Whence Came a Prince (69 page)

Jamie patted his waistcoat pocket. “ ’Tis right here, lass. I need nothing else but your prayers.”

She smoothed her fingers across his close-shaven cheek. “You shall have my prayers from the moment you ride off until you are home again.”

His gaze was troubled. “I do not ken what news I will bring home to you. Reverend Moodie may agree to marry us yet insist we wait six month’s or even a year, to allow for a proper time of mourning.”

“I can wait, Jamie.”

“I cannot. And neither can our bairn.”

She broached the unthinkable. “He may refuse to marry us at all.”

“Indeed he may.” Jamie’s mouth drew a firm line. “But I will not allow that to be the end of things, Leana. I have failed you too many times before.” He spread his gloved hand across their bairn as a pledge. “
I will
have you for my wife, Leana. Soon.”

She touched her hand to his heart, making her own vow. “And I will have you for my husband.”
However long I must wait. Whatever heartache I must endure.
“Come home to me, Jamie.”

“You ken I will.” A tender kiss to her cheek, and he turned for the door.

From the lawn came the voices of the others gathering to leave. The servants on foot had already departed for House o’ the Hill Inn, where a McKie wagon was kept for the weekly journey to kirk. There was talk of building a chapel of ease in the neighborhood, a smaller church for the folk in the northern half of the parish, but the presbytery frowned on the notion, saying it smacked of laziness.

Thomas and Ivy, Jamie and his father would ride on horseback together as far as the inn, then Mr. McKie would be transported in the family carriage from the inn to the village. In light of Rowena’s fatal accident, even a few miles astride an old mare made Jamie nervous for his father. But Alec McKie would not hear of staying home from services in decent weather. And there was no way out of the glen except on foot or hoof.

Leana followed Jamie onto the lawn, rubbing her arms to keep warm. ’Twas the last day of October—Hallowmas Eve—yet the skies did not portend anything frichtsome. The air was crisp, the horizon clear. A drying day, Thomas called it. The sun had barely risen, and the high half-moon was pale white, almost transparent against the blue sky. Autumn’s colors had faded on the hills. Along Loch Trool, the bright green bracken had turned to yellows and browns, and a mist rising from the water softened the dark outlines of the pines.

Jamie was mounted on Hastings now, though his eyes were on her. “I hate to leave you, lass.”

“Ian and I will have our own time of worship.” She smoothed a hand over the gelding’s black mane. “And I will pray without ceasing. ’Tis an unchancie day on the calendar.”

“Not for us, Leana.” He reached down to touch her cheek, then straightened and was off with the others, his hand raised in farewell.

Hurry home, my love.

From the corner of her eye, Leana spied a tawny owl dropping silently onto its prey. A mouse, perhaps; breakfast, before the nocturnal bird flew out of sight for the day. She’d heard the owl hooting in the night, defending its territory, and thought of the old Galloway rhyme that would be spoken in eldritch circles this very night.

Leana had yet to notice many foxes in the wood, though she’d heard their mournful cries. Her own lad would be yowling soon, she reminded herself, hurrying back withindoors to wake Ian for his breakfast.

Aubert had left a pot of fresh porridge warming on the stove and mutton pies for their dinner. Leana did not mind a quiet day at Glentrool with Ian all to herself. She fed, bathed, and dressed the lad, then sat with him on the nursery floor, telling him stories from the Buik, praying with him nestled in her lap, reciting a psalm she would teach him someday. Only six verses to learn and well suited for a son who had James McKie for a father.
The L
ORD
is my shepherd, I shall not want.

As the day unfolded, Leana’s thoughts kept turning to Monnigaff, counting each hour, guessing what Jamie might be doing, pleading for mercy. He would not arrive home until late in the afternoon—before dark, she prayed, for ’twas an eerie eve, Hallowmas. Though she had no fear of ghosts and witches, there would be tricksters abroad using the night as an excuse to cause trouble for their neighbors.

Leana and Ian ate their mutton pies and took an afternoon nap. Still the Sabbath travelers had not returned home. She thought of Neda’s saying—“Fear has lang legs”—even as she sensed her own fear running down the road to Monnigaff. Would Jamie’s plea find a sympathetic ear, or would Reverend Moodie chastise him for even considering marriage to a woman with a dubious past? And so close on the heels of his wife’s death?
Rose, our dear Rose.

By the time the household returned, the sun was lost behind a layer of thick clouds, and the air smelled like rain. At the sound of their hoof-beats, Leana hurried outside in time to watch Thomas ride up first, a grim expression on his face. Then Ivy, riding sidesaddle, with Alec McKie not far behind her on the mare, both of them looking spent.

Jamie was nowhere to be seen.

“Mem.” Thomas dismounted, then bowed politely. “I’ve a letter for ye from Mr. McKie. Said tae gie it tae ye straight off.”

Dread, like a nimble-legged spider, crawled up her spine.
Jamie, whatever has happened?

Thomas pressed the letter in her hand. “I’m sorry, mem. He bade ye read it as suin as ye could. He was … most vexed whan he wrote it.”

Leana stared at the folded paper. Sealed in haste, by the look of it, with a thumbprint in the wax. She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, recognizing Jamie’s bold hand at once. Did the minister say aye or nae? Marry now or marry never?

Though Jamie had written very few words, they struck more fear in her heart than any Hallowmas Eve cantrip.

H
e had no choice but to spend the night at the Cree Inn, the only public lodging in the village. The innkeeper, meaning to be helpful, had given Jamie a room on the first floor. Not on the second, where he’d stayed in August.

But it made no difference. The rustic walls and bare floors of the cramped rooms were all the same. Painful memories of Rose assailed him from every corner. One look at the steep stair, and he felt Rose’s coffin on his shoulder. The empty bowl on the washstand seemed to permeate his room with the astringent smell of lady’s mantle. From down the narrow hall came Leana’s whispered words over and over.
She is gone, Jamie.

Jamie tried to sleep but could not. He prayed but found no peace. Tears did not lessen his agony. When morning dawned on Hallowmas, he settled his bill and quit the place at once. He cherished his memories of Rose … but not these. Not the final hours when he could not save her.

At half past eight he emerged from the inn and found the entire village painted in November gray. A light rain hung in the air, so fine it did not fall so much as rise, like mist.
Smirr
, Duncan called it. Overnight the temperature had dropped, leaving a numbing chill that seeped into his bones. The few villagers out of doors tipped their bonnets to Jamie as they hastened past. Being the laird of Glentrool brought him a modicum of respect. The family’s vast property would carry little weight with the kirk session, however. On moral and spiritual matters, all were equally guilty in the sight of the kirk.

Hidden inside his waistcoat pocket was a hefty purse of silver. If fined for his transgressions, Jamie was prepared to add to the parish’s funds for the poor. He carried a greater sacrifice in his heart: a desire to
speak the truth, whatever it might cost him. In the dark hours of the night he’d written his thoughts on paper, now tucked in his pocket. Though he could not know what questions the kirk session would pose, Jamie knew what he’d come to tell them.

Headed for the manse, he passed the oak where he’d buried the gold cord from Lachlan’s thrifite and the marketplace where he’d knelt in the dust and surrendered his sword to Evan. A village brimming with recollections, Monnigaff. All of them overshadowed by the one that drew him to the kirkyard along a familiar path: beyond the yew tree, not far from the red sandstone monument raised by the Chesneys, in sight of the Penkill Burn.

He knelt in the damp sod and ran his gloved hand over the carved roses, recalling Leana’s fingers tracing the mason’s sketch. His throat tightened anew. “We both miss you, beloved.” Brushing a few stray leaves from the headstone, he read the words again.
Wife of James Lachlan McKie.
Though he could not see it, a silver wedding band circled her gloved finger and would for all eternity.
My wife.

He gripped the granite headstone. “Rose … dear Rose, I will always love you. Nothing will ever change that.” It felt good to confess the truth aloud, if only to the yew and the graves and the burn. “You ken I loved your sister once as well, and our love has been rekindled. I have asked Leana to be my wife. I pray that would please you, Rose. She loves you so.”

Jamie waited in the stillness. Not for a sign nor a voice from above but simply for peace to enter his heart.
And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.

“Mr. McKie?” Reverend Moodie stood not far from him, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a somber expression. “The men are gathering round the table. If you are ready …”

“I am.” Jamie rose and shook the debris from his greatcoat, then followed the minister the short distance to the manse, his resolve growing with each step.
I will go in the strength of the Lord G
OD
.
His own strength would not serve him here. Neither his wealth nor his sword arm would suffice. Only the truth.

Mistress Moodie relieved Jamie of his damp coat, then seated him
in the parlor with a cup of tea, compassion in her brown eyes. “My husband will call you in shortly.”

Jamie drank his tea without tasting it, his mind fixed on the task before him. He cared nothing about what the parish leaders thought of him, but he cared very much what they thought of the woman he loved. And intended to marry. Soon.

Reverend Moodie stepped outside the dining room and summoned Jamie with a nod. Though slight in stature, the young minister did not shrink from Jamie’s superior height as he passed him entering the room. Clearly, Stephen Moodie was certain of his calling, a workman worthy of his meat.

Coal burned brightly on the grate, warming the low-ceilinged room so thoroughly that the windows were covered with steam. Chairs lined the periphery, many more than would fit around the oblong table. Jamie took the seat offered him, nodding at each of the men present. He knew them, knew their families. Samuel McTaggart was as old as Alec McKie, though spryer. His piercing gaze bore no hint of cloudiness as he assessed Jamie. Richard Galbraith, the session clerk and
dominie
of the parish school, had stick-straight hair as black as the coal in the minister’s grate. Jamie thought the young man’s bony features might be due to a sparse diet; schoolmasters were paid a pittance. Richard’s intelligent eyes regarded Jamie closely, his pen poised over the session record book. The third elder was Duncan’s age. A quiet, thoughtful man, ever smoothing his full beard and adjusting his spectacles, David McFadgen would say little, yet miss nothing.

They were all seated now, with Jamie on one side of the table, the four men on the other—more like a trial than a meeting. Let it be a trial of his faith, then. A test of his loyalty to the Almighty and to the woman he loved. Jamie withdrew his notes from his pocket and laid the paper in front of him, folding his hands over the words, as if the ink itself might bolster his courage.

Reverend Moodie had papers of his own in hand. Letters, judging by the remnants of wax seals along the edges. “Mr. McKie, we are ready to begin.” The minister’s smile caught Jamie off guard. Seldom was any levity involved when the kirk session met. “You represent our first order
of business for this month’s session meeting, which should be duly noted in the records.”

Across the table, Richard Galbraith’s pen scratched across the unlined page.

The minister continued. “Yestermorn you requested that the kirk witness your marriage vows, to be spoken by you and Leana McBride, formerly of Newabbey parish. And the date you intended for this wedding was …?”

Jamie cleared his throat, wishing he still had his tea. “The earliest possible date, sir.”

“And what is the reason for your haste?”

He did not flinch. “Leana is expecting our second child in early December.”

Samuel McTaggart’s eyes bored into him. “Obviously this child was conceived outside the bonds of wedlock.”

“Nae, sir. We were married at the time by habit and repute. And, by your mercy, we will be married again before the child is delivered.”

Richard Galbraith did not bother to hide his consternation. “Then
who
is the young woman buried in our kirkyard with your name on her headstone?”

Speak every man truth with his neighbour.
Jamie said in an even voice, “She was my wife as well.”

“You had
two wives at once?
” Samuel McTaggart banged the table with his fist. “Mr. McKie, you are no gentleman but a bigamist!”

“I did not have two wives at once, Mr. McTaggart. For more than a year I believed I was married to Leana McBride. But the kirk session records stated I was married to her younger sister, Rose, and they held me to that vow.”

McTaggart persisted, “But which woman did you
choose
for your wife?”

Jamie knew his answer would not please them, but it would be truthful. “I chose them both. Rose first. And now Leana.”