Whence Came a Prince (42 page)

A
re they truly gone?” Rose leaned out the second-floor window, watching the ebony carriage disappear down the drive. A pewter sky loomed over the landscape, and the air was pregnant with rain. Minutes earlier the McBrides and McKies had exchanged farewells on the lawn. A cluster of relatives with little to say. No tears, no tender embraces. Perfunctory well wishes. Morna nervously fiddling with her sleeve. Jamie sullen.

Lachlan’s final words had been as callous as ever. “Without Duncan here, the management of Auchengray rests on your shoulders, Nephew. I do not imagine much will be accomplished between now and Tuesday.”

“On the contrary,” Jamie had said, his tone as sharp as his gaze, “while you are gone, I will spend every hour taking care of your property.”

Rose smiled now, remembering.
My canny husband.

As she turned away from the window, Jamie came up behind her, his arms full of bedding. “Lass, come tell me what you need from the nursery.” Since they finally had the house to themselves, the traveling party could finish packing their belongings without subterfuge. Willie and the others would be apprised of their plans shortly, then pressed into service loading Jock Bell’s borrowed wagon. Rose spied it clattering up the drive at that very moment, Rab Murray at the reins, two barking collies by his side.

She followed Jamie into the nursery, grateful Leana had spirited away Ian to feed him a stout breakfast. The lad might have to live on cold porridge for a week. Would he behave himself in the wagon? And how would they keep him dry when it rained? Her long list of worries
expanded by the hour. So did a seething resentment toward the father whose greed forced them to flee like vagabonds.

Lachlan McBride had promised to leave a small present for her.

She had a parting gift for him as well.

“Decide, Rose.” Jamie did not bother to mask his impatience, though she would excuse him anything on so tapsalteerie a day. “What’s to be taken, lass?”

She scoured the nursery, considering each item. “Ian’s crib, which Willie made for him. And the oak cradle that belonged to my mother.”

“ ’Tis fair.” Jamie had insisted on approving every item, determined not to be branded a thief. He dropped his armload of tattered bedding—rescued from the rag pile—into the empty crib, then wrestled it into the hall, calling for Hugh to help him carry it down the stair. All at Auchengray would turn into beasts of burden before the morning ended.

Rose waited until she heard Jamie’s voice fade out the front door, then collected the old kitchen apron she’d hidden in the bottom of their clothes press and slipped down the stair, hoping to reach the spence unseen. On Thursday last, when Jamie had found her studying her father’s bookshelf, the volume of poetry in her hands had been a ploy. Her true reason for visiting her father’s private abode was about to bear fruit.

The apron tied round her waist swung to and fro as she walked, weighed down by the strange collection of items hidden deep inside its pockets. Rose clutched them against her, lest someone come round a corner and ask too many questions. Once inside the spence, she swiftly latched the door.

The room was bathed in shadows. Without a candle, her progress to the fireplace was slow and cautious, though her eyes soon adjusted to the meager light from the window. She knelt before the hearth and emptied her pockets with care. Though she’d heard of stone fires, she’d never had cause to assemble one. If a person left his farm because of some grievance, building a stone fire brought ill luck to the homeowner when he returned and crossed his threshold. Rose had never imagined a day when such a custom would be useful. That day was here.

She laid twigs of green hawthorn, freshly cut, on the hearth, then carefully deposited bits of glass from a broken bottle discarded behind the byre. Atop the glass she put handfuls of small, sharp stones gathered from the drive. Finally she placed several flat stones on top, covering the whole of it.

Rose sat back on her haunches, admiring her work. If there was some cantrip required, she did not know it. Instead she remembered the words Jamie had once shared with her, spoken by his father the night Jamie left Glentrool.
Cursed be anyone who curses you.
“Aye,” she said softly, holding her hands over the stones as if she were warming herself at a fire. “Curse you.” She could not bring herself to say her father’s name; ’twas bad enough to
think
it.

Rose was on her feet at once, anxious to get away from whatever she’d wrought. She opened the casement window, easing the panels of glass out as far as they would go. Aye, the width was sufficient, and the ground rose to meet her just below the window, offering a safe landing. That would come later, when she turned her back on Auchengray forever. If she departed by the window now, any innocent soul who came through the front door would be cursed.

As she turned away from the yawning opening and the menacing clouds it framed, her gaze fell on her father’s thrifite. Boldly displayed on his desk. A silent dare.
Unlock me.
Lachlan had the only key, far beyond reach by now. She could not resist touching the wood. Sliding her hand across the old pine, sanded and polished by a carpenter from the village, Rose pictured the coins and bank notes heaped inside the wooden box.

Her father’s most valued possession.

Instead of me.

Grief tightened its fingers round her throat. “
This
is what you treasure.” Rose slapped the money box hard, not caring that she bruised her finger on the brass lock. “You will not miss your daughters, but you would surely miss your precious thrifite.”

Suddenly her mouth fell open, the pain in her hand forgotten.

Of course.
She would take her father’s money box.

Her own inheritance. Her sister’s inheritance. Their children’s
inheritance. And Jamie’s hard-earned silver.
That’s
what the box contained. And a witch’s knotted cord, which Rose would see destroyed.

Dared she risk such a braisant act?

For her children’s sake, for Jamie’s sake, she would.

Resolved, she pulled the box toward her, only to be dismayed by its weight.
Och!
She could hardly tuck such a thing beneath her arm and saunter out the door. What to carry it in, then? She left the money box where it was, eying it over her shoulder as she ventured into the back corridor, where a pile of goods waited to be stored in the wagon.

Among them sat the empty cradle. The perfect size for hiding a thrifite.

Wary, Rose lifted her head, listening. Not a voice could be heard in the house. The servants were out of doors readying the wagon, all talking at once from the sound of it. Please God, Jamie was with them. She needed only another minute.

Heart pounding, Rose dragged the old cradle into the spence with some difficulty. Would her father notice the gouges in the floor? Not likely. He would be too busy bemoaning the loss of his gold. She positioned the cradle beside the desk, intending to lower the money box inside. But she grunted when she tried to lift it, then was frightened by a sharp pain that gripped her back.

Might she simply push it in? Would it make a fearsome noise when it landed? Another brief visit to the hall produced the very thing she needed: linen towels to cushion the fall. Rose hurriedly padded the sloped interior of the cradle, wrapped the money box as best she could, and shoved it over the edge of the desk.

The box fell like a boulder, the corner of the brittle pine meeting the solid oak with a deafening crash, splintering the wood and breaking open the lock. Coins flew everywhere. Sovereigns, pennies, shillings. On the floor, on her shoes, and all over the bottom of the cradle.

“Help!” she cried without thinking.

Mortified, she slapped her hand over her mouth. Too late to ask for help. However could she explain herself? Nothing to be done but finish what she’d started. Rose gathered the scattered coins with trembling hands. Might someone come running, alerted by the noise?

If she could find all the coins, then cover the shattered thrifite with a blanket …
och!
Did she think she could tuck it into bed like a bairn?
Help me. Please help me!

Tears stung her eyes as she dropped the stray coins into the cradle, then poked one linen towel after another round the misshapen box. It took all her strength to move it out into the hall. The coins shifted as the cradle tipped back and forth on its rockers, the cool, metallic sound divulging their presence. That would never do. There were no more towels. However would she muffle the sound?

When she came across a worn blanket, her heart leaped with joy.
Thanks be to God!
Nae, she dared not thank the Almighty. He could neither be blamed nor invoked for such sin.
Thou shalt not steal. Honour thy father.
Two commandments broken.
Two, Rose!

She stood looking down at the cradle, now neatly filled with cloth goods. Hidden beneath them rested her father’s treasure.

How many commandments had
he
broken?
Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
His thrifite was his altar.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
He lied whenever it suited him.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighhour’s house.
Had he not coveted Edingham?
Thou shalt not take the name of the L
ORD
thy God in vain.
Every night when he opened the Buik and read words that he neither honored nor obeyed, Lachlan McBride did just that: He took God’s name in vain.

Standing in the dim corridor, Rose patted her cheeks to be certain they were dry, her conviction renewed. Such a man deserved any punishment he received.

A tuneless whistle warned her of Willie’s approach. “Thar ye are, Mistress McKie.”

She swallowed her guilt, seeing his familiar grin.
Dear auld Willie.

“Ye’ll be leavin’ us after a’, mistress? And weel ye should. On Lammas, just as ye planned.” The elderly servant pointed to the cradle at her feet. “Is that tae go in the wagon?”

“Oh, Willie …” She clasped her hands to hold them steady. “ ’Tis too heavy for you.”

“I’ve mair strength than ye think, mem. Watch and see if yer auld Willie canna handle a cradle fu’ o blankets—”

“And books,” Rose said quickly. “Large ones.”

Willie grabbed the cradle, groaning as he lifted it. “Feels mair like bricks.” He stumbled forward but did not lose his grip, pointing her cradle toward the front door.

Rose followed close behind, hoping to distract him. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice the faint clink of coins striking wood. “ ’Tis ill luck, I’m told, to flit with an empty cradle.”

“Verra unchancie, that.” Willie grunted, shifting his load. If he heard the telltale jingle, he did not comment on it. The man
was
losing his hearing.

Rose walked between him and the other servants, who were gathered some distance across the lawn. The gray skies had darkened substantially, and the air smelled like damp linens. “Willie,” she began, leaning close to his ear to be sure he heard her, “I’ve a favor to ask. For Mr. McBride’s sake. Once we depart this morning, might you lock the front door behind us? And leave it locked? No one should open it but my father when he arrives home on Tuesday. For luck, you know.”

“Aye, mem.” Willie hefted the cradle into the wagon. “Ye can be sure yer faither wull be the first ane through that door.”

A
ren’t you a lucky lad, enjoying your dinner beneath the yew tree?” Leana dabbed the last of the minced lamb from Ian’s chin. With all the commotion in the house, she’d chosen a quiet spot out of doors to feed her son. “Your last meal at Auchengray,” she told him wistfully, heading toward the front of the house.

Eliza saw her coming and stepped forward to claim Ian. “I’ll hold the boy I’m sure ye’ve meikle tae do afore we leave.”

House servants and day laborers alike were gathered on Auchengray’s lawn, stacking goods yet to be loaded. Leana could only imagine what the two maidservants newly fee’d from Edingham must think of the family’s hasty departure.

Near the house stood the rustic conveyance that would transport them to Glentrool. Despite its unpainted wooden sides and rough appearance, it was larger than Leana had expected. Not a two-wheeled cart drawn by oxen, but a four-wheeled wagon pulled by a pair of Mr. Bell’s light draft horses. As she drew near, Willie pushed the family cradle farther into the wagon, his face as red as a fresh-picked radish. Rose hovered beside him. Her cheeks were flushed too.

Leana greeted them with an apology. “Pardon me for shirking my duties.”

Rose wet her lips. “We’ve managed, haven’t we, Willie?”

“ ’Tis guid I’ve not anither cradle tae lift.” Amid his wrinkles, a smile appeared. “Have ye somethin’
licht
for me tae carry, mem?”

“A cool cup of water,” Leana told him. As Willie ambled off, she touched Rose’s forehead, anxious to see if she was as overheated as she appeared. “Are you well, my sister? For I confess, you do not look it.”

Rose shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “ ’Tis a warm day, and I’ve … moved more items than I should have.”

“Then you’ve moved your last.” Leana circled an arm round her shoulders and escorted her toward the others. “Jamie can tell us when we’re planning to leave.”

Dressed in his dark brown riding habit, he cut an impressive figure. It seemed Hugh wanted to send him on his way looking the part of a prosperous laird, and so Jamie did, from his sturdy boots, newly polished, to the sleek knot in his hair. Hastings stood nearby, whinnying as though impatient to be gone. His master held the same opinion, it appeared, consulting the skies, then scowling at the two trunks yet to be loaded.

The servants stepped back as Leana delivered Rose to Jamie’s side. “Will it be much longer? Our Rose is wilting, I’m afraid.”

As he looked down at his wife, his features softened. “The wagon will be ready any moment. Neda is finishing up in the kitchen.”