Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

“Two?” Her breath caught. “Are you certain?”

  The woman’s smile was neither kind nor comforting. “Will ye tak the cord or not?”

  “N-not!” Rose exclaimed, the word sharpened by fear. Whatever was she doing, conversing with such a woman? Lillias Brown knew things mere mortals were not privy to. Even Jane—oh, my poor, lost friend!—had called Lillias “the devil’s midwife.” You were right, Jane.

  “I am not o’ the de’il,” Lillias said, gathering her skirts about her. “Nor am I o’ yer Lord.”

  Rose stared at her in horror. “What are you then?”

  “I’m yer friend, Rose McKie. And Jamie is yer husband now, aye? Just as I promised ye?” Her smile was a hideous thing. “Do as I’ve told ye, and a bairn will be yers as weel.”

  “Nae.” Rose backed away from her, glancing at the path she’d taken through the pine forest behind her. “I have a son already. Ian will be my stepson.”

  “Och!” Lillias shook the cord at her. “D’ye think anither woman’s bairn will bind Jamie tae yer side? Nae, lassie. Ye must have twa sons—mair than yer sister—tae win Jamie’s heart. ’Tis the only way, Rose. Ye ken I speak the truth.”

  His truth endureth. Leana’s words that morning taken from the Buik.

  “Nae,” Rose said with conviction. “You speak nae truth at all, Lillias.” She yanked the ribbon from her neck and threw the stone necklace at the wutch’s feet. “Keep away from me. And from my family.”

  Rose did not wait for a reply but turned and ran like the wind through the trees, her heart pounding. Depart from evil. ’Twas all she could think of, crashing past the pine branches that tore at the pins in her hair, leaping over fallen limbs with her skirts held high. Keep thee from every wicked thing. Lillias Brown was wickedness itself. And to think, she had trusted her! Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.

  When she burst into the sunlight at the edge of the forest, Rose stopped only long enough to catch her breath and wipe away the last of her tears, grateful to be free from the woman’s grasp and back on the road toward home.

  Forty-Nine

  A baby was sleeping,

  Its mother was weeping.

  SAMUEL LOVER

  Hush-a-ba, birdie, and hush-a-ba, lamb,” Leana sang softly, skimming her fingers through Ian’s silky hair as he dozed in her arms. Neda had spread a thick tartan in front of the hearth in Jamie’s bedroom, where mother and child could nurse and then nap in private, while the rest of the household went about their Wednesday afternoon tasks. As for Jamie, he was spending the day in the far pastures with Duncan, seeing after the ewes.

  “In two weeks, your father tells me, he’ll have his first lambs.” Leana smiled to herself, lowering Ian to the blanket with great care. “But I already have mine.” She covered him with a cotton blanket and wrapped him in a lullaby. “And hush-a-ba, birdie, my bonny wee lamb.”

  The child was growing before her eyes. He could reach for things and grasp them tightly now. Not waving his arms about but aiming his hand straight toward a carved block or his doeskin ball with a determined look on his face quite like his father’s. She wore a string of colorful wooden beads about her neck whenever she held him in her lap for long periods. He played with the beads, utterly fascinated, while she chatted with a visitor or listened to Jamie read aloud in the evenings. Jessie Newall had taught her that. Jessie, the blithe mother of twa bairns.

  And I am the mother of one. “But not for much longer, lad.”

  Leana drew the front laces of her gown together, tying them tight, biting her lip as she did. No tears, Leana. Hadn’t she wept enough? Her eyes flooded nonetheless, spilling tears over their banks. By evening her breasts would be full again, a tender ache which only a hungry babe could relieve. How would she bear it when the dreaded day came? When she handed Rose her son? When she watched a stranger nurse Ian? When she saw another woman tuck him into his crib at night?

  “Haste thee to help me.” She patted her cheeks dry, only to find them wet again moments later. Enduring the cutty stool was naught compared to this. Shame, reproach, rebuke—those burdens came and went in mere hours. She had poured them out before the Almighty, and he’d kindly borne the weight of them on her behalf. But this sacrifice was too great.

  “Help me!” she whispered and buried her face in her hands.

  A sharp knock announced Neda’s appearance in the doorway. “Leana? Is something wrong?” The concern in Neda’s eyes turned to sympathy. “Och, lass.” She slipped into the room, latching the door. “ ’Tis a heartless deed they’ve done, the kirk session. Not a mither among them, or they’d niver have thocht of sae ill-kindit a thing.”

  “ ’Tis for Ian’s sake.” Leana tucked the blanket closer about his neck. “They say I’m not fit to be his mother.”

  “Wheesht!” Neda shook her apron as if their words were crumbs easily discarded. “Ye’re a woman wha made ane mistake and that only by chasin’ yer heart. Yer sin has been lang atoned for, and the whole parish kens it. Did ye not see them flockin’ aboot ye after the first service?”

  “Not everyone flocked,” Leana reminded her. “Thomas Clacharty spat at me, and Mary McCheyne called me a ‘filthy limmer.’ ”

  Neda’s eyes narrowed. “Let Mary McCheyne say that again Sabbath next, and she’ll answer tae me. For I ken a thing or twa aboot her. News that wouldna sit weel wi’ the kirk session.”

  “Now, Neda. There are secrets behind every neighbor’s door.”

  “Aye, ’Tis true enough.” With a thoughtful nod, Neda was her jovial self again. “As it happens, I have mony a saicret hidin’ behind the stillroom door. See that ye dinna go pokin’ aboot whaur ye’re not walcome.”

  Leana smiled, this time with her whole face. “Can’t we pretend I don’t have a birthday in the morn? Twenty-two seems very old.”

  “Nae, fifty-two feels auld,” Neda corrected her, tugging at the silver hairs woven among her coppery ones. “Ye’ve meikle years ahead o’ ye. Guid years, I’ll warrant.” She turned toward the door, leaving a hopeful word in her wake. “God has not lifted his hand from yer life, Leana. Wait and see.”

  When Leana awakened on Thursday morning, she heard the sound of maids tittering on the other side of the nursery door. ’Twas simple to name them: Annabel’s upbringing in Aberdeen transformed the girl’s speech into a Scottish air, and Eliza chattered like a jackdaw when she was with the other maids, then pinched her beak shut round the laird of Auchengray. Wise lass.

  Since Ian had already begun to stir, Leana could not resist tiptoeing to the door and sweeping it open. “Good morning!” she sang out.

  The girls nearly tumbled into the room before they caught themselves, blushing and stammering as they curtsied. “Mornin’, mem.”

  Leana tightened her wrapper, then stretched out her arms. “Do I look older?”

  “Nae, mem,” Eliza assured her, “but yer son grew another inch since yestreen.”

  Leana turned to find Ian sitting up, preparing to crow for his breakfast. “So he has.” She scooped him out of his crib and waved the maidservants down the stair. “Back to work with you, for I’ve a starving child to feed.”

  Annabel’s freckles made room for a toothy smile. “And whan will ye be joinin’ the family at table?”

  Leana told them to expect her at eight, then closed the door on their giggling and scheming. Och, to be fifteen years old again! Innocent as lambs, spared of life’s heartaches. Except Rose was not spared. Leana was chagrined at the realization. Rose had been fifteen when her life had fallen apart. It was hard to be angry with Rose when Leana knew she’d wronged her so. Yet it was hard to be charitable when the price for her sister’s happiness was so dear.

  “You, lad. You are what Rose wants most: a babe of her own.” Leana changed his soiled linens, then promptly put him to her breast. “And ’Tis easy to see why, for you are a joy.” She kissed the tip of her finger and touched his tiny nose. “Your father says he’ll remain at Auchengray just s
o I can watch you grow.” Bless you, Jamie. She could only hope and pray ’twould come to be; such choices in her life were made by others now.

  “Come, let’s think of something more cheerful for your mother’s birthday. A cradle song I’ve not taught you yet, aye?” She leaned back in the chair, tucking a pillow beneath her arm to support them both. “O can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets? And can ye sing bal-la-loo when the bairnie greets?” She rubbed her thumb across the soles of his bare feet, treasuring the feel of them. “Lad, before this day is done, I’ll no doubt sew, and you’ll surely greet, and so our song will come true.”

  They spent a quiet hour together, then it was time to make use of her water pitcher. While she bathed, Ian sat near her feet, entertaining himself with horn spoons, which made a genial clatter when banged together. Eliza arrived at her door before eight to help her finish dressing and see to Ian’s linens, then the servant guided mother and son down the stair at a spirited pace.

  “ ’Tis only breakfast,” Leana teased her. “Will the porridge cool so soon?”

  Her porridge cup was steaming, and her tea still hot, though what caught her eye first were the gaily wrapped presents sitting by her plate. Not one or two, as was customary, but a dozen or more spilling about her place at table.

  Her father pointed his butter knife at them. “See to those first, for there won’t be a bittie of work done in this house ’til you do.”

  Leana numbered more than half the household loitering about the dining room, holding a single plate or cup, trying to look useful. “Suppose I open these packages first,” she said lightly. They surrounded her at once, elbowing one another and laughing behind their plates. “Who might this one be from?” Leana wondered.

  “Willie! Willie!” Eliza waved him closer.

  Two pale blue ribbons lay inside the plain paper. “Won’t these look lovely?”

  “They’re meant tae match yer eyes,” Willie confessed, his face reddening.

  Each present was more thoughtful than the last. Sewing needles from Birmingham. Freshly dipped beeswax candles. Lavender water. French writing paper. Pressed flowers. Even her father had a gift waiting for her. Yet the servants, who earned no more than seven pounds a year, were the most charitable of all. “However can I begin to thank you?” she wondered aloud when all the gifts were opened and all the faces round the room were shining. “You are all too kind.”

  Neda, who had the look of an instigator, smiled broadly. “Will ane o’ ye be guid enough tae bring yer mistress anither cup o’ oats? Hers is lang gone cold.” Eliza and Annabel both took off for the kitchen with the others trailing behind.

  “Such a vulgar display of affection,” her father grunted, plunging his spoon into his porridge. “Have these people forgotten their place?”

  “Their place is near our hearts,” Leana murmured, then held up his gift. “Thank you for the new pen, Father. ’twill make my letters look more elegant, to be sure. And the French writing paper is lovely, Rose.”

  “Joyeux anniversaire,” her sister said, a timid smile on her face. “You might want to look through it … later.” She shifted her gaze, fidgeting with her napkin.

  “I will, dearie,” Leana promised, taking a long look at her sister. Rose had been so quiet the past few days. Pensive and subdued. Leana prayed that her sister was not still suffering the last vestiges of her croup. Not only her womb might be affected but also her heart, Dr. Gilchrist had said.

  Jamie caught her eye next. “I, too, hope your birthday is a happy one, Leana.” His warm gaze said what he could not. I love you. “Is the sash the right color for your blue gown?”

  “Aye, ’Tis perfect.” She prayed her smile would convey her thoughts. I miss you.

  Annabel arrived with a fresh cup of porridge and a small pot of wild daisies. “Time ye were back in yer gairden, mem. I picked these from the lawn, but they canna compare tae the flooers ye grow.”

  “On the lawn, you say?” Leana touched their tiny white petals. “Could you place your foot over seven at once?”

  “Oo aye!” The red-haired maid clasped her hands. “ ’Tis spring, or nigh tae it.”

  “Ten days, by my count. Come the first day of spring, the women of Troquire parish will be sneaking off to Saint Queran’s Well.”

  “Not if the kirk session hears of it,” Lachlan muttered, putting his butter knife aside with a dull clang against the wood.

  Rose’s eyes shone with a curious light. “What sorts of women go there?”

  “Barren ones,” Leana answered without thinking, then froze. Oh, my poor sister. But it was too late.

  The color seeped from Rose’s cheeks. “You say the waters from this well heal … barrenness?”

  “So they say.” Leana hastened to make amends. “ ’Tis centuries old, a crumbling heap of stones. And anyway, May is the better month.” She shrugged, hoping she might change the subject. “Father is right. ’Tis not seemly for a Christian woman to visit a saint’s well on the Sabbath.”

  Rose wrinkled her brow. “But do they not call them ‘holy wells’?”

  “Aye.” Lachlan’s unshaven beard bristled. “Holy papist wells.”

  Leana cringed at his callous tone. There were but six Roman Catholic families in the parish, including Lord and Lady Maxwell. Lachlan knew them all by name and belittled them at every turn. Except the Maxwells, of course. Intolerant as he was, Lachlan still deferred to wealthy neighbors who might be of some benefit.

  Leana ate her porridge in silence, aware of Jamie watching her. She longed to know what he was thinking, what he was planning. Yet to slip off together for a quiet discussion would be to invite disaster on their heads. She tried to be content with snatches of conversation in the hall, glances exchanged over meals, a brief touch in passing. They were hardly enough to satisfy her woman’s heart, for she missed his tender kisses and the heat of his hands. Jamie, Jamie. To think of never sharing his bed again was to die a slow death, hour by hour. To think of Rose’s loving him instead was beyond imagining.

  Too soon the week ended. Too soon the sun rose on another misty Sabbath morn.

  Leana dressed quietly, preparing her heart, quelling her nerves. Neda came looking for her, offering a bannock for Leana’s long walk since she’d not appeared at table for breakfast. “I have no appetite for food or drink,” Leana admitted. “An empty stomach is best.”

  “Perhaps.” Neda slid the bannock in her apron pocket. “Duncan and I would be honored tae walk ye tae the kirk this morn. Seems a shame for ye tae travel alone. I ken Jamie canna take ye, but surely we can.”

  “Bless you.” Leana bowed her head. “I’m not sure my own mother would have been so generous.”

  “Och! Ye didna ken yer mither as weel as I did, sorry tae say. She’d stand by ye at the kirk door and help ye mount the stool as lang as she kenned yer heart was richt afore God. Niver was a woman mair attuned tae mercy than Agness McBride.”

  “However did she countenance my father?” Leana said, then pressed her hand to her mouth. “Forgive me for speaking ill of him on the Sabbath.”

  “Wheesht! I’ll not tell a soul, for ’tis the fifth commandment ye’ve broken.” Neda winked at her. “ ’Tis a guid question ye’ve asked, wi’ an easy reply: For a’ his mony faults, yer mother luved the man and earned the respect of a’ wha kenned her. And speakin’ o’ respect …” Neda opened the door behind her. “I’ve a guid man standin’ beyond yer nursery door, hopin’ tae wish ye weel this sorry day. Ye’ll see him, aye?”

  Jamie. Leana smoothed back her hair and pinched her cheeks. “Aye.”

  “Duncan and I will be waitin’ in the hall.” The last she saw of Neda was her kindhearted smile.

  Jamie’s expression was more tentative as he entered the room, as if testing her mood. “I see you’re ready, Leana.” He stepped closer, resting his fingers on the sleeve of her harn goun. “My prayers go with you, and my feet will soon follow.”

  His scent, his
warmth, filled the air around her. Overcome at the nearness of him, she lowered her gaze. “I wish you did not have to see me like this.”

  “I would see you any way I could.”

  She heard the rough tenderness in his voice, the banked desire. My husband. My love. “Jamie, I dare not ask you to kiss me.”

  “Then do not ask.” He pulled her against him, crushing the sackcloth against her body and his mouth against hers.

  Fifty

  They say sin touches not a man so near

  As shame a woman; yet he too should be

  Part of the penance; being more deep than she

  Set in the sin.

  ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

  Jamie tasted her kiss all morning. He was proud of himself for stealing no more than that. And ashamed of taking what was no longer his. Forgive me, lass.

  She stood by the kirk door in the bright March sunshine. More parishioners were kind than cruel this time, but meanspirited ones still walked among them. Jamie tarried mere steps away, silently daring anyone to hurt her, while Neda and Duncan stood on the other side of the door, distracting folk with a blithe welcome.

  I should be standing by the jougs.

  Hochmagandy was not a sin one committed alone. It required two willing parties. He may not have been sober on his wedding night or fully awake when she climbed into his bed, but he had been willing. Aye, he had been that. If he’d spoken Rose’s name, even once, Leana would have confessed the truth at once and fled from his box bed. Was it not his fault as much as hers then? If not more? He kicked at a clump of mud, shame heating his cheeks.

  I should be wearing sackcloth.

  When he settled into the pew at the second bell, Ian nestled in the crook of his arm, Jamie realized his fine cambric shirt felt uncomfortably tight about the neck. Sinners belonged in a harn goun. He should have asked Leana to make a second one, with longer sleeves and a fuller cut across the shoulders. The clerk’s reading of the marriage banns only made things worse.

  I should be climbing onto the stool.

  The beadle delivered Leana to the repentance stool after the first prayer. No one gasped aloud this week when she climbed onto the narrow seat, though the murmuring swelled, as if a conductor had raised his baton. At the turn of the sandglass, Reverend Gordon began his sermon from Isaiah. Jamie listened, his heart perched on a high stool, beating in time with Leana’s, begging her forgiveness.