Whence Came a Prince (9 page)

Leana and Meg mingled among them, trying not to knock their
teacups onto the patterned carpet, a rare find in village houses. Each wall was covered in painted paper, an intricate pattern of flowers and fruits that matched the rich colors of the carpet, and thick curtains dressed the long windows. Lydia Scott came from a wealthy family, it was said; the evidence was all round them.

Aunt Meg greeted each woman by name. “Mistress McCulloch,” she said warmly, “how is your son? And, Mistress Palmer, glad to see you’ve brought Ann with you.” Leana pretended not to notice the dusting of sugar beneath Grace Burnie’s nose as the matron reached for another biscuit. Helen McGill, who’d dressed for a different season altogether, wore a faint sheen of perspiration across her brow. As for Catherine Rain, her mouth was drawn as tight as a closed purse, and her pointed gaze—aimed straight at Leana—was sharper than the sewing needles pinned to her bodice for safekeeping.

Leana averted her eyes, then turned her body as well. Did Mistress Rain suspect something? Moving to a different corner of the room, Leana found her place among a group of more amiable souls, women she’d spoken to before and knew a little. Though Leana had attended two such prayer meetings and never missed a Sabbath at kirk, there were many women in the large, rural parish she had yet to meet. She hoped her smile would suffice for manners, wishing only to be invisible for her last few days in Twyneholm.

“Miss McBride.” An older woman elbowed her way closer, her voice like the bray of a donkey. “You are the very image of your mother, God rest her soul. Whatever has brought you to Twyneholm?”

One by one, heads turned in her direction. The loud chatter diminished.

“Tell us, Miss McBride.” Another stranger spoke up. “Why are you here and not with your family in Newabbey?”

“
In trowth
, do tell,” Janet Guthrie echoed, her speech thick with Scots. “Mony
fowk
have
wunnered
that verra thing.”

Leana clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. She’d answered similar questions during her visit but never so many at once. “I am here because … that is, my aunt …”

Meg came to her rescue. “I insisted Leana visit me this spring.
Burnside Cottage gets
lanelie
with only the dogs for company.” Round the room, heads nodded and expressions softened. “Besides, my niece is a fine gardener. You’re invited to stop by on your way home and see for yourself.”

Leana smiled at her, grateful for the reprieve. Meg had not insisted she come to Burnside, of course; Leana had pleaded for refuge. Nor was the gregarious Meg ever lonely.

“Come, ladies.” Lydia Scott stepped to the center of the room, catching everyone’s attention. “We’ve gathered to pray. Jeanie will collect your plates and cups. Kindly find a seat while I locate my husband.”

The chairs were finely crafted oak—from Glasgow, if rumors could be trusted—not
creepies
made of pine like Meg had round her hearth, low to the floor, without backs or arms. Leana chose a roomy seat, and her aunt sat next to her, inching her chair closer. “Hold your chin up, lass,” Meg said in a low voice, “for some of these
glib-gabbit
women are not easily convinced. I’ve been looking after beehives long enough to know that bees with honey in their mouths have stings in their tails.”

Before Leana could respond, the Reverend Dr. John Scott strode into the room amid a flurry of greetings. Well educated and pious, he shepherded his flock with a firm but loving hand. In the pulpit and on broadsheets he bemoaned the rise in smuggling along the Solway coast, aware that most of his parishioners were involved in “free trading” to one degree or another. Aunt Meg was not above hiding smuggled salt in her cupboard to help one of her free-trading neighbors, especially when it meant receiving a pocketful of the precious commodity for her efforts.

Reverend Scott stretched out his arms, holding them over the assembly like the branches of a stalwart oak. “O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come.” A long time of intercession followed, with the minister speaking and the women listening. Every parishioner’s need was laid before the Almighty—every need except Leana’s unspoken one.

When the minister’s prayer finally ended, he disappeared up the stair with his wife not far behind, requesting a moment of his time. As the women resumed their conversations, Leana sensed more than one curious glance directed toward her. Her aunt noticed it too.

“ ’Tis because you are an outsider,” Meg said softly. “
Fremmit.
A stranger, still new to the parish.” She patted Leana’s hand. “Think no more of it. You’ve brought something to stitch upon, aye?”

Leana held up her sewing bag. “My cotton stockings.”

Meg looked round her for a moment before her face broke into a wide smile. “Aren’t I the
sully
one? I left home in such a hurry I forgot my needlework.” She rose, eying the door. “ ’Tis but a short walk from the manse to Burnside Cottage. I’ll be back before you finish the first seam.”

“Meg …” Leana curled a hand round her aunt’s elbow. “Would you do me a great favor? Might you … bring my claret gown with you?” Leana had only now thought of the possibility, seeing all the women together with none of the gentlemen about. “I’ll explain when you return. Can you manage it by yourself?”

“Of course.” A swish of her skirts and Aunt Meg was gone.

Leana pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her pulse beating hard against her fingers. Could she do so bold a thing? Hold up her gown at a parish gathering and offer it for sale? She feared it might otherwise take days, even weeks, to find a buyer. Yet she could not remain in Twyneholm a moment longer. If her many secrets were discovered, no good woman would want her company, let alone her claret gown.

Today, then—this very morning—she would sacrifice her dearest possession and pray it might pave the way to Auchengray.

Resolved, she fished her spectacles out of the hanging pocket worn round her waist, then put them on with care lest she bend the fragile silver frames. Her weak eyesight made them a necessity for sewing, reading, or reckoning long columns of numbers. With the spectacles in place, her surroundings came into sharper focus. So did the curious gazes of the women. Did they know more than she realized? Might offering her gown for sale only confirm their suspicions? Perhaps she’d acted too rashly in asking Meg to bring the dress with her.

Chagrined, Leana looked down at her sewing bag and was comforted by the familiar sight. Made of finely woven wool plaid with handles carved from ox horn, the sturdy bag was seldom far from her
side. Rose had purchased it from a traveling packman selling his wares one spring day, then presented it to Leana for her birthday.

Years ago. A lifetime ago. When Rose still loved her.

Why haven’t you written me, dearie?
She knew why. Jamie and Rose were busy getting settled at Glentrool with no time or interest in sending letters. Blinking hard, Leana fumbled in her sewing bag for the cotton stockings she’d started working on
yestreen.
When her fingers touched the soft fabric, she pulled it out of the plaid bag and laid it across her lap, then angled her head to brush away her tears before they fell and stained her green dress.

When she turned back to her work, Leana discovered Barbara Wilkinson, the miller’s wife, eying her lapful of cotton. “What’s that you’re making, lass? A gown for a bairn?”

Leana stared at the fabric in shock. Instead of her stockings, she had pulled out Ian’s nightgown! The little sleeves, neatly embroidered, were splayed across her skirts for all to view.

“Such fine handwork.” Mistress Wilkinson claimed the nightgown and held it up so the others might see. “Aren’t these thistles a clever touch?” Round the room heads lifted and eyebrows as well, as the women regarded the small gown. The miller’s wife turned back to Leana, her eyes bright with expectation. “This child must be very special indeed for you to stitch such a gown for him. Whose bairn is it?”

L
eana hesitated, desperate to think of a proper answer. She could not lie. She could
not.
Nor could she tell the truth, not completely. “ ’Tis my … sister’s child,” she confessed. “Ian McKie of Glentrool.” Truth enough, before God and man.

“Your sister’s boy, you say?” Catherine Rain gave her a withering look. “My relatives in Newabbey tell me otherwise.”

A low murmur swept through the room like an ill wind from the north, chilling Leana’s heart.

Catherine’s gaze narrowed. “Mary McCheyne is my cousin. Her name is familiar, I’m sure.”

Leana well recalled the sharp words Mary McCheyne had cast at her like stones one dark Sabbath morning.
Ye’re a filthy
limmer!
A
hizzie
o’ the worst sort, stealin’ yer sister’s husband.
“I know your cousin,” Leana admitted, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I saw Mary every Sunday at Newabbey kirk.”

“On three particular Sundays, she saw
you
as well.” Mistress Rain bared her teeth. “Climbing onto the stool of repentance …”

Nae!

“… for the sin of hochmagandy.”

The women of Twyneholm gasped as one.

Leana pressed the cotton nightgown to her heart. A single word and she was on the dreaded stool once more. Put on disgraceful display where all might mock her. Rough sackcloth chafing her back. Bare feet against a cold stone floor.

Yet had she not confessed her sins and been forgiven?

Catherine Rain was standing now, bearing down on her. “ ’Tis time
you told this parish the truth, Leana McBride: The child your sister is raising is your own son. Conceived in sin, born in shame. A bystart.”

“Nae.” Leana stood as well, supported by a power she knew was not her own.
The L
ORD
is on my side; I will not fear.
“Ian McKie is none of those things.” Her knees stopped wobbling. So did her voice. “Though Ian is the son of my womb, he is also the rightful son and heir of James McKie. Neither sin nor dishonor clouds their names.”

Her adversary was quick to retort, “What of
your
name,
Miss
McBride?”

Looking directly at Catherine Rain, Leana spoke from her heart. “My reputation is of little consequence. Only that of my family matters. Ian McKie was conceived and born within the sanctity of marriage. His father, James McKie, was my husband, by habit and repute.” Whispered asides swirled round each statement as every eye remained fixed on her.

Leana paused but only for a moment. Better to confess the whole of it rather than hear false rumors flying hither and yonder. “As to the charge of hochmagandy, I willingly served as a proxy bride for my sister’s wedding, then presented myself to Mr. McKie in his darkened bedchamber.” She did not flinch at their horrified faces. “I thought he loved me. And he thought I was my sister, Rose. Both of us were … mistaken.”

Catherine’s smug look of satisfaction implied she’d heard the story before. “Then you were never his true wife.”

“For a time I thought I was. My father appeared before the kirk session to have the records amended, striking out my sister’s name and replacing it with mine. Alas, the notation was not properly recorded, a sad truth which we did not learn for more than a year, months after Ian was born.” There was more she could say but no point in saying it; her hearers were already dumbfounded. Hands limp, jaws slack. “James McKie is now married to my sister, Rose—as, by law, he always was—and they have custody of my dear son. I have reason to believe they’ve returned to his family estate in Monnigaff parish.”

“Where do
you
intend to live?” Barbara Wilkinson’s words were threaded with condemnation. “Not in Twyneholm …”

Leana held up her hand, deflecting the woman’s scorn. “I came to
your parish for a brief season. When I wrote to my aunt, explaining my unfortunate situation, she opened Burnside Cottage to me.” Leana glanced at the door, relieved that Meg had not witnessed her unforeseen confession. “I pray you will not think poorly of Margaret Halliday for such hospitality.”

“We will not, Miss McBride.” Lydia Scott stood at the foot of the stair. “You have already
compeared
before your own parish. We’ve no right to punish you here in Twyneholm.”

Leana lowered her gaze, unaccustomed to such mercy. “You are … most kind.”

“ ’Tis God who is kind to us all.” The minister’s wife began to circle the room, weaving effortlessly round the jumble of chairs and sewing baskets. “When Miss McBride arrived in March, my husband was shown a sealed testimonial letter from Reverend Gordon. No one is ushered across parish boundaries without such a testimonial in hand.” She turned toward Leana, her voice filled with gentle authority. “That letter confirmed Miss McBride’s unwed state and moral repute.”

When Catherine cleared her throat in protest, Lydia pinned her with a sharp look. “If John Gordon commended her to our parish, we need no other opinion.” Defeated, Catherine sank back onto her chair as the minister’s wife surveyed the room. Each woman’s face bore a different emotion. Pity. Dismay. Remorse. Lydia’s gaze seemed to fall on them all, one by one, pausing to look at Leana in particular. Mercy shone in the woman’s brown eyes. “Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven,” Lydia said simply. “ ’Tis more than a fine text for a sermon. ’Tis the truth.”

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Heads craned as Margaret Halliday was ushered back into the fold. Her sewing pouch was tied to her waist, and her silvery hair was the color of the mist. In her arms she carried the claret gown. On her face she bore a hopeful smile, which soon faded. “Have I … missed something?”

“Indeed you have.” Lydia Scott nodded toward Leana. “While you were gone, we learned a great deal more about your niece. And her child.”

“You … did?” The bit of color in Meg’s wrinkled face quickly drained.

“I’m afraid so, dearie.” Leana collected the damp gown and draped
it over the chair behind her, then turned to face the stunned assembly. “My past indiscretions have followed me to Twyneholm.”