Fair Is the Rose (43 page)

Jamie held his breath as she stepped onto the lower stool, for ’Twas not a graceful thing to mount and likely to tip over unless she had a steady hand to help her and a ferlie sense of balance. It seemed she had both. In a moment Leana was seated more than one Scots
ell
above the flagstone floor, her sackcloth modestly tucked about her. She tipped her head toward Reverend Gordon in obeisance, then sat with her hands folded before her, as befitted a gentlewoman.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved
.

At the sight of his mother, Ian squirmed in Jamie’s arms. “Easy now, lad,” Jamie said softly, pulling the child close. “See how still your mother sits? We must do the same.” The congregation seemed to sense her mood as well, for they soon fell silent.

The beadle turned the sandglass, marking the start of the minister’s sermon. Leana would be forced to sit through the hour-long discourse, awaiting the rebuke to come at the close of the service. Sermons were to be delivered without notes, yet Reverend Gordon glanced at his papers more than once, his sonorous voice pounding away at his parishioners like a velvet hammer. Jamie paid him little mind. Instead his gaze focused on Leana, who did not flinch at the minister’s verbal blows, nor did she blush when the message appeared to be directed toward her. That would come soon enough.

The sand in the glass seemed to stop as the hour dragged on. Stomachs growled and children grew fidgety. When Ian drifted off to sleep, Jamie passed the child to Neda, then resumed his vigil. Watching his wife. Loving her from a distance. Suffering with her. Wishing he might take her place.

At last the upper half of the sandglass stood empty, and the minister
brought his sermon to an end. “And now ’Tis my responsibility to call your attention to Leana McBride, who sits before you.”

Jamie grimaced. Not a soul present had paid attention to anything else.

“Miss McBride begins her course of repentance this Sabbath day and will compear before this assembly again on the fourteenth and twenty-first of March. As she is charged with hochmagandy, so shall this morning’s rebuke address her heinous sin, duly described in the book of Proverbs.”

Jamie cringed as the first line was delivered.

“ ‘Such is the way of an adulterous woman; she eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done no wickedness.’ Yet is that not what we have seated before us? A wicked temptress, who has supped at our tables and wiped her mouth on our linens and walked among us as a
gracie
woman? And all the while she was engaging in deceit, pretending to be a wife when she was in fact a harlot.”

Nae!

The congregation fell back against their pews. Jamie’s skin grew hot. How dare the minister demean Leana so! Aye, the word appeared in the Buik, but ’Twas rare to hear it used so harshly from the pulpit. No doubt the reverend was determined to make an example of Leana. But had the man no mercy?

“And what is it that disquiets the earth?” the reverend continued, not waiting for a response. “The Buik tells us ’tis ‘an odious woman when she is married.’ And I tell you,
this
odious woman is far from married, though she fooled us all, including her sister’s husband.”

Nae!
Jamie ground his teeth, wanting to argue, wanting to shout back at the man.
She did not fool me. She loved me
.

“A virtuous woman,” the minister intoned, “is a crown to her husband: but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones.” Reverend Gordon swung about to face him. Though the man did not point an accusing finger, Jamie nonetheless felt it poking into his chest. “I see no crown upon your head, Mr. McKie. You are no prince of Scotland, nor is your son heir to a throne. For Ian was conceived in sin and born of a harlot—”

“That’s enough!” Jamie bolted to his feet. “I’ll not hear my son’s name sullied, for he is innocent.”
And so is his mother
.

“We are none of us innocent, Mr. McKie. ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ Your own bones are rotten, sir, spared only by the mercy of Almighty God and this kirk session.” He leaned forward, his thick eyebrows drawn into a terrible knot. “Are you not grateful, sir? At month’s end will you not claim your proper wife, the chaste and fair Rose McKie?”

Jamie gripped the back of the wooden pew before him, shaking with anger and frustration, biting back the words he longed to say.
I am not grateful. I do not wish to claim her
.

“Speak, man! For it is clear something gnaws at you.” He gestured toward Leana, who sat in silence, her face as white as her gown. “Is it this woman’s swickerie? Is that what you wish to decry? Would you rebuke Leana now, as is proper?”

Jamie looked up, higher than the minister’s lofty pulpit.
Gird me with strength unto the battle
. He matched his voice to the reverend’s, that all might hear. “I will not rebuke her.”

“Then you do not love her,” the minister declared, “for the Buik says, ‘As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.’ ”

“
Nae!
” Jamie shouted, pointing at the cutty stool. “
That
, sir, is not love.” He vaulted over the empty pew in front of him and advanced toward the pulpit as though a mighty army followed in his wake. “Tell me, Reverend. Is this how you love your flock? By degrading them? Humiliating them?”

The minister held up his hands like a shield. “That is far enough, Mr. McKie.”

Jamie stopped at the foot of the stool and reached up to clasp Leana’s hand. “Rebuke her sin if you must, but do not debase the woman I love. For I do love her. Let there be nae misunderstanding on that point. Read all the marriage banns you wish. ’Tis Leana McBride whom I love and nae other.”

Forty-Eight

Sooner or later the most rebellious
must bow beneath the same yoke.

M
ADAME DE
S
TAEL

R
ose slumped back against the pew.
Oh, Jamie
. He would never say so scandalous a thing standing before the pulpit unless ’twere true. No one marked her suffering, so absorbed were they with the drama at hand, not even bothering to lower their voices as they commented to one another. Reverend Gordon stretched out his hands and bade the congregation be quiet. Though his features remained stern, his voice no longer thundered. “In this one instance, Mr. McKie, I will overlook your zealous behavior. No matter the extent of your regard for Leana McBride, your cousin’s sin demands a sound rebuke. It is the duty of this parish to hold her accountable.”

Jamie’s words carried above the din. “And it is my duty to love her, sir.”

And nae other. Not even me
. Rose cringed, watching the two of them gaze at each other as if no one else were in the sanctuary. Jamie was
hers
, was he not? Even the kirk said so. But his eyes did not say so. Nor his words. Nor his hand, gripping her sister’s.

“Reclaim your pew now, Mr. McKie. ’Tis time Miss McBride made her confession, with proper humility, upon her knees.”

Rose straightened with a jolt, until she remembered it was
Leana
who was Miss McBride now, not her.
Thanks be to God
. She could hardly do what Leana was about to do.

Her sister eased down from the high stool, then turned and knelt on the lower one, bowing her head for so long that the congregation fell silent. Rose craned her neck to see. Was Leana weeping? Praying? Begging for mercy?

At last Leana lifted her head and addressed Reverend Gordon in a
clear, unwavering voice. “I am guilty of the sin you have named. Though ’Twas not my intent to break the seventh commandment, ’Twas indeed the result.” With each phrase, her face grew more radiant, as though a cloud had moved aside to reveal the sun. “I blame no one but myself. All are innocent except me.”

Oh, my sister
. How could she be so brave?

When Leana looked at her, Rose turned away, chastened. ’Twas innocence she saw in her sister’s eyes. And guilt she felt in her own heart. Had her sister wronged her? Or had she wronged her sister? Envy and mercy fought for the upper hand until Reverend Gordon’s strong words demanded an answer.

“Are you truly sorry, Miss McBride?”

The question pierced her through like the sharpest of knives.
Are you sorry, Rose?
In the privacy of her pew she bowed her head. “Aye,” Rose whispered. “And nae,” for that was the truth as well.
Forgive me
.

Leana’s response floated across the hushed assembly. “I am more sorry than I could possibly say. I have hurt my family and sinned against the Almighty.”

“And do you repent? That is, before so great a cloud of witnesses, do you pledge to sin no more?”

“Before God and this assembly, I repent with all my heart.” Leana rose from her knees but only for a moment. Turning toward the congregation, she lowered herself onto the stone floor. Her knees touched, then her shoulders, until she lay prostrate before them, her cheek pressed against the cold flagstone, her arms outstretched. Below the blond coil of her braids, her stiff linen gown fanned about her like wings.

Her voice was soft, yet certain; strained, but not broken. “For the L
ORD
is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.”

Silence reigned from floor to loft. Women pressed their fingers to their lips. Men slipped off their hats. Even the bairns sat still, eyes wide with awe.

Rose was in agony. Leana’s sins were confessed and forgiven; hers were neither. Her sister was washed clean, while she sat in the filth of her selfish desires, afraid to pray, wishing the flagstone floor beneath her
pew would yawn and swallow her whole. Reverend Gordon’s prayer, then a psalm, then his benediction were yet to follow. The kirk door, locked at the start of the sermon, would not be unlocked until the minister’s final “So be it.” Could she wait that long? Could she endure it?

As the assembly sang from the book of
Paraphrases
, Rose could barely make out the words swimming before her on the page.

Lord, we confess our num’rous Faults,

how great our Guilt has been!

Foolish and vain were all our Thoughts

and all our Lives were Sin.

’Twas true, every word of it.
Faults. Guilt. Foolish. Sin
. She had sung the words before. Why had they never affected her so?

Rose fled from the kirk the moment the beadle fitted the key into the lock, almost knocking him down in her haste to escape. She would walk home. Nae, she would
run
.

Out of breath by the time she reached the mill, Rose slowed her steps across the bridge, brushing hot tears from her cheeks. No one had spoken a word to her all morning. Not one. Reverend Gordon had called her “fair,” yet ’twas her fair-haired sister who’d won their sympathy, just as Jessie Newall had warned her might happen.

Several neighbors passed by on foot or on horseback, traveling home for a brief Sabbath meal before returning to the kirk for the second service. They were polite but not friendly, tipping their hats rather than speaking to her. Discouraged by their cold greetings, Rose plunged into the piney forest near Barlae. Undoing her sash, she kilted her full skirts out of harm’s way and ventured deeper into the woods, plunging her shoes into the thick carpet of dry, brown needles and leafy bracken. Without the sun’s warmth, the air grew cool. She would follow the burn, circle round behind their neighbor’s property, and approach Auchengray from the hill. Let the rest of the household remain for another sermon; her heart could bear no more.

The pines began to thin as she skirted along the base of Barlae Hill, careful to keep her shoes and skirt hem from dipping into the burn that pointed toward home. Far on the other side of the hill another stream
ran parallel with this one. How long had it been since she’d risked life and limb to pick hazelnuts there?

“ ’Tis four months and counting since ye visited March Burn.”

Startled out of her wits, Rose spun round. “Lillias,” she breathed, seeing the wutch emerge from a copse of wild crab apple trees. “Whatever are you doing abroad on the Sabbath?”

The wise woman laughed, tossing back her head, putting her mouthful of crooked teeth on display. “ ’Tis me favorite day tae roam the land. A’ the halie fowk are in the kirk, and I’ve the parish tae meself.” She peered at the ribbon round Rose’s neck. “I see ye’re wearin’ the necklace I gie ye.”

Rose touched the stone, well hidden beneath her bodice. She was ashamed to wear it, yet desperate for a babe the moment Jamie was truly her husband.

“Have ye worn it every day syne ye came tae Nethermuir?”

“Aye,” Rose lied, forcing herself not to look away. “Dr. Gilchrist told me—”

“Bah!” The old woman swatted at the air. “Me magic is stronger than his.”

“Your spells are powerful, Lillias,” Rose agreed. Though the woman made her ill at ease, the wutch’s skills were undeniable. Jamie was almost hers, wasn’t he? “If there is something else I might do …”

Lillias Brown rubbed her wizened mouth, drawn tight as a leather pouch. “There be mony things,” she said at last. “ ’Tis cleckin’ a bairn on yer
waddin
nicht ye’re wantin’, aye? The moon will be nigh tae fu’, though not quite. Ye had a fu’ moon the nicht of yer meetin’ at the manse, and ye see how weel that turned oot.”

Rose could barely swallow, so dry was her mouth. How did Lillias know these things? “On my … my wedding night,” she stammered. “What must I do to be sure … that is, to …”

“Have ye a green goun tae wear for yer vows?”

Rose nodded, relieved. Her prettiest dress and a favorite of Jamie’s.

“See yer cook serves ye hare soup the nicht ye join wi’ yer husband.”

Hare soup?
Rose wrinkled her nose. “Neda can certainly prepare it, but—”

“Guid. Ye’ll remember I draped ivy round yer neck. Cut some fresh vines that morn and style them in a bowl nigh yer bed.”