Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Neda looked at her askance. “Aye, if that’s what ye’re wantin’, lass. I’ll send ane o’ the lads tae hunt doon a brown hare by the light o’ the moon. ’Tis the best time tae catch them.”

  Hare soup? Whatever was the lass up to now? Jamie looked up from his plate to find Lachlan staring at him.

  “Nephew, I trust things are in place for Saturday.”

  Jamie held his frustration in check “There’s little to be done. Our vows will be repeated at the kirk door, our union blessed by Reverend Gordon, and the session record book signed by our witnesses.”

  “Have you no plans beyond that?” Lachlan tossed his napkin aside. “A bridal week perhaps?”

  Is the man daft? “ ’Tis lambing season, Uncle. I can barely take time for the trip to the village.” Jamie stared hard at Rose. “There’ll be no bridal week. None whatsoever. Any moments I can spare the next few days will be spent in the pastures.”

  Rose pulled her braid over her shoulder, smoothing her fingers over the ribbon that held the plaits tight, her eyes downcast. “I intend to spend Friday getting ready for our wedding.”

  “And I will spend the day with Ian.” Leana gazed across the table at Jamie. “Working in the garden.”

  Jamie nodded ever so slightly. I will come, Leana. His ewes needed him. But Leana needed him more. God help us both.

  Fifty-Five

  For every rose a thorn doth bear.

  RICHARD WATSON GILDER

  One day. ’Twas all that remained before Jamie was hers.

  Rose perched on the edge of her box bed, staring at the neatly pressed gown hanging before her. ’Twas one of the dresses she’d hoped to take to Carlyle School in the spring. Her month in Dumfries seemed a distant memory, clouded by the saddest of endings. And now this, a wedding that was anything but proper. Though her gown was a lovely jade green, she’d worn it many times before. The wedding ring on her finger had graced Leana’s hand for more than a year. Since their vows had been spoken before, the couple would not be permitted to stand inside the kirk. And she would have no bridal week; Jamie had made that verra clear. None whatsoever.

  A coil of fear tightened in her stomach. He had promised to do his duty by her; indeed, the Buik required it. Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence. Whatever that meant. The words did not sound painful, yet that was all she’d heard: ’Twill hurt. Jane had shared a few sordid details in the confines of their sleeping room at school, leaving Rose more uncertain than ever. What might Jamie expect of her? Or she of him?

  “Jamie would ne’er hurt me,” she consoled herself. She’d seen how gently he handled the lambs, how carefully he shepherded the ewes. Surely he would treat her more tenderly still. Please God, in time she would have what she desired: a child of her own. She’d seen the way Ian looked at his mother. Pure adoration. Nigh to worship. And a bond that could not be broken. Whether ’Twas selfishness or simple honesty, Rose could not say; she only knew she wanted a child who would love her completely, for it seemed of late that Jamie might never do so.

  Tears stung her eyes. Was it so wrong to want to be loved?

  Moments later when Annabel knocked on her door, Rose stood, suddenly at loose ends. Where might she go while the maid gave the room a thorough cleaning? In the morn’s morn she’d have much to accomplish: new linen sheets scattered with rose petals, her best cambric nightgown hung out to air, and candles placed about the room to banish the shadows. But now, with Jamie busy on the hills, Rose had nothing to do but wait. And worry.

  “Yer sister’s in the gairden wi’ Ian,” Annabel said. “She’ll nae dout walcome yer company.”

  Aye, and she might not.

  Hugh, a basket of clean laundry in his hands, stood at the foot of the stair as she hurried down. “Whaur are ye bound, miss?”

  “Off to the garden to visit Leana and pick some flowers for my room.”

  “Too early in the season for flooers, mem,” he said as she slipped past him. “The trees in the orchard are fu’ o’ blossoms, but ye’ll not find meikle bloomin’ in yer sister’s gairden.”

  There must be one flower. Wasn’t spring nigh to a week old? Yet when she stepped out the kitchen door and into Leana’s domain, Rose realized she’d paid little attention to pernickitie notions like growing seasons. Row after row of freshly turned soil and tiny green shoots were all the eye could see. Even her mother’s beloved roses were little more than brown sticks covered with buds. ’Twas lovely out of doors though. A light breeze from the southwest heated the air, as did the late afternoon sun pouring across the land, painting the fields and pastures a vivid shade, greener than her wedding gown.

  She spied Leana kneeling at the far end of her physic garden, her unbound hair falling to her shoulders, the mark of an unmarried woman. Ian sat by his mother’s side on a thick plaid, gleefully slapping a porridge spoon against the wool. Rose called out to them, then lifted her skirts and made her way down the grassy expanse between the rectangular gardens. “Are there no flowers to be found on such a fine day?”

  When Leana looked up, her smile was strained. “Naught but wild-flowers. Field pansies and forget-me-nots sprouting along the lanes. I’ve been planting seeds this morning though. You’ll have flowers in your garden before long.”

  “Your garden,” Rose corrected her. “You ken verra well I have nae interest in plunging my hands in the dirt.” She looked about the tidy grounds. “If you ever left Auchengray, these plots would go to ruin, I’m afraid.”

  Without warning, Ian tipped forward beyond the edge of the plaid, plunging his fists into the loamy soil. “Careful, lad,” Leana said, putting aside her spade. “You’ll uproot my valerian.”

  Her sister’s warning came too late. The child grabbed the herb by its hairy stem and yanked hard as he fell back on his bottom, pulling up the plant by its roots. “Oooh!” he cried, waving the mass of thick, ivory-colored shoots about like a rattle.

  Rose wrinkled her nose. “Whatever is that ugsome smell?”

  “Valerian root.” Leana reached for the plant, but Ian was too quick for her. He twisted away from her grasp, then toppled over on his blanket, shrieking with joy. Leana sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose it can’t hurt the lad. If he pokes it in his mouth, which is what he does with most things, he will find the taste very disagreeable.”

  Rose gaped at her. “What if ’tis poisonous?”

  “Valerian? Few plants have more to recommend them.” Leana kept a watchful eye on Ian as she resumed her digging. “ ’Tis so useful some call it All Heal. Haven’t you noticed it in past summers here at the end of the garden? It grows quite tall in our rich soil, with pale pink flowers come June.”

  Rose nodded, unwilling to admit how little she understood about growing things. “So what malady is this miracle plant supposed to cure?”

  Leana looked up, her blue eyes assessing Rose from beneath her wide-brimmed bonnet. “It calms the womb.”

  Calms the womb. Rose tried not to let her keen interest show. “What do you mean it ‘calms’ it?”

  “Rose, I thought you knew.” Leana brushed the soil from her fingers. “Valerian root has been used to heal barren women since the Romans came to Scotland.”

  “Truly?” Hope bloomed inside her. Could it be she’d found a cure in Auchengray’s own garden?

  Leana raised a cautionary hand. “Of course, one can ne’er be certain—”

  “Please, dearie!” Rose dropped to her knees, not caring if she soiled her gown. “You were there when Dr. Gilchrist told me the news. You heard him say I might never have children.”

  “I did.” Leana tipped her bonnet down, concealing her face. “And I’m sorry, Rose.”

  Was Leana genuinely sorry? Sorry enough to help her? Rose reached out, taking Leana’s hands in hers. “What must be done with this valerian? Do you grind the root? Are the leaves brewed in a tea? Is it meant to be rubbed into the skin or swallowed in a syrup?”

  Leana’s st
raw brim did not move. Nor did she answer.

  “Please, dearie. If valerian can heal my womb, won’t you prepare some for me? You ken how much I long for children of my own. I … I only want what … what you have.”

  “Indeed, you want all that I have.” Leana withdrew her hands, refusing to look up, though Rose heard the tears in her voice. “Aren’t my husband and my son enough for you, Rose?”

  “Oh, Leana. I didn’t mean …I shouldn’t have …”

  “Nae,” she said, the word laced with pain. “You should not have. You want all that is mine, Rose. And yet you offer me nothing in return. Nothing.”

  “But, Leana … whatever would I have that you might want?”

  Fifty-Six

  On me, on me

  Time and change can heap no more!

  RICHARD HENGIST HORNE

  Jamie. That is what I want.

  She could never tell Rose that. She could never tell Jamie. But Leana could not lie to herself. An hour alone with the man she loved—that was what she wanted. Wanted but could not have. To even imagine it was a sin.

  Leana found a corner of her sleeve that wasn’t caked with dirt and wiped it across her cheeks. “There is nothing you can offer me, Rose. Nor should you need to, for I am your sister. I wronged you, without meaning to, as you wronged me. Let us speak no more of this.”

  “Aye.” Rose looked relieved. “So … will you prepare the valerian for me?”

  “I shall, Rose, but not this one.” Leana plucked the valerian from Ian’s grasp and replanted the uprooted stalk, patting the soil round it with her spade. “The dried valerian root I harvested last autumn is far more potent.” Standing to her feet, she tucked her basket of garden tools beneath one arm and gathered Ian onto her hip with the other. “Come with me to the stillroom.”

  Neither sister spoke as they crossed the grass together and entered the house, though Rose’s eagerness hung about her like a perfume. Did the lass think of no one but herself? And who were you thinking of a moment ago, Leana? Perhaps the tension between them would ease once the wedding was over. Or perhaps ’twill be much worse. Leana was grateful when Eliza met them at the door, for a stillroom was no place for a curious bairn. “Take Ian for a few minutes, will you, while I prepare a tincture for Rose?”

  “Aye, mem.” Eliza dipped her cap at Ian, who promptly yanked it off, releasing a wave of sandy curls. “Och! And tae think I’d planned tae gie ye a sweetie, ye naughty boy.” The two went off in search of the hairpins that had gone flying, while Leana and Rose continued through the kitchen.

  Leana stopped at the hearth long enough to light a taper, then led the way into the stillroom, where she’d spent many an autumn day processing her harvest from the physic garden. She settled onto a tall stool in front of her cabinet of tinctures, comforted by the familiar sight. Agrimony, lady’s mantle, plantain, wood betony, and two dozen more tinctures stood at attention. ’Twas a long process to make them, steeping the dried herbs in rum and water for a fortnight, then straining the liquid through cheesecloth, then a wine press, before storing the concoctions in slender brown bottles. Potent medicines, though none of them strong enough to heal her ravaged heart.

  To work, Leana. She soon located the valerian and added several drops of the tincture to a spoonful of water fresh from Auchengray’s well. “Swallow this without letting it sit on your tongue,” Leana instructed her sister. “The smell is most unpleasant.” Rose did as she was told, making a terrible face. “Now you see why the Greeks called valerian phu.”

  “Aye.” Rose licked her lips, wrinkling her nose again. “Will I notice anything?”

  “ ’Twill make you relax, even feel a bit sleepy. Why not stretch out on your bed for a quiet hour before dinner?” “But Jamie—”

  “Will be tending his ewes until well past the gloaming. You’ll not be missed, Rose.”

  “If you’re certain.” Her sister started for the kitchen, then turned back. Her cheeks were the very color of her rosy pink gown. “Leana, I am sorry to ask you this, but I … I have no mother and would be ashamed to ask Neda. ’Tis about … Jamie.”

  Leana began straightening the bottles in her cabinet as if she had not heard her, though her hands shook with the effort.

  “Might you tell me … what to expect, Leana? What to … do … with Jamie? I ken verra little of … such things.”

  Leana shut the cabinet door so firmly the bottles tinkled against one another. “Are you asking me how to please my husband?”

  “Nae,” Rose whispered, “I’m asking you how to please mine.”

  The wooden stool wobbled behind her as Leana stood, gripping the table for support. “I taught you how to care for Ian. But I will not …” The words stuck in her throat. “I will not teach you … how to care for Jamie.”

  “But how am I to learn?” Rose wailed.

  “Oh, Rose!” Leana brushed past her, bound for the door. “How can you ask such a thing?”

  “Wait!” Rose snagged her sleeve. “Please, Leana.”

  She stopped but only because she feared where her legs might carry her. To the hills. To Jamie. Leana could not look at her sister as she spoke. “Let … me … go.” Each word was torn from her heart, like pages from a book. “Please. Do not ask this of me.”

  “I’m sorry, Leana. I am just so … so confused. I ken not what to expect nor how to … prepare myself …”

  “Please, Rose!” Freeing herself from her sister’s grasp, Leana took off through the kitchen, tears blinding her eyes. She had to get away, to get out of doors where she could breathe, where she could think. Away from Auchengray. Away from Rose. She flew across the threshold into the fading light of early evening. In the gloaming the cooling earth released its heat, creating a mist that swirled along the ground, invisible yet visible.

  Disoriented, she ran headlong into Neda, almost sending them both sprawling across the lawn.

  “Och, lass! Whaur are ye bound wi’ supper not an hour awa?”

  Leana could hardly catch her breath. “Not hungry,” she managed to say, then stumbled forward into the mist. Where was she bound? Jamie. Aye, she must find him, for he alone would understand. Please, Lord. Just to see his face. Just to hear his voice.

  “Jamie!” she cried out as the thickening mist enveloped her. Skirting the farm steading, Leana hastened toward Auchengray Hill, calling the name of the man she loved. By the time she reached the crest, she could barely stand, so violently were her legs shaking. The gloaming and the mist conspired against her, for she could no longer see across the other hills nor down to the glens below.

  “Jamieee!” She listened, breathing hard.

  A voice floated up from the murk. “Leana?”

  “Aye!” she cried out, plunging down the steep hillside, clutching her skirts with both hands as she made her frantic descent. I’m coming, Jamie! she wanted to shout, but her ragged breathing would not allow it. Surely he could hear her crashing past the gorse that tore at her petticoats. “Jamie!” she managed once more, and then she saw him emerging from the mist, climbing toward her, his eyes wide with concern.

  “Leana, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything!” She threw herself into his embrace, stifling her sobs against his chest.

  Fifty-Seven

  Love is the tyrant of the heart; it darkens

  Reason, confounds discretion; deaf to Counsel

  It runs a headlong course to desperate madness.

  JOHN FORD

  Och, my love.” His arms tightened round her, pulling her closer still. “I am so sorry. So verra sorry.”

  Her hands clutched the back of his shirt. “Forgive me, Jamie. I … I should not … be here.”

  “Wheesht,” he whispered, rubbing his beard against her hair, breathing in the heady scent of her. “ ’Tis the one place you should be, Leana.” He did not need to know what had brought her running down Auchengray Hill. She was where she belonged. Here. With me.
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br />   Jamie leaned toward the slope of the hill, jamming his boot heels harder into the soggy ground so they would not fall. He dared not move or let her go, for he knew Leana too well. Overcome with remorse, she would run from his side. He would lose her soon enough; he would not lose her now.

  Though she tried to speak, her words were disjointed, nonsensical. She gasped for air between phrases. “In the garden … with Ian … nae, in the stillroom … Rose asked …”

  Always Rose. “We’ve no need to speak of your sister.”

  “She wanted …” Leana pressed harder into his chest. “She wanted to know how to … how to … please you.”

  Jamie bit back an oath. The nerve of the girl! “ ’Tis advice your sister will have no use for.” He thrust his hands through her hair and lifted her face to his. “You are the one who pleases me, Leana.” He brushed his lips across her forehead, feeling the heat from her skin. When her eyes drifted closed, he kissed each one in turn. Then her cheeks, wet with tears. And her chin with its faint cleft.

  His mouth hesitated over hers. You cannot kiss me again. So she had begged him, and so he’d agreed. ’Tis a punishment too sweet to bear.

  “Can you bear it now, lass? May I kiss you?”

  When she nodded ever so slightly, he had all the sanction he needed. The mist thickened, and the air grew darker as the gloaming faded into night. And still his mouth was fixed on hers, staking his claim. You are mine, beloved. And I am yours.

  “Jamie.” She nuzzled her cheek against his neck, a bit unstable on her feet. “Jamie, please …”

  “Come,” he murmured, “the bothy is not far down the hill.” He gripped her hand, lest she pull away, lest she try to run. “This way, Leana. Mind your step.” He led her toward the stone shelter, a mean refuge from ill weather, little more. There were no chairs, only a table and a stone bed built against the wall, where they sat down, both shivering though it was not especially cold.

  “ ’Tis clean at least,” he said, wrapping his arm round her shoulders to draw her closer. “Alan Newall and I repaired the walls and straightened up the place last week. ’Twas a meikle mess.” Why was he mentioning such things? They hardly mattered now. All that mattered was Leana.