Fair Is the Rose (19 page)

Jamie shrugged. “When I asked the same question, your father seemed a mite
dootsome.
”

“I ken that look well.” Leana wiped the smile from her face and assumed a vague expression so like her father’s that Jamie laughed aloud.

“You’ve captured him exactly, lass.”

“Then he’s hiding something. My father is seldom uncertain, particularly when it comes to property.” She glanced at the window. “I hope ’twill not be such a
weatherful
day as this for your outing. Do see that you’re warmly dressed.”

“Aye, Mother,” he teased, then leaned forward to kiss her. Hugh had not shaved him that morning, so Jamie’s beard felt rough against her skin. She did not mind in the least. “Much can happen atween now and next week,” he murmured, kissing her once more before he turned toward the door. “Come, I’ll escort you to the kitchen. Neda may have deduced something of my duties in Urr parish.”

They stepped into the room arm in arm and discovered Neda
standing atop a small ladder, reaching for a copper-bottomed pot swinging from the rafters high above her head. “Mr. McKie!” Neda called out in relief, easing back down to the floor. “Ye’ve arrived in the nick o’ time to spare an auld woman a nasty fall.”

“So I see.” He lifted the heavy cooking pot from its hook and handed it down to her. “Whatever are you making in such a large pot, Mistress Hastings?”

“Applesauce.” She pointed to a basket of pippins with wrinkled, yellow skins. “Been down in the cellar too long, I fear. Duncan will feed them tae the pigs if I dinna put them tae better use. Yer laddie will thank me for makin’ applesauce, I ken.”

“So will his mother.” Leana claimed a paring knife and reached for the first fruit of many. “Tell us, Neda: What business does my father have in Dalbeaty next week? Jamie’s expected to accompany him.”

Neda eyed them both while she scrubbed the pot clean in steaming hot water. “I’ve not
jaloused
the meanin’ of it, but it might involve a woman.”

Leana gasped. “A
woman
?”

“A certain widow by the name o’ Douglas.” Neda heaved the pot to the dressing board and began drying it with her apron. “Duncan found a ledger entry in yer faither’s hand. ‘Purchase of five milk cows for Edingham,’ it says. My daughter in Dalbeaty kenned the rest o’ the story. Edingham is a fine farm in Urr parish. Home tae Mistress Douglas and her three sons. What unco interest yer faither had buyin’ the woman livestock, I canna say.”

“Nor can I.” Leana glanced at Jamie, who shook his head.

“Mebbe afore ye go, the laird o’ Auchengray will deem tae tell us mair. ’Tis mony a mile from here tae Dalbeaty. But ye ken what they say.” Neda winked as she reminded them, “Greedy folk have lang arms.”

“But it appears Father
gave
her the cows,” Leana protested.

“
Och!
For naught? Ye ken yer faither’s ways better than that, lass.”

“Neda is right,” Jamie agreed. “Lachlan McBride seldom gives a gift without expecting to gain by it.” He consulted his pocket watch, then headed for the door. “Mark my words, there’s some swickerie at work here. If my uncle is not forthcoming before our journey south, I’ll see that
you both have all the details come Thursday next.” Jamie touched Leana’s sleeve in passing, warming her with his eyes. “I’ll see you at supper, lass.”

He disappeared down the hall, his broad shoulders turning at the stair even as Neda turned her blithe expression on Leana. “ ’twould seem yer man has finally come o’ age.”

“Now, Neda,” Leana chided, reaching for another apple. “Jamie was twenty-four when he came to Auchengray. Old enough to be counted a man.”

“God niver measures a man by inches nor by years.” Neda scooped up the apples Leana had pared and cored, dropped them into her clean pot with several cupfuls of water, then hung the pot over a well-banked fire. “ ’Tis not the calendar that makes the man but the days he spends wi’ his eye tae the Buik and his ear tae the Almighty.”

“Jamie has been more attentive to such matters of late,” Leana agreed. “He borrowed Father’s copy of
Mortification and Sincerity
by Low and a book of sermons as well.”

“A guid beginnin’.” Neda stepped into the larder and brought out a block of sugar, which she crumbled between her fingers and added to the cooking pot. Already the sweet aroma of overripe apples filled the close confines of the kitchen. “Whan he lives what he reads and means what he says, then will yer Jamie be the faither Ian requires.” She smiled across the fragrant steam. “And the husband ye deserve, Leana.”

“What of Rose? Does she not deserve a proper husband?” Leana’s hands stilled. “ ’Twas not her fault for losing Jamie. ’Twas mine for taking him.”

Neda clucked at her like a hen fussing at its chick. “I’ll not see ye dwellin’ on the past, Mistress McKie. Though yer sister does merit a bit o’ concern, I’ll grant ye that. Ye heard the letter she wrote to yer faither.
Fu’
o’ pride, her words. Learnin’ this and accomplishin’ that.”

“But she’s in school!”

“Aye.” Neda stood before her spice chest, fishing out a stick of cinnamon from the marked drawer. “And do they not teach ye in
scuil
tae inquire after yer elders? Tae care mair aboot others than yerself? Rose didna ask how Ian had grown nor how Annabel was gettin’ along wi’ her gone. Her letter was
Rose McBride
, from first wird tae last.”

“ ’Tis always been so, Neda. Otherwise she would not be our Rose.” Leana deposited another handful of pared apples into the simmering pot. “Suppose I fix a bit of cereal for Ian, then write Rose a long letter filled with all the parish blether. ’twill keep her mind on us for at least the quarter of an hour ’twill take her to read it.”

“Yer luve for yer sister puts us all tae shame, lass.” Neda patted her arm, sprinkling cinnamon on her sleeve. “Lemme see tae yer lad then. He’ll be wantin’ his noony.”

While Neda went off to fetch Ian, Leana got on with her tasks, spooning the last bit of breakfast porridge into a small cup, thinning it with boiled milk, sweetening it with a sprinkle of sugar, and then straining the mixture through loosely woven muslin. From the moment Neda arrived with him in her arms, Ian was elated to see his mother, waving his arms and legs, squealing with anticipation as Neda sat down and tried to hold him steady long enough to tie a cloth about his neck.

Leana laughed at his antics. “Let me nurse the poor lad for a few minutes to calm him, or he’ll wear his porridge rather than eat it.” Neda busied herself elsewhere in the kitchen while Leana put Ian to her breast, a clean apron draped across them both for modesty’s sake. She brushed her knuckle along his cheek as he sighed like the contented child he was. “Such a good lad.” His silky cap of hair was already growing darker like his father’s.

When Ian seemed more settled, she eased him from her breast and quickly laced up her dress. “Time for porridge,” Leana called, at which Neda appeared with some worn linens to catch the worst of it. The housekeeper pulled a chair close to Leana’s so their knees touched, then planted Ian in her lap. Leana scooped up the cup and a tiny silver spoon, a gift from Jamie’s mother. “Mmm, mmm.” Leana opened her own mouth, hoping he might mimic her. When he did, she slid the spoonful of porridge between Ian’s lips. And prayed.

He sucked at it. Wrinkled his nose. Sampled it again. Widened his eyes, then his mouth. Another bit disappeared.

“More?” Leana offered the child scant spoonfuls while she and Neda praised him thoroughly. Before they finished, all three of them were covered with runny porridge, though most of it landed on the
linens, which Leana whisked away. “You’ve made a good start, Ian McKie.”

Neda patted his plump arm. “Weel done, lad.”

Leana called to Eliza to take him up the stair for a quick bath and a well-earned nap while she saw to her own ablutions. She then went in search of the writing desk Jamie had presented her on Hogmanay, their first anniversary. ’Twas where she’d left it, perched on the sideboard in the front room of the house. Dragging a small table nearer the window, Leana lit a candle, then lifted out a sheaf of paper, reveling at the fine texture of it. Jamie had been most generous.

Where to begin her letter to Rose? Her pen paused over the paper until she feared it might drip, and so Leana blotted it again. They had not parted on the best of terms; perhaps that was the place to start.

To Rose McBride

Wednesday, 13 January 1790

My dearest sister,

I am so very sorry that our last words before your departure for Dumfries were not kinder ones. Forgive me for anything I might have said or done to ruin what should have been a happy occasion.

Happy for whom, Leana?
Though she would never let Rose hear her say it, Leana was relieved to have her in Dumfries and away from Jamie. Was it wrong to want him all to herself?

Both of your letters were enjoyed by the whole household. As you might imagine, Jamie was most impressed with the French phrase you included. When you come home for your first visit at the end of the month, I fear the two of you will be speaking a language no one else will understand.

A slight chill ran along her arm. Perhaps she sat too close to the frost-covered window or the fire needed tending. Shivering yet again, Leana gathered a plaid from atop a nearby chest and wrapped it round her, then perched on the chair once more and took up her pen.

Ian grows more amiable by the hour. Truly the lad is made in the very image of his father. I hope you will discover the joy of bearing children someday, Rose. Motherhood is a pleasure no letter can adequately describe.

She paused, dipping her pen in the ink. Would stories of Ian interest her sister or rub salt in an open wound? Did Rose care about her at all, or was their friendship no more than a memory, and a distant one at that? Leana’s hand hovered over the paper as she prayed for the words to write and the strength to write them.

Dear sister, let there be no uncertainty between us. I love Jamie and Ian with all my heart. But I love you as well, Rose. Nothing, however grave, could alter my fondest affection for you …

Twenty-One

Then came your new friend:
you began to change—
I saw it and grieved.

A
LFRED
, L
ORD
T
ENNYSON

H
ere she comes!” Lizzie Balfour leaned her forehead against the icy window, her eyes and mouth agape, as the other lasses crowded round her. “Will you
look
at that gown? Red as rowan berries, and velvet besides.”

“Aye.” Margaret Herries breathed the word out, her hand pressed against the bodice of a dress the color of oatmeal. “My mother would ne’er let me be seen in so vainglorious a thing.”

Sally Johnstone turned away from the second-story window. “ ’Tis how the ladies of quality dress at Queensberry.”

Rose quickly took Sally’s place, squeezing between the others until she was pressed against the panes, her gaze riveted to the street below. A dark-haired young lady of obvious means approached the door to Carlyle School on the arm of an older gentleman—her father, no doubt. At the foot of Millbrae Vennel stood a coach-and-four, the ebony carriage sides gleaming, the brass lanterns polished to a high sheen. It was as fine a coach as the one belonging to Lord and Lady Maxwell, their parish neighbors at Maxwell Park. Rose felt no prick of envy at seeing such a display of wealth, only an eagerness to know more.

“Whatever brings her
here
of all places?” Rose wondered aloud, watching as Etta Carlyle greeted her newest pupil. They’d been informed an hour earlier that another young lady would be joining them, taking the place of poor Mary Carruthers, who’d developed a frightful cough and was sent home to recover. After the morning lesson on deportment, the schoolmistress had sent the girls up the stair to put aright their sleeping room. Twelve narrow beds lined the walls, each
with one small trunk at the foot. Only one bed lacked such baggage, though it appeared an impressive replacement was being carried through the front door at that very moment.

Sally’s voice floated over their heads. “Her name is Jane Grierson.”

“Grierson of Lag?” ’Twas all Lizzie could do to say the name. “From Dunscore?”

“The very one,” Sally confirmed, “however many generations removed.”

Rose gaped at the others.
Sir Robert Grierson!
The infamous persecutor of the Covenanters and a Jacobite as well, known to every soul in Galloway and feared by most. Though he’d been dead some sixty years, his reputation stretched far beyond the grave. Was the stunning creature below a great-great-granddaughter, perchance? Or a more distant relation?

“My mother wrote to warn me she was coming,” Sally said, her tone one of cool superiority. When they fussed at her for keeping secrets, Sally explained further. “I received her letter only this morning. Miss Jane Grierson enrolled at Queensberry last term, then was discreetly asked to leave after Yule.”

Rose couldn’t stop herself. “Asked to
leave!
Whatever for?”

Sally’s pale eyebrows arched. “No lady would be interested in such details.” After a dramatic pause, she broke into a fit of laughter, her haughty expression forgotten. Spreading her arms as if to draw them all closer, Sally added in a stage whisper, “She’s eighteen, you ken. Older than any of us and exceedingly more … ah, experienced. Mother hinted that Miss Grierson slipped away on more than one occasion and came back smelling of whisky.”

A collective gasp rose from the group, Rose included. It was hard to say which was more scandalous: traveling the streets of Dumfries unescorted or drinking whisky.

“Does the schoolmistress know all this?” Lizzie asked.

Sally shook her head. “You can be sure she does
not
, or Miss Grierson would ne’er have been admitted. Though as my maid oft says, ‘Silver makes all easy.’ ”

From down the stair came the bang of a door closing and cultured voices in the hall trading pleasantries. Startled from their perch by the window, Rose and the others flew about the room, straightening bedcovers and tidying trunks, their eyes like saucers from sheer anticipation. After a fortnight together, friendships were beginning to emerge, though Rose had yet to find one young lady with whom she might share her heart’s deepest secrets.