“Then why was he not nigh unto Rose?” Jamie had shot back.
“The Lord was nigh unto Rose,” Leana said as gently as possible. “He healed my sister as only he could: by drawing her unto himself.”
Jamie had looked up, as if prepared to do battle, and instead found tears in her eyes.
She’d confessed to him, “The questions you’ve raised are the same ones I’ve asked.”
Those questions haunted her still. Why, when Rose was so young? Why, when she wanted only to be a mother? Why, when Jamie loved her so?
The Almighty’s unspoken yet undeniable answer remained: Trust in me.
Far above her the eerie cry of a peregrine falcon, echoing through the silent glen, drew Leana’s eye upward. Reverend Moodie paused in his eulogy to lift his gaze as well. Those who resided in the glen barely glanced at the bird, but outsiders—Leana among them—were entranced by the natural wonders of Trool. Hardy blackface sheep nibbled on the heathery scrub. The plaintive call of a golden plover echoed among the hills. Water plunged down steep Buchan Burn, creating a constant flow of music without notes.
Aye, the glen was a ferlie place. But it was also remote. Lonely.
How hard it had been to bid Rab Murray and Davie Tait farewell. And to write Neda and Duncan still more sad news. Leana knew very few of the faces surrounding her, though some she recognized from the lykewake.
Evan McKie was present for his mother’s funeral, of course, with Jamie standing on one side and Evan’s wife on the other. Judith McKie’s clipped speech marked her as English. From Cumberland, Jamie said. Their son, Archibald, was a copy of his father: sturdy limbed, boisterous, sporting a woolly cap of bright red hair. Other McKie relatives hailed from nearby Glencaird, an old estate along the Black Burn. Such a different world than Auchengray, these venerable families with vast holdings and ancient bloodlines.
Jamie had whispered names in her ear all week as visitors filled the big, square rooms of Glentrool, exchanging condolences for refreshments. McTaggart. Galbraith. Tole. McFadgen. Leana nodded at each one, vowing to sort them all out when she was stronger and her grief weaker.
Their closest neighbor, John McMillan of Glenhead, was too memorable to confuse with anyone else. Black haired, broad shouldered, as braw as they came, John appraised each woman who crossed his path, yet he seemed to be watching for one in particular. When a sonsie lass named Sally appeared, John’s crooked grin signaled his affections. There’d be a wedding in the glen before Martinmas; Leana felt certain of it.
And a baby born at Glentrool a month after.
She discreetly folded her hands in front of her, sensing her bairn shifting about. Would Jamie still welcome this child? Or resent her ease at childbearing? And what role did she serve now, other than the obvious one of producing his children?
Leana hardly knew her place at Glentrool. The estate employed its own gardener, Robert Muir. Annabel served as Ian’s nursery maid. Ivy Findlay had the house staff well in hand. And Aubert Billaud did not allow interlopers in his kitchen. Determined to be useful, Leana had helped Ian get settled in his round nursery, then in the quiet evening hours, busied herself with stitching. No household ever had enough linen towels and sheets. She’d also altered the shirts left behind in Jamie’s clothes press, lengthening the sleeves and letting out the shoulders.
When neighbors had come that week to pay their respects, Jamie introduced Leana as his first wife and Ian as his heir. “First wife?” their eyes said. The proud angle of Jamie’s head had dared anyone to offer a disparaging word. As to the child she was obviously carrying, no one spoke openly of such things in polite society, but Leana felt their stares and heard their whispers.
The dull scrape of granite dragging against granite drew her gaze where it belonged: on Aunt Rowena’s resting place. Reverend Moodie stepped aside as Jamie and Evan, joined by several neighbors, carried Rowena McKie’s coffin into the shadowy mausoleum. Built among a dense cluster of pines east of the house, the tomb was ornately carved, a fitting memorial to the McKies who’d gone before. But inside the tomb, Leana was reminded of a cave she’d once visited along the Solway coast—dark, dank, chilly.
Alec McKie would be buried there. And on some distant day, Jamie. And Ian.
The thought made her weak-kneed. Let me die first. Lord. When I am old and Ian is strong. Like his father.
She had not: known her Aunt Rowena well. Letters from Glentrool were rare, and the McKies had only visited Auchengray once, when Leana was eight and Jamie and Evan both twelve. Leana recalled how dramatic her aunt was, so like Rose in appearance and temperament. No wonder Jamie had loved them both. ’Twas clear Rowena had been the light of Alec’s life. Even with his walking stick, the elder McKie could barely drag himself from one place to the next, his heart as heavy as his feet.
Leana closed her eyes, seeking answers. Perhaps that was her role at Glentrool: to help two men mourn their wives. And find the strength to press on.
“We’ve finished, lass.” Jamie caught her elbow, steering her through the pines and toward the house. Subdued chatter buzzed round them like bees.
She looked about, flustered. “Jamie, I’m sorry, I …”
“Do not apologize, Leana.” He walked alongside her, matching her steps. “You barely knew my mother or any of the folk who came this week looking for a bite of gossip.”
“I thought they came for biscuits and cheese,” she murmured. “Or whisky and porter. I’ve never seen so much of either consumed.”
Jamie leaned closer to explain. “Father believes a proper display of food and drink honors the memory of the deceased.”
“Ah,” she said. His cheek was near enough for her to smell his heather soap. “Rowena has been well honored then.”
He straightened with a sudden look of concern. “Are you thinking I should have mounted such a feast for Rose?”
“Nae, Jamie. You honor my sister’s memory every time you speak of her.”
His features softened. “You always ken the right thing to say, lass.” Jamie lengthened his stride, guiding her past a grove of bird cherry trees and along the front walk. Those ahead of them waited by the entrance to the house, perhaps in deference to the young laird. His reign had already begun.
Once withindoors, Jamie was pulled this way and that by old friends and distant relatives, leaving Leana to fend for herself. She wandered through the house, relieved to find that death no longer cast its pallor over the rooms. Candles brightened every corner, and roses fresh from the garden sweetened the air. With the curtains drawn back and the windows scrubbed clean, the richly patterned wallcoverings came to life—muted blues and moss greens, the McKie colors.
A renowned Glasgow cabinetmaker had spent a year at Glentrool, Jamie said, designing intricately carved tables and chairs, sideboards and chests, bookshelves and cabinets from oak trees felled in the glen. Leana had never seen such furniture; she touched the wood in passing, marveling at the craftsmanship. Neither Aunt Meg’s two humble rooms nor Auchengray’s many low-beamed ones could begin to match the refined interiors of Glentrool with its broad dimensions and high ceilings.
The library was her favorite room on the ground floor. Alec’s oversize desk commanded the front of the room facing the loch, the half-tester bed stood near the hearth, and the polished hardwood floor was covered with a plush carpet. His prized fiddle and bow hung between two bookshelves; someday Ian might learn to play as well as his grandfather. Yet it was the oil painting over the mantel that beckoned Leana closer.
She’d seen Alec McKie’s formal portrait in the dining room, last in a long line of ancestors. Painted twenty years ago when Alec was in the prime of his maturity, the rendering bore a fair likeness of him. But this painting featured a younger Alec, in his late thirties perhaps, standing in a less formal pose: out of doors amid the misty hills aglow with the setting sun. The collar of his brown coat was turned up on one side, like that of a man who’d dressed in haste. Over his shoulder he carried a leather travelin
g pouch. His waistcoat, dark greenish brown in a subtle plaid, was half unbuttoned, his ruffled white shirt hung loose about his neck, and he had a day’s growth of beard, as if he’d done without his valet that morning.
Leana smiled as she stood beneath the portrait, discovering that Jamie had his father’s mouth: generously formed, the top and bottom of equal fullness. Alec was not smiling on the canvas but seemed to be considering it. The slope of his nose drew a thinner line down his face than Jamie’s did; it appeared the bone had broken and healed some years before the painter took brush to canvas. What delicate ears he had! Yet it was the faraway look in her uncle’s eyes that intrigued her. As if he were seeing something he wanted, something for which he was willing to fight.
“Do you ken what I had in my sights?”
Startled, Leana turned to find a much older Alec McKie tottering toward her, waving a bony finger at the portrait. “Jeremiah Davison painted that at Rowena’s bidding. Soon after she came to Glentrool in the summer of 1744. Said she wanted a painting of me exactly as I looked when she first clapped eyes on me.” He chuckled, a wheezing sound. “In truth, she wanted to capture my expression when I first clapped eyes on her. Made me wear the same clothes, the same rough beard, and the same besotted look on my face.” Alec leaned hard on his walking stick. “I loved Rowena from the moment I saw her.” His unfocused eyes watered. “I love her still.”
As they stood before the portrait, her uncle described that day as if it were yestreen and not half his lifetime ago. Leana could only imagine such devotion. Jamie had loved her deeply once. But not season after season. Only one season, really. Spring.
“There you are, Father.” Jamie strolled into the room with an even gait, any evidence of his injury well hidden. “You asked me to find you when Ian was brought down the stair.”
Alec turned to his son, the portrait forgotten. “You’ll let me introduce him as your heir?”
“Most certainly.” Jamie’s gaze met hers. “Ian is my firstborn son and the future heir of Glentrool.”
Leana dipped her head in silent thanks. Jamie loved her son, of that there could be no doubt.
She watched the McKie men stroll across the entrance hall and into the drawing room, uncertain if she was expected to follow or to be included in any way as Ian’s mother. It seemed not: There were only men in the room. Annabel surrendered Ian into his father’s arms, then flew out the door after a brief curtsy. Jamie held Ian propped up on his chest, almost shoulder high, facing the august group, while Leana watched from the hall.
“There’s a braw lad.” A young woman stood at her elbow, grinning. The lass surely had her eye on Jamie, though she was dressed in the plain clothes of the kintra folk. “Not quite a year auld, I’d say.”
Leana laughed, feeling more than a little foolish for jumping to conclusions. “That’s my son, Ian, who just celebrated his tenth month. You’ve a good eye.”
“ ’Tis what I do, mem. I deliver bairns.” She aimed a pointed gaze at Leana’s waist. “Jeanie Wilson’s me name. A howdie, like me mither afore me, and me granmither as weel.” Jeanie stole another look at Ian, then leaned closer. “I heard ye’re guid wi’ herbs, mistress. Will ye start a physic gairden at Glentrool? For I canna find the time, wi’ me ain bairns.”
Leana had been considering that very thing. “If our gardener will allow me a small plot—”
“Robert Muir? Oo aye! He’ll be pleased tae have a sonsie lass like ye planted in his gairden.”
Leana turned her back on the festivities to give the midwife her full attention. “As you can plainly see, I’ll be needing your services come December.”
Jeanie wrinkled her brow. “As late as that for your wee girl?”
Surprised by her perceptiveness, Leana held a finger to her lips. “Hush, Jeanie. I’ve not told Mr. McKie to expect a daughter.”
“The young laird is the faither of this ane, too?”
“ ’Tis a long tale for a winter’s night.” Leana regarded her closely. “Will you help me when my time comes?”
Jeanie Wilson grinned. “Send for me afore yer waters break. The glen needs a birthin’. We’ve had enough tears for the deid.”
Eighty-One
A prince, the moment he is crown’d,
Inherits every virtue sound.
JONATHAN SWIFT
Jamie rubbed his eyes, the ledger entries blurring after several hours with quill and ink. Thomas Findlay, overseer to Glentrool, had once taught Jamie all he knew of keeping estate records. “Noo that ye’re laird, sir, I’m blithe tae let ye handle the ledgers,” Thomas had informed him. “Ye can see for yerself whaur yer silver is spent and decide what’s best for Glentrool.”
What’s best for Glentrool. A refrain oft repeated since his arrival home last month. His father had confessed that Rowena had seen to the duties he could no longer manage. Now Jamie knew the truth: His mother had handled everything. Not a penny or a person had come or gone without Rowena’s approval.
A tap at the open library door interrupted his musings. “Mr. McKie?” Thomas Findlay stuck his head in. “Have ye a moment, sir?”
Jamie motioned him forward, still uneasy with the formality of his new role. Thomas had called Jamie by his first name all his young life, even after he returned from university. Things were different now. He looked up from behind his father’s oak desk, folding his ink-stained hands over the ledgers. “What is it, Thomas?”
“Wi’ September here, sir, Henry Stewart needs yer permission tae arrange for the tups.”
Further evidence of his mother’s strict policies. Stew, Glentrool’s head shepherd and veteran of many an October breeding season, hardly needed Jamie’s sanction to perform his duties. “Of course he may arrange for them.” Jamie kept his voice even so Thomas would not misconstrue his irritation. There was no point belittling his mother’s methods. He would simply change the ones that needed changing.
Jamie sat back to resume his work. “Kindly give Stew my regards.”
The overseer remained, wool bonnet in hand, his curly black hair on full display as he bent his head. “Mr. McKie, ye’re doin’ a fine job. A’ the lads agree.”
Jamie hid his smile, though perhaps not too well. “Good of you to say so, Thomas.” How he hated such mainnerlie talk! Could he not simply shake the man’s hand, as he had Duncan’s, and thank him? ’Twas not a laird’s place, it seemed. “Your servants must respect you,” his father had cautioned him just that morning. “And a bit of fear never hurts.”
Fear was Lachlan’s stock in trade. Rowena had chosen manipulation. Jamie considered fairness the best means to an end. He would work hard, then ask the same of his people.
“Guid day tae ye, sir.” Thomas swept his cap before him and departed, leaving Jamie to his ledgers. And his memories of Rose, which were legion.
Her sweet laughter wafting down Auchengray’s stair. A wink when they shared a secret. The tilt of her chin when she was displeased. Her hand seeking his beneath the dining room table. The playful swat of her braid. An off-key cradlesong floating out of the nursery. Her small hands caressing his cheek. His unforgettable, irreplaceable Rose.
Jamie had found the best remedy for his grief: He diligently kept his mind and hands occupied from dawn until the gloaming. The nighttime hours were more difficult. Surrounded by darkness and a quiet household, he lay in his old room, listening to the flowing burn beyond the window and missing his sweet Rose. Though she had never been to Glentrool, never curled next to him in that bed, it was not difficult to imagine her there. He’d done so many times before they left Auchengray.
But Rose was not there. Instead, he had the large bedroom overlooking the loch all to himself. Evan’s old room adjoining his now belonged to Leana. It was the one nearest the nursery, and the small turret room could only accommodate Ian’s crib and Annabel’s bed. In deep mourning for her sister, Leana had not decorated her new bedroom in any manner. It remained as stark and unadorned as her black gowns.
Some nights
when sleep would not come, Jamie heard her quietly weeping and found his own pillow wet as well. Of all the ways in which Leana was helping him to recover from Rose’s death, their shared tears in the night meant the most to him, though he’d never tell her so. She might become self-conscious, imagining him listening in the next room, or muffle her sobs, leaving him to mourn alone.
’Tis daytime now. To work, McKie.
Jamie spent another half hour balancing his ledgers before Ivy came to the door, inviting him to dinner. Had a bell been rung, as at Auchengray, he would have removed the clapper at once. At Glentrool the midday meal was lighter and the hour later, served at two o’ the clock. Supper was also delayed and more formal. Aubert saved his best dishes for the evening meal, dispatching course after course beginning promptly at eight.
Jamie rose from his ledgers, more than willing to trade his dull numbers for food and company. At their first meal together, Alec had insisted Jamie take his place of honor at the head of the long table. Jamie in turn asked his father to sit at his left hand, across from Leana, seated at his right. His mother would not have approved, but Jamie preferred warm conversation at his table, not silence and distance. With his back to the hearth, in which peat burned year round, thrice daily Jamie welcomed his family’s advice on the management of Glentrool.
He entered the dining room from the hall and found them standing at their chairs waiting for him. Some formalities remained. Jamie blessed the meat, then they took their seats as the kitchen staff entered from the far door of the portrait-lined room, bearing soup plates.
“So this is Aubert’s famous hotchpotch.” Leana lifted her eyebrows in anticipation as she tasted it. “Thick,” she said after a bit. “And … flavorful.”
Jamie smiled. “You have just described every one of Aubert’s soups. Even his broths manage to be thick. ’Tis a mystery to us all.”
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