Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  I should be with you, beloved.

  On the Sabbath last he had defended her. Supported her. Refused to rebuke her. Proclaimed, at some risk, his feelings for her before the congregation. ’Tis Leana McBride whom I love and nae other. Then why did he still feel guilty? Why did his insides grind like Brodie Selkirk’s millstone?

  Because Leana is paying the price for her sin. And you are not.

  The sermon ended, and Jamie’s agony began in earnest. Now Reverend Gordon would offer a second rebuke and invite his parishioners to do the same.

  “Flee fornication,” the minister stated boldly. “The Buik tells us, ‘Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.’ Leana McBride compears before this assembly a second time that she might be reminded to flee sin rather than to follow it, for her body’s sake.”

  Jamie rested his chin on his son’s head. But her precious body produced Ian. Good had come from bad, blessing from sin. Was that the grace of the Almighty at work? Did God’s mercy stretch that far, that wide?

  “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?” Reverend Gordon peered over his glasses at Leana. “To whom do you belong, Leana McBride? Speak, and let us hear you.”

  Her voice rang like the kirk bell. “My body, my soul, and my mind belong to the Lord.”

  “Aye, and the Buik tells us, ‘to avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband.’ Do you have a husband, Leana? Is there a man who will claim you?”

  I will gladly claim her. Jamie slid forward on the pew, as if waiting for a cue to stand. Say the word, Leana.

  She sat up straighter, smiling as though she could not wait to give her answer. “I do indeed have a husband. ‘For thy Maker is thine husband; the LORD of hosts is his name.’ ”

  Jamie sank back, ashamed of his disappointment. Forgive me, Lord. For I ken she is yours.

  Reverend Gordon nodded at her, trying not to look pleased and failing. “So then. You will state again your wish to repent.”

  She slid gracefully to the lower stool and then to the floor, presenting herself to the congregation, her soul bared before them as plainly as her head and feet. “I do repent and plead for your forgiveness.”

  “Only God has the power to forgive our sins,” the minister reminded her. “Though ’Tis our Christian duty to show you mercy. And so we shall.”

  After the benediction Jamie found her in a sunny corner of the kirkyard, where parish members convened for a bit of gossip and a bite of cold meat between services. Duncan and Neda stood guard a few feet away, giving Jamie and Leana a moment’s privacy before the rest of the household appeared.

  He turned Ian around so he could see her. “Look who is waiting for you, lad. Your fine mother.”

  Leana held out her arms to collect their wriggling son, not quite meeting Jamie’s gaze. “Jamie, I must ask a favor. A difficult one for me.” She bent over Ian, as if hiding her shame. “You cannot … kiss me again. This morning …”

  “Aye, lass.” His heart fell to his knees. “I had no right.”

  “Nae.” She dropped her voice to the faintest of whispers. “You had every right, for I welcomed it. But your kisses are too tender, Jamie. And my love for you is too great. ’twill only make what is to come more … difficult.”

  He reached out to comfort her, then drew his hand back. “I ken you speak the truth, though I do not like to hear it.”

  “Nor I, Jamie.” She glanced toward the kirk. “I sensed you sitting up there with me this morning.”

  “You did?” Guilt, like the tidal bores of the Solway, washed over him without warning. “I belonged up there, Leana. Right beside you.”

  “Nae.” Her blue eyes watered, if only from the sun. “Were you to mount the repentance stool, we’d both be marked as ill-deedie parents. And whom do you suppose would be given Ian to raise?”

  He hadn’t given the awful possibility a moment’s thought. “Rose? Your Aunt Margaret?”

  She slowly shook her head. “My father.”

  God help us. “Leana, that cannot happen. Must not happen.”

  Lachlan McBride’s booming voice carried across a dozen headstones. “What are you two blethering about?”

  Jamie spun on his heel to face him. Leana wouldn’t lie, not even to protect herself. He, on the other hand, still had enough swickerie left to fool his uncle. “Leana cannot—nae, must not fall off the repentance stool. The flagstone would break her neck.”

  Lachlan looked at him askance, absently pulling out his pocket watch, then slipping it back inside his waistcoat. “ ’Tis an odd thing to concern yourself with, Jamie.”

  Neda appeared, brandishing a willow basket. “Suppose we concern ourselves with dinner. I’ve pigeon pies for everyone. Mr. McKie, might you find us somewhere dry to roost?”

  Jamie guided the family toward a pair of unclaimed stone benches near the abbey ruins, surprised that Rose hadn’t found someone her own age to share dinner with, as she often did. It seemed she’d lost whatever parish friends she’d once had. A fleeting wave of sympathy passed through him.

  Neda saw the family settled, fresh pies in hand, then attended to the servants who’d found a patch of new grass to sit upon. Leana had her hands full, spooning cold porridge into Ian’s mouth, while Rose arranged her skirts and nibbled at her pie briefly before putting it aside and clearing her throat.

  “Since we’re all here, might we discuss the twenty-seventh?” When she received naught but blank looks, Rose was crestfallen. “ ’Tis my … my wedding day.”

  And mine. Jamie put aside his pigeon pie as well, for his appetite had vanished.

  “Father has asked that we have no bridal party afterward.” She bent her head toward Lachlan without looking at him. “Too costly. Nor will we invite guests to the kirk.”

  “The kirk?” This was the first time Jamie had heard that detail. “Can we not repeat the vows at Auchengray? ’twill require but a few minutes with the minister.”

  Her plaintive reply took him aback. “Please, Jamie? It would mean so much to me.”

  When Leana nodded slightly, he knew he could not fight them both. “Aye, if you wish.”

  “We only need two witnesses,” Rose added, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “Reverend Gordon said they should be family members. Father, of course, will be one. And the other … if you will, Leana …”

  “What?” Disgusted, Jamie stood to pace the ground rather than look at his future wife. “You cannot ask your sister to serve as a witness for … for …”

  “Jamie,” Leana interrupted, “I can manage.”

  “ ’Twas not my suggestion,” Rose explained, splaying her hands. “Ask the minister, if you like.”

  Jamie stopped in front of her. “You can be verra sure I will.”

  The notion nagged at him all through the second service: Leana suffering yet another humiliation. Because of me. Since she was not required to mount the stool in the afternoon, she sat at the end of the pew, quietly tending Ian. However did Leana remain so calm? When Rose asked her sister to serve as witness, Leana had not even blinked.

  Jamie folded his arms across his chest, determined to be angry on Leana’s behalf. What sort of sister would ask such a thing? A heartless one. A spiteful one. A jealous one.

  Yet even as those words rang inside his head, certain truths about Rose demanded his attention as well. Rose was not yet seventeen, a full five years younger than Leana. She’d missed having a mother and had a scoonrel for a father. Her only sister had claimed the husband meant to be hers. Rose had also lost two dear friends: Susanne from Rose’s own foolishness and Jane from an untimely death. And hadn’t Rose been seriously ill herself for a long winter’s month?

  ’Tis not the worst of it, man. Rose had waited more than a year to be his wife, convinced that he still might l
ove her. And whose fault is that?

  Walking home from services, Jamie fell well behind Lachlan and Rose, who were chatting amiably about the fine weather and the lambing to come. How the girl did favor his mother, Rowena! The same dark hair and eyes, the same trim waist. Aye, and the same heidie nature. In a fortnight Rose would be his wife. In a twelvemonth he would understand more fully the life his father led, married to a headstrong lass.

  Until then his heart, if naught else, belonged to Leana. It grieved him that he couldn’t walk side by side with her, lest a passing neighbor jalouse they were still behaving as husband and wife. I would if I could. That was what he’d said to her on their wedding night, standing on the stair outside her bedroom, never imagining what was to come. I would if I could.

  Might she remember those words and grasp his meaning if he repeated them in her ear? Would they capture all else he longed to say? I love you still. I want you only. I know ’Tis impossible.

  He drew near to her on the pretense of seeing after Ian’s blanket, which was gradually unwrapping itself from his feet. “Leana,” he said softly and waited until she angled her head toward him. “I would if I could.”

  Her smile was tinged with sadness. She remembers.

  “I would too, Jamie.” She bowed her head. “Even if I should not.”

  “We are still married,” he reminded her, trying to convince them both.

  “Nae. We were never married.” When she looked up, her eyes glistened with tears. “Nor shall I speak those vows again, for no man would have a woman whose name is so besmirched.”

  Jamie clasped his hands behind his back lest he follow his heart’s leading and brush the tears from her cheeks. “Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.” When she only sniffed in response, he searched his mind for something else that might lift her spirits.

  “Leana McBride,” he said at last, using his most ministerial voice, “I ken not what passages Reverend Gordon has selected for your final morning on the repentance stool Sunday next, but I’ve chosen a few verses that suit your … ah, behavior.”

  “Aye?” She glanced at him sideways. “Do these verses have the word ‘hochmagandy’ in them?”

  “Nae, they do not. Though I do have suitable commentary for each one, just as the reverend does.” He fell in step behind her, for propriety’s sake, then began his impromptu lecture. “Who can find a virtuous woman?”

  “Och! Now there’s a fairy tale.” She shook her head, though he heard the smile in her voice. “I am far from virtuous.”

  “Beg to differ, lass. When you discovered what a liar and thief I was, you still treated me like a prince.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “And may I remind you, the accused is to listen and not to interrupt.”

  “My apologies, sir,” she said demurely.

  “ ‘For her price is far above rubies.’ Would that a price could be put on your fair head, Leana, for I would sell all of Glentrool to have you for my own.”

  Her sigh was softer than any spring breeze. “Oh, Jamie.”

  “Silence, Miss McBride, or I’ll sentence you to another kiss in the nursery.”

  Her low voice floated over her shoulder. “Pray, do continue then, for ’Tis a punishment too sweet to bear.”

  “ ‘Strength and honour are her clothing.’ Aye, and well dressed you are, Leana.”

  She paused to look at him. “I would hardly call sackcloth honorable.”

  Jamie placed his hands on Ian’s head and feet and prayed she would feel them resting on her as well. “You are wrong, beloved. Only a very strong woman can stand before her neighbors and confess her sins. Would that I had your strength.”

  “You do, Jamie. And you will impart that courage to our son.” She leaned closer as the servants passing them kindly averted their eyes. “I ken the rest of that verse, beloved, but cannot see my way through it: ‘She shall rejoice in time to come.’ When, Jamie? When shall I rejoice? When I hear you speak your vows to Rose? When I watch her raise our son?” Her eyes filled with fresh tears and her face with sorrow anew. “I love my sister dearly. But to think of her loving you and bearing your children … Oh, Jamie, how shall I ever rejoice over that?”

  Fifty-One

  I must become a borrower of the night

  For a dark hour or twain.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  ’Twas midnight at Auchengray, the first hour of the Sabbath. Rose pulled the covers round her neck and tried to sleep, if only for a short time. She would leave long before daybreak for Saint Queran’s Well. Earlier in the week she’d sought out her old friend Rab Murray, shepherding on the nearby hills, to see if he might direct her to Saint Queran’s, since the herds knew the land better than anyone. In exchange for a pocketful of rich shortbread, the canny lad had divulged the whereabouts of the sacred well.

  “ ’Tis naught but a circle o’ stones,” Rab had explained between mouthfuls, “built round a shaft o’ water that o’erflows into Crooks Pow. At the sharp bend in the road at Cargen—afore the bridge, aye?—turn left o’er the moss. A clootie tree stands nigh the well, a silver birch wi’ the rags of mony a pilgrim danglin’ from its branches. Ye’ll have nae trouble findin’ the place. Six and a bit miles on horseback by the Newabbey road tae Dumfries, less on foot o’er the hills.” He’d squinted at her then, his curiosity aroused. “Ye’ll not be thinkin’ o’ walkin’ across that wild kintra-side in the dark o’ morn come the first o’ May, will ye, Rosie?”

  “Nae!” she’d told him, laughing brightly, pretending not to mind being called by her childhood nickname, though she minded very much. “I would ne’er do so unchancie a thing as to visit a well in May.”

  Indeed she would not wait until May; she’d go this morning, the first day of spring. And she would not walk; she’d ride Walloch, Jamie’s handsome gelding. If the holy waters of Saint Queran healed a barren woman’s womb, then she would drink them, wash her hands in them, soak her feet in them, whatsomever was required. Her wedding was six days hence, and she was running out of time.

  She awakened while it was still night. The slow-burning taper, marked for each hour, showed the time near four. Two hours until sunrise. If she dressed in a twinkling and saddled Walloch without delay, she could be on her way to Saint Queran’s before Neda rose to start the porridge cooking.

  Rose donned her oldest gown—the hemline torn by brambles and gorse, the blue drugget faded to gray—and slipped down the stair, holding her breath to listen for a latch to click or a sleepy voice to call out. She reached the hall and opened the front door with exceeding care, then pulled it closed behind her with a measure of relief. Now to Walloch.

  The first quarter moon had long since set, blanketing the mains in utter darkness. In the farm steading, the seasonal workers grunted in their sleep as she passed their bothies. Walloch heard her approach the stables and neighed in greeting. “Guid lad,” she crooned, smoothing a hand over his sleek hide, calming him. “You’ll not mind my sidesaddle, will you?” Heavy as it was, she managed to hoist the leather saddle on her own, tighten the girth, then use the lowpin-on-stane to mount the spirited gelding. “Steady now, for I’ve no wish for a broken neck.”

  Not a candle was seen in a window nor a shout heard at the door as horse and rider took off at a gentle pace. ’Twas not until they were halfway to Newabbey that Rose realized what a mistake she’d made not leaving a note at the stables. Annabel would not come looking for her until eight o’ the clock; she’d be safely home by then. But Willie would rise to feed Walloch long before that and think the horse stolen. “Only borrowed,” she whispered into the dank, chilly air, running a gloved hand down Walloch’s neck. “I’ll have you back for your morning oats soon enough. Won’t I, lad?”

  The two fell into a comfortable trot and soon turned north toward Dumfries rather than crossing the bridge into the village. A thick forest of Scots pines crowded the road on both sides. Uneasy at the thought of a highwayman bounding from behind the cover of tree
s, she gave Walloch a nudge with her heel. He needed no further direction and increased his stride to a gallop as she shifted her weight forward. Och, such a fine beast! They would arrive at the holy well long before sunrise.

  Without moonlight to guide her, Rose depended on Walloch’s keen eyes and ears to keep them on the road as they passed Whinny Hill, then Gillfoot. At Cargen she guided the horse down a narrow track not much wider than a footpath. The moss had been well trampled. She was not the first to seek out Saint Queran’s healing waters.

  Though ’Twas some time before sunrise, the air seemed lighter, the darkness thinner. Rose saw the clootie tree first and then the well, surrounded by flat, rough boulders. A woman was there. Alone, weeping. Poor lass! Rose felt her throat tighten in sympathy. She had only the fear of being barren, the dreadful expectation; this woman clearly had nae doubt of her condition. Rose quietly dismounted and tied Walloch’s reins to a small tree near the flowing burn, then walked toward the circle of stones, staying far enough away that the woman might seek relief in privacy.

  Rose pretended not to watch or to listen as the stranger removed her boots and hose, cold as the night was, then circled the well three times in silence. She walked deasil, circling it like a clock, then tossed a coin into the well. Silvering the water, Rab Murray had called it. Rose patted her hanging pocket, relieved to feel the coins beneath her fingers. When the woman began to mumble her entreaty, Rose could not make out the words, but she heard the sentiment of her prayer well enough and nodded in sympathy. I ken, lass. I do.

  Her prayer finished, the woman lifted a cup of the well water to her mouth and drank greedily. Refilling the cup, she produced a clootie, plunged it into the water, then raised her skirts to her waist, baring herself to the night. Rose turned her head, for ’twas painfully clear what came next. The wet cloth was dragged across the afflicted part that required healing—her exposed belly—then the rag was tied to the clootie tree and left to rot, in hopes that whatever caused her barrenness would wither away as well.