Whence Came a Prince (19 page)

“Are you now?” Her blush was bonnier than any sunset and quite as pink. “A lamb yet to be born, perhaps?”

“Nae.” He kissed each heated cheek. “A frisky lamb that gamboled into my life on this very road one October day.”

Her breath tickled his ear. “You were dripping wet. Rising out of Lochend like a
kelpie
seeking to lure me to a watery grave.”

“Kelpies haunt rivers and fords, not lochs,” he reminded her. “And you were dressed in peasant garb, bleating about your thirsty sheep and your overturned watering trough.”

“Which you managed to turn upright, like some kind of
etin.
”

“Make up your mind, lass.” His scowl was playful. “Am I a water demon or a giant?”

Rose wrapped her arms round his neck. “You’re the heir of Glentrool and the man I love.” With that, she kissed the smile off his face and every lucid thought from his head.

I
niver thought to see that
tairt
in our parish again.”

Leana flinched at Lydia Taggart’s harsh words, spoken loudly enough to echo down one empty pew and up the next. On such a fine Sabbath morning many villagers were still out of doors, waiting until the bell was rung before finding their seats. Instead of joining them, Leana had entered the kirk early, hoping to take her place without being noticed. To no avail, it seemed.

Rose reached over and tapped her hand. “Don’t fret,” she said softly. “No one heeds a glib-gabbit woman like Lydia.”

Who would have imagined her sister would be the one offering support at this unsettled hour? Leana knew the parish would grow accustomed to her presence in time, but this first Sunday might be very trying indeed.

Her father had taken his usual seat farther down the pew, looking as grim as his surroundings. Though sunlight poured through the broad windows on either side of the pulpit, it only served to illuminate the austerity of the preaching house. Enclosed wooden pews faced the pulpit on three sides, as plain and straight as the parishioners who sat in them. No ornamentation courted the eye; no celestial design pointed to the heavens.

Even so, the Almighty could be found there by all who sought him. Leana gazed at the high-ceilinged room in which she’d spent so many hours, grateful for two things in particular: The stool of repentance was not on display this Sabbath day, and neither was she.

Voices floated in the door, mingled with birdsong though not with laughter—not on the Sabbath. Leana was certain she heard Ian’s blithe crowing above the chatter. Jamie would bring him in at the last and hold
Ian in his lap throughout both services. The three of them had discussed the subject on the hourlong walk to the kirk and had agreed that if Jamie tended Ian, no one would blether about which mother was caring for the child.

At the muted clang of the bell, Leana glanced over her shoulder. The kirk would begin to fill now. There was Isabella Callender with her gray hair gathered in a tidy bun and her soft pillow of a nose. On the first morning Leana had compeared on the stool, it was Isabella who’d clasped her hand at the kirk door.
Whate’er betides ye, may this day be the worst.
That Sabbath had not been the worst day of her life; leaving Ian was the worst. However painful the summer might prove to be, the joy of seeing her son again far outweighed the sorrow.

“Look who’s come home.” A young woman with marmalade hair and eyes the color of Scottish bluebells sailed into the pew in front of them, children in tow.

“Jessie!” Leana cried softly, leaping to her feet. Jessie and Alan Newall of Troston Hill Farm were her nearest neighbors and dearest friends in the parish. Crushing her gown against the hard back of the pew, Leana hugged Jessie tight, then leaned back to admire her family. “Look how Rabbie has grown. Come, let me see your bairn.”

She held out her arms for Jessie’s new son, not four months old, while the rest of them found their places. His skin was pale, like Ian’s, but his downy red hair marked him as a Newall, with freckles in his future. “What a fine lad you are,” Leana crooned. She took one last look before handing him back to his mother, then turned to his older sister. “Annie, my
posy
, ’tis grand to see you, too.”

Almost three, Annie was a smaller version of her mother in every detail, from the ringlets in her hair to her thin-lipped smile. Eyes fixed on Leana, the girl sounded out her name—“Le-a-na”—then clapped, clearly proud of herself for remembering.

“Good for you, lass.” Leana longed to gather the child in her arms. But the beadle was aimed toward the door, indicating the start of the morning service, and Jamie would be along any moment with Ian. “We’ll talk after the service,” she promised, cupping the girl’s soft cheek. “Will you sit in my lap while we eat our cold dinner?”

Annie nodded, sending her red curls dancing, then turned round at her mother’s urging.

“Later,” Jessie said with a wink, then faced the pulpit just as Jamie appeared in the aisle with Ian. The boy’s face broke into a cherub’s smile when he saw his mother.

Leana slipped out of the pew, squeezing Ian’s bare foot in passing, while Jamie took his rightful place next to Rose—on the far side of her sister.
Wise, Jamie.
Distressing for her not to be seated next to Ian, but prudent not to be next to Jamie. Leana knew she could hold Ian all she liked at Auchengray. Here, with the whole parish watching, it was best that mother and son not be seen side by side.

Before discouragement sank in, Leana remembered the son or daughter she had yet to bear and was comforted.
I am still a mother.
As long as no one else knew, that fact would bring joy to her heart and grief to no one else’s. Surely that was best.

Unbidden, a verse learned long ago flitted through her mind.
A faithful witness will not lie.
Despite the warm air round her, Leana’s hands grew cool. Was it a sin to keep her condition to herself? Or was it mercy, sparing those she loved? The psalmist of old offered words she did not want to hear:
Mercy and truth are met together.
But what of Rose’s newfound trust in her and Jamie’s commitment to Rose? Would they not both be shattered if she confessed the truth?

As the second bell sounded, the precentor rose to lead the assembled in a gathering psalm. Those who were already seated remained so; those who were not, hastened to their pews, singing the words after the precentor sang them first, in
run-line
fashion. “My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O L
ORD
.”

Please do hear me, Lord.
Leana closed her eyes, not caring what others might think.
And please answer. Shall I confess the truth?

The singing droned on, slow and unmusical, though the ancient words alone were enough to stir souls to worship. For Leana, each one mirrored the desire of her heart.
Make thy way straight before my face.
The Almighty would show her what was to be done. If she was meant to keep her own counsel, she would do so with confidence. If telling her family the unwanted news was necessary, she would seek his strength to
do so.
Let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice.
Leana felt the tension inside her begin to unwind. Aye, she would trust.

At the third bell, the kirk door banged shut, and Reverend Gordon appeared. He climbed the turnpike stair into the raised pulpit, where he looked down on his parishioners with a sobering countenance. The minister offered a slight nod to the resident landowners—Lachlan McBride among them—pausing only briefly when Leana’s eye caught his. She hoped they might speak between the morning and afternoon services. The two had parted amiably, but she wanted to be very certain she was welcome in her own parish. Now that Father had appropriated her remaining silver, leaving Newabbey was out of the question.

All stood for the minister’s prayer, the men slipping off their bonnets, the women pulling their children against them, an unspoken warning to remain still. Leana could hear Jamie hushing Ian, his voice low and tender. His fatherly concern for their son was almost too sacred to behold.
Oh, Jamie.
What woman could not love a man for that alone?

Resuming her seat after Reverend Gordon’s final “so be it,” Leana aimed her thoughts heavenward, paying close attention to all that followed: a lecture on a brief section from the book of Romans, a prayer of illumination, and then an hourlong sermon on a single verse from Proverbs. Though most ministers delivered their prepared messages without notes, Reverend Gordon oft consulted his papers, adjusting his spectacles to do so.

At one o’ the clock the congregants stood again for prayer, a subdued lot after the lengthy morning service. Their faces were long and their stomachs growling. On cold, wintry Sabbaths, people remained in their pews between services to eat the meals they’d brought, but whenever the weather allowed, all found a spot outside for the dinner hour.

Leana turned to ask Rose, “What has Neda packed for us today?”

Her sister made a horrid face. Pickled herring, then.

Reverend Gordon’s voice carried across the emptying kirk. “Whatever would compel a young lass to look so
ugsome?
”

While Rose ducked her head, embarrassed, Leana curtsied and extended her hand. “Reverend, how good to see you again. I can only pray you feel the same way about seeing me.”

“Naturally I do,” he answered warmly, capturing her hand. Rose and the others made their way out of doors while Leana was trapped in his strong grip. “Reverend Scott did not inform me that you would be returning, Miss McBride. I trust your months in Twyneholm were fruitful?”

“Very fruitful,” she responded, wanting to be polite even as her heart pounded against her throat, remembering the distant minister’s parting words.
The fruit of your womb is God’s blessing on your life.
“I am grateful for the letter you sent to Reverend Scott.” She slipped her hand free. “He was most … understanding.”

“Ah.” Reverend Gordon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Glad to hear it. Though I must confess, I am surprised to find you home so soon. Tell me what brings you back to Newabbey.”

“I was certain … that is, I expected the McKies to have left for Monnigaff parish some time ago. Instead they will depart at Lammas.”

He said nothing for a moment, nodding at others in passing, his hands clasped behind his back. “A long two months for you, lass.”

“And for them.” She glanced toward the door, wondering which direction they might have gone. “Sir, if you might pardon—”

A woman’s voice interrupted them. “Reverend Gordon!”

Leana recognized the coarse accent at once.
Mary McCheyne.

“Is that Leana McBride ye’re talkin’ tae?” The slovenly woman advanced on them with a troop of small children hanging from her arms. “I thocht ye were gane tae Twyneholm for guid. Least that’s what I told me cousin, Catherine.”

Catherine Rain.
Leana barely nodded. “I remember meeting her.”

Mary’s eyes had a cruel glint. “I thocht ye might. Been a month or mair
syne
she came tae visit. We had a guid chat back then, we did.”

“When …” Leana wet her lips. “When might you be seeing your cousin again?”

Mary shrugged, yanking her children about as she did. “Sometime this
simmer.
Have ye a message ye need me tae
gie
her?”

“N-nae … nae message.” Leana curtsied to them both. “If you’ll excuse me, my family will be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“Dinna worry,” Mary said with the slightest chuckle. “We all ken what’s happened tae ye.”

I
dinna ken what’s happened, Jamie.” Duncan lifted his bonnet off his head long enough to scratch at his thinning hair, then slapped it back on, his gaze scanning the horizon. The sun had shone across Galloway for hours, heating the still air, sending both cattle and sheep searching for water. “ ’Tis past noon, and nae sign o’ them. Have ye leuked in the far pasture?”

“Aye.” Jamie knocked loose a stubborn clod of dirt stuck to his boot heel. Like most herds, Rab Murray and Davie Tait had their own notion of time. “The lads will be along.”

Jamie and Duncan had spent the morning gathering the first flocks of ewes into the sheepfolds, letting the animals settle down in preparation for the shearing. The weather, if a bit warm, was ideal for the task, for the fleeces were good and dry. Damp wool could mildew and be worthless at market. Now the shears were sharpened, the sheep’s stomachs were empty, and the skies were favorable. All they needed were the seasoned herds to appear, and the yearly ritual could commence.

They heard them first, singing as they walked up the drive toward the steading, their voices joined in a ragged chorus of “My Love, She’s But a Lassie Yet.” A moment later four ruddy-faced lads ambled into view, with the slipshod strides of young men who spent their days on the hills. “Sorry we’re late, Mr. McKie.” Rab Murray doffed his cap, revealing a thicket of red hair. “Had some ewes left tae shear at Jock Bell’s place, we did. But we’re a weel rested and ready tae start.” He
nodded at the others. “Davie Tait ye ken. This here is Will Broadfoot, and the
quote
ane wi’ his bonnet in his hands is Geordie Currie.”

Jamie bid the lads welcome, then led them toward the cleared area near the sheepfolds, toting his own pair of shears. Though he was not so skilled as the men they’d fee’d for three days, Jamie had been taught a few things by Stew at Glentrool and had learned even more from Duncan.

Sandy-haired Davie Tait was the first to start, straddling a plump ewe with ease, then taking his shears to her brisket. “The trick is tae keep yer shears movin’ and not tae make a second cut.” The other herds began as well, keeping their voices low, even as they goaded one another about who would shear the greatest number that day.