Fair Is the Rose (14 page)

His gloomy prediction trailed after her the rest of the day like a cat slipping into the house unseen, getting underfoot, disappearing round corners. Might the
glib-gabbit
women of the parish put abroad a story that she was a
tairt
no worthy suitor would consider? If so, her marriage prospects would be ruined.

Rose fell into a fitful sleep that night, dreaming of the Newabbey kirkyard draped in a moonless mist, its headstones poking from the ground at odd angles. Perched atop the graves were cats of every hue, calling to one other in high-pitched yowls. When Rose stepped into the nightmarish scene, their whiskered faces pointed toward her. In a fierce and frichtsome chorus they screeched out her name.

“Nae!” She sat up, suddenly awake, flailing at the curtains of her box bed until she spied the faint glow of the taper on top of her dresser. The light dispelled the last vestiges of her dream but not the uneasiness that had settled over her. Whatever the hour, it was still too early to rise and dress. She climbed into Leana’s old reading chair with a volume by Defoe clutched in one hand, the candle in the other, and tried to concentrate on the plight of beautiful Roxana. But the words swam on the page, and the story thread grew tangled. When blessed sleep tugged at her eyelids once more, Rose replaced the taper and slipped under the covers. Please God, she would not dream again this night.

The new day arrived draped in pale silver with no wind to stir the chilly air. Rose dressed, giving little thought to her choice of gown. No suitor would darken her door today. Annabel helped with the last of Rose’s buttons and plaited her hair in a thick braid before sending her mistress down the stair, her steps slower than usual.

Neda greeted her at the breakfast table with a look of mild concern. “Ye’ve not slept weel, lass. ’Tis not like ye tae have plum-colored smudges ’neath yer eyes.” When Rose described her nightmare, Neda’s gaze sharpened. “Dreamin’ o’ cats, ye say?” She clucked her tongue, stirring the porridge more forcefully. “ ’Tis an ill omen, Rose. Someone has in mind tae do ye a bit o’ harm.”

Rose looked at her, aghast. Not Jamie? Or could it be Neil, with his wounded pride? “A man, do you think?”

“Nae.” Neda spooned out her breakfast. “Mair likely a woman.”

One name came to mind. “Lillias Brown,” Rose breathed, a chill skipping down her spine.

“Och!” Neda banged her wooden spurtle against the metal pot,
making an awful noise. “What business have ye wi’ sae
wickit
a soul as the Widow Brown?”

“None at all,” Rose hurried to explain. “We saw her the afternoon of Ian’s kirkin. Do you recall her strange mumblings that day?”

“Aye,” Neda grumbled. “
Unco
words indeed. Keep far awa from that woman’s path, and see that ye niver seek oot her counsel.” Once Rose assured her she would do no such thing, Neda’s taut features relaxed. “Mebbe yer dream meant ye’ll soon be seein’ the kittlins ye took tae Miss Elliot’s
hoose.
”

“Maybe,” Rose said, lifting a spoonful of hot porridge to her mouth and almost burning her lips. She hastily put down the spoon and reached instead for a mug of milk, grateful for the cool, sweet taste. Susanne’s admiration for her older brother knew no bounds. Would she be vexed at the news? Or might Susanne simply roll her eyes, knowing Rose’s capricious nature as she did?

Before Rose emptied her porridge cup, a knock at the door sent her scurrying to the front of the house, patting a napkin to her mouth. Johnny Elliot, the middle son in the grocer’s family, stood waiting in the hall, holding out a letter. “For Miss Rose McBride,” the lad said. Two missing teeth spoiled the formality of his delivery, but his expression was as solemn as a session clerk’s.

Rose took the letter, her heart quickening. “Might you wait while I read it, Johnny? I may want to send you home with a response.”

“Aye.” He looked about the hall for somewhere to sit, while Rose unfolded the letter, leaning toward a window for light as she began to read.

To Miss Rose McBride
Tuesday, 3 November 1789

Rose,

However could you wound my brother so? I trusted you to treat him fairly. It seems my faith was misplaced. Neil is inconsolable, and my father is stamping about the house in a fine temper.

Rose fell against the wall. ’Twas worse than she’d imagined. Susanne’s words cut like scissors sharpened on her own thoughtlessness.

Should you feel compelled to visit, I fear you will find no welcome at our door, nor can I continue to call you my friend with any sincerity.

Her eyes growing moist, Rose stared at the letter in disbelief. Were they no longer friends? Could Susanne possibly mean that?

It grieves me to write this after so lengthy a friendship, but I feel I must convey the depth of my disappointment and the firmness of my resolve.

With regret,

Miss Susanne Elliot

   Ingleneuk

Rose pressed the letter against her heart.
Please, God, not Susanne
. To think of losing her affection forever! And not only Susanne. If the grocer’s daughter put her aside, so might the other girls of the parish. How had it come to this?

Johnny shuffled his feet, his discomfort obvious. “Will you be wanting to write my sister?”

“Aye.” Rose brushed away her tears. “ ’twill take me only a minute.” She flew up the stair to her room, where her writing desk contained all she would need to pen a letter—except, it seemed, the right words to soften Susanne’s heart. She stared at the paper, the ink seeping into her fingertips as she gripped the pen too close to the nub. When Neda tapped at the door, Rose knew she could delay no longer.

To Miss Susanne Elliot
Tuesday, 3 November 1789

Dear Susanne,

You and your family have every right to be unhappy with me. Without meaning to, I led your brother to believe my
heart was his for the taking. I am deeply sorry for disappointing him and hurting you as well.

Susanne, you are my dearest friend in all of Galloway. Please accept my sincere apologies, or I shall leave for Dumfries in January with a very heavy heart.

Yours in friendship,

Miss Rose McBride

   Auchengray

She cast a sprinkling of sand across the page to dry the ink, then shook it clean and folded it into a square. A stick of wax touched to the candle’s flame to seal it, and the letter was finished. Rose found Johnny waiting at the bottom step, staring up at her room as if willing her to hurry. After pressing a coin into Johnny’s palm for his trouble, she tucked the letter into his coat pocket and patted it with a silent prayer for mercy.

“You were good to wait, lad. Kindly see that your sister reads my letter.”

“I’ll try,” he said, dipping his head. “Though I cannot promise she won’t feed it to the fire, Miss McBride. Susanne’s that unhappy with you.”

Rose sighed wistfully. “I ken she is, Johnny.”
And so is her father. And so is my father. And so is poor Neil
. She pointed him toward the door so he might not see fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

Fifteen

Kindle a candle at baith ends
and it will soon burn out.

S
COTTISH
P
ROVERB

O
ch, lass! There’s no shame in weeping. ’Tis how every mother in Scotland waters her kitchen garden.” Leana dabbed at her eyes with the hem of Ian’s cotton gown, being careful not to wake him. Even after two months, the babe’s sleeping pattern had no rhyme or reason to it, and his colic had yet to disappear. “Jessie, you are a good friend to listen to my woes on a cold December day.” Few neighbors could cheer her like plain-speaking Jessie Newall.

The young woman waved her hand dismissively, shaking her mass of red hair as well. “Haven’t I raised Annie these two years?”

Leana observed the round-faced child toddle about the front parlor of Auchengray. A low-beamed, square room on the west side of the mains, it was cluttered with chairs, small tables, and a narrow guest bed, giving young Annie much to explore. She was dressed in the warm woolen jumper Leana had knitted for her as a birthday present. The
blaeberry
dye had held fast, its purplish hue a bonny complement to Annie’s orange-marmalade locks, so like her mother’s. Her spirits lifting, Leana watched Annie climb into a high-backed chair, then turn round and sit down, poking her sturdy legs out straight, clapping her hands, and beaming with pride at her accomplishment.

“Well done,” Leana murmured, wiping away the last of her tears.

Jessie eyed her. “I ken it well, that wearisome feeling. You cannot hold up your head at the breakfast table, yet you cannot keep to your pillow at night.”

“Aye.” Leana offered her a shaky smile. “Watching you with Annie months ago, I did not realize mothering could be so …” She could not
bring herself to say the words that came to mind:
Difficult. Exhausting. Lonely
.

Jessie said it for her. “ ’Tis hard, Leana. Motherhood is not for the woman who hates wearing a soiled gown or eating cold porridge.” She smoothed a hand over her rounded belly. “Alan Newall had better prepare for many a sleepless night when this one arrives.”

Leana studied the look of contentment on her friend’s face and wondered how, if the Almighty blessed her own womb again, she would ever care for two bairns. Alan and Jessie had their small farm on top of Troston Hill to manage, as well as Annie to chase after, another wee babe in the house come February, and a flock of blackface ewes lambing in the spring. “However will you do it all?” Leana wanted to ask, though she knew the answer:
Long days. Steady work. Short nights
.

Jessie’s gaze met hers. “I must call at Auchengray more often,” she said, her tone lightly teasing. “You’ve grown rather melancholy since you married Mr. McKie.”

“Have I?” Leana feared her wan smile did little to dispel the notion. “Jamie is not to blame, poor man. He keeps busy with the flocks.”

Jessie’s brows, bright as her hair, arched in surprise. “Too busy to see to his wife’s pleasure?”

Leana dropped her chin to hide the heat climbing her neck. The things Jessie Newall could say without blushing! “My pleasure is of little concern when we are both so tired by nightfall.”

“So that’s how it is.” Jessie rose to walk the floor, scooping up her daughter and planting Annie securely on her hip as the two circled the room together. “When was the last time Eliza brushed your hair ’til it shone?”

Leana touched her hand to the plaits wrapped round her head.

“My
hair
?”

“Aye, and that gown.” Jessie paused to look at her and made a face. “Practical, I’m sure, but ’twould appear you’ve worn it for a month.”

“Two,” Leana confessed, looking down at the wrinkled fabric. “The bodice laces in the front, you see. I made it especially—”

“Good, then make another.” Jessie nodded with satisfaction. “And stitch a new shirt for Jamie while you’ve a needle in your hand. No wife
sews a finer
sark
than you do, Leana. See that he thanks you for it. Properly.” She gave a broad wink, then whirled about while Annie squealed with delight, her cherub face shining.

“Anything else that needs doing?” Leana did not try to hide her exasperation. If her friend meant to lift her spirits, her words were having the opposite effect. Leana had plenty of work to do without adding more to the list. If Jamie had not reached for her since she returned home from the manse with Ian, what did it matter? They were both too exhausted to care. Weren’t they?

“Listen to me, Leana.” Jessie spun to a stop, pulling Annie into a tight embrace. The child’s chubby legs twined round her mother’s waist, as Jessie rested her chin on her daughter’s curls, watching Leana all the while. “Love the man, tired or not. He needs to ken you’ve forgiven him completely for that foolishness last winter with Rose.”

Leana started to object but swallowed her words instead. Jessie spoke naught but the truth. “I will love him,” Leana promised, ignoring the fear that coiled in her stomach. Fear that Jamie might reject her. That deep in his heart he still preferred Rose. “Tonight I’ll don a different gown for supper and send Eliza looking for my brush.”

Jessie smiled broadly. “Well done, lass. If my advice proves worthy, I’ll count on you to send me a box of your best
tablet
for Yule.”

“Done.” Leana laughed. Already her heart felt lighter. “We’ve butter and sugar enough to make you a sweetie. I’ll have Jamie bring it round before the Daft Days are over.”

That evening Leana was true to her word. From the clothes press she chose a gown she’d not worn since last winter, then had it aired and pressed. While Ian napped, Eliza washed Leana’s hair in lavender-scented water, rubbing it dry and brushing it until it gleamed like molten gold. Leana nursed Ian once more and then slipped on her gown, delighting in the feel of silk on her shoulders. “Lace me with care, Eliza. My waist is no longer as small as my sister’s, and for good reason.” She smiled at Ian, already asleep in his cradle. “A verra good reason.”

No bride felt more beautiful than Leana did, gliding down the stair toward supper. Her slippered feet barely touched the floor. The rustle of her gown made a music all its own. When she swept into the room,
everyone present turned to gape at her. But only Jamie’s opinion mattered. In a twinkling she had his undivided attention.