Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  The women jumped to serve him, quickly bringing all that he required. Had he not tended injured sheep for mony a day? He could see to his wife’s cuts and bruises. After carrying her up the stair, he waited while a clean sheet was tucked in place by a wide-eyed Eliza, then he lowered Rose onto their bed.

  “Ian first,” she pleaded.

  Rose looked so forlorn he kissed her on the forehead, if only to assure her. “I’ll have Eliza bathe him where you can watch, aye?”

  Ian whimpered as the maidservant scrubbed him clean, though Jamie was relieved to find the child no worse for wear. “You guarded him well, Rose, for the lad has nary a scratch.” He could see the relief in her eyes as she murmured a prayer of thanks. Jamie made certain Ian was given some runny porridge to eat, then saw to his wife’s injuries. “I fear you did not escape so easily, Rose.” He bathed her face with hot, soapy water, smoothing back the hair from her brow as he worked. Most of her scrapes were minor ones, except for one deep gash in her neck, which he dressed with comfrey. He unlaced her gown and eased it off her shoulders, pulling the fabric away with great care, and discovered her arms and legs were covered with more bruises than he cared to count. She would be some time healing. Perhaps their journey should be delayed a week or so, lest the carriage jostle her sore limbs unmercifully.

  Unlike her other injuries, her swollen knee would require more than a simple poultice of shepherd’s-purse to bring it round. He wrapped it in linen soaked in comfrey oil and propped it up with a pillow.

  Neda peered over his shoulder. “What a fine surgeon you make, Mr. McKie.”

  “ ’Tis more interesting than doctoring sheep, I’ll say that.” He handed Neda the herbal concoctions and Rose’s slitterie gown, dripping with soapy water, then sent the women on their way with an exhausted Ian. Remembering a childhood fight with his brother, Evan, and his mother’s concern for his own badly bruised head, Jamie cautioned, “Do not let him drift off to sleep, for he must be watched for the next several hours. If Ian’s hurt his wee head, we’ll ken soon enough.”

  Eliza, the last to leave, bobbed a nervous curtsy. “A-aye, Mr. McKie.” She closed the door, leaving the couple in peace.

  “Now then.” He yanked off his shirt, sticky with sweat and blood, and scrubbed himself clean while Rose lay stretched across their bed, regarding him with a wary gaze.

  “Jamie …” She tried to sit up but fell back on her pile of pillows with a grimace. “Jamie, I know what you are going to say, and you are right. I had no business taking Ian with me on such a foolhardy jaunt.”

  “Enough of that.” He pulled a chair to her bedside, tugging the hem of her clean nightgown over her ankles in passing, then tucked another pillow behind her. “ ’Tis forgiven, Rose. And forgotten. A mishap, nothing more.”

  “But you looked so serious just now. Is it about … what I told you … this morning?” She turned her head toward the wall. “About my not … expecting? Oh, Jamie, I so want to give you children. A quiver of sons that look just like you.”

  Touched by her sincerity, he leaned toward her. “Rose, I hope God will bless us with children someday. And that they’ll bear the Almighty’s image, not mine.” His own words surprised him. Not that he wanted more children but that he wanted them with Rose. Forgive the lass, Jamie. Had it already begun?

  “I pray the Almighty will remember me soon.” She glanced down, her face a bonny shade of pink. “Despite my carelessness this evening, I do take my duties as a mother to heart.”

  “I ken you do, Rose.” Jamie looked at her—truly looked at her—more closely than he had in weeks. Nae, months. The girl he’d fallen in love with long ago was no more; before him bloomed a woman. A woman aware of her faults, certain of her strengths, willing to work toward something that truly mattered. An honorable wife. My wife.

  “Jamie.” She lifted her head, her dark eyes shimmering in the candlelight. “I am grateful you are willing to overlook my blunder this night. But ’Tis another evening that concerns me, a night when I used truth like a vengeful sword and left your marriage to Leana in tatters.” Her voice thinned to a slender reed. “Oh, Jamie, can you ever forgive me for that? For ’Tis a much greater sin.”

  This time, his head was the one that fell forward. In shame.

  Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.

  “Aye, Rose, I can. And I do.” Saying it aloud, he realized he meant it. That he needed to forgive her as much as she needed to hear it. That mercy was his only hope. In forgiving Rose he would find the freedom to move forward. Love my sister. Aye, and perhaps the strength to do that as well someday.

  When their gazes met, it was as if they were greeting one another for the first time. Tentative smiles were exchanged as he wrapped his hands around hers. She whispered her thanks, and he nodded. And then he knew what must follow.

  Tell her about Leana. In the bothy.

  His conscience chafed at the thought. Could he not confess it another time when she was stronger? When she wasn’t so exhausted? Nae. Tonight. Before he lost his nerve. Say it, man. Say the words. He wrapped his hands around hers, “Rose, I have need of your forgiveness as well.”

  Her expression was pure astonishment. “Forgiveness? Jamie, for what?”

  Seventy-One

  Consider everything as moonshine

  compared with the education of the heart.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  The hands that clasped hers were warm and solid. Jamie’s face, though, was shadowed with regret.

  “On the evening before our wedding, Rose …” He cleared his throat. “That is, before the supper hour … you and Leana had a … conversation. In the stillroom.”

  “Aye, we did. Though I wish we had not.” Her heart sank at the thought of his knowing the particulars. She stared over his shoulder at the fire, wishing words once spoken might be sent up the chimney like peat smoke “When did Leana mention my glaikit comments to you?”

  “Not long after you said them.” He looked away for a moment, then turned back to her, though she could tell it was an effort. The candle on their bedside table brought to light all of his twenty-five years. Had she ever seen him so pensive? His voice sounded older as well, as though he’d aged in the last hour. “Leana came looking for me on the hills early that evening. In the mist. In the gloaming.”

  “I see.” The memory of Leana fleeing from the stillroom and running for the front door flickered across Rose’s mind. She’d paid little attention at the time, so elated was she to have the valerian. “Did my sister find you then?”

  “Aye, she did.” Jamie’s grip on her hands tightened. “She was sobbing, Rose. Heartbroken. Looking for someone to … to comfort her.”

  Her breath caught. Nae, Jamie. Please do not tell me …

  “So I … well, we … we kissed. Standing on the braes and … and then in the bothy.” Before she could say a word, he hastened to add, “Do not blame your sister. The fault is mine alone.”

  Rose stared at him, fearing the worst. “Was there more to this … this … encounter of yours?”

  “Nae …” His thumb rubbed a circle on the back of her hand. “But only because your sister had the strength to put a stop to it.”

  Rose slowly exhaled, gratitude mingling with her own sense of guilt. It would ne’er have happened if she’d not wounded Leana with her words. “I am to blame as well,” she admitted. “ ’Twas brave of you to tell me, for you might have kept it to yourself.”

  “A marriage built on secrets will not stand.” He released her hands with a final squeeze, then rose to his feet, a look of determination crossing his features. “This morning I promised you some news, remember?”

  “Aye.” As if she could forget such a thing!

  He crossed the room, then rummaged inside the clothes press for a moment before turning back to her, a folded paper in his hand. “Do you recall the letter Leana sent me?”

  “The one I found?” Or has there been another? Leana’s weekly l
etters to the family were read aloud at table, describing her quiet life in Twyneholm with Aunt Meg. Had her sister continued corresponding privately with Jamie as well? Rose studied the letter in his hand, dreading his answer.

  “Aye, the same one,” he said, putting her at ease. “I read the last of it to you, all but Leana’s final words, which I’m sorry to say I kept to myself.” He unfolded the paper and pointed to the last line, just above the smeared signature. “See what it says after ‘love my sister’?”

  Rose took the letter and leaned toward the guttering candle, skimming the lines until she found her place. Her eyes widened as she read aloud the closing comment, written in her sister’s own hand. “Seek your future together in Glentrool.” Rose looked up at him, speechless, but only for a moment. “Was this what you were hinting at when you asked if I was well enough for a journey?” Her heart, mended with hope, leaped inside her. Not to Twyneholm … to Glentrool!

  His steady gaze warmed her. “ ’Tis time we began anew, Rose, in a home that is truly ours.”

  Home. He could not have said anything that would please her more. “Glentrool,” she sighed, falling back against her pillows. The image of an elaborate stone tower house rose before her. Would she truly see it for herself soon? And call it home? She tried to take a deep breath and found her chest was too tight. “So … Glentrool … when?”

  “I’d planned for us to leave on the first of May.”

  “May?!” She shook the letter, pretending to scold him, even as her spirits soared. “That’s two days from now!”

  “So it is.” A faint smile creased his handsome face. “The lambs are growing steadily, and I’ve done all that your father has asked of me and more. We shall stay a few extra days and let you heal. But then we’ll quit Auchengray. For good.”

  Just as Leana did. Perhaps ’Twas best their father had chosen a new wife, or the house would be verra empty indeed. “You’ve told Father, aye?”

  “Not yet,” he said, though she heard no hesitancy in his voice. “I’m awaiting a letter from my mother, assuring us all is in readiness.” He finished dressing for bed, pulling a clean nightshirt over his head, then poked at the hearth. “The verra hour that post arrives, I intend to corner Lachlan McBride in the spence, where his thrifite and ledgers are well within reach. The man owes me eight months’ wages, and I will see it in my purse before we depart.”

  “My brave husband,” she murmured, mustering her own courage as she held up the letter in her hand. Though she would go to Glentrool no matter how he answered her, she had to know. “Jamie, what say you of my sister’s first request? That you … that you love me.” She swallowed hard. “Do you?”

  Rose wanted him to respond at once. To take her in his arms and say, “Aye, you ken I do,” and kiss her soundly. But he did none of those things. Instead, he snuffed out the last of the candles and climbed into bed, gently taking the letter from her hands and resting it on the bedside table.

  Jamie, please. Say something.

  “I was sure I loved you once,” he began, turning toward her, taking great care not to disturb her bandaged knee. “Then I discovered I didn’t even ken the meaning of the word.” In the darkness she could not see his face, but she could hear the sincerity behind his words. “I’ll not lie to you, Rose. ’Twas your sister who taught me what it means to love someone.”

  Always Leana. Would it ever be thus? Trying not to sound discouraged, she said, “Tell me what it means then.”

  “Sacrifice,” he said simply. “And patience. Two things that have ne’er come easily to me.”

  “Nor to me,” she confessed in a low voice. “But I am willing to learn, Jamie. If you’ll teach me.” Dare she touch his face? Could she bear it if he drew away? Stretching out her hand, she rested it on his cheek, nearly crying with joy when he turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to her palm.

  Oh, Jamie. “I have waited so long for you to love me again,” she whispered. When he said nothing in return, she swallowed her pride and pressed on. “If I must wait longer still, so be it, for I will love you until my heart beats its last.”

  Seventy-Two

  All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

  VICTOR HUGO

  An unexpected knocking on her door greeted Rose the next morn.

  “Dr. Gilchrist?” She watched in amazement as her father escorted the man into her bedroom, where she sat by the hearth, her leg propped up on a footstool. She’d not gone downstairs for breakfast. Too much trouble, for one thing, and her stomach felt a bit queasy. From her fall yestreen, no doubt. Ian had awakened ravenous, however, putting her mind at ease. “What brings you to Auchengray, sir, on this fine spring day?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, attending to a patient—Mr. Bell of Tannocks Farm—and thought I’d stop here as well.” He nodded at her father, whose scowl was less than welcoming. “Your father kindly honored my inquiry about your health by letting me see for myself.”

  Lachlan grunted. “As lang as there’ll be nae bill for your services.”

  The surgeon’s pointed gaze cut more sharply than a scalpel. “I’ve no need for your silver, Mr. McBride. Only the satisfaction of your daughter’s full recovery from her bout of croup.” His features softened when he turned to look at her leg. “Though I see you’re dealing with a different malady now. Might I have permission to examine your leg, Miss McBride?”

  “Aye, you may indeed.” She smiled and flung the plaid away from her lap. “And ’Tis Mistress McKie now. I married in March.”

  “I’m pleased to hear of it,” he said, though she saw a flicker of concern in his eyes as he bent to study her injury.

  Lachlan, standing inside the doorway, soon grew impatient and excused himself, taking the strained atmosphere with him.

  “What say you, Dr. Gilchrist?” Rose prompted him after several more minutes. “Will I heal?”

  “You shall, in good time.” He straightened, yanking on his cuffs. “As to that … that other matter from my last visit, we shall soon have our answer, won’t we? Now that you are married.”

  Rose thought of the slight stain on her nightgown yestermorn. “I’m afraid I already have the answer.” Surely he would grasp her meaning and not ask for embarrassing details. But he was a doctor, he reminded her, to whom such details mattered. Her face heating, she described the dreary onset of her monthly courses. It was only then that she realized a curious fact: Neither her gown nor her sheets bore such evidence this morning.

  When she told him so, he arched his brows. “Is that right?” He touched her neck, where her heart beat against his fingertips. “Other than your mishap on the hill, how have you been feeling the last few days, Mistress McKie? Lightheaded? A wee nauseous? Any tenderness?”

  “Aye,” she said cautiously, not giving hope any room to grow inside her. “A bittie of all those things.” The notion of breakfast had drawn her stomach into a knot. And when Annabel had tied her stays that morning, hadn’t she noticed some discomfort and assumed it was naught but her bruises?

  “Well then.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “The situation bears watching, I’d say. Wait a week or two and see if you notice additional changes. Sleepiness, for one. Changes in your appetite.”

  Rose could barely form the words. “Doctor, are you saying …”

  He held up a cautionary finger. “I’m only saying wait and see, Mistress McKie. It could be nothing more than the trauma of your fall.” He stepped back, glancing at the door as Neda appeared with a tea tray, then turned to give her a solemn wink. “Though I’d be pleased to see my original prognosis proven wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?” Neda asked the minute the doctor took his leave. “Is it yer knee that’s worryin’ the man? Or that gash in yer bonny neck?”

  “Nae, my knee will mend. So will my neck.” Rose looked away, lest her jubilant thoughts be written across her face. A week or two?! Was Dr. Gilchrist daft? She’d be hard pressed to wait two d
ays.

  But wait she did, two verra long weeks. Her courses did not return, nor did her morning appetite. It could be the tumble I took, she told herself, then realized her knee was nearly healed. Maybe ’tis the last vestige of the croup, she decided, even as she winced when she held Ian tightly against her breasts. Or it could be … it could be … She could not bring herself even to think of such a possibility. Instead she hid her smile behind her napkin at table and dried her tears at odd hours of the day, praying fervently to the One who held sway o’er her womb. Please. Please.

  The morning came when she could not lift her bleary head from her pillow, certain that her skin was the color of dried thistle and her stomach full of haggis. ’Twas the happiest day of her life. “ ’Tis true!” she whispered to the ceiling over her box bed and the heavens beyond, tears soaking her pillow. “I shall be a mother! A mother!”

  ’Twas a gift, this child in her womb. Not from Jamie, and certainly not from Lillias Brown. Nae, ’Twas from God alone. Bethankit!

  Neda was the first to suspect the truth. “Ye’re lookin’ a bit fauchie,” she said as they stood in the kitchen that forenoon. She grasped Rose’s chin and eyed her closely. “Take ye a turn in the garden afore dinner, lass. Get a bit o’ color in yer cheeks.” Neda’s gaze narrowed. “Or is there some guid purpose tae yer wan face?”

  “Purpose?” Rose echoed, blinking innocently. “None that I ken.”

  Jamie was not so easily put off when they went walking in the orchard later that afternoon. Sunshine poured through the white apple blossoms, dappling his face with patches of light. “You’re keeping a saicret from me, Rose,” he insisted, though his tone was not unkind. “As your husband, I trust you will inform me of anything of consequence.”