Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Of course. The minister’s discussion with Jamie. An unfortunate oversight. She’d completely forgotten their chat in the nursery, lost amid the crisis. “Aye, we’ll discuss it later, for my sister requires our undivided attention now.”

  Working side by side, they transferred Rose into the box bed. Her throat, ravaged by the doctor’s scalpel, would not let her speak, but her eyes communicated her thanks. Leana gazed down at her sister, brushing her hair off her brow, straightening her nightgown for modesty’s sake, then clasping Rose’s pale hands between her own. I love you, Rose.

  Jamie stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, kneading them ever so gently. “She looks better, Leana.”

  “Aye, she does.” She lifted one hand to touch Jamie’s fingers, her other hand still holding Rose’s, joining the three of them together, if only for a moment.

  “Leana.” Jamie gave her shoulders a final squeeze, then stepped round to look at her. “I need to inspect several more of the ewes before I lose the light of day. ’Tis seven weeks ’til the lambing begins.”

  And in a few more weeks, we leave for Glentrool. Leana was comforted by the prospect. “It hardly seems possible.”

  “If you remember, your father has promised to pay me so many shillings for each ewe that survives the winter and so many shillings for each lamb that survives its birthing.” A weary smile stretched across his features. “I intend to see every ewe thrives and gives birth to twins.”

  “Och, Jamie! Such a dreamer you are.” Leana smiled and motioned toward the door. “Go on then, for I hear your woolly lassies bleating for you.”

  “Will you mind terribly?”

  “I will not. We’ll speak of Reverend Gordon’s news when you return.” She sent him on his way with a tender kiss, then turned to see how Rose was faring. Her eyes were closed, though Leana noticed tears shimmering between her long, dark lashes. Poor girl. Her throat surely hurt beyond imagining. “Feverfew, the doctor said.” Leana picked up the leather pouch from the bedside table. “Then feverfew it shall be. Whatever generous soul brought this gift to our doorstep, these herbs kept you breathing until the doctor arrived. Perhaps our good neighbor will step forward and let us shower him with thanks.”

  Rose opened her eyes, then her mouth. She said one word in a whisper so faint Leana could not be sure it was a word at all. It sounded like “her.”

  “Don’t talk, Rose. You ken what Neda would say: Save yer breath tae cool yer parritch.” She bent down to press her cheek against Rose’s, glad to find her sister’s skin neither cold nor hot. “I’ll send Annabel back up the stair with warm cloths and steaming water for your inhalation.”

  When she straightened, Rose lifted her hand, as though she had more to say. Straining, her face contorted with pain, Rose could only manage a single sound: “Jay.”

  Leana knit her brow. “Jamie, you mean? He’s gone to tend his sheep, dearie.”

  Rose yanked on her sleeve, harder than Leana imagined she could and shook her head. “Jay!” she said again.

  “Jane? Is that what you mean? Your friend from Carlyle School?”

  Rose nodded her head, then collapsed as if she’d used the last of her strength on a single syllable.

  “Jane Grierson, is it? Forgive me for asking you to say her name twice.” Anxious to make amends, Leana arranged her sister’s bedcovers, then plumped her pillows. “Willie delivered your letters to the school on Monday. Perhaps we’ll hear something from Jane in tomorrow’s post. ’til then, you must rest.”

  Leaving one taper burning, Leana closed the door and slipped down to the kitchen, where the servants were in a hurry-scurry to get supper on the table by seven. Despite the day’s traumas, Lachlan McBride would expect his meal at the proper time when he arrived home. Leana sent Annabel to the sickroom with the steaming bowl, then located Reverend Gordon’s copy of Primitive Physic and retired to the quiet of her stillroom to see what she might discover among the book’s pages.

  “Croup,” she read aloud. “A disease of the throat accompanied by harsh breathing and hoarse coughing.” An accurate description of Rose’s infirmity; there could be no doubt. As Leana continued to read, mentally crossing off each recommended treatment, she came to the final notation, a cautionary word from the author: “The poison produced by croup can damage the heart and nervous system and, in severe cases, may result in heart failure.”

  For a moment Leana feared her own heart might fail. She’d treated Rose as if she were suffering from a common cold! When Jamie had offered to ride to Dumfries for a doctor on the Sabbath eve, what was her reply? “Goodness, Jamie! ’Tis not so bad as that.” Nae, Leana, ’twas worse. Her pride would not allow a surgeon to darken their door, certain she could heal her sister by herself with herbs and prayers. Though her aversion to bloodletting and opiates had played a part as well, her pride had nearly cost Rose her life.

  Forgive me, Father.

  Leana closed the physic book and pressed it against her chest. How close Rose had come to death, none could say. Too close. Bowing her head over her book, Leana begged for mercy. She tarried in the stillness, not moving, only breathing. I will wait for the God of my salvation. My God will hear me. She prayed without words, sensing a weight of silence falling over her.

  A light tapping sounded at the stillroom door. Leana opened her eyes slowly and found Neda peeking in at her. “Pittin’ the brain asteep, are ye?”

  “Aye.” Leana rested her chin on the book’s binding. “I’ve much to think about, for I’ve not been the best of nurses to Rose.”

  “Hoot!” Neda pulled her into the noisy kitchen. “The lass would niver have lived tae see anither Galloway mornin’ had ye not cared for her sae ferlie. Dinna be sayin’ otherwise, for the doctor from Dumfries called ye brilliant, and so ye are.”

  Leana put aside her book, shaking her head. “Whatever you say, dear woman. Father is ringing the supper bell. I’d best get to table.”

  Neda nudged her toward the door. “ ’Tis why I came lookin’ for ye. Off ye go.”

  Supper was livelier than usual. Her father, just arrived home from another visit to the Widow Douglas’s, had missed the day’s events and so plied them with endless questions about Rose’s traumatic turn for the worse. Leana noticed that Jamie said nothing about his private conversation with Reverend Gordon, only that the minister rode to Dumfries to fetch a doctor, convinced of an urgent need for the man’s services.

  “I suppose this surgeon presented you with a bill.”

  “He did.” Jamie produced a folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. “Considering the man saved Rose’s life, his fee is more than reasonable.”

  Lachlan yanked the bill from Jamie’s grasp. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He glanced at the paper, grunted, then put it beside his plate without comment. “What of Reverend Gordon? Did the man have any news to pass along?”

  “News?” Jamie scratched his neck. “What sort of … news?”

  Lachlan stared at him askance. “The sort any minister worth his stipend discloses while visiting his flock. Come, man, Newabbey has no newspaper. How else is the parish blether to get about, if not from mouth to ear?”

  Jamie visibly relaxed. “We had little time for such matters, I’m afraid.” Though his high color began to recede, Jamie avoided looking in Leana’s direction. “He did our family a great service, galloping off to Dumfries like a wind from the Irish Sea, hard and swift.”

  “Aye.” Lachlan came very close to chuckling. “The minister spared our Rose, but that puir nag of his may not recover.” He rang his brass handbell again, calling for the pudding to be served. At many a country table, sweets were a luxury reserved for Quarter Days. At her father’s table, they were a twice-daily indulgence. “Flummery, is it?” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “You’ve added some currants plumped in sack, aye, woman?”

  Neda placed a generous portion before her master. “A mutchkin o’ milk and anither o’ cream, egg yolks
and rose water, sugar and nutmeg. And, aye, yer favorite currants.” She paused for a moment, then added. “ ’Tis hot from the fire, sir. Mind yer tongue.”

  Leana saw a smile twitching at Neda’s mouth and hid her own smile behind a spoon. How many seasons had the woman waited to say those words to her father? Mind yer tongue. Och, he didn’t mind for a moment! The man said whatever he pleased, not caring whose feelings he might hurt in the process.

  The threesome finished their supper, then Lachlan read to them from the Buik: “ ‘I the LORD speak righteousness, I declare things that are right.’ And we,” Lachlan added, his gray eyes appraising them, “are to do the same. We are to speak the truth. To say what is right and not lie.”

  Though her father preached what he did not practice, Leana believed those words with all her heart. The manner in which truth was spoken mattered too, and to that end, her watchword was simple: Speak the truth in love.

  After such a harrowing day the McKies retired early. They tucked Ian in his crib—fed, bathed, and content—and saw to Rose’s comfort, spooning tincture of chamomile between her lips, letting it slip down her wounded throat a few drops at a time, lest Rose begin to cough and inflict more pain than the surgeon’s scalpel had. Leana left instructions for the maidservants to keep a constant bedside vigil through the night, summoning her at once if there was any reason for concern.

  “Goodnight, sweet Rose,” Leana called from the doorway, then retired to her own bedroom. Jamie was waiting for her by the hearth, still dressed, an uneasy expression on his face. She hastened to his side and rested both hands on his coat sleeve. “Jamie, I heard Reverend Gordon mention some ‘unfortunate oversight.’ Is that what’s troubling you?”

  “Aye, lass.” Jamie took her left hand in his, studying her fingers, rubbing his thumb over her silver wedding band. He was quiet for so long she wondered if she might need to find some other way to broach the subject. Then he spoke, and the pain in his voice was unmistakable.

  “It has to do with the night of our wedding, Leana. And the kirk session record. Reverend Gordon says there is a discrepancy.”

  Thirty-Five

  Love can hope

  where Reason would despair.

  LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON

  A discrepancy?” Leana did not like the sound of that. “What does the kirk session record show?”

  Jamie said nothing at first. He seemed absorbed with her hands, taking his time, pressing his lips against her ring. Turning her hand over. Kissing her palm more tenderly still. When at last he looked up to meet her gaze, she knew the news was very bad indeed.

  “The kirk record shows that on 31 December I married Rose McBride.”

  The light in the room changed, as though all the candles flared at once. Leana was certain she had misunderstood, for to accept Jamie’s statement as truth was unthinkable. “The minister is mistaken. That entry was changed. My father assured us that he’d taken care of everything.”

  “So he did.” Tension stretched between each word. “But the change was not recorded as promised. Nor does your father’s testimony appear in the session minutes.” Jamie carefully explained why. Told her the whole, dreadful story about a man named Cummack. An auld man, dead and buried, who’d taken the truth to his grave.

  She listened but could not speak as her peaceful life began to crumble around her. Please, Lord. It cannot be. It cannot!

  Jamie’s expression was grim. “And so it comes to this, Leana: By law, I am married to your sister. To Rose.”

  “Nae!” She clutched her skirts. “Then you and I are—”

  He touched his fingers to her lips, as if stopping the word from being spoken might keep it from being true. “We are husband and wife by habit and repute. That is good Scottish law, Leana.”

  “Yes, but if the law—”

  “Everyone in the parish kens you are my wife. You, Leana. Not Rose.”

  “Aye, but, Jamie—”

  “All of Newabbey watched you bloom with Ian month by month.” He placed his hand low against her body, as though laying claim to her womb. “No one seeing the son you bore could doubt for a moment that he is mine. As you are. You are mine, Leana.”

  “But the kirk …” She gasped for air, her throat thick with fear. “Oh, Jamie, tell me they can do something. Tell me this isn’t the end!”

  “Nae, lass.” His voice grew ragged, the words breaking down as he did. “You are … my wife. You are … my love.” He pulled her into his arms, crushing her so tightly against him she could not move. “I will not let them take you away from me. I will not, I will not.”

  She clung to him, needing his strength, desperate for his assurance. They stood there for many minutes; the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire on the hearth and her anguished sobs muffled against his chest. “What’s to become of us, Jamie?” she whispered at last.

  He released her long enough to look in her eyes, then told her what must be done to appease the kirk session. “My concern lies not with the elders but with Rose. And with Lachlan. Who kens what either of them might say?”

  Leana steadied herself, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and took a shaky breath. “If we speak the truth in love, Jamie, we cannot fail.”

  “But if Rose speaks the truth—that she alone was meant to be my bride on Hogmanay—all is lost.”

  Leana shook her head. “The truth is, she did not love you at first and encouraged you to love me instead. Remember?”

  “Aye,” he groaned. “Would that I’d listened to her.”

  “Never mind that now.” Leana smoothed a hand across his cheek, a sense of peace falling over her. O my God, I trust in thee. “The elders are good men, Jamie. Righteous. And just. They will want what is best for Ian. And for our family, and the kirk, and the glory of the Almighty. We will speak the truth, all of us.” She brushed her lips against his in a brief kiss. “Honesty will prevail. It always does.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Lass, you amaze me. Ever hopeful when there is no cause for hope.”

  “There is always cause for hope, beloved.” Leana stepped back and began to pull the pins from her hair, shaking out the waves as they fell past her shoulders. “Even the grave is not the end.”

  Brave words, and she meant them. But deep inside, in a well-shaded corner of her heart’s garden, a dark seed of fear landed on fertile ground. Once her sister heard the news, she might turn it to her advantage. What if Rose steals Jamie from me, as I stole Jamie from her? There was naught to be done but wait for Rose to heal. And then, when her sister was strong enough, tell her the truth. And beg her to be merciful and to do what must be done, for Ian’s sake. And for mine. Please, Rose.

  Rose was markedly improved the next day. Limited to weak tea and lukewarm soup, she nonetheless swallowed all that was offered and nodded for more. “Sic a guid patient I have!” Neda crowed, tucking a bib round Rose’s neck and feeding her by spoonfuls.

  “Jane,” Rose managed to say after her dinner, a bit more clearly this time.

  Leana informed her they’d received no news from Dumfries. “But Peter Drummond stopped by this morning to inquire how you are doing. Might you like to see him when he comes again?” Leana was surprised when Rose shook her head no. Her sister had no other prospects, and Peter was an amiable young man of sufficient breeding and income to please their pernickitie father. Odd that Rose would refuse his suit, as though she had another in mind. Had she been introduced to a gentleman in Dumfries? Or did she still think she might claim Jamie’s heart? The kirk session had opened the door to that terrible possibility. If Rose continued to mend, she would need to be told sooner rather than later. Until then, Leana would shower her with affection and pray their sisterly bond would hold fast.

  On Friday morning Rose was able to sit by the side of the bed without support and then, with Leana’s help, stand to her feet and walk a few steps. “Bath,” she croaked, and so the wooden tub was carr
ied to her room and filled with hot water by a household staff eager to see their mistress healed.

  Leana herded all but Annabel out of the room so Rose might have some privacy. While the maid tended to Rose’s skin, grown nearly transparent from her illness, Leana washed her sister’s hair. She whisked the whites of half a dozen fresh eggs into a froth and poured it over Rose’s head. After letting it dry, Leana rinsed her hair with rum and rose water in equal measure and rubbed the strands dry with a towel, draping her hair across her shoulders. “See how it shines! Like a silk cape.”

  Rose touched her hair and smiled. “Like Jane’s.” Sitting by the hearth in her old reading chair, she was swathed in blankets, for the February day was predictably cold and damp.

  Leana produced a letter from her pocket, hoping it might bear good news. “Look what Willie brought from the village. A surprise, posted from Dumfries.”

  “Please … read,” Rose labored to say, sinking deeper into the cushions. Her sister was far from well; the frailty in her movements and the sparseness of her words pointed to her discomfort.

  Leana broke the wax seal—stamped with an elegant C for Carlyle—and unfolded the paper, recognizing the schoolmistress’s bold penmanship. “What a fine hand she has.” She placed the stool from the dressing table next to Rose’s chair and sat, arranging her skirts to keep them clear of the hearth. “Now let me read to you.”

  To Miss Rose McBride

  Wednesday, 3 February 1790

  Dear Miss McBride:

  We were all most distressed to hear of your sudden illness and pray this letter finds your health improving. Though we will miss your lively manner, we agree it is wise you remain at Auchengray until you are completely well. Do let us know when we may expect you. Nous ne t’avons pas oublée. We have not forgotten you.

  Leana paused to glance at her sister, who looked anything but lively. She’d told their father Rose might be home for a week or two. Looking at her now, Leana realized two months would be closer to the mark.

  Your letter to Miss Jane Grierson has been forwarded to her home in Dunscore parish. She, too, was not well enough to return on Monday, for she suffers from a persistent fever and vexing cough.