Rose had neither the cloth nor the nerve for such a humiliating task. Could she not simply silver the water and drink her cup dry?
Oh, Jamie. She wanted his son, and she wanted him soon. If ’twould help, she would endure whatever abasement was necessary to secure a healthy bairn. The well was not a wutch’s cantrip; it was a holy place. Rose took a deep breath for courage, then turned to see if the woman had ended her strange ablutions.
She was gone. The circle was empty. No other pilgrims were in sight.
Rose hurried to the well, shaking all over from cold, from nerves, from embarrassment. Even the moon would not see her, yet she felt as though the eyes of the earth were watching. Except for her prayer, the woman had remained silent; Rose vowed to do the same.
Bonnet, boots, gloves, and hose were put aside. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and circled the well. It was all she could do to pluck out one coin without spilling the rest on the ground, so violently did her hands shake. Down the well went her silver, making a tiny splash as it landed. Uncertain of what words she should pray or to whom—the Almighty? Saint Queran? the guardian fairy of the well?—Rose simply whispered the truth: “I love my husband, and I want his child.” I do. Truly I do. “Heal my womb. Make it healthy and whole, ready for his seed. Please, I beg of you. Please.” Please. She choked on the word and could pray no more.
Rose wiped away her tears, hot against her icy fingers, and noticed the woman had left the drinking cup. Or perhaps it had been there for years. Apprehensive, Rose rinsed it first, then drew a cupful from the well, sipping at it tentatively. The water was fresh enough, though the peaty soil added its own peculiar flavor. She drank it down, then filled the cup again, perching it on the edge of the circular shaft. Tearing off a strip of her petticoat, she soaked it in well water, then held it out, dripping wet, knowing what she must do next.
’Twas now or not at all. For your son, Jamie. For you.
Glancing about the deserted field, convincing herself that no one would see her, Rose inched her skirts up past her calves, then her knees, then her thighs, finally baring herself to the waist, struggling to keep her full skirt and petticoats pulled aside with one hand while she hastily wiped her belly. She nearly cried out from the cold as the water sluiced down her legs. At last she dropped her skirts in place, the drugget fabric covered in watery stains. However would she explain herself when she arrived at Auchengray? Rose, Rose. Do you never think things through?
The dawn was coming sooner than she’d imagined. She hastily tied the clootie to the nearby birch tree, its silvery white trunk easily seen now. “Please, please,” she murmured again. Her ordeal was almost over; if it healed her womb, ’Twas worth everything. When she turned to collect her discarded stockings, the sky was no longer black but a deep blue. Hurry, hurry. According to the blether she’d heard from Rab Murray, it was vital to depart the well before daybreak, or all her efforts would be for naught. She pulled her hose on with such haste she tore them, then yanked on her boots and laced them only halfway. Wasting no time mounting Walloch, she took off at a trot, with her back to the well and Walloch’s nose aimed due east.
Morning broke across Galloway as they reached the road south to Newabbey. With the reins well in hand and her knee hooked firmly round the pommel, she gave Walloch his head and tugged her bonnet low across her brow. Should one of the elders learn of her pilgrimage to the well—and their informers were everywhere—she’d be called before the kirk session and charged with profaning the Sabbath and honoring papist ways. Yet another McBride sister would warm the cutty stool. Nae! She could not bear it.
Her only hope was to take a roundabout way, approaching Troston Hill from the north, then passing Glensone, and finally taking the road to Auchengray. ’twould add time to her journey and require passing the farms of friends who might look at her askance in her torn hose and splattered dress. But to ride through the outskirts of the village was to risk being seen by any number of folk who might delight in mentioning her name to an elder. Nae. She would take the longer route and pray no one noticed her.
Walloch gamely started down the rough and unfamiliar road, but the gravel soon gave way to mud and rocks, slowing them further. She studied the sun’s arc. Was it seven already? Later than that? She must get to the kirk on time, for her marriage banns would be read once more. When Jessie Newall’s house came into view, Rose nearly cried out with relief. “Almost home!” she promised Walloch, trotting past the whitewashed mains and down the steep hill, grateful to be back on more sound footing.
Her mount, eager for his morning oats, took off on the straight road at a gallop. “Slow down, lad!” she cautioned, though ’Twas no use. Bent over the pommel, Rose paid little attention to the figure in the distance standing at Auchengray’s gate. Not until she was almost on top of him.
“Jamie!” She brought Walloch to an abrupt halt, though the horse shook its head in protest.
Jamie glared at her, arms folded across his chest. Dressed for kirk, his chin scraped clean and his boots polished, he made an imposing sight. All at once she felt like a milkmaid bound for the byre.
“I see you are up early as well.” Rose dismounted, keeping her eyes well hidden beneath the brim of her bonnet. When she turned to lead the horse toward the stables, Jamie snagged her by the elbow none too gently.
“Where did you take Walloch and why?”
“The horse belongs to my father,” she reminded him, then wished she hadn’t, for his frown grew more pronounced. “And until you are my husband, my time is my own, is it not?”
Jamie’s eyes sparked. “Need I mention I am already your husband?” He released his hold on her but not his hard gaze. “According to Willie, you left well before sunrise. Where does a woman go at that hour of the morning on horseback?”
Please, Jamie. She could not bear to tell him the truth. To see the look of disbelief on his face. Would he mock her? Scold her? Be ashamed to call her his wife? But she was his wife. He deserved to know.
“I went to a … well.”
“Och! We have a suitable well less than a furlong from Auchengray’s door.”
“But I went to Saint Queran’s Well.”
He gaped at her. “Whatever for, Rose?”
“To heal my womb.” Her cheeks burned. “To … to make certain I can give you … sons.”
“Lass, you cannot be serious!” His anger lifted like a morning mist; ’Twas there one moment, then gone completely. “Of course you will bear my sons, if it pleases God.” He stepped before her, taking her hands lightly in his. Only then did she begin to tremble from the cool morning and her wet clothes. And from Jamie standing so near.
Rose hastened to explain herself, rushing over her words. “Leana told us about … about the well. Remember? The morning of her … her birthday.”
“I confess I don’t recall the details. Something about barren women, wasn’t it?”
“Aye.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Jamie, I … that is, when I was recovering from croup, Dr. Gilchrist gave me some … very bad news.”
Jamie gripped her hands. “What is it, Rose?”
But he already knew. She could see it in his eyes. “We cannot be certain that I am … am unable to have children. But if the waters of Saint Queran have the power to heal me, I had to try. Don’t you see, Jamie?” Her eyes began to swim. “I will do anything … anything I can to give you children. To … to make you … to make you …”
Jamie nodded as though he understood. “To make me a father again.”
“Nae.” Rose hung her head, letting her tears drop onto the gravel at her feet. “To make you love me again.”
Fifty-Two
‘Tis time to run, ’tis time to ride,
For Spring is with us now.
CHARLES LELAND
Leana watched the two of them from the window at the top of the stair. Walking toward the stable. Shoulders almost touching. Jamie offering Rose a hand
kerchief. Rose dabbing at her eyes.
Leana loved them both. But not like this.
Lord, how am I to bear it?
She backed away from the window, feeling sick, wanting to run, wanting to hide before they came through the door and found her there. In six brief days she would release Jamie into her sister’s waiting arms. How tempting it would be to let the thread of life slip through her fingers as well. Her stillroom shelves contained all she needed to put an end to her misery. Henbane. Herb Paris. Hemlock.
Nae. Leana shook her head, dislodging the wicked thought before it took root. She would do what she must. Life would go on, if only for Ian’s sake.
At the sound of their voices in the hall below, she pressed her damp hands against her sackcloth gown and hastened toward her sewing room, seeking sanctuary. The small room where she and Rose had spent so many peaceful hours brightened considerably when Leana tied back the curtains, letting in the morning light. She eyed her spinning wheel, which cast an intricate pattern on the hardwood floor, and the carding paddles, cleaned and neatly stacked where Rose had left them. Would the two sisters meet here each Monday as usual? After Jamie and Rose were husband and wife, would life at Auchengray continue, with naught changed but their sleeping arrangements?
Heaven help me! She sank onto the three-legged stool, her harn goun wrapped about her bare legs, her face buried in her hands. How could she possibly live beneath the same roof? Where would she find the strength to watch them sit together at table and at kirk, her husband and her sister? How could she lie in bed at night and imagine the two of them …
Nae! I cannot!
When a footstep sounded at the doorway, she pretended not to notice, praying whoever it was might leave her in peace.
“Leana.” Jamie’s voice. “May I … walk you to the kirk?”
She shook her head, not letting herself look up at him, for it hurt too much, like the summer sun piercing her eyes. “You know ’tis not wise, Jamie. Neda will keep me company.”
He was quiet for a long time. “How might I make this easier for you, lass?”
Love me, Jamie. She could never speak such a braisant invitation aloud.
“Please, Leana, tell me what I might do.” He crossed the room and rested his hand on her head. She felt the warmth of him beneath her circle of braids. “I cannot bear to see you suffer, not only today on the cutty stool, but every day we are together … yet apart.”
The longing in his voice consoled her a little. To know that he missed her touch as much as she missed his. Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she straightened, grateful he did not move his hand, even when she tipped back her head to gaze at him. “Forgive me, for I ken my face is—”
“Bonny as any in Galloway. Especially to me.” He bent down and kissed her forehead, edging lower as if he intended to kiss her mouth as well, then thought better of it. “Ne’er forget that, Leana.”
An hour later the word still decorated her thoughts like ribbon on a dress. Bonny. She’d not been called that many times in her life. Her sister, aye. But not her. Bless you, Jamie.
“Whatever ye’re smilin’ aboot, I’m glad tae see it.” Neda walked beside her on the road to Newabbey, matching her slower, barefoot pace. The rest of the household would find their way to kirk soon enough; Leana was grateful for the time alone with Neda and sweet Ian.
He was awake but blessedly content, babbling away at the changing scenery as he bounced on her hip. “ ’Tis spring, Ian. Your first.” Evidence of the new season greeted them at each bend in the road. Catkins covered the willow trees, soft as gray kittens, and yellow coltsfoot bloomed in the fields. Beside the meandering stream grew pale pink clusters of butterbur. To the north stood a grove of larch trees dotted with rose-tinted buds and vivid green needles.
“I’ve always loved the first day of spring,” Leana said wistfully, thinking of her garden. “I plan to spend the week digging and planting.” And weaning Ian. And letting go of Jamie. “You will help Rose, won’t you, Neda? When ’Tis time?”
“Ye ken I will, Leana, for I luve yer lad like me ain granbairn.” The woman’s sigh was long, laden with sorrow. “Yer sister’s been plyin’ me wi’ questions whan ye’re not aboot. Wonderin’ if the wet nurse she found will suit. Beggin’ to learn Ian’s favorite games. Askin’ what foods please the boy.”
“You must teach her such things, Neda.” Leana brushed a kiss across her son’s head, kept warm beneath a cotton bonnet. “For Ian’s sake. And for mine.”
Neda wrapped an arm round Leana’s waist as they walked. “Oniething to help, lass. Ye ken there’s naught I willna do for ye and yer son.”
Dear Neda. Leana knew she could never have endured the last month without her kind presence. “This morning you can help me most by standing where I might see you and Ian as I compear beside the kirk door. ’Tis a lonely time, that.”
Neda glanced over her shoulder. “Ye can be sure me husband and yer Jamie are not far behind, Leana. They’ll tarry nigh the door as weel. We’ll see ye through.”
Neda Hastings seldom made a promise she did not keep. At the first bell she and Duncan and Jamie stood like three sentinels by the gateway, taking turns holding Ian, glaring at any who spoke sharply to Leana, smiling in agreement when a kind word was offered. Her father barely acknowledged Leana in passing. Rose hung back, as though she wanted to say something.
“Leana?” The fragile skin beneath her sister’s eyes looked almost bruised, as if Rose had wept through a long night without sleep. “May we speak later?”
Leana merely nodded, for their father was staring at Rose and demanding she follow him at once. Any number of things might be on Rose’s mind. Jamie had mentioned Rose’s trip to Saint Queran’s Well. Perhaps that was what troubled the lass. “Aye, later,” Leana whispered before her sister hastened for the door.
After the second bell called the parishioners to worship, Leana waited alone for the beadle to collect her. Instead, Reverend Gordon stepped out into the cool March sunshine and shook out the sleeves of his black robe. The fine fabric presented a stark contrast to her rough sackcloth with its soiled hem. “Leana, your conduct the last two Sabbaths has … ah, surprised me.”
Her breath caught. “For good or for ill?”
“You ken the answer to that. I’ve ne’er seen a woman manage the stool with such grace. Even when no mercy was given you, you extended it to others.” His bushy brows rose as he appraised her. “Though I’ve done what’s expected of me, I’ve taken no joy in your rebuke, Miss McBride.”
She bowed her head, uncertain how to respond. His words had been harsh the first Sunday, a bit less so the last. Might he be merciful this morning?
“The elders have requested that you subscribe a band—a pledge to proper behavior in the future—to be written in the session records, with your signature. I felt certain, with all that has transpired, you would be more than willing to do so.”
“Aye.” ’Twas a simple request to honor. The circumstances of her sin would not be repeated in a lifetime. “When shall I subscribe this in the record book?”
“Saturday, before the exchange of vows, come to the manse. ’twill not take long, though you might give some thought in advance to what you will write, as ’Tis a legal and binding statement and not to be taken lightly.”
“I would ne’er take repentance lightly.”
“Nor should any of us.” He nodded his farewell, then departed for the pulpit and his first prayer of the Sabbath.
When the beadle escorted her withindoors moments later, she mounted the stool without mishap and settled onto the hard, narrow seat. The minister’s sermon covered the same passage from Isaiah as the previous week, a handful of verses ground down until only dry dust remained. Leana fixed her gaze on Jamie and Ian, drawing strength from them, preparing for her final humiliation.
When the sandglass was turned over, Reverend Gordon put aside his notes. “ ’Tis our last week to rebuke Miss McBride, who
compears before us. Will any speak against her? Come forth, or haud yer wheesht.”
No one stood. Not a voice was raised. Every eye was trained on her, but none bore the glint of reproof.
“Verra well.” Reverend Gordon leaned on his forearms and peered over the pulpit. “Then hear my closing words for you, Miss McBride, taken from the Gospel accounts.” He did not consult either Buik or notes but proclaimed his chosen verses loudly through the sanctuary. “ ’they that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick.’ Has the Great Physician come to your aid, Leana? Has he healed your soul?”
She looked him in the eye, unafraid of her confession. “He has, sir.”
Reverend Gordon’s voice remained stern, but his expression softened. “Our Lord came to this earth, not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. Has he called you to repent of your sins?”
“Aye, he has called me, and I have repented.” And he has forgiven me. Thanks be to God.
“The people of Galilee sought out John in the wilderness, who baptized them for the remission of their sins.” Reverend Gordon covered his thumb with spittle and held it out, startling the congregation. A hush fell across the room. “As I baptized your son, newborn into the world, so do I baptize you with these words, Leana McBride: ‘Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.’ ”
My peace I give unto you. She stood on shaking legs and climbed down from the high stool, then the lower one, her gaze fixed on the pulpit. Whatever had happened to Reverend Gordon, the man was not the same. Nor was his flock. Nor was she. By the time Leana reached the flagstone floor, the whispering in the sanctuary had swelled to an unsung chorus. A hymn without words. Nae, with one word: Mercy.
The beadle led her toward the door. Hands reached out to clasp hers as she passed. Some eyes were dry, and others were not, as a great sigh of relief swept through the room like the spring wind, carrying Leana in its wake. Their mercy made her long to be merciful. She inclined her head toward David McMiken and Mary McCheyne and Lydia Taggart, each one in turn. As you have forgiven me, so I forgive you.
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