When the minister bowed his head, Jamie did the same, though his heart and mind were across the room with Rose. Do what you must, Leana. Then let me come to her. Let me hold her.
Though he listened to Reverend Moodie’s solemn words, Jamie had his own entreaties for the Lord. Make her well. Make her whole. Let there be other children.
Rose moaned, louder than ever. The sound tore through his chest like a rapier. He was beside her in an instant, abandoning the minister to his prayers. “Rose, my Rose! What can I do for you, lass? How can I ease your pain?”
He was vaguely aware of Leana soaking rags in the herb-scented water and pressing them to his wife’s body, but he kept his gaze on Rose’s face. Her eyes were unfocused, red from weeping. Her mouth hung slack as she fought for breath. Help me, Lord! Give me the words to say.
Jamie leaned closer still. “You are not alone, Rose. We are all here to help you. Try to relax, my love. Your sister kens what she is doing.” He could only hope that was true. Without a physician or a midwife, God’s mercy and Leana’s remedies were their only hope.
And why is that, Jamie? Because he had dragged his wife halfway across Galloway to spite her father. In a wagon. Sleeping on plaids, like common shepherds. If they were in Auchengray, he could ride to Dumfries and summon Dr. Gilchrist. But they were in the wilds of Monnigaff. Because of me.
“I should … not have brought you here, Rose.” He stroked her brow, her cheeks, her neck. As if his touch might heal her. As if his words might make everything right. But they could not help. It was too late for that. “Forgive me, Rose. Please … please forgive me.”
“Only if …” With some effort, she turned to face him. “Only if you will … forgive me.” Her dark gaze met his. He saw no spark of hope there. “I brought this on … myself, Jamie. I cursed my father.”
The young minister gasped. “I am sure you are mistaken, Mistress McKie.”
“I … did. I … cursed him.” Her head drooped to the side as if she’d spent all of her energy on her confession.
“Your father deserved it, Rose.” Jamie gripped her shoulders, his despair mounting. “This … this bleeding has nothing to do with him. Nor anything you might have said or done.”
“If I may speak with you a moment, sir.” Reverend Moodie leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Pardon me, but your wife … Well, I’m afraid the Buik clearly says, ‘For every one that curseth his father or his mother shall be surely put to death.’ Prepare yourself, Mr. McKie. I fear the worst is yet to come.”
Seventy-Five
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.
SAMUEL DANIEL
Leana was grateful she’d not heard Reverend Moodie’s comment; Jamie’s response was frightening enough.
“Nae!” He spun round and grabbed the minister’s coat by the lapels, his voice low but lethal. “I will not have you speak of such things!”
The man’s ruddy skin turned redder still. “I can only speak the truth, Mr. McKie. ’Tis my calling and duty.”
“Then your duties are finished here.” Jamie abruptly released him. “Kindly see yourself out.” Flustered, the young man left the room as Jamie turned back to grasp Rose’s hands.
Stunned by his outburst, Leana kept her head down. Whatever the minister had said did not bear repeating, for it would only upset Rose further. Jamie, Jamie. Now is not the time. Yet it was unkind to judge a man who had just lost two sons and was in danger of … Nae! She would not even think the words.
After rinsing the linen cloth, Leana applied it once more to her sister’s body, begging the Lord for mercy. A small pouch, stitched of butter muslin, sat steeping in the hot water; dried lady’s mantle, picked from her physic garden in June, was tucked inside. Leana had stirred in a measure of rose water as well. And tears.
The water should have been pink. Instead it was red.
In her store of medicines, nothing was more healing than lady’s mantle. She’d sent Eliza after a pot of hot water to brew a tea of the herb as well. But if the garden remedy did not work, if the bleeding did not stop…
“Leana?” Rose’s voice was no stronger than a cotton thread. Thin, weak, easily broken.
“Yes, dearie. I am here.” She lightly touched Rose’s hip. “Are you … in pain?” A foolish question.
But Rose surprised her. “Not … like before. I feel … very little.”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder, as if to gauge her reaction. Leana tried not to let her distress show, though her heart ached and her hands trembled. No feeling. Oh, Rose.
Mustering what strength she had left, Leana cast her gaze about the tiny room and realized what must be done. “Jamie, if you pulled this bed away from the wall, then I might sit on one side of Rose and you on the other. We’ll not crowd each other then.” And I can see my sister. And I can say…
“Of course, Leana.” He was already standing, waiting for her to do the same.
Grasping her bowl of herbs, Leana stepped out of the way while he angled the narrow bed, allowing room for her to perch on the right side of the thin mattress.
A light tap at the door announced Eliza, bearing a teapot in one hand and a second footstool in the other. “I thocht ’twould spare yer back, mem, tae have yer ain creepie.”
“Bless you, lass.” Leana prepared the tea at once, using the last of her lady’s mantle. “When this is good and strong, you’ll bring me a cup for Rose, aye?”
Leana scooted her chair as close to the bed as possible, then continued her ministrations, despite the sad truth that they did not seem to be helping. Though she’d tried every possible remedy, they were not enough. Rose was not getting better. Her body no longer twisted and bucked, but the flow of blood was unceasing.
Now that she could see Rose properly, the sight was almost more than Leana could endure. The light was gone from her sister’s eyes. Her smile had faded, and the paleness of her cheek held no promise of color.
The truth was undeniable. Rose was dying.
Leana’s arms went limp. The wet cloth slipped into the bowl. By sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken. “Jamie … she …”
“Aye.” His voice was ragged. “I ken.”
Leana abandoned her efforts. Only the Almighty could heal her sister now. She placed the washbowl on the floor, then inched closer, fixing her gaze on Rose. Jamie released one of Rose’s hands and pressed it into hers. How cold her sister’s skin was. When Leana looked at him in silent thanks, she saw her own pain reflected in his green eyes.
The two of them stayed that way for many minutes. Holding Rose’s hands. Murmuring encouragement because they could do nothing else. “I am glad the pain is gone, Rose.” “You will feel better soon.” “I love you, Rose.” They both said that many times.
Leana held back a sob when Rose whispered, “And I love you.” It did not matter whom she meant.
The room was so quiet that Leana jumped when Eliza touched her shoulder. “Mem, will ye be … wantin’ this tea noo?”
Leana glanced at Jamie, and they both shook their heads. “Eliza, if you would not mind …”
“Not at a’, mem.” Eliza sniffed, holding her apron against her mouth. “I’ll be doon the stair wi’ Annabel and Ian. The innkeeper says we may stay as lang … as lang …”
Jamie spared her. “Aye, lass.”
Eliza was gone without a sound except the door latch falling into place.
“Rose, can you hear me?” Leana leaned forward, trying to catch her sister’s eye. “Is there … anything … anything we might do …” She squeezed Rose’s hand until she feared she might hurt her.
“Aye.” Rose’s voice was startlingly clear. “Name … my children.”
Leana stifled a gasp. “Oh, Rose …”
“We’ll have … time …” Jamie fought for the words. “Time for that …later.”
“Please, Jamie.” Rose looked directly at him, her eyes focused. “William. And Alexander.”
“Aye.” His face crumpled.
/> Leana turned her head, shattered by Jamie’s pain more than her own. Comfort him on every side, Lord.
Rose had not finished. “Bury them … in the kirkyard.”
When Jamie could only groan, Leana instinctively reached for his other hand, joining the three of them. You will not do this alone, Jamie. “Aye, sweet Rose.” She clasped both their hands tight. “We will take good care of William and Alexander.”
Rose sank deeper into the bed. Her hand seemed to grow smaller. Like a child’s.
Leana felt a stillness in the room. A peaceful silence, like the northern lights in the heavens. Visible, but not audible. Faraway, yet close. She searched her heart for the words of consolation needed, placed there long ago. “Be not afraid, Rose. Neither be thou dismayed. For the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
“He is.” Rose breathed the words. She looked at each of them, as if memorizing their faces. “I am not afraid.” A smile crossed her parched lips. “He loves me.”
“I do, Rose.” Jamie could barely say the words. “I do love you.”
Leana watched Rose’s hand in his tighten for a moment. “Never fear. Jamie has you, lass.”
“Nae.” Rose slowly closed her eyes, but her faint smile remained. “ ’Tis not Jamie.”
Seventy-Six
In all the silent manliness of grief.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
One hand still held his. Leana.
“She is gone, Jamie.”
His head sank onto Rose’s heart to receive the last breath. But he felt no air against his cheek. Only the still form of the woman he loved. Grief rose inside him, overwhelming him. He released Leana’s hand, leaving behind her warmth and strength to embrace his wife, holding Rose against his chest, as if that might stanch his pain. We could not stop the blood, beloved. We tried but we could not.
Jamie wept in silence. Tears soaked her nightgown and his shirt as well, though it did not matter. None of it mattered.
He had failed her. Nae, he had killed her.
Forgive me, forgive me. However often he might whisper those words, Rose would never hear them. However loud he might shout from the turret of Glentrool, his pleas for mercy would change nothing.
She is gone, Jamie. The irrevocable truth.
Jamie slowly pulled the pins from her hair, letting the rich mane fall round her shoulders. He buried his face in her rose-water scent. This cannot be good-bye. It cannot.
He held her, not speaking, not moving, for a long time. While he watched through half-closed eyes, Leana quietly attended to the necessary tasks. The room had no looking glass to cover, nor a clock with a pendulum that needed stopping. Leana opened the door, though she could not open the window. It signified nothing; Rose’s spirit was already gone.
At last Leana knelt beside him, her cheeks wet with tears. “May I … hold my sister?”
She received Rose’s body as a mother would a child, cradled in her arms, head tucked against her breast. “Oh, Rose, how can I … What will I do … without you?”
Knowing all they had been through, all they had meant to each other, Jamie’s grief was compounded until he was numb with pain.
After a time, Leana lifted her gaze, her sorrow mirroring his. “I must wash and dress her now. Would you call Eliza for me?”
Jamie stood, his legs nigh to buckling underneath him. He could not bear to see the woman who had given him so much pleasure reduced to a … body. God help me, to a corpse. “I will get Eliza,” he told her. The women of the household were needed now. “And then I will see Reverend Moodie. If he will even speak with me.”
“Jamie.” Leana laid her hand on his arm. “He will understand. You were … not yourself.”
“I was entirely myself,” he muttered, grief giving way to shame as he bolted down the stair, ignoring the pain in his leg. He strode down the dim corridor with an uneven gait, his steps slowing as he reached the door to the maids’ room. The lasses loved Rose as well and would be undone by the news.
Eliza opened at his knock, her cheeks chapped from crying. “Oh, Mr. McKie.” She sagged against the doorjamb when he told her. “I’m sae sorry. I dinna ken what else tae say.”
“I’m sorry as weel, Mr. McKie.” Annabel stood behind her, wringing her hands, while Ian sat at her feet. The boy clapped at the sight of him, smiling as ever.
“Here, lad.” Jamie lifted the child into his arms, not caring if the maids saw fresh tears in his eyes. “Come cheer your father’s heart.” Rose had adored her stepson, and he had warmed to her as well. Even young as he was, Ian would miss her. “You are all the family I have now, Ian.” Jamie swallowed hard. “Just the twa McKie men, aye?”
There would have been five of us. The realization struck him a crushing blow.
Rose had so longed to be a mother. She’d talked about little else last spring. Cursing her father had not shortened Rose’s life, no matter what the minister might insinuate; he did not know Lachlan McBride. The very thing she’d wanted most—motherhood—had cost Rose her young life.
Not true, Jamie. The nagging voice inside him would not be silenced. Leaving Auchengray cost Rose her life. If you had waited until the bairns were born…
Suddenly feeling ill, he handed Ian to Annabel. “Eliza, you are needed up the stair. Will you be … That is, can you … manage?”
She straightened her white cap and wiped her cheeks with her apron. “I can, sir.” Ducking round him, she hastened off to do her duty by her mistress.
“And you, Annabel.” He ran his hand across his hair, trying to get his bearings. “Will you and Ian be all right?”
“We will, Mr. McKie. I’ll see tae supper for us a’. Are ye bound tae visit wi’ the minister noo?” When he nodded, she inclined her head toward the pitcher and basin in the room. “Though I’d make a puir valet, I’d be honored to see ye properly groomed afore ye go.”
Shaved, combed, and scrubbed, Jamie left the Cree Inn a short time later, studying the sky as he walked toward the bridge, trying to determine the hour. Three o’ the clock, he guessed. Though the fog had dissipated by noon, the air was still moist. Gray clouds blotted out the sun.
He crossed the Penkill, aiming for the manse beside the kirk, where he was met at the door by Mistress Moodie, a brown-haired woman with a timid smile. “Mr. McKie. We’ve been expecting you.”
Reverend Moodie rose from his chair when Jamie entered the parlor. Both men stood for a moment, eying each other, until Jamie cleared his throat and said what he’d come to say. “I beg your pardon—”
“And I beg yours, sir.” The minister crossed the room, extending his hand. “My earlier admonition was true, but harsh and poorly timed. I cannot think what I might have done had a stranger been thoughtless enough to say such a thing about my wife. Do forgive me.”
Taken aback, Jamie shook the man’s hand. He’d not known many ministers to be so quick to apologize.
“ ’Tis clear, Mr. McKie, you’ve come with tragic news.”
Jamie stared at the carpet, trying to keep his emotions in check as he forced out a single syllable. “Aye.”
He bade Jamie sit, a cup of tea appeared, and words of sympathy were spoken. After a suitable interlude, the minister shifted their conversation to matters of necessity. “The beadle cannot work on the Sabbath, but I’ll have him dig the grave at first light.”
“Nae, my … family in Glentrool has a … mausoleum …” The thought of his young wife sealed in a granite tomb made Jamie’s empty stomach churn.
“Glentrool is ten miles off,” the minister reminded him. “Since it is improper to carry a coffin on a wheeled conveyance, you would need to find several men willing to carry her kist a great distance on their shoulders. Have you friends in the village on whom you could depend?”
Jamie knew the answer. That morn in the kirk not a soul had welcomed him home to the parish. “I’m afraid I have been gone from Monnigaff … too long.”
“Then ’tis best to bury your wife here, Mr. McKie,
on hallowed ground. I’ll have the beadle ring the deid bell through the village this evening. Mr. Lamont will also meet you at the inn at nine in the morn for the procession, soon after the joiner comes.” Reverend Moodie stood, his duties discharged. “Your family misses you, I am sure. May the Lord comfort you this night.”
Jamie stumbled back to the inn, seeing nothing but the grass beneath his feet.
Rose is dead. His mind kept turning the words over, examining them, rejecting them. She was here yestreen. Alive, if not well. Had he imagined it all? Was it another of his vivid dreams? Perhaps when he climbed up the stair, when he walked into the room, he would find her recovered, sitting up. You’ve come to rescue me.
A desperate hope, a foolish wish, but it fueled his steps through the inn. He barely knocked before throwing open the door and turning toward the bed.
Rose lay in utter stillness, dressed in a rose-colored gown. Her gloved hands were crossed over her breast, pennies covered her eyes, and her skin was like wax.
He staggered backward, stunned by the truth afresh.
“Jamie.” Leana stood, beckoning him closer. “I regret we could not dress her in the gown she last wore.” She glanced at Eliza, sniffling in the corner. “Though such may be the custom, the blue dress was no longer … appropriate.”
How like Leana to put it so delicately. “You have chosen well,” he managed to say, stepping closer. The damask gown was the one Joseph Armstrong had tailored for their December wedding. “Those are … your mother’s gloves.” Jamie remembered Leana’s giving her sister the treasured silk gloves on the Sabbath last for her seventeenth birthday.
Another layer of grief fell across his heart like a plaid: Rose had died on her birthing bed. Just as her own mother had.
Jamie looked down at her now, though it was not Rose who lay before him. Not his warm and vibrant wife, with her charming smile and her flindrikin ways. This was a shadow of that dear lass. The small dish of earth and salt resting on her breast served as a patent reminder: earth for the corruptible body, salt for the incorruptible spirit.
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