Whence Came a Prince (4 page)

Oh, Jamie.
Had his own heart changed? Might he return her affections at last? He had not confessed his love for her, not since Ian’s birth October last. On the March day she had married Jamie, Rose had claimed her sister’s husband and her son. No wonder Leana had fled from Auchengray.
And from me.

“You’re too quiet,” Jamie chided her. “I ken where your thoughts have strayed. To a second-floor nursery where your stepson sleeps.”

Afraid of what Jamie might read in her countenance, Rose donned a smile like one might a scarf, covering what she could. “I was indeed thinking of Ian. The lad will be waking soon.” Rose released her hold on Jamie, knowing he must depart for Dumfries. “You’ll be home before dark?”

“I will.” He started toward the stables, inclining his head toward the kitchen door in passing “Do tell the household our news, for I ken how the waiting has tried your patience.”

She watched him leave, even as the fragrant warmth of the kitchen pulled her into the house like a shepherd’s crook. A copper-bottomed pot simmered on the hearth—barley broth, by the smell of it. In the adjacent scullery, steam rose from a great tub of sudsy water into which red-haired Annabel was dutifully plunging their greasy dinner plates. Lachlan did not approve of idle servants and forced them to work above and below their station. Annabel served as lady’s maid to Rose when she wasn’t chopping vegetables for Neda or gathering soiled garments for Mary, the laundress from Newabbey village. Across the brick-floored kitchen stood Leana’s maid, Eliza, her arms full of table linens, a sandy curl poking out from beneath her white cap.

“Guid day tae ye, Mistress McKie,” Eliza said brightly. “
Whan
yer lad
waukens
, I’ll see tae his supper.” Though her former mistress was gone, Eliza had continued caring for Ian, much to Rose’s relief. Ian’s naps grew shorter as the Lowland days grew longer. In another week the sun would rise even earlier than the servants did and would not disappear below the horizon until many had taken to their beds. “I’ll find a proper spot for these,” the maid said, “then head up the stair.”

Rose sent Eliza on her way, knowing Ian would be glad to see the
cheerful girl who kept a sweetie in her apron pocket just for him. Though Rose loved the boy to distraction, she was still unsure of herself as a mother. A fortnight ago she’d carelessly tumbled down Auchengray Hill at nightfall with Ian clutched in her arms, frightening them both. By some miracle he’d escaped with only bruises and she with no more than a badly sprained knee. In seven months the Almighty would bless her with a bairn of her own. Rose prayed the household would share her joy and not cast wary gazes toward Twyneholm.

“
Leuk wha
has come tae see me.” Neda emerged from the larder, a pot of marmalade in one hand, a fistful of almonds in the other. One glance at Rose and a smile creased Neda’s ruddy face. “Methinks ye’re not searchin’ for victuals.” She emptied her hands, then waved Rose over to a quieter corner, lowering her voice. “Are ye here
aboot
yer guid news?”

Rose laughed softly. “I cannot pull the wool over Neda Hastings’s eyes.

“Ye canna,” the older woman agreed with a wink, “since I dinna wear a periwig. Am I not the
mither
of grown
dochters
? And a
granmither
? Ye’ll hardly be keepin’
sic
blithe tidings from yer auld Neda.” She aimed a pointed glance at Rose’s waist. “I ken the signs.”

“I am not far along,” Rose cautioned her. “There might still be … complications. My mother …”

“Wheesht.”
Neda hushed her in the kindest of tones. “Dinna
fash
yerself. Ye’re a healthy,
green
lass wi’ naught tae fear. And growin’
mair
quickly than
mony
women do.” She took Rose’s hands in hers and squeezed tight. “Have ye written Leana?”

“Not yet,” she confessed. “I shall send a letter before the week is out.” Rose dreaded the prospect, for whatever would she say?
Forgive me, Leana.
Except there was no need to apologize, not for this. She was Jamie’s true wife, however awkward the circumstances of their wedding. She had a perfect right to bear his child.

Still, the need for forgiveness lingered, despite her sister’s generous vow.
Though you cannot forgive me, Rose, I forgive you.
Was that possible, when the truth Rose had once spoken cost her sister everything?

“She’ll be happy for ye, Rose.” Neda’s unlined face reflected the sin
cerity of her words. “But ye best write Leana
suin
, afore she hears it from
anither.
”

Later that evening Rose sat propped up in the curtained shadows of their box bed, waiting for Jamie to return from Dumfries. Built into the wall, the wooden bed was enclosed on three sides, leaving one long side open to the room. In winter Rose thought it cozy; in the summer, confining. Yet, in any season, her box bed was more comfortable than Aunt Meg’s hurlie bed at Burnside Cottage.

With her writing desk perched on her lap and a cluster of candles on the bedside table, Rose had started a letter to Leana half a dozen times, to no avail.
I have good news … Jamie and I have learned … Ian will have a brother or sister next January…
The words dried up each time, as if they were lodged inside the nub of her ink pen, needing only to be shaken out.

Forgive me, Leana.
It always circled back to that.

After crumpling yet another sheet of expensive paper and tossing it to the floor, Rose reached for the letter from Jamie’s mother on the table, glad for any excuse to delay her task. Jamie had read aloud every word of Aunt Rowena’s post; he would not mind his wife’s perusing it again. Rose felt guilty nonetheless as she unfolded it with care lest she wrinkle the paper. Leaning nearer the flickering candlelight, she squinted at the elaborate hand that decorated the page with swirls and flourishes.

One thing became apparent with a second reading: Jamie’s
birsie
brother, born with red hair and a temper to match, was not the problem, or his mother would have stated so. Instead, the scandal at Auchengray had cooled his parents’ welcome; Rose was certain of it. The gossips of Monnigaff parish would
blether
for years about the heir of Glentrool and his two wives—first the older cousin, then the younger one—just as folk in Newabbey jabbered about it without ceasing.

She read her aunt’s words again.
Wait until Lammas.
Rowena’s meaning was unmistakable:
Stay away for now.

Dropping the folded letter onto the table with a weary sigh, Rose
resigned herself to spending the better part of the summer at Auchengray. The endless days ahead would have been much cooler in the remote glen of Loch Trool, where northern winds blow down from the Merrick range, and the rushing waters of the Gairland Burn refresh the herds. When Jamie described the steep green hills, the granite crags, the blue depths of the loch, Rose saw them clearly in her mind’s eye.

Two months seemed a long time to wait.

Remaining in her own parish offered one advantage: All of Newabbey would soon discover she was as fertile as Leana. Rose tucked her bedcovers round her, thinking how swiftly her news would travel from farm to village. “Have ye heard? Rose McKie is wi’ child. She didna waste time catchin’ up wi’ her sister.”

Her conscience did not let her gloat for long. Heat crawled up her neck, and contrition filled her soul. She did not wish to triumph over Leana. Not the sister who’d loved her from the day she was born. All Rose wanted was a house full of children tugging at her skirts.

Thanks be to God, Dr. Gilchrist’s dire prediction last winter had proven false. The croup had not rendered her barren; instead, the Almighty had answered her prayers.
He maketh the barren woman to keep house, and to be a joyful mother of children.

“Two children.” Rose pictured dark-haired Ian in the nursery next door as she smoothed a hand across her stomach. “Leana’s. And mine.”

L
eana took a steadying breath and began to walk, grateful for the sanctuary of the quiet countryside on a lovely morning. She’d not slept well and had awakened feeling queasy again and wishing her physic garden were at hand. In lieu of chamomile and ginger, a short walk round Twyneholm seemed the best remedy.

Before her the horizon glowed a vibrant pink, and gold bands of sunlit clouds streaked across the sky. A
freshening
breeze lifted the wisps of hair round her face. All was still, save for the low murmur of moving water behind her. A deep burn full of brown trout flowed through the center of Twyneholm, passing her aunt’s cottage before it slipped beneath a stone bridge.

Leana felt every bit of loose gravel beneath her calfskin shoes, the soles thin from constant wearing. She had left most of her possessions behind at Auchengray, bringing only a small trunk of necessities and two gowns—the simple green one she was wearing and her favorite, the embroidered claret gown she’d worn on her wedding day. ’Twas just as well she’d packed sparingly; the tiny cottage could hold no more.

Twyneholm had cracked its doors a handbreadth to welcome her, but nothing eased the pain of missing Ian. From the hour of his birth, the lad’s gaze had shone with the promise of a clever mind. Would Jamie engage a teacher to reside at Glentrool and tutor him? Leana’s thoughts flew across Galloway and her hopes as well.
I would come, Jamie. I would teach our son.

Her conscience mocked her.
Teach him what?
Reading and writing? Simple bookkeeping? She had no mastery of Latin or Greek, no training in logic or rhetoric. Jamie went to university, not she. Even Rose in
her short time at Carlyle School for Young Ladies had learned a smattering of French. Leana could confidently handle a busy household and tally its ledgers; she could love a husband and raise his children. None of those skills was required of her now.

Distraught, she started up the hill leading to the crossroads. A sudden clenching in her stomach sent her scurrying back to the burn instead. Bending over the steep banks, she deposited her breakfast in its rushing waters, taking care not to tumble in after it.

“Heavens!” Leana straightened, shaking all over. Whatever was the matter? She’d seen what ague could do. And croup. And pneumonia. Best she remain withindoors, at least until her stomach settled. A weak saucer of tea and another hour’s sleep might help.

Her aunt greeted her when she came through the door, a look of concern stretched across her parchment-thin skin. “Back so soon? Come sit by the hearth. You’ll be wanting tea with a spoonful of honey from my hives, aye?”

Leana merely nodded, her insides still churning.

Meg pulled a chair close to her and patted her hand. “Might it be your courses starting? Many a lass feels unweel on the first day.”

Leana sipped her tea and mulled over the last two months, a jumble of days that all ran together, colorless and undefined. When
were
her courses due? They’d waxed and waned without any certain pattern after Ian’s birth. Since Jamie was no longer her husband, such things hardly mattered, did they? Still, to appease her aunt, Leana began counting silently on her fingers.

Was it two weeks ago or three? Perhaps four. Six weeks, then. Nae, ten.

Leana’s eyes widened. “ ’Tis not my courses.”

’Tis a child.

Unthinkable. Yet undeniable. The weariness, the nausea, the tenderness.
Yestermorn
she’d cringed when she laced her bodice. Leana had dismissed such symptoms, convinced that weaning Ian had taken its toll on her body, nothing more.

Nae. Much more.

She swallowed hard.
Oh, my dear Jamie!
Memories of their last
nights together assailed her. Before they met with the kirk session. Before the terrible truth was spoken. Before her world fell apart.

Aunt Meg smiled at her, eyes wreathed with tiny lines, her gaze alight with curiosity. “ ’Twould appear something has stolen your appetite and your tongue as well. Will you not speak, or must I guess?”

Leana put down her tea saucer with trembling hands, her emotions scattered to the four winds. However could she tell her maiden aunt, a
stayed lass
who had ne’er shared a man’s bed, that she was carrying Jamie McKie’s child?

She slipped her hand beneath the table’s edge to examine her waist. Though she’d lost weight, she sensed a slight rounding there. Why had she not noticed it before? The answer was simple: Aunt Meg did not have a looking glass. And without Jamie in her life, Leana had paid scant attention to her figure. Had her wise relative seen what she had missed?

She studied her aunt’s pale features, the broad cheeks and full mouth so like her mother’s, so like her own. “Aunt Meg…,” she began, her voice fading along with her courage. Having a babe outside the bonds of wedlock was no small thing. The neighboring cottagers knew nothing of the scandal that had sent Leana running to Twyneholm. Woe to Margaret Halliday if folk learned the whole of it.

“Auntie,” she began again, “you know that Jamie and I were … well, we
thought
we were rightfully wed for more than a year. Until the kirk session decreed otherwise, Jamie and I continued living as husband and wife by habit and repute according to Scottish law. And … we …”

Meg arched her silvery eyebrows. “Aye?” was all she said, though her expression spoke a great deal more.

Leana clutched the dress fabric beneath her hands as though her unborn babe might provide the strength she needed. “Aunt Meg, I believe I am with child.”

The older woman’s features stilled for a moment, then softened. “I thought as much. Two women cannot share the same cottage and not mark the pull of the moon.” She reached out and grasped Leana’s hands. “What’s to be done, dear niece?”

“What
can
I do but raise the child myself since Jamie is married to Rose?”

“But he loves
you.
”