Fair Is the Rose (11 page)

’Twas the last day of October. Already a cold November wind nipped at its heels.

After a hasty breakfast of bannocks and jam, Rose dug through a dresser drawer and unearthed an old apron. She borrowed a needle and thread from Leana’s basket while her sister was busy with the babe, tacked the hem of her apron to the waistband, then stitched together the sides to create a single, roomy pocket. Tying the apron over her oldest gown, she slipped out of doors and headed toward Auchengray Hill. In all her sixteen years she had not explored the wild moorlands and dark forests alone. One of the shepherds might have kept her company—Rab Murray or Davie Tait—but ’twas too late now. She’d have to manage on her own.

A pale morning mist swirled about her skirts as she scanned the pastures in the distance. Neither Jamie nor Duncan came into view as she nimbly climbed over the crest and struck out across the rough fields headed for the forests east of Troston Hill. The uneven ground sent her tumbling to her knees more than once, and prickly weeds tore at her skirts. Her spirits lifted when she spied a line of oak trees along the banks of March Burn. A hazel grove waited just on the other side of the narrow stream. The rising mist softened the bright colors of the oak leaves, creating a muted blend of burnt orange, golden yellow, and pale brown. Rose felt an acorn beneath her foot and kicked the hard nut
with the toe of her boot, sending it flying across the ground. When she moved into the cool shadows of the forest, she paused as her eyes adjusted and her ears sharpened.

The hazels, with their pinkish brown leaves, stood just where she remembered them from a school outing long ago. Rose searched through the nearest shrub, dismayed to find the squirrels and jays had nearly picked them clean. With some effort she located a few remaining clusters, ripe and ready to eat. She chose two particularly fine hazelnuts—firm, dark, and meaty—and slipped them inside the small, hanging pocket tied round her waist.
One for Neil, one for me
. Moving deeper into the hazel grove, she harvested each shrub diligently, tugging off the leafy frills round the few nuts she found, then dropping the filberts into her capacious apron, singing to keep her spirits up.

I luved ne’er a laddie but one,
He luves ne’er a lassie but me;
He is willing to make me his own,
And his own I’m willing to be.

She sang out the last words, her voice carried off by the wind whistling through the grove, when a twig snapped behind her, followed by a low chuckle. “There’s mony a way tae claim a man’s heart—willin’ or not. And Lillias Brown kens them
a’
.”

Rose whirled about, clutching the corners of her sagging apron. “Mistress Brown!” Brightly garbed, with her gray-streaked hair pinned on top of her small head, the widow appeared to have dropped from the tree like overripe fruit. Rose gaped at her. “Wh-whatever are you doing here?”

The older woman laughed again, holding up a small basket. “Same as ye, Miss McBride. Collectin’ the last of the hazelnuts.” She patted the necklace made of nuts draped on her bosom. “Some fowk eat them, and some put them in pairs by the fire, divinin’ the future. For me, the fruit o’ the hazel serves a deeper purpose.” Her gaze swept over Rose’s apron. “I see ye’ve claimed mair than yer due.”

“Only what is fair.” Rose refused to be intimidated, though she had to press her knees together to keep them from shaking. Across the
woman’s brow was the trace of a scar, faint but jagged. A wutch-score, folk called it, made by some desperate soul who’d sought protection from Lillias and her
cantrips
. Rose hid her right hand beneath her apron and slipped her thumb between her first two fingers. The sign of the cross would keep her safe. “These woods are common to all who live in the parish, Mistress Brown.”

“Aye.” Lillias stepped closer. Rose, without meaning to, stepped back. “Newabbey parish is home for me as weel, ye ken. My cottage, Nethermuir, is not far from here, beside Craigend Loch.” She waved toward the west. “As a raven flies, hard and fast, ’Tis but an hour’s walk.”

“I see.” Rose could not resist a second glance at the woman’s odd jewelry of polished hazelnuts strung on a black velvet ribbon. “Did you … ah, make your necklace?”

“So I did, lassie. Only a wise woman kens the how and why o’
sic
a thing.” Lillias began fingering the smooth filberts like beads on a rosary, grasping each one in turn, moving her lips yet not uttering a sound. Her eyes drifted shut, and her mouth went slack.

The forest grew strangely silent. Rose felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck.

“ ’Tis the power o’ the hazel,” Lillias whispered, her eyes still closed. “It changes the verra air ye breathe.” She released the necklace, then rested her hand on top of it and opened her eyes. “Whan I came upon ye, Rose McBride, ye were thinkin’ aboot a man. A man willin’ tae marry ye, aye?”

Neil!
Too stunned to speak, Rose made a small noise of assent.

“As I see it, he is willin’, but ye are not.”

Rose swallowed, taking another step back. “I am … uncertain.”

“Because ye fancy
anither
.” Lillias grasped the necklace, her eyes focused elsewhere. “A man
wha
canna
luve
ye.”

A wind with the hint of winter in its breath passed by.
I cannot love you, Rose
.

“This verra nicht ye’ll divine yer future husband.” Stretching out a withered hand, Lillias plucked a pair of hazelnuts from her basket and added them to Rose’s apron. “The nuts, the mirror, the apple—ye ken the auld ways, d’ye not?”

Rose nodded. She put little store in them, but, aye, she knew them.

“Dinna miss the chance tae learn what yer heart already kens.” When Lillias touched her hand, Rose was shocked by the warmth of the woman’s bony fingers. “There is
ane
man for ye, lassie. And ye ken his name well.”

A voice not her own whispered inside her,
Jamie
.

“Nae!” Rose turned and fled across the burn and through the oak woods, her heart racing faster than her feet. Little wonder her neighbors called Lillias Brown a wutch! None but a daughter of the
de’il
himself would plant so
braisant
a notion in a girl’s mind. Jamie belonged to her sister now. There was no going back.

Rose dashed around clumps of gorse and outcroppings of rock until she slowed to catch her breath, gasping for air in ragged gulps. She dared not tarry. It was rumored Lillias Brown could change into a hare or ride a cat like the finest steed or fly through the air in a kitchen sieve. “Rubbish!” Rose had once said. Now she glanced over her shoulder, fearful of what she might see behind her.

Naught but bright trees and a pale blue sky, thanks be to God.

Easing her pace, she set her sights on home and the hours ahead. ’Twas Neil Elliot she would think about this Hallowmas Eve. Neil and no other. She would look for his image in the mirror at midnight, and hope that the apple paring spelled out his name. For if he asked for her hand come Monday, she must know her heart. And she must have an answer.

Twelve

The look of love alarms
Because ’tis fill’d with fire.

W
ILLIAM
B
LAKE

M
ind the fire!” Neda cautioned. Jamie poked the dried kale stalks into the burning peat until the torch was duly lit, then handed the bound stalks to a servant lad, who ran off to join the others gathering out of doors. Walking the boundaries of one’s property, torches held high, was a time-honored means of protecting the household from calamity, a custom even the kirk could not snuff out. Next Hallowmas Eve Jamie planned to be lighting torches for Glentrool; this October his duties remained at Auchengray.

“That’s the last o’ them.” Neda plunged her torch into the fire, motioning at Jamie to do the same. “Your uncle will be anxious tae get started, afore we lose the light o’ day
athegither
.” Jamie followed her out the door, keeping his smoldering kale well away from curtains and clothing, and found his place among the two dozen family members and servants assembled on the lawn.

Lachlan gripped his torch like a broadax and barked out orders. “See that you’re the same distance apart. Keep your torch in your right hand. Hold it up, I tell you, or you’ll set the shrubbery on fire!” No one laughed at the man, however
pensie
his behavior.

When Jamie looked back to make certain Leana was in place, he could not help but notice Rose as well. Dressed in a blue gown, her hair cascading down her back, she looked like the Queen of the Fairies herself. His hand clenched the rough kale stalks, the memory of watching Neil Elliot kissing Rose still fresh in his mind. How dare the lad take advantage of her innocence!

His conscience pricked him.
Righteous anger, is it? Naught else?
Jamie swerved toward the front, swinging the torch in an arc and scattering sparks across the lawn. He had no claim on the lass, nor she on him. Let Rose kiss every man in the parish if she liked! Leana was his concern now. When he felt a light tap on his shoulder, Jamie swung his head round, prepared to give Rose a good scolding.

Instead Leana stood behind him, holding out her left hand. “Look what I pulled from an oat stalk earlier.” She held her torch closer to illumine the seeds in her palm. “Seven seeds from a single stalk.”

“Seven children then,” he murmured, feeling his pounding heart ease.

“That’s what the auld wives say.” She waved her hand through the air, scattering the seeds. “If you put any stock in such things.”

Jamie eyed her in amazement. “You do not?”

“Almighty God is the one who blesses a womb,” she said in a tone of quiet confidence, brushing her hand across her skirts. “If the future holds seven bairns for us, Jamie, I shall welcome every one. ’Tis not a handful of seeds that tells me that but a heart full of faith.”

Jamie swallowed, overcome by her simple assurance. “You are too good for me, Leana,” he said at last.

“Nae, I am far from virtuous. Or have you forgotten our wedding night?” Her smile was tinged with sadness. “Walk on, Jamie. Hallowmas Eve awaits.”

The gloaming faded into a black, starless night as the household began their slow procession, keeping close to the dry stane dykes that marked the boundaries of Auchengray proper. The earth was spongy and uneven, littered with stones. Jamie put down each booted foot with care, keeping one eye on Lachlan’s stiff back and the other on the murky ground before him.

“Thrice and done,” Lachlan announced at last, tossing his kale torch onto the stony ground. “Duncan, see that the shepherds circle the pastures. As for the rest of you, away with your fires and make to the kitchen.” Leaving their torches behind in a small bonfire, the servants ran laughing into the house, eager for the household festivities to begin.

“Jamie?” Leana stepped next to him, sliding her cool fingers inside the curl of his hand. “I promised Neda I’d help with the turnip lanterns. Will you join us?”

They followed the path to the back door, stepping from the black shroud of night into a warm, cheery kitchen smelling of freshly baked gingersnaps and ripe apples. Young and old stood about the square wooden table in the center of the kitchen, eying a heap of yellow and orange turnips. The last of the crop harvested from Leana’s garden, they’d been left in the ground to grow plump and thick skinned, better suited for carving than for eating.

“Choose yer favorite,” Neda instructed, handing Jamie a stout blade. “Mr. McKie will cut off the top.” Eyes wide, the younger ones were allowed to pick first, wrapping their arms round the turnips and bringing them to Jamie so he could slice off the top quarter. In turn, Leana handed them blunt knives and steered them toward a large iron pot with orders to scoop out the centers. Though Neda would cook the
neeps
and mash them with butter and white pepper for their Sabbath supper, this night the turnips would serve another purpose: scaring away the goblins and beasties said to roam the hills and glens of Galloway.

“Take care not to push your knives through the skin,” Leana cautioned them, “or Mr. McKie will have no room left to make a face.” His skills with a sharpened dirk were put to the test when it came to carving eyes and mouths into the overripe vegetables. Some of the faces were frightening, but most were comical, with noses askew and crooked smiles. Leana shook her head in disbelief, pointing at one of them. “What sort of creature is that?”

Jamie gave a slight shrug. “A friendly one.” ’Twas best the younger lads did not learn the grisly truth behind the custom, filtered through the centuries from the ancient Druids who’d gathered at Carlinwark to sever the heads of their enemies. Hardly a story for innocent ears. Let them fill their turnips with candlelight and banish the darkness of auld Scotland.

“Jamie, I must see to Ian’s welfare,” Leana said, looking toward the hall. “When Duncan and the shepherds come back from their rounds,
they’ll be
dookin’
for apples with the servants. Be a good husband and fill the wooden tub for Neda, won’t you?”

Jamie squeezed her hand, assuring her he would do whatever was needed, and sent her up the stair. The shallow tub sat on the kitchen floor, wide enough to float a peck of apples, so it took several trips to the well to fill it. Rose busied herself breaking off pieces of the Hallowmas bannock for all to partake, while Neda polished the pippins until they shone. Hauling in his last pail of water, Jamie was joined by Duncan and the returning shepherds, who filled the kitchen with noise and merriment, scattering ashes on the floor from the bonfire. “This is Halloweven,” one sang out, and another joined in, “The morn is Hallowday.”

“Och, such a
stramash!
” Neda fussed, grinning all the while. “Ye’ll have ashes in yer hair afore ye’re done.” She bent down to stir the water with her wooden porridge spurtle, sending the apples bobbing along the surface. “Who’ll be first tae dook his head?”

Rose volunteered at once. “I will.” She wrapped her hair in a linen towel, then tied another round her neck and knelt beside the tub on the brick floor. “Truth lies at the bottom of a well,” she announced, taking a deep breath. The wise wags insisted if folk captured an apple between their teeth that night, they’d have the power to see the days to come. Down into the water she went, chasing one apple after another until she pinned one to the side of the tub and sank her teeth into it amid much cheering. She rose, holding the apple aloft, and whipped the linen from her head. Her hair unfurled like a flag from a rampart, signaling victory, and her eyes were bright with triumph. “Your turn, Cousin Jamie. Or do you have no wish to see what your future holds?”