My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  “She has,” Brother Martin declared, “her father’s disposition and her mother’s temper. I always said Dand Ross, or Andre Rousse, or Sir Ross, or whoever he’s fancying himself these days, was a limb of Satan and now his daughter is proving to be a twig from that same branch.”

  It sat hard with Brother Martin that the boy they’d sheltered as an orphan might be some sort of Bourbon royal, though by his own words he admitted he could never prove it. What was certain is that he’d been knighted for his work on behalf of His Royal Majesty.

  “The babe is perfectly beautiful,” sighed the smitten Brother Fidelis.

  “Aye, she is that,” Brother Martin allowed with a little grunt. “Looks like her aunt Kate what with all that ebony fluff on her head.” Brother Martin had always had a soft spot for the handsome Kate MacNeill. “But with such parents the world had best beware. Now, come along before the little witch screams the rafters down.”

  The two monks left Brother Martin’s herbalist shed, passing through the walled rose garden as they went. It was a fine day. The deep blue sky above their remote little valley sparkled, kissed with warmth. Around them the first blooms of spring were just beginning to show, little hints of color trembling on the tips of vines and canes sheathed in fresh green down, like deer antlers in velvet. The crusader’s yellow rose, the only one of its kind in all of Scotland, had not yet set its blossoms, but the promise was there in verdant new growth and glossy green leaves.

  At the wall, Brothers Martin and Fidelis ducked beneath the low arched doorway and headed across the common. Even from here they could hear Dand’s brat squalling. She didn’t sound as if she was in pain. She sounded angry.

  They hurried into the chapel where thirty pairs of eyes turned around. The boys and monks kneeling in the back relaxed. Lizette Barnes and Ginny Mulgrew, sharing a pew as well as Ginny’s carriage on the long trip up during which Lizette had learned Many Fascinating Things, breathed audible sighs of relief. The Baron and Baroness Welton, both wearing the superior look of those who have bet everything on a long shot and somehow managed to have been right, smiled weakly. The Marchioness of Cottrell, as swollen with child as a tick and as alarmed by the baby’s yelps as a rabbit by a dog’s keening, cast a desperately anxious look at her sophisticated and urbane husband, who answered her unspoken plea with murmured assurance that their anticipated darling, “would know from the beginning how to conduct himself. Herself. Their-selves.” And Colonel and Mrs. MacNeill traded moist-eyed romantic gazes, Mrs. MacNeill having just last week been certain enough to reveal to her brawny husband that they, too, were soon to be parents.

  In the front-most pew, Charlotte sat with her howling red-faced baby on her lap, looking completely at ease while beside her, in direct contrast, hovered her husband, Dand Ross, looking completely nonplussed. For whatever reason, this afforded Brother Martin a great deal of satisfaction. He supposed he would be obliged to confess it later. Father Tarkin, most impressive in his clerical garb, stood at the foot of the altar beside a basin of holy water.

  “Thank you, God!” the abbot muttered and motioned them forward.

  Brother Martin, shadowed by Brother Fidelis, stomped down the center aisle decorated with nosegays of spring snowdrops and spring ephemerals. He made Charlotte’s side and without ceremony thrust the little bag of herbs under the baby’s nose. The baby inhaled deeply…deeply…deeply…and sneezed. Then, fixing Brother Martin with her mother’s gold-shot eyes, she wailed even louder.

  “The poor little angel!” Brother Fidelis muttered, edging Brother Martin out of the way. “The poor little darling! There now, sweetling.”

  The baby unlocked her basilisk gaze from Brother Martin and turned her attention to Brother Fidelis. Her face, screwed up in a tight little knot of discontent, relaxed. She gave a cursory wail and held out her tiny arms.

  Brother Fidelis held out his.

  With a look of surprise, first at her daughter and then at the round monk, Charlotte lifted the baby into his waiting arms. At once, the baby settled in with a last little grumble.

  “Oh, my dearest,” crooned Brother Fidelis, bowing over his precious bundle. “None of these people understands, do they? There now. She only wanted a little cuddle.”

  And the little girl, having pegged her first male conquest in what would prove a very long list of them indeed, sighed and closed her eyes.

  Blowing out a deep sigh of relief, Father Tarkin motioned the parents—along with Brother Fidelis—forward to stand before the baptismal font.

  “Now then, we are gathered here today to welcome into the Lord’s family this child. Have you a name for her?”

  “Yes,” Dand and Charlotte replied in unison.

  “And what is it?”

  “Rose.”

  Author’s Note

  There are Catholic monasteries in Scotland. After all, Scotland was a Catholic country for centuries. And after the French Revolution, many priests, remembering those old ties, in fleeing France sought sanctuary on Scottish shores. Many returned to France after the Concordant was signed, but many did not.

  Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, maintained the largest collection of roses in the world, many brought to her by diplomats, adventurers, and toadies.

  There were no yellow roses in England in 1800. However, the first yellow roses were probably from Persia and so the notion that a crusader brought one back from his travels is not so very far-fetched.

  The street and place names in this book are all real and depicted as close to reality as my imagination and research allowed.

  There are many people who made their talents and research and friendship available to me throughout the writing of this series. Chris, Mary, Terri, Liz, and Lisa, the applause continues. Susie and Merry, thanks for having my back.