Leana only knew that Twyneholm had served her well. A quiet refuge for a heart torn in two. In a handful of days, when the month of June arrived, she would look to the north, to Auchengray, and pray for the means—and the strength—to return home.
She no longer had a child to mother or a husband to love. But she did have faith in the One who had not forsaken her. I will never leave you. Words the Almighty had spoken to Jamie in a dream. Words she had whispered to Jamie when their future was certain. Words Leana still held close to her heart.
Two
Of all the spirits abroad at this hour in the world,
insincerity is the most dangerous.
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
Patience, lass.” Jamie McKie gazed into his young wife’s face, her dark eyes alight with expectation. In his hands he held a post from his mother, delivered to Newabbey village, then carried to Auchengray’s door. His future with Rose hinged on the letter’s contents.
Late afternoon sunlight cast a warm glow across their bedroom. Rose stood on tiptoe, her hands clasped before her, as if she were prepared to fly down the stair. “Now that word from Glentrool has finally come, we are free to make our announcement, aye?” She pressed her palms below her waist, spreading her fingers across her blue linen gown. “I fear if we don’t inform the household, our bairn will soon do so for us.”
Jamie acknowledged her words with a slight nod. Though Rose’s figure had yet to change, there were more subtle indicators. An ever-present blush on her soft cheek. An untouched cup of porridge each morning. A nap each afternoon. He knew the signs well. Last summer he’d watched her sister blossom with child: Leana, the woman he’d loved too late. This summer it was Rose’s turn to bloom: Rose, the woman he’d married too soon.
The twittering song of a linnet distracted Jamie for a moment, drawing his gaze to the open bedroom window. Summer was nigh upon them, and still they’d not departed for Glentrool as he’d planned. Every delay only sharpened his desire to return home and claim his inheritance. No matter what news the post might bring, their future lay to the west.
“Please, Jamie.” Rose captured his attention once more. “Open the letter, for I cannot bear another minute.”
Jamie unfolded his mother’s post, the creamy paper stiff beneath his thumbs, and put aside the stack of guinea notes she’d enclosed. Funds for their journey, no doubt. Her elaborate handwriting and the word Glentrool inked across the top of the page stirred his memories of home. The distant hills and glens would be at their greenest, a lush pasture for his father’s flocks. “Haste ye back,” Alec McKie would say. Surely the time had come.
Rose hovered beside him, a hint of meadowsweet on her breath. “Written a week ago, I see. Read it to me, Jamie,” she asked, and so he obliged her.
To James Lachlan McKie
Monday, 17 May 1790
My dearest son,
I pray this letter finds you enjoying good health and fair weather. Though our ewes did not all bear twins, as yours did, we had a fine lambing season. Henry Stewart is eager to see what you will do with our flocks for the autumn breeding.
Jamie’s chest swelled at the thought of a seasoned shepherd like Stew welcoming his help come October. He read on, certain good news would follow.
I know you have waited patiently for your father’s invitation to return home. When we sent you east to Auchengray to seek a wife two autumns ago, neither of us imagined so lengthy a visit. Now we must ask that you tarry at Auchengray a bit longer…
Rose groaned even before he’d finished the words. “Whatever is the matter this time? Will Evan ne’er make his way to Wigtownshire?”
Jamie shook his head, too frustrated to speak. Throughout the winter months his mother’s letters had assured him that Evan, his hotheaded twin brother, would move south come spring, paving the way for a safe return. Now another delay loomed before them. As usual his mother offered little explanation.
“Wait until Lammas.” He jabbed at the words as if to banish them from sight. Lammas, a Quarter Day, fell on the first of August. “Another two months hence!” He strode toward the window, tossing the letter onto the bedside table. How dare the woman ask him to wait any longer?
Rowena McKie had once dared to ask a great deal more. Just do what I say, Jamie. At his mother’s bidding, he’d done an unspeakably foul deed, then had run for his life. Her letter was curiously silent on that subject. Had his father not truly forgiven him? Or was Evan sharpening his dirk, still threatening revenge?
Rose trailed after him, her skirts whispering across the wooden floor. “Can naught be done to change her mind?”
Jamie stared at the farm steading below, his eyes unfocused and his temper barely in check. “You do not ken my mother.”
“Not as you do.” She touched his coat sleeve. “But I know my father, and so do you. You must not let him take advantage of this delay, Jamie, for given half a chance he will.”
“Nae!” He ground out the word like oats on a provender stone. “Lachlan McBride will ne’er swick me again.” After twenty long months beneath his uncle’s roof, Jamie had learned to hold his tongue and hide his coin purse when Lachlan was present. “If I must live at Auchengray through the summer, I’ll labor under my own terms, not his.”
Rose’s hand on his sleeve tightened. “What terms have you in mind?”
“Suppose I tell your father that waiting until Lammas is my idea.” Already Jamie liked the sound of it. Not his mother’s plan, but his. “By the first of August the lambs will be sold and my duties here ended. Naught will remain but to claim my share of the earnings.” He turned abruptly, nearly knocking her off balance. “ ’Tis better to wait, or we risk losing everything. Will you trust me in this, Rose?”
She looked up at him, a half smile decorating her bonny face, a twinkle in her eye. “The first of August will do nicely.” Since he’d taken Rose to wife, Jamie had cataloged her many expressions; this one bore the mark of mischief. She wanted to outwit Lachlan McBride almost as badly as he did.
Rose swept her thick braid over her shoulder, then brushed his cheek with a kiss. “We shall celebrate my seventeenth year and quit Auchengray on the same day.” Sliding her hand inside the crook of his elbow, she tugged him toward the door. “As to our glad tidings, I suggest you tell Father at once. You know how he loathes saicrets.”
“Indeed he does.” Jamie tucked the guineas from Glentrool in a drawer, then escorted his wife into the upper corridor. “Unless the secrets are his.”
The aroma of meat roasting on the kitchen hearth wafted up the stone stairwell, calling them to table as clearly as the laird’s clanging brass bell. When they entered the dining room, Lachlan greeted them with a curt nod, fingers drumming as he awaited the midday meal. His dark suit of clothes marked him as no ordinary farmer but a bonnet laird, who held the deed to the land he worked and straddled the great chasm between highborn society and the peasantry. Lachlan cared nothing for either class; he resented the rich and ignored the poor, claiming neither understood the value of hard-earned silver.
Jamie and Rose were the only ones welcomed to the low-beamed dining room at mealtime, where the final course was always a fancy pudding, at Lachlan’s insistence. The household servants would take their dinner later—without pudding—at a well-scrubbed pine table in the kitchen, while the farmworkers and shepherds ate their meager rations out of doors.
“Uncle Lachlan.” Jamie made an effort to keep his tone pleasant. “Isn’t the weather fine?”
They spoke of trifling matters while Neda directed her staff in serving the meal. “Gentlemen,” the housekeeper said with a broad smile that belied her years, “ye’ll fancy this plump hen, I’ll wager.” A stuffed pullet was presented to the laird for his approval, then quickly sliced and served. Jamie ate prodigious quantities, gathering strength for the confrontation to follow. Rose poked at her food; little traveled from fork to mouth. When the citron pudding appeared, stained pale green with spinach juice, Rose blanched and made
a hasty exit.
“Whatsomever has happened to my daughter’s appetite?” Lachlan plunged a spoon into his pudding. His ebony hair, pulled into a taut knot, was streaked with silver—more each year, Jamie thought. Lachlan’s piercing gaze met his. “Is your wife ill?”
“Nae, not ill.” Jamie pushed aside his dish without tasting it. “Perhaps you’ve already jaloused the nature of her discomfort.”
Lachlan lowered his spoon, even as his brows lifted. “Is she … with child?”
“Aye.” Jamie watched the man attempt to mask his elation. “Rose tells me ’twill be January before the babe arrives, though one can never be certain. The Lord alone kens the hour.”
“Indeed he does.” Lachlan folded his hands over his stomach. “Are you thinking this child of yours should be born at Glentrool?”
Jamie seized the opportunity to present his case. “ ’Tis high time I headed for home.” His heart quickening, he pressed further. “And once the lambs are sold, ’tis time you paid me my wages, Uncle. My growing family must be provided for. Even you cannot deny the work I’ve done for you.”
“Impatience doesn’t become you, Jamie.” His uncle wagged a finger at him, as though reprimanding a child. “The laird of Glentrool may be auld, but Alec McKie has yet to lay doon in his grave.”
Jamie winced at the image. Please God, many years would pass before he saw a headstone raised over his father. “I meant only that my sire has need of me, for his flocks have grown in number just as yours have. I have served you long enough, Uncle. My wife and I will leave at Lammas.”
“Ah, Lammas. When all of Scotland celebrates the bountiful harvest.” Lachlan was practically beaming. “The verra date I’d chosen. ’Tis a sign.”
A sign? Jamie knew Lachlan was a superstitious sort, despite the man’s allegiance to the kirk. Lachlan insisted Neda cut every loaf of bread into three farles for luck, took care not to wear red and green together lest he suffer misfortune, and slept with his head to the east in the belief it would bring him riches. After waiting for an explanation, Jamie prompted him. “A sign of what, Uncle?”
“Providence.” Lachlan’s gray eyes were clear. Guileless. “I’ve come to realize the Almighty has blessed my lands because of you, Nephew.”
Jamie’s mouth fell open. Never in all their dealings had the older man spoken so generously.
With a look of satisfaction, Lachlan splayed his blunt fingers and set to counting. “Since coming to Auchengray, you worked a full month without asking for a shilling, then labored for Rose’s hand in marriage seven weeks, then seven months, aye? After that you served as husband to the ewes, choosing the tups and seeing the woolly lasses both bred and delivered of twins. Even Reverend Gordon sang your praises from the pulpit. Yet here you sit without twa coins to rub together.” Lachlan reached across the corner of the table and clapped his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “The hand of God is on you, James.”
Jamie was so taken aback, his tongue felt glued to his teeth. “Sir, I … I am blessed … blessed to hear you say …”
“And you’ve blessed me.” Lachlan released his grip on Jamie with a final squeeze, then stood. “I intend to sell the lambs at the Lammas Fair in Lockerbie, where they’ll fetch a fine price.”
Jamie watched Lachlan glance toward the spence, the room that served as his uncle’s study and bedroom and contained all the man held dear—in particular, his wooden thrifite full of coins and bank notes. Lachlan’s eyes then focused on Jamie, gleaming like the contents of his money box. “When you leave for Glentrool in August, I’ll see your pockets full of silver.”
Jamie stared at him, incredulous. Lachlan had accepted his departure plans so readily. Could the man’s words be sincere? “I have worked hard for you, Uncle,” he said slowly. “The proof is spread across your hills and glens.”
“Then what shall I give you, lad? Name your price, and I will pay it.”
All at once Jamie realized the truth: He did not want the coins his lambs would earn at Lockerbie; he wanted the lambs themselves. A seed of an idea that Duncan Hastings, the overseer of Auchengray, had once planted in his mind suddenly took root. A plan tae see ye get half o’ the lambs, seein’ as they’re all twins. Just the thought of it made Jamie’s pulse race. He would herd his share of the lambs to Glentrool and breed them with his father’s hardy flocks. If the lambs were indeed blessed of God, only a fool would let them out of his sight.
“Do not give me silver.” Jamie surprised himself and his uncle more so. “Instead, let me have the smaller of the twin lambs. I’ll mark each runt as mine so you need not fear I’ve claimed one amiss.” He took a deep breath, letting his latest scheme settle in his mind, so quickly had he concocted it. “If you are in agreement, I will tend your flocks ’til Lammas, then take my family and my lambs west.”
Lachlan said nothing for a moment, studying Jamie as if weighing his resolve. “ ’Twill be no easy task, for sheep are not easily driven across rough land. They cannot be shod, nor will they ford moving water. You’ll cross the Urr, the Dee, the Fleet, and many a burn afore you see Loch Trool.”
Despite the wisdom of his uncle’s counsel, Jamie refused to be dissuaded. “I’ll haste to Dumfries for the feeing fair and hire enough herds to see the lambs safely home when the time comes.” He stood, infused with confidence, and stuck out his hand. “Are we agreed then?”
Lachlan offered his hand for a brief shake, then slid it inside his coat pocket. “I’ll see you get what you deserve.”
Three
The rose is fairest when ’tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Mistress McKie? Are ye unweel?”
Rose struggled to sit up, one hand pressed against her mouth. Had her sister, Leana, felt this ill when she carried Ian? How embarrassing to be found collapsed upon the lawn in a graceless heap! “Bless you for asking, Willie.” She eyed the elderly servant, who stood a safe distance away as if what ailed her might be catching. “ ’Tis not the croup this time.”
“Guid.” His cap bobbed up and down as he ventured closer. Even on a day as warm as this one, Willie kept his tattered wool bonnet firmly stationed on his balding head. “Neda said ye tore oot o’ the hoose in a hurry.”
“Dinner did not agree with me,” she explained. Once Jamie informed Father of her condition, the whole of Auchengray would know why their mistress had fled from his table.
Rose gathered her skirts, then held out her hand for Willie’s assistance. His gnarled fingers gripped hers and pulled her to her feet.
“God be wi’ye, mem.” Willie touched the brim of his plaid bonnet, then shuffled off toward the stables. Duncan Hastings found plenty for the orraman to do. Willie drove the chaise when needed; groomed Walloch, Bess, and the other horses; journeyed to Newabbey village on errands for the family; and performed whatever odd jobs he could still manage.
Rose watched his tottering gait with fond affection. One wintry week he’d escorted her to Aunt Meg’s cottage in Twyneholm. Willie had driven Leana there as well on the night of Rose’s wedding. But Leana had not returned home. Nor would she, Jamie said.
Standing amid her sister’s gardens, Rose imagined Leana with her golden circle of braids bending over the pink gillyflowers, drinking in their fragrance sweet as cloves. An ache swelled inside Rose, like an old wound in rainy weather. I miss you, dearie.
Five years older and decades wiser, Leana had taken her little sister under her wing when Agness McBride died giving birth to Rose. Though the two were utterly different in temperament, their sisterly love had held fast, season after season. Until their cousin Jamie McKie had arrived two Octobers past and turned their lives tapsalteerie.
The tender way Jamie spoke her sister’s name still gave Rose pause. He softened all the vowels, as any Lowlander would. Almost singing it, like a lullaby. Leh-ah-nah. Rose pronounced it that way too. But when Jamie said her sister’s name, Rose detected a faint n
ote of longing in his voice.
Och! She shook off the blades of grass that clung to her skirts. She was the woman carrying his child, was she not? His son, if intuition and custom could be trusted. That morning she had dangled a needle and thread over her womb. Back and forth it went, not round in a circle. A brother for Ian, then. Another son for her husband.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Jamie appeared at the back door. “There you are, lass.” Her husband reached her side in a half-dozen strides, his long legs sheathed in doeskin breeches, his old boots freshly polished. The ewes would not see their master in the sheepfolds this afternoon; Jamie was dressed for business. “I’m headed to Dumfries for the last hours of the Whitsun Monday feeing fair,” he explained, clasping her hand. “We’ll need more herds come Lammas. Best to make arrangements now.”
“More shepherds, you say?” Whatever had she missed?
“I’ve much to tell you, Rose. All of it good.” The excitement in his voice was palpable. “Your father has agreed to let me take half the lambs with us at Lammas.”
She let the unexpected news sink in, the silence between them punctuated by the bleating of sheep in the pastures surrounding the mains. “Lambs instead of silver?” A shiver of apprehension crawled up her spine. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
Jamie laughed and drew her closer. “Listen to me, dear wife.” His moss green eyes glowed with a fervor she’d not seen in many months. “Your father declared it a blessing to have me here. A blessing. That’s what he said, Rose. ‘The Almighty has blessed my lands because of you.’ Have you e’er heard the likes of it?”
Nae, she had not. Nor did she believe her father meant a single word. Dared she tell her husband and dash his hopes to the ground?
Whence Came a Prince Page 2