Fair Is the Rose (36 page)

“Miss McBride, we will begin shortly.”

Rose bobbed her head at Andrew Sproat, dominie of the parish school and the youngest of the three kirk elders sitting across from her at Reverend Gordon’s long table. Not yet forty, Mr. Sproat had an earnest look about him. His thinning blond hair allowed momentary glimpses of his freckled scalp, and the spectacles perched on his nose magnified every blink of his blue eyes. He looked the sort to be sympathetic.

Reverend Gordon had yet to take his place at the head of the table, though he was a punctual man and would no doubt walk into the room promptly at seven o’ the clock. Perhaps he was conferring with Jamie and Leana, who waited their turn in the hall. Had they considered what she might say? Leana had begged her to be fair, to be merciful. And above all, to be truthful. Aye, but
which
truth would she speak?

The three of them had arrived at the manse earlier than expected. With a fresh wind from the southwest pressing hard against their backs, they’d traveled the road from Auchengray to the village at a sprightly clip, setting the lantern on the chaise swinging. Since Lachlan had refused to allow an early supper, Neda had tucked warm mutton pies into their coat pockets for the journey. Too nervous to eat, Rose and
Leana had given their pies to Jamie, who’d polished them off long before they rode past the snuff mill.

’Twas unbearable, the three of them riding in the chaise—Jamie in the middle, a sister on either side. He’d lavished his attention on Leana, of course. Whispering endearments, assuring her the meeting would end well. When he’d helped Rose alight from the chaise, he’d met her gaze with a kind but distant look in his eyes. “ ’twill be over soon, Rose.”

Aye, ’twill
.

She folded her hands, covering an unattractive spot she’d discovered on her gloves, and took a steadying breath. Aye, she would be more than fair. She would see justice served.

When Reverend Gordon announced the kirk session meeting from the pulpit Sunday last, he’d requested no more than a quorum be in attendance. Three men. The auld clerk’s bungling did not speak well of parish business, she guessed; the fewer who learned of the oversight, the better for all involved.

A useless precaution. The entire parish would soon know the truth.

Like Andrew Sproat, the other two elders busy shuffling their papers were men of good repute, respected in the neighborhood, able to resist strong drink and weak women. Henry Murdoch was a prosperous merchant, a legitimate importer of goods, not a free trader evading the Crown’s excisemen. Short in stature, with the keen eye and jaded nature of a businessman, Mr. Murdoch sported thick gray hair that sprang from his head like coils. He would bear the most watching, for his mind was as sharp as his tongue.

She regarded the man next to him with misgivings. Jock Bell was a close neighbor and associate of her father’s, yet he knew Jamie as well. Each September, the bonnet laird of Tannocks Farm sold Lachlan tups for breeding Auchengray’s ewes. An affable man in rumpled clothing that belied his true wealth, Mr. Bell was seldom seen without his plaid bonnet and blackthorn walking stick. No doubt Jock would favor Jamie’s account of the wedding, though she would smile at him nonetheless.

At the far end of the table sat the new session clerk, his record book open, his pen poised and waiting. This was not dotty George Cummack,
come back from the grave to err again, but Walter Millar, the kirk elder newly appointed to the clerk’s position in late January. A thin, nervous man, whose head and hands seemed too large for his body, he sat silent and alert, as if at any moment something might require his careful notation.

Reverend Gordon appeared and took his seat, his back to the roaring hearth. Not many folk used wood for fuel in Galloway, scarce as it was, but one of the parishioners supplied the manse with cut, dried pine. Rose loved the smell—clean with a sharp tang, not musty like peat. The wood cracked and snapped as it burned, sending an occasional spark onto the flagstone floor, where it cooled in an instant. Like Jamie’s love for her, burning hot one minute, turning cold the next. All because of a wee babe. Born across the hall in this very house.

Rose touched a hand to her heart and felt the stone amulet beneath her linen gown, comforted by its solid, unseen presence. Though it made Rose uneasy to think of depending on such a woman’s counsel, all that Lillias had promised seemed to be coming true. ’Twas clear she knew how to draw a husband near. Perhaps her cantrips would also heal a barren womb.

“We are ready to proceed,” the minister announced, opening the Buik with his usual ceremony, his hand sketching an arc through the air. “A reading from Paul’s letter to the church at Ephesus. Herein is the purpose of a gathering like ours this evening: ‘that we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive.’ ” He pinned his gaze on the five present, not moving from one face to the next until he seemed convinced each person understood the words and their portent.

Sleight. Cunning. Craftiness. Deceit
.

Her father was not in the room, or the minister would have good cause for concern. Rose did not need swickerie. She only needed the chance to tell the truth.

The minister’s attention returned to the page, and his deep voice filled the room. “But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him
in all things, which is the head, even Christ.” He closed the book with a mighty clap. “Aye, there is our directive.”

Speak the truth in love
. Leana had said those same words for a fortnight, urging all three of them to be in agreement, to put their love for one another and for God above all. Lachlan McBride had given them a different assignment altogether:
Speak the truth according to my wishes
. If her father were here—and Rose was grateful he was not—she would have a message for him as well:
I will do nae such thing
.

“Miss McBride.”

Reverend Gordon’s commanding voice made her sit up straighter and aim her gaze across the table to the three elders and the clerk, who sat, hands folded, prepared to listen and judge. “Aye, sir. I am ready to give testimony to the events of 31 December 1788.”

“Understand, lass,” Henry Murdoch cautioned, “you may be asked to comment on events that happened prior to that date.”

She nodded, more than willing to answer their questions. The farther back their examination stretched, the stronger her claim on Jamie would appear. “Am I to stand?”

The men looked at each other, then shook their heads. “ ’Tis not necessary,” the minister said. “This meeting is merely a formality to amend the kirk session records.” He rested his elbows on the table, making a tent with his hands, a pose her father often struck. “Now then, your cousin James McKie first appeared in Newabbey parish in …”—he checked his notes—“October 1788. When and where did you strike an agreement to marry Mr. McKie?”

“Martinmas, the following month. He made his request to my father at the Globe Inn in Dumfries that afternoon in my presence. That evening at Auchengray Jamie and I made our formal pledge of betrothal with the entire household serving as witnesses.”

Andrew Sproat studied her through his spectacles. “Did you wet your thumbs and join them, as is custom?”

“We did, sir.”

The session clerk’s pen scratched across the page of his leather-bound book.

“And were you also present to hear the banns read in Newabbey parish kirk on three consecutive Sabbaths?”

“Aye. My name was the one read. Rose McBride. And James McKie.” It felt wonderful to say it aloud. To be reminded, in her own voice, that Jamie was meant to be hers. From the beginning. What she was doing was fair. And right. And most assuredly true. Wasn’t that what Leana wanted?

Jock Bell leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, lass, when did you plan to be married?”

“Hogmanay.”

“And did you have a gown fitted for this occasion?”

Rose smiled, remembering the first time she’d slipped the rose-colored gown over her shoulders. “Aye, my gown was made by Joseph Armstrong, a tailor from the village.”

Reverend Gordon turned to Henry Murdoch. “I believe you’ve already spoken with Mr. Armstrong.”

Her hands grew cool inside her gloves. Though it was customary for the elders to gather information round the parish, the thought of them knocking on doors, inquiring after her own actions, unnerved her. Naught slipped past their watchful eyes. A fisherman mending his nets on the Sabbath or a lad who did not properly respect his father soon found himself before the kirk session, where he might be reprimanded, fined, or locked in the
jougs
at the kirk door, an iron collar tethering him to the outside wall, exposing him to the ridicule of his neighbors. She hoped they’d not unearthed some impropriety on her part, for she was the innocent one. Hadn’t her father said so?

Mr. Murdoch nodded curtly. “Mr. Armstrong remembered the bridal gown and both sisters. He was certain ’Twas the younger sister—‘the dark-haired one,’ he said—who was to be the bride. Said she took leave of the fitting to deliver wedding invitations with Mr. McKie.”

“Is that how it was, Miss McBride?”

“Aye. Jamie and I delivered the invitations. Together.”

Rose eyed the empty chair next to hers, imagining Jamie sitting there glowering at her. Furious. Her brave front began to slip.
Please, Jamie. You ken ’Tis true
.

“So then,” the minister said. “You traveled to Twyneholm parish one week before your wedding to stay with your aunt, Miss Margaret Halliday, a woman of good standing. A matter of tradition, aye? The bride flits for seven days, then returns for the wedding itself.”

“Aye, ’tis.”

“But you did not return.”

“Nae.” She looked away, pierced afresh with a keen sense of loss. How innocent she’d been! Naive. Trusting. It had never occurred to her, not for a moment, that her delay would cost her Jamie … that Leana … that her own father …

Jock Bell nudged her with his words. “Miss McBride, why did you not come home as planned?”

Rose brushed a loose tendril of hair from her damp forehead, delaying the inevitable if only for a moment. “The morning of my wedding we awoke to a terrible snowstorm. Newabbey was not affected, but the roads were not fit for carriage nor horse in Twyneholm.”

The dominie tapped his notes. “I can write Reverend Dr. John Scott in Twyneholm parish to verify that point, if necessary.”

Reverend Gordon held up his palm in response, his gaze fixed on Rose. “What was your expectation? That your family would go on with your wedding with a proxy bride? Or that your cousin would in fact marry your sister with your blessing?”

Touching the round stone beneath her dress, as if it might give her courage, she spoke the truth. “Neither, sir. I thought my family would wait until I was safely home and then we’d proceed as planned. I did not even know what a proxy bride was before my sister described it to me.”

The minister’s features stilled. “On what day did she so describe it?”

“New Year’s Day 1789. I arrived at Auchengray at the dinner hour and discovered the wedding had already taken place.”

A low murmuring moved through the room as the men conferred with one another, clearly agitated. Their voices grew more strident, their faces more grim. Finally Henry Murdoch raised his hand, and the men turned to her as one. “The crux of the matter is this: When you arrived at Auchengray, Miss McBride, were you surprised to find James and Leana were husband and wife?”

“More than surprised, sir.” Rose bowed her head. “I was shocked.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Forgive me, Leana. But I was, and you ken it well
. Would they prod and query until she unveiled the rest? How Leana climbed into Jamie’s bed and pretended to be her? How Leana stole her husband?

Reverend Gordon interrupted her thoughts with an entirely different question, one she’d hoped to avoid. “But, Rose, did you not in fact encourage your sister to marry James McKie?”

“Aye,” Jock Bell chimed in. “I’ve had several witnesses round the parish testify to that fact.”

Be fair, Rose
. “When he first arrived, I did suggest he court my sister. She was most enamored of him, and …”

Henry Murdoch cut her short. “You were not in love with him at that point.”

“I was not. Not at first.”

“
When
then?” he persisted. “When did you decide you loved him?”

The truth, Rose. You promised the truth
. “Not until after I left for Twyneholm.”

The merchant’s gray head tipped back as he rubbed his chin. “So when you left the parish, betrothed to be married, Mr. McKie was still not certain of your affections.”

“Nae,” she admitted, “but he was certain of my intentions.”
Wasn’t he?
She glanced at the empty chair again. “I wished to marry him.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The dominie’s thin brows rose high above his spectacles. “Why did Mr. McKie marry your sister?”

“Because he … because she …”
Tell them. Tell them about Leana
.

Rose tried, but the words would not come.

Instead she saw her sister’s face filled with love for her every day of her life. Her sister’s hands attending her sickbed. Her sister’s voice singing to her.
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing
. Her sister’s words comforting her.
I love you like my own child, Rose
.

She collapsed onto the table and buried her face in her hands.

The elders did not wait long before Henry Murdoch insisted on an answer. “Forgive me, miss, but we must know the truth: Was Leana McBride the woman James McKie meant to marry on 31 December?”

Rose lifted her head, her gloves wet with tears. “ ’Tis a question I cannot answer. You must ask Mr. McKie.”

The minister stood, shoving his chair behind him. “So we shall, Miss McBride. You can be verra sure of that.”

Forty-One

Come, now again, thy woes impart,
Tell all thy sorrows, all thy sin.