence. He barely heard the minister’s words, spoken in a pastoral tone as though he were officiating at a funeral.

  “You must understand, Jamie, how embarrassing this is for me. I married you to Rose, or so I thought. Then I was a witness to Lachlan’s testimony concerning Leana and accepted it as valid. And I trusted George Cummack to do his duty: change the name and register your uncle’s remarks. Alas, neither detail is a matter of kirk record.”

  “Detail?” His life was being taken away, bit by bit, word by word. “Leana is not a detail. She is my wife. God help me, she is the mother of my son! ”

  “Aye, she is. ’Tis common knowledge that you hold her in high regard.” Laying a calming hand on Jamie’s shoulder, the minister continued. “Jamie, your fair cousin is quite ill. Heaven forbid this disease should claim her young life, but—”

  “Wheesht!” Jamie shot to his feet. “Do not suggest for a moment that I’m to pray for Rose to die!”

  “Nae, nae, lad. I am a servant of the Lord Almighty and would never call down destruction on one of my parishioners. I am only saying that if Rose were to die, then the matter could be resolved soon after. You and Leana would meet me in the village, where I would perform a private wedding before the kirk door. In minutes, everything would be as it should be. The parish already considers you husband and wife by habit and repute. ’twould require a brief notation of your wedding in the kirk session records to put all to rest.”

  “Another detail, is that it?” Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “And what if Rose lives? Which, as her minister, you should be praying for above all. What then of my marriage?”

  Reverend Gordon lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. “If Rose should survive, the three of you will be required to stand separately before the kirk session and give testimony.”

  Jamie’s ire turned to ice, starting with his hands. “And what would we be expected to say?”

  “Each of you would make a public confession of your intentions concerning the last day of December 1788 so that it becomes a matter of official record. In truth, that’s how things should have been handled from the start. When your uncle appeared before us that January eve, however, you and Leana were in Dumfries, and your uncle was most … persuasive.”

  Jamie grimaced. “I imagine the coins he tossed on your table were quite compelling.”

  A frown crossed Reverend Gordon’s face like a shadow come and gone. “The poor of our parish benefited from Lachlan’s generous contribution,” the minister reminded him. “And you benefited as well, James. Because of your uncle, you married the woman of your choosing.”

  My choosing. But he had not chosen Leana; Lachlan had chosen for him. When he did not want Leana for his wife, she was his nonetheless. Now that he wanted her very much, it seemed she was not his at all.

  And it was Rose who stood in the balance. Between life and death. Between freedom and bondage. He did not need to guess what she might tell the kirk session. He knew too well. Yet Jamie could not bring himself to wish for Rose’s passing, not for a minute. He could only beg for God’s will to be done. Left to his own devices, Jamie feared which outcome he might choose.

  The reverend moved closer to the door, apparently eager to be away. “ ’Tis not arduous, meeting with the kirk session. You will each be asked to describe your role in this … ah, unusual situation, one at a time. Rose will, of course, relinquish any claim on you, past or present, will she not?”

  Jamie did not respond.

  “After her testimony, you will state your original intention to marry Leana rather than Rose, as your uncle explained previously.” Reverend Gordon shook his head. “Such a pity his words were not recorded, or we could spare you this inconvenience.”

  Jamie stared at him. Inconvenience? ’Twas far more than that.

  “Then Leana will declare she loved you from the first and that you favored her as well. From the beginning.” He splayed his hands. “See how simple it will be?”

  Jamie bit his tongue. ‘Twill be anything but simple.

  “Come, Jamie. I should pray with Rose before I take my leave.” Swinging the door open as though he were set free from prison, the minister motioned him to follow. “I intend to plead for her recovery so the session minutes may be amended with due haste.”

  Thirty-Three

  How does your patient, doctor?

  Not so sick, my lord,

  As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Reverend Gordon slapped Jamie’s back as they walked toward the bedroom. “In all my years of ministry, lad, I’ve seldom seen so tapsalteerie a wedding as yours.”

  “Aye, ’Twas that, sir.”

  The minister’s tone was sympathetic, his words reassuring. “ ’twill be good to put all that behind you soon.”

  By now Jamie was half listening, for as they entered the bedroom, his attention focused on his cousin. Rose had somehow pulled herself up to a sitting position and was clinging precariously to the edge of the bed, a terrified Annabel by her side. Rose’s eyes were wide open and her mouth wider still, gasping for air. Her skin was so pale it looked blue.

  “Rose!” Jamie leaped to her side, sliding his arm behind her to keep her from falling. “Breathe, Rose!” With his free hand, he tore back the curtains from the box bed, fearing the heavy fabric might suffocate her. “Annabel, find Leana!”

  The minister hastily tied back the bed curtains, eyes wide with alarm. “Nae, let the maid stay. I’ll find your wife. And a doctor as well.” He moved toward the door, his deep voice rolling across the room as though he’d mounted his pulpit. “Listen to me, Jamie. Rose is gravely ill, worse than any of us realized. I’ll ride
to Dumfries Infirmary and send a surgeon at once.”

  “Let me ride, sir,” Jamie offered, but the minister was already at the door.

  “You’re needed here, and they’ll not refuse when I tell them what I’ve seen.” He shot a worried glance at the box bed. “Pray, lad, for there’s none but the Almighty who can save her now.” The minister departed, coattails flapping, and thundered down the stair calling Leana’s name.

  Jamie leaned Rose back against the pillows, only to sit her up again when she seemed to be choking. Something was in her throat, strangling her, smothering her. “Rose, you must breathe. Try again, Rose.”

  “Jamie!” Leana appeared in the doorway, a steaming bowl in her hands, her face white as linen. “Reverend Gordon said …”

  “Aye, aye, ’tis bad, Leana.” Jamie motioned her forward, fighting for breath himself. “Come, do what you can, for the healing arts I use on my flocks do not stretch so far as this.”

  Neda was close on her heels, while the household hovered at the door, their mouths gaping, their eyes full of fear. “Stay put,” the housekeeper cautioned them, “and let us do what must be done. In the meantime, ye’ll serve yer mistress best on yer knees.” They knelt as one in the hall, their prayers rising like the steam from Leana’s bowl of herbs.

  Jamie stepped back to let Leana and Neda work and averted his gaze as they pulled Rose’s knees to the edge of the bed, then rearranged her nightgown. The truth struck him afresh. She is my wife. The minister’s words rang through his soul: By the law of the kirk you are married to Rose.

  Rose, who was fighting for her life.

  Jamie stared at her, forcing himself to pray without regard to the consequences. Let her live, Almighty God. According to your mercy, heal her.

  The women stood on either side of her, supporting her beneath the arms. Rose hung there, limp, not moving, not speaking, barely breathing. “Lean over the bowl,” Leana coaxed. “That’s my guid lass. Breathe through your nose if you can.” When Rose’s hair fell round the bowl as they bent her forward, Leana said calmly, “Aren’t you the clever one, sweet Rose? We won’t need a towel, for your own hair will keep the steam where it belongs. Can you breathe now? Just a bittie?”

  Jamie marveled at Leana’s fortitude, for his own knees were nigh to buckling beneath the weight of worry. Aye, and guilt. Had they done enough? Rose was dreadfully weak and her color ghastly. They should have sent for a doctor sooner. Yestreen. Even Monday. Was it too late? Had they failed her?

  Rose coughed, a horrid, gurgling sound, then drew the thinnest of breaths. Leana smoothed her free hand across Rose’s back, drawing slow, comforting circles between her shoulder blades, crooning in her ear all the while. “Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing.”

  It was all he could do to look at Rose in such a state, yet here was Leana, singing to her. Singing. Jamie made himself watch her gentle labors, even if tears stung his eyes, even if his chin trembled. This was the woman he loved. This was the woman he had married. And this was the woman he would fight to keep by his side.

  If Rose were to die …

  Nae. He would not think of it, would not consider the possibility. She must not die, or a part of Leana would die with her.

  If Rose should survive …

  She would survive. She must survive.

  All of Auchengray did what they could for Rose—Leana and Neda supporting her shoulders, Annabel replacing the hot water, Jamie wiping her brow, and Duncan offering encouragement from the doorway. Leana recited verses aloud, lifting her face to the heavens, as though the Almighty were gazing down on Auchengray and no other household. “I pray thee, come and lay thy hands on her, that she may be healed; and she shall live.”

  At noontide the servants at the door parted like the Red Sea, and a gentleman dressed in a fine black suit swept into the room, perspiring beneath his periwig from the hasty journey. He wore intelligence like a mantle draped across his sturdy shoulders and possessed a keen eye that surveyed the situation at once.

  “Dr. John Gilchrist of Dumfries Infirmary,” he said brusquely, shaking Jamie’s hand. “Your minister was most insistent that I come without delay.” He rinsed his hands in the steaming water before him, then bade Neda take the bowl and table away so he might examine the patient. As he pressed and prodded Rose’s face and neck, he barraged Jamie and Leana with questions concerning her age, where she’d traveled of late, what symptoms they’d noticed first, when she’d begun to cough, how long her fever had persisted. “As you can see by the bluish coloration of the skin, the patient is not getting sufficient oxygen.”

  Jamie could only see that she was very ill. “What’s to be done, sir?”

  He unfolded his surgical etui, revealing a gleaming collection of ivory-handled instruments: scissors, scalpels, tweezers, a tongue blade, a thumb lancet. “Our first task must be to clear her air passage. This will involve the removal of the obstructing membrane. Not a true membrane, you understand, but a thick, grayish blanket, a preternatural coating of the throat.” He polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, then flicked the cloth toward an empty chair near the bed. “Lift her onto that straight-backed chair, if you please. I will need you to hold her very still.”

  Neda and Leana managed to ease her onto the chair, holding her shoulders against the wooden slats, tipping her head back and stretching her neck a bit, as the physician instructed. Rose moaned, and her eyes rolled back as though she might faint. Or worse. When Dr. Gilchrist wielded the tongue blade, then called for more light, Jamie squared his shoulders and gripped a candlestick in each hand, preparing himself for whatever gruesome procedure might follow.

  “Dr. Home of Edinburgh recommends a tracheotomy in such cases. I prefer not to use such invasive measures with my patients unless absolutely necessary.” He pinned Leana and Neda with an arresting stare. “If you do not hold her still, cutting an incision in her windpipe will be necessary. Understood?”

  Hold Rose the women did, though tears streamed down her neck and down theirs as well. Jamie could do little but hold the candles aloft and pray. Weak as she was, Rose did not have the strength to resist them while the doctor made his thorough examination, but she tried valiantly, wriggling in her seat until they convinced her she must not move.

  The doctor used both hands to open her mouth still farther. “Forgive me, lass, for I cannot sedate you. Bear with the pain, for it will be over soon enough, and you’ll be breathing once more.”

  Jamie grimaced as the physician’s thin, silver-bladed scalpel disappeared down Rose’s throat. As the man worked diligently, efficiently, Leana comforted her sister without ceasing, praying aloud that she might endure what could only be agony. At last the doctor retracted the device and eased his patient forward to take a deep but ragged breath.

  “God be praised!” Neda cried, echoed by the servants crowding the door.

  Leana continued her ministrations, lifting Rose’s hair back from her face, wiping her bloody mouth. “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured over and over.

  “I’ll take a bit of thanks as well,” the surgeon said good-naturedly, dispensing advice as he wiped his instruments clean. “Give her tepid liquids by the spoonful. No solid food for at least a week. She will not heal quickly, so put away any thoughts of her returning to Dumfries. ’Tis almost certain that is where she contracted her disease.”

  Leana glanced at Jamie, as if seeking his support, then asked with some trepidation, “What disease is that, sir?”

  The doctor stared at them, astounded. “I thought you knew. Your sister has croup. Though you’ll seldom find cases in Edinburgh, ’Tis not unknown in Galloway. The sea air, you know. Most often we treat infants for croup, but we’ve seen several cases this winter among young adults.”

  “Infants?” Leana’s eyes widened. “Is my son in danger? Are we all at risk?”

  Jamie felt his hands grow cold at the prospect. Could the day hold any more terrible news? First his marriage was in jeopardy, and n
ow this. Heaven help us all.

  Dr. Gilchrist pursed his lips for a moment. “You say she arrived home Friday, and her coughing began Saturday? If no one else in the household has presented the same symptoms, you should be safe. We usually see problems arising two to four days after exposure. I will make a second visit next week and see how my patient is doing. Should any additional cases arise, of course I can come sooner.” He refolded his leather etui, no larger than a volume of poetry, and slipped it inside his coat pocket. “You know, a stable lad in Dumfries infected a dozen others before we traced its source.” He laid a hand across Rose’s cheek, his manner clinical but not without compassion. “Might your sister have come in contact with the young man, Mistress McKie? Hiring a horse perhaps?”

  Jamie answered for her. “Impossible, I’m afraid. The young ladies of Carlyle School would have no need of a horse. Shall we carry her back to bed now?”

  “Aye, for ’tis sound sleep she needs. And feverfew immersed in boiling water round the clock.” The doctor smiled at Leana as he adjusted his spectacles. “You were brilliant to think of it, Mistress McKie, even before my diagnosis of her ailment. Feverfew is the oldest remedy in Scotland for croup.”

  Thirty-Four

  You can never plan the future by the past.

  EDMUND BURKE

  Carefully holding Rose upright in the chair, Leana watched Jamie out of the corner of her eye as he moved about the sickroom like one sleepwalking, picking up discarded linens from the floor, only to move them to another spot and drop them in a heap. “Come, Jamie,” she called, warming her voice, wanting him to trust her with his concerns. “Neda has changed the bed linens. Might you help me move Rose into bed?” Leana made sure to catch his eye before she added, “As in all things, dear husband, I cannot manage without you.”

  She’d meant to encourage him. Instead he stared at her like a man stricken. “Jamie, what is it?”

  “Reverend Gordon …” His sigh was sorrow itself. “We must talk later, Leana. In private.”