Fair Is the Rose (46 page)

Neda saw the family settled, fresh pies in hand, then attended to the servants who’d found a patch of new grass to sit upon. Leana had her hands full, spooning cold porridge into Ian’s mouth, while Rose arranged her skirts and nibbled at her pie briefly before putting it aside and clearing her throat.

“Since we’re all here, might we discuss the twenty-seventh?” When she received naught but blank looks, Rose was crestfallen. “ ’Tis my … my wedding day.”

And mine
. Jamie put aside his pigeon pie as well, for his appetite had vanished.

“Father has asked that we have no bridal party afterward.” She bent
her head toward Lachlan without looking at him. “Too costly. Nor will we invite guests to the kirk.”

“The
kirk?
” This was the first time Jamie had heard that detail. “Can we not repeat the vows at Auchengray? ’twill require but a few minutes with the minister.”

Her plaintive reply took him aback. “Please, Jamie? It would mean so much to me.”

When Leana nodded slightly, he knew he could not fight them both. “Aye, if you wish.”

“We only need two witnesses,” Rose added, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “Reverend Gordon said they should be family members. Father, of course, will be one. And the other … if you will, Leana …”

“
What?
” Disgusted, Jamie stood to pace the ground rather than look at his future wife. “You cannot ask your sister to serve as a witness for … for …”

“Jamie,” Leana interrupted, “I can manage.”

“ ’Twas not my suggestion,” Rose explained, splaying her hands. “Ask the minister, if you like.”

Jamie stopped in front of her. “You can be verra sure I will.”

The notion nagged at him all through the second service: Leana suffering yet another humiliation.
Because of me
. Since she was not required to mount the stool in the afternoon, she sat at the end of the pew, quietly tending Ian. However did Leana remain so calm? When Rose asked her sister to serve as witness, Leana had not even blinked.

Jamie folded his arms across his chest, determined to be angry on Leana’s behalf. What sort of sister would ask such a thing?
A heartless one. A spiteful one. A jealous one
.

Yet even as those words rang inside his head, certain truths about Rose demanded his attention as well. Rose was not yet seventeen, a full five years younger than Leana. She’d missed having a mother and had a
scoonrel
for a father. Her only sister had claimed the husband meant to be hers. Rose had also lost two dear friends: Susanne from Rose’s own foolishness and Jane from an untimely death. And hadn’t Rose been seriously ill herself for a long winter’s month?

’Tis not the worst of it, man
. Rose had waited more than a year to be his wife, convinced that he still might love her.
And whose fault is that?

Walking home from services, Jamie fell well behind Lachlan and Rose, who were chatting amiably about the fine weather and the lambing to come. How the girl did favor his mother, Rowena! The same dark hair and eyes, the same trim waist.
Aye, and the same heidie nature
. In a fortnight Rose would be his wife. In a twelvemonth he would understand more fully the life his father led, married to a headstrong lass.

Until then his heart, if naught else, belonged to Leana. It grieved him that he couldn’t walk side by side with her, lest a passing neighbor jalouse they were still behaving as husband and wife.
I would if I could
. That was what he’d said to her on their wedding night, standing on the stair outside her bedroom, never imagining what was to come.
I would if I could
.

Might she remember those words and grasp his meaning if he repeated them in her ear? Would they capture all else he longed to say?
I love you still. I want you only. I know ’Tis impossible
.

He drew near to her on the pretense of seeing after Ian’s blanket, which was gradually unwrapping itself from his feet. “Leana,” he said softly and waited until she angled her head toward him. “I would if I could.”

Her smile was tinged with sadness.
She remembers
.

“I would too, Jamie.” She bowed her head. “Even if I should not.”

“We are still married,” he reminded her, trying to convince them both.

“Nae. We were never married.” When she looked up, her eyes glistened with tears. “Nor shall I speak those vows again, for no man would have a woman whose name is so besmirched.”

Jamie clasped his hands behind his back lest he follow his heart’s leading and brush the tears from her cheeks. “Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.” When she only sniffed in response, he searched his mind for something else that might lift her spirits.

“Leana McBride,” he said at last, using his most ministerial voice, “I ken not what passages Reverend Gordon has selected for your final
morning on the repentance stool Sunday next, but I’ve chosen a few verses that suit your … ah, behavior.”

“Aye?” She glanced at him sideways. “Do these verses have the word ‘hochmagandy’ in them?”

“Nae, they do not. Though I do have suitable commentary for each one, just as the reverend does.” He fell in step behind her, for propriety’s sake, then began his impromptu lecture. “Who can find a virtuous woman?”

“Och! Now there’s a fairy tale.” She shook her head, though he heard the smile in her voice. “I am far from virtuous.”

“Beg to differ, lass. When you discovered what a liar and thief I was, you still treated me like a prince.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “And may I remind you, the accused is to listen and not to interrupt.”

“My apologies, sir,” she said demurely.

“ ‘For her price is far above rubies.’ Would that a price could be put on your fair head, Leana, for I would sell all of Glentrool to have you for my own.”

Her sigh was softer than any spring breeze. “Oh, Jamie.”

“Silence, Miss McBride, or I’ll sentence you to another kiss in the nursery.”

Her low voice floated over her shoulder. “Pray, do continue then, for ’Tis a punishment too sweet to bear.”

“ ‘Strength and honour are her clothing.’ Aye, and well dressed you are, Leana.”

She paused to look at him. “I would hardly call sackcloth honorable.”

Jamie placed his hands on Ian’s head and feet and prayed she would feel them resting on her as well. “You are wrong, beloved. Only a very strong woman can stand before her neighbors and confess her sins. Would that I had your strength.”

“You do, Jamie. And you will impart that courage to our son.” She leaned closer as the servants passing them kindly averted their eyes. “I ken the rest of that verse, beloved, but cannot see my way through it: ‘She shall rejoice in time to come.’ When, Jamie? When shall I rejoice?
When I hear you speak your vows to Rose? When I watch her raise our son?” Her eyes filled with fresh tears and her face with sorrow anew. “I love my sister dearly. But to think of her loving you and bearing your children … Oh, Jamie, how shall I ever rejoice over that?”

Fifty-One

I must become a borrower of the night
For a dark hour or twain.

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

’T
was midnight at Auchengray, the first hour of the Sabbath. Rose pulled the covers round her neck and tried to sleep, if only for a short time. She would leave long before daybreak for Saint Queran’s Well. Earlier in the week she’d sought out her old friend Rab Murray, shepherding on the nearby hills, to see if he might direct her to Saint Queran’s, since the herds knew the land better than anyone. In exchange for a pocketful of rich shortbread, the canny lad had divulged the whereabouts of the sacred well.

“ ’Tis naught but a circle o’ stones,” Rab had explained between mouthfuls, “built round a shaft o’ water that o’erflows into Crooks Pow. At the sharp bend in the road at Cargen—afore the bridge, aye?—turn left o’er the moss. A
clootie
tree stands nigh the well, a silver birch wi’ the rags of mony a pilgrim danglin’ from its branches. Ye’ll have nae trouble findin’ the place. Six and a bit miles on horseback by the Newabbey road tae Dumfries, less on foot o’er the hills.” He’d squinted at her then, his curiosity aroused. “Ye’ll not be thinkin’ o’ walkin’ across that wild
kintra-side
in the dark o’ morn come the first o’ May, will ye, Rosie?”

“Nae!” she’d told him, laughing brightly, pretending not to mind being called by her childhood nickname, though she minded very much. “I would ne’er do so unchancie a thing as to visit a well in May.”

Indeed she would not wait until May; she’d go this morning, the first day of spring. And she would not walk; she’d ride Walloch, Jamie’s handsome gelding. If the holy waters of Saint Queran healed a barren woman’s womb, then she would drink them, wash her hands in them,
soak her feet in them, whatsomever was required. Her wedding was six days hence, and she was running out of time.

She awakened while it was still night. The slow-burning taper, marked for each hour, showed the time near four.
Two hours until sunrise
. If she dressed in a twinkling and saddled Walloch without delay, she could be on her way to Saint Queran’s before Neda rose to start the porridge cooking.

Rose donned her oldest gown—the hemline torn by brambles and gorse, the blue drugget faded to gray—and slipped down the stair, holding her breath to listen for a latch to click or a sleepy voice to call out. She reached the hall and opened the front door with exceeding care, then pulled it closed behind her with a measure of relief.
Now to Walloch
.

The first quarter moon had long since set, blanketing the mains in utter darkness. In the farm steading, the seasonal workers grunted in their sleep as she passed their bothies. Walloch heard her approach the stables and neighed in greeting. “Guid lad,” she crooned, smoothing a hand over his sleek hide, calming him. “You’ll not mind my sidesaddle, will you?” Heavy as it was, she managed to hoist the leather saddle on her own, tighten the girth, then use the lowpin-on-stane to mount the spirited gelding. “Steady now, for I’ve no wish for a broken neck.”

Not a candle was seen in a window nor a shout heard at the door as horse and rider took off at a gentle pace. ’Twas not until they were halfway to Newabbey that Rose realized what a mistake she’d made not leaving a note at the stables. Annabel would not come looking for her until eight o’ the clock; she’d be safely home by then. But Willie would rise to feed Walloch long before that and think the horse stolen. “Only borrowed,” she whispered into the dank, chilly air, running a gloved hand down Walloch’s neck. “I’ll have you back for your morning oats soon enough. Won’t I, lad?”

The two fell into a comfortable trot and soon turned north toward Dumfries rather than crossing the bridge into the village. A thick forest of Scots pines crowded the road on both sides. Uneasy at the thought of a highwayman bounding from behind the cover of trees, she gave Walloch a nudge with her heel. He needed no further direction and
increased his stride to a gallop as she shifted her weight forward.
Och, such a fine beast!
They would arrive at the holy well long before sunrise.

Without moonlight to guide her, Rose depended on Walloch’s keen eyes and ears to keep them on the road as they passed Whinny Hill, then Gillfoot. At Cargen she guided the horse down a narrow track not much wider than a footpath. The moss had been well trampled. She was not the first to seek out Saint Queran’s healing waters.

Though ’Twas some time before sunrise, the air seemed lighter, the darkness thinner. Rose saw the clootie tree first and then the well, surrounded by flat, rough boulders. A woman was there. Alone, weeping.
Poor lass!
Rose felt her throat tighten in sympathy. She had only the
fear
of being barren, the dreadful expectation; this woman clearly had nae doubt of her condition. Rose quietly dismounted and tied Walloch’s reins to a small tree near the flowing burn, then walked toward the circle of stones, staying far enough away that the woman might seek relief in privacy.

Rose pretended not to watch or to listen as the stranger removed her boots and hose, cold as the night was, then circled the well three times in silence. She walked
deasil
, circling it like a clock, then tossed a coin into the well. Silvering the water, Rab Murray had called it. Rose patted her hanging pocket, relieved to feel the coins beneath her fingers. When the woman began to mumble her entreaty, Rose could not make out the words, but she heard the sentiment of her prayer well enough and nodded in sympathy.
I ken, lass. I do
.

Her prayer finished, the woman lifted a cup of the well water to her mouth and drank greedily. Refilling the cup, she produced a clootie, plunged it into the water, then raised her skirts to her waist, baring herself to the night. Rose turned her head, for ’twas painfully clear what came next. The wet cloth was dragged across the afflicted part that required healing—her exposed belly—then the rag was tied to the clootie tree and left to rot, in hopes that whatever caused her barrenness would wither away as well.

Rose had neither the cloth nor the nerve for such a humiliating task. Could she not simply silver the water and drink her cup dry?

Oh, Jamie
. She wanted his son, and she wanted him soon. If ’twould
help, she would endure whatever abasement was necessary to secure a healthy bairn. The well was not a wutch’s cantrip; it was a holy place. Rose took a deep breath for courage, then turned to see if the woman had ended her strange ablutions.

She was gone. The circle was empty. No other pilgrims were in sight.

Rose hurried to the well, shaking all over from cold, from nerves, from embarrassment. Even the moon would not see her, yet she felt as though the eyes of the earth were watching. Except for her prayer, the woman had remained silent; Rose vowed to do the same.

Bonnet, boots, gloves, and hose were put aside. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and circled the well. It was all she could do to pluck out one coin without spilling the rest on the ground, so violently did her hands shake. Down the well went her silver, making a tiny splash as it landed. Uncertain of what words she should pray or to whom—the Almighty? Saint Queran? the guardian fairy of the well?—Rose simply whispered the truth: “I love my husband, and I want his child.”
I do. Truly I do
. “Heal my womb. Make it healthy and whole, ready for his seed. Please, I beg of you. Please.”
Please
. She choked on the word and could pray no more.