Fair Is the Rose (18 page)

A dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on Rose as Etta Carlyle admonished, “Taller, Miss McBride.”

“Yes,
mem.
” Rose stretched her head higher, hoping her spine might elongate as well. The silver-haired dowager pursed her lips, then moved on without comment, leaving Rose to wonder if she’d managed to please the woman. Mistress Carlyle’s deep-set gray eyes, cold as granite, were now trained on another newcomer at the school, a wheyfaced girl from Torthorwald parish.

“Do not hold your arms so stiffly, Miss Herries. See how Miss Johnstone holds her elbows at a pleasing angle?
Oui.
” Round the room her instructions were quite the same—sparse with praise, replete with correction, sprinkled with French, ever comparing the lasses to one another and seldom favorably. Not that
lass
was a word Etta Carlyle permitted beneath her roof. Nor the word
aye
. “We look to London, not Edinburgh, as our model,” the schoolmistress had explained on the
first day. “The young ladies of Saint James say ‘yes,’ not ‘aye.’ We shall do the same.”

Rose gazed about the room, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. To think she’d fretted over which gowns to pack! The assembled daughters of Dumfriesshire were, to phrase it kindly, plainly dressed. Their gowns were cut along somber lines, without a thread of Belgian lace to lighten the muted grays and browns, and they wore their hair wrapped in tight nests perched on their heads. Rose, dressed in Leana’s rich claret gown, with her hair in wispy ringlets she’d tamed with rose water, felt like a bright-feathered kingfisher among a flock of gulls.

The schoolmistress broke into her thoughts. “Take your seats in the classroom, ladies. I’ve prepared a lecture on establishing a proper beauty regimen. In alphabetical order, please. Miss Elizabeth Balfour. Miss Mary Carruthers. Miss Margaret Herries. Miss Sally Johnstone.”

Rose followed the others into the adjoining room, where four long tables dotted with glass inkpots awaited them. She pinched her lips shut to keep from smiling.
Beauty regimen?
’Twas hard to imagine what instruction Mistress Carlyle might offer on that subject.

The Johnstone lass, who brought to mind a pretty brown wren, whispered over her shoulder, “Perhaps
you
might teach this class, Miss McBride.”

Rose merely smiled in response, aware of the pride swelling in her breast. “Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain,” her father would say, quoting the Buik. Chastened by the unspoken words echoing in her head, Rose took her seat in the second row, scraping her chair against the unpainted wooden floor. The plaster walls were whitewashed, without adornment except for the sconces. Next to the single front window hung an oil portrait of a young woman—the schoolmistress as a girl? Nae, she’d never been so bonny. The painting might be of her daughter or of a noteworthy pupil from lang
syne
. The girl’s posture was admirable and her hands gracefully folded; perhaps she was there merely to set a good example.

Sally Johnstone leaned sideways to catch Rose’s ear. “You belong at Queensberry. ’Tis more fashionable than Carlyle.”

Queensberry
. The name alone sounded promising. Rose kept her
eyes to the front lest the schoolmistress take note. “Is it also more costly?”

“Aye,” Sally moaned. “My father wouldn’t hear of sending me there.”

Nor mine
. Naturally, Lachlan McBride had chosen the school requiring the least amount of silver.

Mistress Carlyle began her lecture without preamble. “The secret of preserving and maintaining beauty can be found in three disciplines: cleanliness, temperance, and exercise.” She made it clear they were to react with surprise and delight, as if every word she spoke were a revelation.

Rose chafed under such expectations. Where were the lessons in history or mathematics? She did not need to be told that cleanliness “kept her limbs pliant” or that frequent tepid baths did away with “corporeal impurities.” Such words the woman used! Let others be moderate at table; Rose relished Neda’s cooking to the fullest, with no ill effects. And breathing the fresh, bracing air of the countryside was the very definition of Rose’s life at Auchengray.

“But avoid the dews of evening,” the schoolmistress cautioned, “when the imperceptible damp saturates the skin, exposing you to the worst maladies our Scottish air has to offer.
Prenez garde
. Take care. Lest you visit the graveyard too soon.”

Rose looked dutifully concerned, even as she remembered scampering across the hills in the gloaming, bareheaded and barelegged, chasing ewes that had wandered from the fold. Picturing Auchengray’s blackface sheep conjured memories of a certain shepherd who’d escorted her to Dumfries, depositing her onto Mistress Carlyle’s doorstep with due haste. Was he so very grateful to be done with her? After five long days did he even miss her? She yearned to see everyone at Auchengray, Ian especially.

“Miss McBride!” the schoolmistress said rather sharply. “Might you tell us where your thoughts have traveled? It is apparent from your unfocused gaze that they have long since left this assembly.”

Rose stood, clasping her hands in front of her waist, as she’d been taught. “Begging your pardon, Mistress Carlyle. ’Tis the bobbing heads of those passing by the front window distracting me. I shall endeavor to do better.” Rose took her seat, proud of herself for not succumbing to her
kenspeckle
habit of stretching the truth far beyond its borders. She
had
glanced out the window earlier, had she not?

“
Bien
. Good. Your desire to see more of Dumfries is about to be assuaged, Miss McBride.” The schoolmistress smiled. Though it did not alter her stern features, it did improve the day’s prospects. “It is time we explored the environs that will serve as your home this spring. We shall embark on an outing after the midday meal and stroll one of the main thoroughfares of our royal burgh.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the schoolroom. Rose could not keep her own delight from showing. She’d already borrowed the
Dumfries Weekly Journal
from the basket on Mistress Carlyle’s desk, reading the broadsheet late one night by candlelight. Though most of the political rhetoric gave her a headache, reading words like
Sir
and
Viscount
made her heart skip a beat, while the advertisements plucked at her purse strings. A new bridge across the River Nith was in the planning stages, as well as a new prison, which made her squeamish. But a playhouse, not far from the school, was also in the offing, and that was promising indeed. Spring and autumn court circuits were held in Dumfries, and two weekly markets, and three annual fairs … oh, the possibilities!

But first, the midday meal. Boiled, sliced potatoes, sparingly seasoned, and salted codfish garnished with dried parsley were placed before each young lady seated round the linen-draped dining table. Colorless, nigh to tasteless, the food was dispatched without comment. Rose was too eager to cross the threshold to think about her stomach. She’d visited Dumfries several times but always in the company of family. This was different and altogether more exciting, for Dumfries was home now, if only for a season.

A few minutes before one o’ the clock, wrapped in her green cloak with her leather gloves pulled on tight, Rose and the other lasses ventured down the narrow Millbrae Vennel toward Saint Michael Street, holding their skirts as they stepped round puddles and refuse. Brick houses stood on either side of the narrow alley, crowded together, with the occasional
close
offering a glimpse of the barren winter gardens behind them.

Lizzie Balfour, a delicate creature with enormous blue eyes, fell into step beside her. “Have you ever seen so many dwelling houses? ’Tis nothing like Moffat.”

“And even less like Newabbey,” Rose agreed, trying not to stare back at the children who pressed grimy faces against their windows to watch the flock of ladies. When the residents of Carlyle School reached a wider thoroughfare, they found themselves sharing the street with gentry and commoners alike. One baldheaded man had the badge of a beggar pinned to his tattered clothes, while other passersby were well shod and wore fashionable hats. Her ears twitched at the strange accents that whispered of places she’d only imagined—Glasgow to the northwest and Edinburgh to the northeast, each a journey of some eighty miles. More than once the clipped, unmusical speech of a Londoner caught her ear.

“We will worship at Saint Michael’s this Sabbath,” Mistress Carlyle announced. “
Dieu est en toutes choses
. God is in all things.” She swept her hand upward toward the towering red sandstone church surrounded by gravestones taller than any soul buried beneath them. “Turn here, if you will, ladies. Let us see what Saint Michael Street has to show us.”

Curiosity pulled Rose forward, with little concern for the damp chill of January seeping through her cloak. Beneath her feet, mud and muck gave way to neatly fitted flagstones. The buildings round her grew in stature and grace, with ornamented windows and arched doorways, neatly swept front steps and polished glass panes. Leana had seen these houses as well, Rose reminded herself. During the bridal week her sister spent with Jamie in Dumfries, her sister had no doubt walked this very street. Leana had been too ashamed to describe the sights when she and Jamie had returned to Auchengray. A miserable day for them all. Rose forced her thoughts into the present, refusing to ruin her outing with such dreary recollections.

“Nith Place is the fashionable quarter of Dumfries,” Etta Carlyle explained, lowering her voice in deference to the neighborhood’s genteel residents. She nodded toward Irish Street. “At the foot of the close leading to George Inn, you will note the Assembly Rooms, where gentlemen convene to play cards and drink tea. When court is in session this spring, ladies of quality will gather there for balls and exhibitions.” She looked over her charges with a steady gaze. “Perhaps some of you will be introduced to society inside those elegant rooms.”

Perhaps not
. Rose turned away rather than see the hopeful looks adorning their faces. By their eighteenth birthdays they would no doubt be married to older, uglier men with stout purses and figures to match. She shook her head, as if to dislodge the terrible thought, and walked with deliberate steps, following the others.

“
Allons
. Let us press on, ladies.” Their schoolmistress waved her hand through the air. “Mill Street will lead us home.”

Carlyle School was hardly home, but ’twould serve a useful purpose through Whitsuntide. Amid the confines of its drab walls Rose would polish her manners, sharpen her domestic skills, and learn more of the French language that trilled prettily off her tongue. When God saw fit to bring a gentleman of distinction across her path, she would know just what to say to him: “
Je suis prête
. I am ready.”

Twenty

A strange volume of real life
in the daily packet of the postman.

D
OUGLAS
J
ERROLD

L
ook at this, Jamie. Rose is learning French.”

Leana held out the letter she’d received from Carlyle School, slipping off her spectacles. “Though I can pronounce the words, I cannot begin to make sense of what they mean. Can you?”

“Oui,” he said, chuckling. “Aubert Billaud, our cook at Glentrool, came to us from Marseilles, so Mother pressed him into teaching me his native tongue. As well, I had instruction in French at university.” He winked at her. “The auld alliance between Scotland and France will remain as long as our countries face a common enemy.”

“England,” she said, smiling at his jest.

Jamie studied Rose’s letter. “
L
e
monde est le livre des femmes
. The world is woman’s book,” he translated at last, running his finger across the paper. “Rousseau’s words. A fine student, our Rose.”

Our Rose
. The lass had been gone a mere ten days, and already Jamie missed her. Leana could read it in his eyes, which drank in the contents of Rose’s letter like a thirsty man. She could see it in the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and hear it in his voice, filled with admiration. Not for
our
Rose, but for
his
Rose.

Leana could not stop herself. “Does her absence grieve you?”

“Grieve me?” Jamie looked at her in amazement. “Nae, Leana. I’m happy for her. And relieved for us.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, his gaze warming. “Leana, if I think of Rose as our older daughter, rather than as a charming young lady, I’m able to … well, ’Tis better that way.”

“I see.” Leana smiled at his candor.
Dear Jamie
. She’d misjudged him again. Jumped to conclusions. “I should have known you had
things well in hand,” she confessed, collecting the letter to read again later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll away to the kitchen to prepare a
noony
for your son.”

Jamie chuckled. “ ’Tis all the lad does: eat.”

“And sleep,” Leana reminded him. Now that Ian’s colic had settled, the babe dozed several hours at a time between his night feedings. Grateful for the respite, Leana was slowly regaining her strength. If her body did not feel quite her own yet, at least it did not feel like a weary stranger’s, dragging through a twilight existence of nursing and changing and bathing their son. Perhaps tonight her husband might turn to her again in the darkness of their box bed and find her wide awake. And more than willing.

Jamie stood, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders like a large, graceful cat. “Did I mention I’m to visit Dalbeaty with your father Thursday next? Something about assessing the value of a property there.”

“In Dalbeaty?” Leana gave the notion a moment’s thought. “A favor for Duncan, do you suppose?” Two of the Hastings’s grown daughters lived outside the small village eight miles southwest of Auchengray; perhaps they were considering moving to another farm.