Whence Came a Prince (64 page)

Leana had sewn her black mourning gown along the plainest of lines, hoping she might not draw further attention to herself as the newcomer to Glentrool. This was Rowena McKie’s day to be remembered and an important Saturday for Jamie and Ian as well. Annabel was caring for the lad in his new turret nursery, trying to keep him tidy until the gathering moved to the house. Uncle Alec planned to introduce his grandson, the future heir of Glentrool, to his neighbors in the glen and present his son in his new role as laird.

Jamie looked the part. Dressed in the fine clothes he’d last worn in Gatehouse—the muted green coat that matched his eyes, a ruffled white cravat, claret silk breeches and stockings, and buckled shoes polished to a luster—he managed to convey both elegance and power. The black mourning band round his arm was doubly significant, as all those present were acutely aware. News of the tragic deaths of Rose and Rowena had spread through the glen like snow on a January wind.

Jamie had not often spoken of Rose since they arrived, but when he did, his eyes grew moist, his voice broke, and his posture lost its regal air.

In those bleak moments, Jamie turned to her. “Leana, I ken you suffer as well.”

Aye, Jamie. I do.

Wednesday they’d walked through the heath together, saying very little, watching the wind dance across the top of the loch. Yestreen they’d shared a seat on the stone pier at the end of the front walk, while
Jamie put words to his grief. In response, Leana had offered a comforting reminder from one of the psalms she’d learned at Neda’s knee: “The L
ORD
is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.”

“Then why was he not nigh unto Rose?” Jamie had shot back.

“The Lord
was
nigh unto Rose,” Leana said as gently as possible. “He healed my sister as only he could: by drawing her unto himself.”

Jamie had looked up, as if prepared to do battle, and instead found tears in her eyes.

She’d confessed to him, “The questions you’ve raised are the same ones I’ve asked.”

Those questions haunted her still.
Why, when Rose was so young? Why, when she wanted only to be a mother? Why, when Jamie loved her so?

The Almighty’s unspoken yet undeniable answer remained:
Trust in me.

Far above her the eerie cry of a peregrine falcon, echoing through the silent glen, drew Leana’s eye upward. Reverend Moodie paused in his eulogy to lift his gaze as well. Those who resided in the glen barely glanced at the bird, but outsiders—Leana among them—were entranced by the natural wonders of Trool. Hardy blackface sheep nibbled on the heathery scrub. The plaintive call of a golden plover echoed among the hills. Water plunged down steep Buchan Burn, creating a constant flow of music without notes.

Aye, the glen was a
ferlie
place. But it was also remote. Lonely.

How hard it had been to bid Rab Murray and Davie Tait farewell. And to write Neda and Duncan still more sad news. Leana knew very few of the faces surrounding her, though some she recognized from the lykewake.

Evan McKie was present for his mother’s funeral, of course, with Jamie standing on one side and Evan’s wife on the other. Judith McKie’s clipped speech marked her as English. From Cumberland, Jamie said. Their son, Archibald, was a copy of his father: sturdy limbed, boisterous, sporting a woolly cap of bright red hair. Other McKie relatives hailed from nearby Glencaird, an old estate along the Black Burn. Such a different world than Auchengray, these venerable families with vast holdings and ancient bloodlines.

Jamie had whispered names in her ear all week as visitors filled the big, square rooms of Glentrool, exchanging condolences for refreshments.
McTaggart. Galbraith. Tole. McFadgen.
Leana nodded at each one, vowing to sort them all out when she was stronger and her grief weaker.

Their closest neighbor, John McMillan of Glenhead, was too memorable to confuse with anyone else. Black haired, broad shouldered, as braw as they came, John appraised each woman who crossed his path, yet he seemed to be watching for one in particular. When a sonsie lass named Sally appeared, John’s crooked grin signaled his affections. There’d be a wedding in the glen before Martinmas; Leana felt certain of it.

And a baby born at Glentrool a month after.

She discreetly folded her hands in front of her, sensing her bairn shifting about. Would Jamie still welcome this child? Or resent her ease at childbearing? And what role did she serve now, other than the obvious one of producing his children?

Leana hardly knew her place at Glentrool. The estate employed its own gardener, Robert Muir. Annabel served as Ian’s nursery maid. Ivy Findlay had the house staff well in hand. And Aubert Billaud did not allow interlopers in his kitchen. Determined to be useful, Leana had helped Ian get settled in his round nursery, then in the quiet evening hours, busied herself with stitching. No household ever had enough linen towels and sheets. She’d also altered the shirts left behind in Jamie’s clothes press, lengthening the sleeves and letting out the shoulders.

When neighbors had come that week to pay their respects, Jamie introduced Leana as his first wife and Ian as his heir. “
First wife?
” their eyes said. The proud angle of Jamie’s head had dared anyone to offer a disparaging word. As to the child she was obviously carrying, no one spoke openly of such things in polite society, but Leana felt their stares and heard their whispers.

The dull scrape of granite dragging against granite drew her gaze where it belonged: on Aunt Rowena’s resting place. Reverend Moodie stepped aside as Jamie and Evan, joined by several neighbors, carried Rowena McKie’s coffin into the shadowy mausoleum. Built among a dense cluster of pines east of the house, the tomb was ornately carved,
a fitting memorial to the McKies who’d gone before. But inside the tomb, Leana was reminded of a cave she’d once visited along the Solway coast—dark, dank, chilly.

Alec McKie would be buried there. And on some distant day, Jamie. And Ian.

The thought made her weak-kneed.
Let me die first. Lord. When I am old and Ian is strong. Like his father.

She had not: known her Aunt Rowena well. Letters from Glentrool were rare, and the McKies had only visited Auchengray once, when Leana was eight and Jamie and Evan both twelve. Leana recalled how dramatic her aunt was, so like Rose in appearance and temperament. No wonder Jamie had loved them both. ’Twas clear Rowena had been the light of Alec’s life. Even with his walking stick, the elder McKie could barely drag himself from one place to the next, his heart as heavy as his feet.

Leana closed her eyes, seeking answers. Perhaps that was her role at Glentrool: to help two men mourn their wives. And find the strength to press on.

“We’ve finished, lass.” Jamie caught her elbow, steering her through the pines and toward the house. Subdued chatter buzzed round them like bees.

She looked about, flustered. “Jamie, I’m sorry, I …”

“Do not apologize, Leana.” He walked alongside her, matching her steps. “You barely knew my mother or any of the folk who came this week looking for a bite of gossip.”

“I thought they came for biscuits and cheese,” she murmured. “Or whisky and porter. I’ve never seen so much of either consumed.”

Jamie leaned closer to explain. “Father believes a proper display of food and drink honors the memory of the deceased.”

“Ah,” she said. His cheek was near enough for her to smell his heather soap. “Rowena has been well honored then.”

He straightened with a sudden look of concern. “Are you thinking I should have mounted such a feast for Rose?”

“Nae, Jamie. You honor my sister’s memory every time you speak of her.”

His features softened. “You always ken the right thing to say, lass.” Jamie lengthened his stride, guiding her past a grove of bird cherry trees and along the front walk. Those ahead of them waited by the entrance to the house, perhaps in deference to the young laird. His reign had already begun.

Once withindoors, Jamie was pulled this way and that by old friends and distant relatives, leaving Leana to fend for herself. She wandered through the house, relieved to find that death no longer cast its pallor over the rooms. Candles brightened every corner, and roses fresh from the garden sweetened the air. With the curtains drawn back and the windows scrubbed clean, the richly patterned wallcoverings came to life—muted blues and moss greens, the McKie colors.

A renowned Glasgow cabinetmaker had spent a year at Glentrool, Jamie said, designing intricately carved tables and chairs, sideboards and chests, bookshelves and cabinets from oak trees felled in the glen. Leana had never seen such furniture; she touched the wood in passing, marveling at the craftsmanship. Neither Aunt Meg’s two humble rooms nor Auchengray’s many low-beamed ones could begin to match the refined interiors of Glentrool with its broad dimensions and high ceilings.

The library was her favorite room on the ground floor. Alec’s oversize desk commanded the front of the room facing the loch, the half-tester bed stood near the hearth, and the polished hardwood floor was covered with a plush carpet. His prized fiddle and bow hung between two bookshelves; someday Ian might learn to play as well as his grandfather. Yet it was the oil painting over the mantel that beckoned Leana closer.

She’d seen Alec McKie’s formal portrait in the dining room, last in a long line of ancestors. Painted twenty years ago when Alec was in the prime of his maturity, the rendering bore a fair likeness of him. But this painting featured a younger Alec, in his late thirties perhaps, standing in a less formal pose: out of doors amid the misty hills aglow with the setting sun. The collar of his brown coat was turned up on one side, like that of a man who’d dressed in haste. Over his shoulder he carried a leather traveling pouch. His waistcoat, dark greenish brown in a subtle plaid, was half unbuttoned, his ruffled white shirt hung loose about his
neck, and he had a day’s growth of beard, as if he’d done without his valet that morning.

Leana smiled as she stood beneath the portrait, discovering that Jamie had his father’s mouth: generously formed, the top and bottom of equal fullness. Alec was not smiling on the canvas but seemed to be considering it. The slope of his nose drew a thinner line down his face than Jamie’s did; it appeared the bone had broken and healed some years before the painter took brush to canvas. What delicate ears he had! Yet it was the faraway look in her uncle’s eyes that intrigued her. As if he were seeing something he wanted, something for which he was willing to fight.

“Do you ken what I had in my sights?”

Startled, Leana turned to find a much older Alec McKie tottering toward her, waving a bony finger at the portrait. “Jeremiah Davison painted that at Rowena’s bidding. Soon after she came to Glentrool in the summer of 1744. Said she wanted a painting of me exactly as I looked when she first clapped eyes on me.” He chuckled, a wheezing sound. “In truth, she wanted to capture my expression when
I
first clapped eyes on
her.
Made me wear the same clothes, the same rough beard, and the same besotted look on my face.” Alec leaned hard on his walking stick. “I loved Rowena from the moment I saw her.” His unfocused eyes watered. “I love her still.”

As they stood before the portrait, her uncle described that day as if it were yestreen and not half his lifetime ago. Leana could only imagine such devotion. Jamie had loved her deeply once. But not season after season. Only one season, really.
Spring.

“There you are, Father.” Jamie strolled into the room with an even gait, any evidence of his injury well hidden. “You asked me to find you when Ian was brought down the stair.”

Alec turned to his son, the portrait forgotten. “You’ll let me introduce him as your heir?”

“Most certainly.” Jamie’s gaze met hers. “Ian is my firstborn son and the future heir of Glentrool.”

Leana dipped her head in silent thanks. Jamie loved her son, of that there could be no doubt.

She watched the McKie men stroll across the entrance hall and into the drawing room, uncertain if she was expected to follow or to be included in any way as Ian’s mother. It seemed not: There were only men in the room. Annabel surrendered Ian into his father’s arms, then flew out the door after a brief curtsy. Jamie held Ian propped up on his chest, almost shoulder high, facing the august group, while Leana watched from the hall.

“There’s a braw lad.” A young woman stood at her elbow, grinning. The lass surely had her eye on Jamie, though she was dressed in the plain clothes of the kintra folk. “Not quite a year auld, I’d say.”

Leana laughed, feeling more than a little foolish for jumping to conclusions. “That’s my son, Ian, who just celebrated his tenth month. You’ve a good eye.”

“ ’Tis what I do, mem. I deliver bairns.” She aimed a pointed gaze at Leana’s waist. “Jeanie Wilson’s me name. A howdie, like me mither afore me, and me granmither as weel.” Jeanie stole another look at Ian, then leaned closer. “I heard ye’re guid wi’ herbs, mistress. Will ye start a physic gairden at Glentrool? For I canna find the time, wi’ me ain bairns.”

Leana had been considering that very thing. “If our gardener will allow me a small plot—”

“Robert Muir? Oo aye! He’ll be pleased tae have a sonsie lass like ye planted in his gairden.”

Leana turned her back on the festivities to give the midwife her full attention. “As you can plainly see, I’ll be needing your services come December.”

Jeanie wrinkled her brow. “As late as that for your wee girl?”

Surprised by her perceptiveness, Leana held a finger to her lips. “Hush, Jeanie. I’ve not told Mr. McKie to expect a daughter.”

“The young laird is the faither of this ane, too?”

“ ’Tis a long tale for a winter’s night.” Leana regarded her closely. “Will you help me when my time comes?”

Jeanie Wilson grinned. “Send for me afore yer waters break. The glen needs a birthin’. We’ve had enough tears for the deid.”