Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Oh!” Rose pressed her fingertips against her mouth.

  Leana put the letter down long enough to lean forward and touch her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dearie. It seems you were right to be concerned about Jane’s well-being.”

  We have begun our study of Allan Ramsay’s The Gentle Shepherd. If your father has a copy on his bookshelf, perhaps you can join us in reading the happy trials of Patie and his bonny Peggy.

  Neda had read the pastoral play to Leana as a child; years later Leana had read it to Rose. “Remember, dearie? ‘Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair, some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care.’ ” The words sank into Leana’s heart and took root. Did not her own marriage hover on the brink of despair? Every night in their box bed she soaked Jamie’s nightshirt with her tears, their passion tinged with sorrow. Rose must heal and quickly, for they could not keep the news to themselves much longer. Please God, may some happy turn come soon.

  Thirty-Six

  Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.

  PHILIP JAMES BAILEY

  ’Twas not the weather that had made her ill. ’Twas the stable lad with his dreadful cough. Rose knew that now. Leana and the others would soon know too if they put the pieces together. She vaguely remembered Dr. Gilchrist mentioning it, delirious as she was. Would that she had been unconscious. Would that she could not recall his visit at all. But she could, in frightening detail.

  Rose shut her eyes for a moment, assailed with memories. The terror of being pressed back against the chair. The revulsion of the doctor’s strong fingers probing her mouth. The agony of his terrible blade touching her throat. God, help me. God, help me. She swallowed again, feeling queasy.

  “I would see you well, dear sister.” Leana stood, assessing her with a practiced eye. “You need more warm liquids, salty ones especially, to heal that raw throat of yours. A tasty beef broth for your supper should do nicely. I’ve enough feverfew to keep the air round you fragrant for several more days. And I have what I need in my stillroom to make a mint salve for your chapped lips.”

  Such devotion deserved more, but Rose only managed to say, “Thank you.”

  Leana was busy looking about, frowning as she did. “ ’Tis too cold in here. I’ll have Willie double the peat allotted for this room.”

  Rose raised a brief word of protest. “Father.”

  “Aye,” Leana agreed, smiling. “Father will not approve of such extravagance. I will remind him that I have a renowned physician to answer to as well, for Dr. Gilchrist expects to find a healthier patient when he appears on Wednesday.”

  Rose felt a sudden chill, though not from the drafty windows. “Again?”

  “No need to fret, dearie.” Leana tugged the blankets closer round her neck. “I will see that he keeps his surgical instruments in his coat pocket, where they belong. I imagine the doctor will only need to peek down your throat long enough to check his handiwork.”

  Rose stared at the hard-backed chair, empty and menacing, as if it were waiting for her.

  Leana followed her gaze and guessed her thoughts. “I will ask him to examine you here, in this comfortable chair. Not in that wooden one. Better still, we’ll relegate it to the ground floor.” She waved at the oak chair, as though dismissing it from the room like a naughty child. “Annabel, please place that uncomfortable thing in the hall, and see that one of the men finds a home for it in the front room.”

  Annabel swatted the chair with her dusting cloth for good measure before carrying it out the door.

  “You see?” Leana bent to kiss her sister’s head. “Have no fear, sweet Rose. Dr. Gilchrist saved your life when I could not. He brought healing to this house. And he will again.”

  Rose did not pay heed to the days that followed, for they blurred together without a Sabbath visit to the kirk to mark the end of one week and the start of another. Annabel stayed home with her this time. Her reading skills only allowed a few familiar psalms, but they were a comfort nonetheless. Lord, be merciful unto me: heal my soul.

  Rose dutifully partook of salt-laden broths and honey-drenched teas, all served at the same warm temperature that soothed without hurting. Leana rubbed her skin with a cream that smelled of melon seeds—“ ’Tis not meant to heal your throat but to put the moisture back in your skin”—and her bedclothes reeked of feverfew, so often was the steaming concoction brought afresh to her room.

  With each day Rose felt a bit better. She could take a deep breath without coughing. She could swallow without cringing. And she could circle the room without losing her balance. Was Jane also healing, she wondered? Perhaps by now her friend had returned to Carlyle School healthy as ever, with her bright gowns and her bold laugh and her dark, mischievous eyes.

  When Wednesday came, Rose woke early, restless, with no appetite. Leana knocked on her door at noontide and ushered in a broad-shouldered man with a silvery periwig fitted to his head. Dr. Gilchrist. A busy man, judging by the quickness of his steps and the sharpness of his movements. She was grateful he did not reach for his instruments. Instead he drew near, beckoning Leana to hold two candles aloft. “Open wide, Miss McBride. I will not hurt you. Not this time.”

  Rose held her breath and tipped her head back. Please don’t. Please. She closed her eyes, though she could not shut out her fears. Stretching her mouth open was torture; the sensation of his fingers pressed against her palate made her feel faint.

  “Good, good,” he murmured at last, withdrawing his hands, then running them lightly over her throat. “The swelling is down considerably. Your sister makes an exceptional nurse.”

  Rose opened her eyes and nodded a little, unwilling to force any words past her aching throat. When a few tears slid down her cheeks, she brushed them away, grateful that Leana had asked the others to wait down the stair. ’Twas embarrassing enough to have her sister see her like this, let alone Neda and the others.

  Leana eyed them both, then asked tentatively, “Dr. Gilchrist, is there anything in particular I should be doing for Rose? Any problems that might arise?”

  Clasping his hands behind him, he rocked back on his heels for a moment, then settled in place, like a tree firmly planted. “There is one possible complication I would be remiss not to mention.”

  Rose heard one word—complication—and her pulse quickened.

  “You see, for a young lady to be exposed to a prolonged high fever at the onset of her childbearing years, combined with the ill effects of croup on the heart and other organs … well, ’Tis regrettable.”

  Childbearing. Regrettable. Rose swallowed over and over, despite the pain, trying to quell the sickening sense of dread that grew inside her.

  Dr. Gilchrist bent toward her, his eyes full of sympathy. “One cannot be certain of such things, Miss McBride, but ’Tis possible the health of your womb has been compromised. You may be unable to bear children.”

  Her heart stopped. “I’m … barren?”

  “Oh, Rose.” Leana touched her shoulder. “Dr. Gilchrist, can nothing be done?”

  “Nae.” Rose shook her head. He could not mean what he said. “Nae.”

  “I am very sorry, my dear.”

  Rose blinked, but the words were still there, seared across her mind. Unable to bear children.

  “You are a lovely young lady.” He leaned closer, as if that might comfort her. It did not. “I am certain you will make a lovely wife.”

  She bowed her head. But not a lovely mother.

  It was just as well she could not speak; no words came, only pain. She felt hollow inside, as if her womb were naught but an empty embrace. While Leana stroked her hair, the doctor continued to volunteer words of comfort, reminding her that, though it was a strong probability, ’twas not a certainty. That her life could be very full, even without the blessing of a child.

  “We will pray,” Leana said softly, “and trust God to heal my sister’s womb.”

  The physician stepped back, buttoning his
coat. “I hope I will be proven wrong someday and that you will appear at my door with a bevy of children in tow. But perhaps it is best you know now, before you consider marriage, so that you and your future husband might be … ah, resigned to the situation.”

  Rose grabbed Leana’s arm, pulling her closer. Her voice was hoarse, urgent. Every word was an effort. “Tell … no … one.”

  Leana turned her head so their gazes met. “I understand, Rose. No one needs to know.”

  Dr. Gilchrist offered Rose a parting word. “Miss McBride, you are a fortunate young lady to have survived. Not all who’ve fought croup have been so lucky.” He paused at the door, his hand on the latch. “Yestreen I left the bedside of a young woman with the same symptoms. Even her coloring was similar to yours. But I arrived too late.” He shook his head. “Heart failure. Eighteen years old, as bonny a lass as you, and she is gone.”

  Same symptoms. Similar coloring. Eighteen.

  Rose forced herself to ask. “Where?”

  “Dunscore parish. An old family there, of substantial means. They should have sent for me sooner. No one ever imagines how serious croup can become.”

  Rose held her breath, knowing that once she let go, her tears would not stop. “Who … was she?”

  “Jane Grierson was her name. Lovely girl. A pity.”

  Thirty-Seven

  What shall be done for sorrow

  With love whose race is run?

  Where help is none to borrow,

  What shall be done?

  ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

  The funeral was on Saturday.

  Rose was too ill to attend, but in her heart she traveled north to Dunscore parish, to a house she had not seen, to a family she did not know, to a girl she had counted as a true friend. And she wept without ceasing. Nothing Leana could do or say eased the sorrow. The post from the Griersons was painfully short. Thank you for your letter inquiring after Jane’s health. Alas, our dear daughter has died.

  Guilt gnawed at her day and night. If it were not for her foolhardy notion to visit Lillias Brown’s cottage, Jane would be alive, and her own womb might be healthy. No prayer, no supplication could bring Jane back from the grave. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  To make matters worse, Reverend Gordon had stopped to visit twice of late, asking how soon she might be able to venture out of doors.

  “Soon,” Rose had said in a guilty whisper. A body had to be gravely ill to miss services.

  He’d peered at her across the top of his spectacles. “By the first of the month perhaps? Your sister thought you might be well enough to travel come March. You will be excused from singing the Paraphrases for quite some time, but your presence at services would be … ah, prudent.”

  Would that she were strong enough to travel this morning rather than be left alone another Sabbath in an empty house. At least now she could dress for the day and not spend every hour in her nightgown. And she could walk down the stair to take her meals with the family and eat more substantial food. Nothing coarse like venison or sharp-edged like almonds, but Neda’s thick stews slid past her scarred throat without complaint.

  A cold breakfast waited on the sideboard, prepared the night before. Bannocks and butter, apple jelly and orange marmalade, hard-boiled eggs with thin-sliced ham. “Good morning,” she said tentatively. Her voice still sounded rough, like gravel trod by a silk slipper.

  Jamie and Leana both looked at her, then at each other. Their exchange was so brief Rose might have missed it. What did it signify? She had not told another soul of Dr. Gilchrist’s sorry news and had no intention of doing so. Leana’s pity, however carefully masked, was bad enough. Jamie must not know, or any hope she might have of winning him back someday would be dashed to pieces. What man would want a wife who might not give him an heir? And she would never tell her father, for Lachlan McBride would disregard her existence from thenceforth. No more pretty gowns to catch a suitor’s eye, for no suitor would seek the hand of a barren young woman. No more schooling, for ’twould be wasted on a stayed lass. No more life, not as she’d known it.

  Nae, she could not risk so much. A truth not told was not a lie. ’Twas merely a secret. Everyone seated at table this morning had plenty of those.

  Rose tucked into her breakfast, suddenly famished. “Do give my friends at kirk my regards,” she said between bites, then felt her cheeks grow warm. Her list of close friends had grown short. The Elliots would not speak to her. The Drummonds might not either, for she had refused to meet with Peter. Perhaps their neighbors, the Newalls, might be counted.

  “Speaking of friends,” Leana began, her expression jubilant, “I meant to tell you, we’ve word from Troston Hill: Jessie Newall is safely delivered of a son.”

  Lachlan glared at her. “Not at table, Leana. ’Tis unseemly.”

  “Sorry, Father.” Her sister leaned across her plate of bannocks and said in a low voice, “They’ve named him Robert Alan Newall. The image of his faither, Duncan says. Alan must be so proud.”

  One of the advantages of a scarred throat was that no one noticed if you did not speak. A happy mother. A new son. A proud father. Until that moment Rose had not known what it would be like to grieve, rather than rejoice, at such news. Selfish, Rose. Aye, ’Twas. But hard to resist when everything inside her cried out for a child of her own.

  She could not do as she wished—bolt from the room and seek solace in her bedroom—so Rose did what she could to keep her composure. She took great pains with her meat, smearing it with apple jelly, then cutting it into tiny squares, easily swallowed. Then she slathered her bannocks until every dry corner was covered in rich, yellow butter. Looking up when spoken to, looking down when not, Rose did not open her mouth again, except to eat, for the rest of the meal.

  Despite her hasty departure from table, she did not get very far. Leana followed her into the hall, calling her name. “Might we speak with you before we leave for services?” Jamie came up behind Leana, like an actor appearing on cue, and the two stood side by side, imploring Rose with their eyes. “Please? In your room, if we could.”

  Rose agreed, if only out of curiosity, and started up the stair. Had Leana told Jamie what the doctor had said? Might the two of them be planning to move to Glentrool after all, encouraged by the break in the weather? Could it be that Leana was expecting again? Another child so close on the heels of Ian seemed unwise. When the three arrived in the room, Rose closed the door, then fell against it, already breathless from the short climb.

  Leana spoke first. “Please sit, dearie, for you do not look well.”

  It was true; her knees would not hold her much longer. Moving to the chair, she eased into its cushioned embrace and tried not to moan with relief. When Jamie and Leana sat down before her, their hands clasped, their shoulders touching, Rose had to admit they made a handsome pair, one dark haired, one fair.

  After an awkward pause, Jamie began. “Rose, we’ll not tire you with long explanations. Reverend Gordon came to see you before he rode off to summon Dr. Gilchrist. Do you remember his being here?”

  “Aye … and nae.” She’d spent the last ten days trying not to recall what had happened that painful day.

  “We understand, Rose. Best to forget.” Leana stood long enough to tuck a plaid round her shoulders, then nodded at Jamie to continue.

  “The minister came not only to visit your bedside but also to speak with me about an oversight in the kirk record for December 1788.” His gaze did not quite meet hers. “ ’Tis about our wedding, Rose.”

  “But I was not there.” Her voice grew faint, from exhaustion or heartache, she could not say. “ ’Twas Leana who spoke the vows.”

  Jamie gazed at Leana with naught but love written on his face. “Aye, she did. And by habit and repute Leana is my wife and Ian McKie, my son, for which I’m most grateful.” With a measured sigh, he turned to look directly at Rose now. “But the kirk record says I’m married to someone else.” She saw the truth in hi
s eyes before the words reached his lips. “You, Rose.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “By law, you and I are husband and wife.”

  Jamie. She felt faint, nearly slipping to the floor before he caught her and set her aright.

  Leana clasped her hand, feeling for a pulse. “Och, Jamie. ’Twas too much to bear after her illness and then the loss of Jane Grierson. We should have waited.”

  “Nae,” Rose whispered. Can it be? Is Jamie mine? “Please. Tell me how this happened.”

  The story was so implausible it had to be true. One blunder after another. Misplaced books and forgotten notes. Rose stared at them both, her thoughts reeling. “But what’s to be done?”

  Jamie described the reverend’s expectations: All three of them were to stand before the kirk session and give testimony concerning the events of 31 December. In a tone that brooked no argument, Jamie added, “It’s important that we all agree what is to be said.”

  Rose clung to her hopes, even as they began to slip through her fingers. “And what were you thinking I might tell them?”

  Leana leaned forward, the firelight moving across the golden braids curled on her head. “The truth, Rose. God will honor naught but honesty. Tell them that you did not love Jamie when he asked you to marry him. That you wanted him to marry me from the first. Can you do that, dear sister? For we both ken ’Tis true.”

  Jamie’s voice struck a firmer note. “The Buik says, ’trust in the LORD, and do good.’ That means not only what is good for you, Rose, but also for your sister. And for Ian.”

  Rose turned so that he alone was in her line of vision. “What of you, Jamie? What is good for you?”

  He gathered Leana’s hand in his. “To have Leana as my wife and as the mother of my son.” Then he surprised Rose by clasping her hand as well. “And to have you as my beloved cousin.”

  Oh, Jamie. Even given the chance to have her as his wife, he did not want her.

  “Forgive us, Rose, for not telling you sooner.” He looked duly penitent. “We should have included you in our discussions from the first. But you were delirious that day and the next …”