Fair Is the Rose (20 page)

Footsteps on the stair heralded the arrival of Jane’s trunk. Two footmen in pristine liveries paused in the doorway, bearing between them a finely tooled leather chest. “Place it there, if you would.” Rose indicated the abandoned bed next to hers. She suddenly wished the sheets were whiter, the linens less coarse, and the sconces more abundant.

After the footmen bowed and disappeared into the hall, the girls could do nothing but wait until they were invited down the stair. Having already made the stark room as neat as possible, they saw to their own appearances, pressing their gowns smooth with damp palms and playing lady’s maid for one another with comb and brush.

“ ’Tis foolishness to carry on so,” Sally said, fretting over a knot in her hair ribbon. “She is a girl from a good family. All of us may lay claim to that.”

“But none of us has so lofty a name as Grierson.” Lizzie, attempting to add some roses to her cheeks, pinched them hard enough to make her wince. “Nor do we have sufficient silver to buy so magnificent a gown.”

Rose kept her thoughts to herself. Wasn’t
McKie
a worthy name and Glentrool a vast estate with silver aplenty for velvet and satin?
McKie
would not be
her
name though. That chance had come and gone.

Etta Carlyle’s imposing form appeared in the doorway, her tailored gown the color of ink, like a mourning dress. Only the pearl buttons marching down the bodice relieved her somber appearance. “Ladies, Miss Jane Grierson awaits your acquaintance at table. We will have an early dinner, then proceed with our French lessons. I’ve no need to tell you of her family’s standing in our community. You will, of course,
offer her a most gracious welcome.” She waved them down the winding stair, closing the door behind them. The air filled with the rustle of their skirts, the soft footfalls of their padded slippers, the gentle hum of their voices as they glided into the dining room.

Jane Grierson stood by her place at table, her rich brown hair piled on the crown of her head in a magnificent mass of twists and curls, her elaborate gown a splash of red in a room devoid of color. But it was her eyes that caught Rose’s attention. As dark as her own and every bit as lively, Jane’s eyes sparkled with mischief, challenging anyone who might think to change her ways to think again. When a brilliant smile bloomed on her face, the effect was complete.

Rose adored her at once and without reservation. Here was the friend she had longed to meet, the woman whose soul matched her own. Vibrantly alive. Eager to experience all the world had to offer.

When Rose smiled back at her, Jane laughed, a low and throaty sound that belonged to a woman, not a girl of eighteen. “Come and sit beside me, dark-eyed lass. ’Tis plain we’re to become fast friends within the hour.”

The others took their places, shifting to make room for Rose, whose assigned chair stood elsewhere. Not a soul cocked an eyebrow, not even Mistress Carlyle. How strange that Jane Grierson had singled her out! And how grand. After a lengthy blessing, seats were taken and dishes served in proper silence. All through dinner Rose and Jane exchanged glances, both suppressing the urge to laugh aloud. Truly they were cut from the same cloth. When the marmalade pudding was cleared away and conversation invited, the two young ladies burst into words, as if struck by lightning.

“Your name,” Jane demanded, “for I know you’ve been told mine.”

“Rose McBride of Auchengray,” she said as proudly as she could. “My father is a bonnet laird, with four hundred sheep scattered across the hills of Newabbey.”

Jane grinned. “Well done, Rose McBride. One must make the most of one’s family.” Jane eyed her rose-hued gown, then leaned forward and said in a conspirator’s voice, “I see you fancy bold colors and superior
fabrics. We’re nigh to the same size. Borrow anything of mine that catches your eye. My mother plans to send me a fresh trunk of gowns every fortnight.”

“A fresh trunk …” Rose could not keep her jaw from dropping, then snapped it shut. “You are too generous, Miss Grierson.”

“Call me Jane or nothing at all, for I shall call you Rose. Aye?”

Rose glanced over her shoulder at the schoolmistress seated at the far end of the table. “Be warned, there are words that Mistress Carlyle will not permit us to use.
Hoot
is one of them. And
aye
and
lass
and
laddie
and
meikle—
”

“
Losh!
” Jane muttered.

Rose cringed. “That one especially.”

“Then we must be very sure Etta the Grim does not hear us.” Jane pressed her napkin to her mouth to hide her broad smile, then tucked the linen beside her plate. “Do you know why I’ve been banished to Carlyle School when Queensberry is more suited to my station?”

Rose narrowed her eyes playfully. “I can guess.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, you can be sure I was guilty of it.”

“And proud of it as well,” Rose teased her, amazed to find herself so at ease and so bold in her speech. What a spell this young woman cast to engage another’s trust in an instant! Rose looked about the room, not surprised to find every head turned in their direction. ’Twas difficult to read their faces. Curiosity? Envy? Or concern? Much as she was honored to have caught Jane’s eye, Rose wondered how it might affect her growing friendships with the other girls. Jane trusted her, it seemed. Could she trust Jane?

Rose asked in her most sincere voice, “Will you not admit what brings you to Carlyle? If we’re to be good friends, Jane, I must know more about you.” She lowered her eyes and then her voice, praying no one would overhear. “ ’Tis only fair, for I have a scandalous story to share with you as well.”

The corners of Jane’s mouth twitched in amusement. “You must tell me every detail some evening when we can gossip to our hearts’ content. Just as I shall make my confession to you in a quiet hour of the night.”

Jane rose to her feet at the schoolmistress’s command, with Rose and the others hastening to follow suit. “
Parlons français?
”

“Oui,” Rose agreed, smiling. “Though it appears you already speak the language.”

Rose soon discovered that a mastery of French was only one of Jane’s countless accomplishments. The young lady was equally adept at geography, attributing her knowledge to many hours spent hiding under the eaves with her father’s
Geographiae Scotiae
. She brushed off any praise of her mathematical skills, saying she’d stolen her older brother’s school-books. Her grasp of history was blamed on eavesdropping whenever foreign visitors knocked on her father’s door. Jane could expound at length on the revolution under way in France and oft quoted the more ribald poetry of Robert Burns, pretending not to notice Etta Carlyle’s stern expression.

“The verse of Mr. Alexander Pope is better suited for a lady’s delicate ears,” the schoolmistress said. “Certainly more appropriate than the scribbled lines of a poor ploughman.”

Jane came to his defense at once. “But Mr. Burns is my neighbor in Dunscore parish and well regarded in the literary circles of Edinburgh.” Her eyes twinkled. “Furthermore, Reverend Kirkpatrick welcomes the Burns family to services on the Sabbath. A more worthy poet cannot be found in all of Dumfriesshire.” She sighed expansively. “Still, if ’Tis Mr. Pope’s writing you prefer, you shall have it.” Jane drew herself up, clasping her hands at her waist. A slight smile played about her lips as she began her recitation.

See sin in state, majestically drunk,
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride—

“Miss Grierson, that is quite enough!” Etta Carlyle clapped her book shut with a noisy thump. None in the classroom dared laugh aloud and so hid their smiles behind their hands, while the schoolmistress continued
her lecture, extolling the virtues of Oliver Goldsmith and William Cowper, without further reference to the works of Mr. Pope. Or Mr. Burns.

Rose could not bring herself to look at Jane, knowing her composure would unravel. No other woman of her acquaintance—not Susanne Elliot, not Jessie Newall, and certainly not Leana—had so keen a sense of humor or so fearless a manner of displaying it. Were Jane’s family not of such high station and her father’s wealth not so substantial, she would be turned out on the street by good society. Instead Jane’s antics were tolerated, even celebrated in some circles. Though not by Etta the Grim, of course.

Each evening when the last candles were snuffed out and the curtained sleeping room lit by the hearth alone, Jane’s husky voice would reach out to Rose, teasing her with details of her many daring escapades. Stories of rides on horseback at midnight and whisky drained from a gentleman’s decanter. Tales of afternoon picnics with
bacheleers
and carriage rides to Glasgow without benefit of a proper chaperon. Queensberry, Rose discovered, was the last of three establishments that had opened its doors to Jane, only to close them behind her a few weeks or months later.

“Carlyle is your
fourth
school?” Rose asked in amazement.

“Since January last.” Jane laughed softly. “Perhaps it’s best we not discuss what happened in 1788.”

“You’ve already told me more than I can fathom.” In the darkness Rose could barely discern Jane’s form, huddled under a thin blanket. That morning Mistress Grierson had delivered a luxurious goose-down blanket for her daughter; Jane refused to use it if it meant the rest of the girls shivered through the night.

Jane yawned. “They say turnabout is fair play, Rose. You hinted at some scandal. What have you done in your young life that might curl my toes?”

“ ’Tis not what
I
have done but what my family has done that’s scandalous.” Rose propped herself up on one elbow, peering about the room to see if others were listening. Except for slow, steady breathing, not a sound could be heard nor a raised head seen. “My cousin, James
McKie of Glentrool, came to Auchengray, fell in love with me, and asked me to marry him.”

“Rose, that is not scandalous. Cousins often marry.”

“Aye. But as you see, I am not married. The day of my wedding I was stranded in Twyneholm in a snowstorm. My father proceeded with the wedding, insisting my sister, Leana, serve as the proxy bride.”

Jane sat up at once. “A
proxy!
In this day and age? Losh, what foolishness. What sort of sister would agree to that?”

“The sort who wanted Jamie for herself.” Rose dropped her voice to the faintest whisper. “Leana not only wedded him; she bedded him.”

Jane gasped. “Then he must have loved her as well. Och, poor Rose!”

“Nae, he did not love her! He thought I was the one in his bed.”

“He thought
what?
” Swinging her feet over the side of the low bed, Jane bent over until their faces were a handbreadth apart. “Rose, do you mean what you are telling me? That your sister stole the man you love and claimed him as her own, pretending to be you?”

“Aye. He confessed he’d had too much ale and whisky at the bridal. ’Twas long past midnight when Leana sneaked into his room, knowing very well Jamie was expecting me to arrive any minute.” Rose sniffed, teary all over again. “There’s naught to be done, Jane.”

“
Wheesht!
There is always something that can be done to remedy so unjust a situation.” Jane slid back under her covers. “Though the hour is too late for such considerations, know that the wheels of my mind will be spinning, young Rose. Your sister will not have the last word on this. Mr. McKie was meant to be yours, and so he shall be, or my name is not Grierson.”

Twenty-Two

Trust him not with your secrets,
who, when left alone in your room,
turns over your papers.

J
OHANN
K
ASPAR
L
AVATER

J
amie captured Lachlan’s elbow the moment they both dismounted, prepared to be rebuffed. “A word with you if I may, Uncle.”

“A word?” Lachlan McBride stared at him in disgust. “We’ve been riding for nigh to an hour, Nephew, enjoying a spell of dry weather and a freshening wind. Why wait until now to mention this ‘word’ of yours?”

Jamie deliberately showed the man his back, hitching Walloch to a wooden post near the mains while he bridled his own temper. The man had blethered the entire journey without giving Jamie a chance to ask the time of day, let alone an important question. He’d dreaded this outing for more than a week; the last hour had reminded him why. When Jamie turned round, Lachlan’s scowl was waiting for him. “Uncle, I want to be verra sure I understand the purpose of this visit to Edingham.”

“Och! I’ve already told you. We’re here to walk the boundaries of Mistress Douglas’s farm, see the lay of it, assess the steading and the mains, and determine what value might be assigned to the property.”

Jamie wrinkled his brow. “If ’Tis rent income you’re trying to establish, shouldn’t that be the heritor’s responsibility?”

“Ye’ve missed the point.” Lachlan smiled, a grim line carved across his sharp-edged features. “She
is
the landowner. Edingham belongs to her alone.”

Confused, Jamie stared at him. “Then why would she not consult—”

“Wheesht!” Lachlan’s eyes cut him like a dirk. “The Widow Douglas consulted
me
. ’Tis my opinion she values.”

“All fine and good, Uncle. But why am I here?”

Lachlan’s jaw jutted out. “Because you are my nephew, my son-in-law, and the father of my only male heir.” He inched nearer. “Because ’tis imperative to me that our neighbors in Galloway make your acquaintance and extend to you their trust.” When he stepped closer still, his sour breath preceded him. “Because I thought you might prove useful today. Concerning her sons in particular.”

The man’s words were naught but heated air on a cold January morning; he’d revealed nothing new. Jamie dared not shrug, but he made certain his tone of voice did. “Very well, Uncle. I am at your service.” Weary of squirming beneath the blade point of Lachlan’s gaze, Jamie surveyed the mains of Edingham and its farm steading. Granite and slate formed the gable-roofed house with its dressed windows and corniced entrance. The steading was nearly the size of Auchengray’s, but the square plan of the stables and byres presented a tidier appearance, a fact he could hardly pretend not to notice. “Mistress Douglas has a well-tended property.”