Fair Is the Rose (24 page)

“Of course.” Rose pressed her gentle horse forward, a heaviness settling on her heart. Had she painted too affluent a picture for Jane, numbering the sheep on Auchengray’s hills the very moment they met? Did her friend imagine her living in a distinguished country home like Goldielea or a vast estate like Maxwell Park? Auchengray was commodious enough for their small family but hardly a place one stopped to reflect upon.

This much Rose knew: The future of her friendship with Jane depended on a bewitching encounter with Lillias Brown. Three more miles and they would be at Craigend Loch, knocking on Widow Brown’s cottage door. Perhaps the wutch would not be home. Then what?
She must be. She will be
. Rose prayed, begging God to be kind, to be merciful. Surely the admonitions in the Buik concerning witchcraft did not mean a harmless wise woman like Lillias, did they? At once the commands from the Law crowded out all other thoughts:
There shall not be found among you any one that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits …

“Rose, whatever are you daydreaming about?”

She shook her head, as if to shake the words loose, though they would not be moved. Might Jane be apprehensive as well? Rose shifted in the saddle to look at her more closely. “Have you any fear of meeting Lillias Brown? Fear of what she might say or do in that cottage of hers?”

“Do you think me a ninny? Very little frightens me, lass. Lead on, for I’m weary of this saddle. My legs are nigh to numb.”

“Follow me then.” Keeping her eye to the left of the road, watching for the stream that would lead them to Craigend, Rose paid scant attention to the darkening skies above or the winds from the north bearing down on her back. Though it was not cold enough to snow, it was cold enough. When she headed for the narrow burn winding off into a forest, Jane fell in behind her, for the path along the burn did not allow for two abreast.

“Such a meager track! I see why you didn’t hire a chaise. You’re sure this is the best way?”

“ ’Tis the only way,” Rose said, a tremor creeping down her spine. She was growing anxious, nothing more. Who knew what tales they might hear, what spells the wise woman might weave? The thick stand of oaks meant Rose no longer felt the wind, but she heard it whistling above them, rustling the bare branches. An eerie sound like unseen creatures whispering. She did not like the color of the sky and so refused to look up again. Nor did she turn to the left or right, afraid she might spy a pair of eyes peering at her from the brush. Foxes, hiding low to the ground, and roe deer, standing stock still lest they be seen, were common in this corner of Galloway. She had no dread of them, but she did not like to think of them watching her, catching the scent of her fear in the air.

“Rose.” Jane’s voice was sharper. “How long until we reach this woman’s house?”

“Almost there.” A safe answer, neither truth nor lie. Half an hour later, when the gray surface of the loch shone through the trees, Rose almost wept. “There’s Craigend!” she called out, pressing her mount forward. Now she had only to find the wise woman’s cottage, and her prayers would be answered. Not by Almighty God perhaps, but answered nonetheless. The trees thinned near the water’s edge, especially toward the right. Surely that’s where she’d find Nethermuir. To veer left meant they’d find themselves climbing the steep slopes of Woodhead Hill.
Nae
. Lillias would be found going this way.

By the time the two spied the thatched roof of the woman’s lonely
whinstone cottage, smoke pouring from its chimney, Jane had fallen silent, her favorite means of punishing others who disappointed her. When Rose pointed to the carved sign on the door—Nethermuir—Jane’s only comment was, “At last.”

Without saying another word, both lasses dismounted, tethering their horses to low branches near the loch. Around them, all was still. Not a bird on the wing stirred the air. Not a squirrel or a rabbit scurried into view. The cottage appeared to have grown there like a tree planted in another century. Narrow-stalked broom bushes nestled close to each end, and stonecrop crawled round the entranceway. Thick ropes of dried grasses hung across the lintels of the small windows, dangling skulls the size of fists bleached white by time and weather. They’d once belonged to hares, by the shape of them. Rose did not look long, though, startled to see bones so gruesomely arrayed.

Propped against the door were several small packages wrapped in cloth. Recently placed there, Rose decided, for no forest debris covered them. She suddenly wished she’d brought something for Lillias. A gift. An offering.

“Shall we get on with it, Rose?” Jane brushed back her hood, touching a gloved hand to her hair. “I’ve waited long enough to meet your wutch.”

Rose caught a flash of color at the window. A furtive movement. “You won’t need to wait much longer, Jane.” The door began to open as if under its own power. “It seems Lillias Brown is expecting us.”

Twenty-Six

Mix, mix, six and six,
And the auld maids cantrip fix.

T
RADITIONAL
S
COTTISH
S
PELL

O
nly twa?” The wise woman gathered the bundles at her feet, muttering over each one, then stood with her arms full. “I thought ye’d bring all twelve, Rose McBride.”

Rose gulped. “T-twelve … what?”

“The lassies at yer scuil. Are there not a dozen? Och, but ye couldna bring sae mony horses. Twa is better. And wha is this wi’ ye, pray tell?”

Jane’s shoulders drew up like a cat crossing paths with another. Even the fur trim on her cloak seemed to stand on end. “I am Miss Jane Grierson of Lag.”

The woman’s blue eyes lit like candles. “Kin to Sir Robert?”

“Aye.” Jane said the word as if ’twere an oath. “See that you don’t speak ill of him, old woman.”

“Speak ill o’ the
deid?
I’m not sae daft as that! Nor am I sae auld as ye think.” Lillias Brown backed into her house, pushing the door open wider as she did. “Ye’ve been oot o’ doors lang enough this cold day. Come within
whaur
’tis warm and dry.”

Jane went in first, bending to enter the stone cottage, though her back remained stiff. Rose stayed close on her heels, as if the door might close on its own and shut her out. The two of them stood in silence for a moment, letting the wise woman attend to her packages while they took in their surroundings. The interior was brighter than Rose expected. Candles of every hue and shape burned on pewter plates scattered about the room, lighting a large circle carved into the dirt floor. The wutch’s bed was no more than a small cot draped with a worn woolen blanket. Over the head of the bed hung a crudely formed star. It was fashioned
from long bones—human, no doubt, collected from some neglected graveyard.

Pressing her hand against her mouth as if it might stem the bile rising in her throat, Rose coughed, then swallowed, shivering at the awful taste. Whatever had she been thinking, bringing Jane here? Such an evil place could hardly strengthen their friendship; instead it would ruin everything.

As Lillias Brown gazed at her, the flickering light of the wood fire traced the wutch-score carved across her brow. “Ye’re thinkin’ ye’re sorry ye came, Rose.”

“Oh! Nae, I … I’m …”

“Dinna fret, lassie. I kenned ye’d seek me oot someday.” She waved a bony hand in no particular direction. “Whan I found ye pickin’ hazelnuts in the wood October last, I saw it in yer eyes. Saw ye’d be knockin’ on me door afore lang.”

“And here we are.” Rose tried to smile and feared it was more of a grimace. “Thank you for opening your door to us, Mistress Brown.”

Her gray head wagged back and forth. “Ye’ll not be calling me ‘mistress,’ for I’ve little cause tae be
mainnerlie
. Lillias will do.” She pointed to a pair of three-legged stools near the hearth, placed just outside the earthen circle. “Sit ye
doon.
” While they settled themselves, Lillias slipped her fingers in one of a handful of tins lined across the rough mantel, then threw a dusting of dried greens on the fire. The leaves hissed, turning the flame a brilliant blue, releasing a strong aroma Rose couldn’t begin to name. Lillias did that for her. “ ’Tis a rare fern. Moonwort.” She lit a thick red candle and placed it above them on the mantel. Pulling a third stool near the hearth, Lillias sat down between speechless Rose and sullen Jane. “I ken what troubles ye, Rose. The man ye luve is drawin’ farther awa, ’stead o’ drawin’ closer. Aye?”

Jane came to life with a gasp. “Rose! You told this woman about Jamie?”

“Nae. ’Tis a clever guess.”

“
Guess?!
” Lillias’s laugh was like the screech of a cat with its tail caught in the gate. Even the ceiling beams seemed to cringe. “D’ye think Lillias Brown pulls her notions oot o’ the air that circles her gray
head? ’Twas Hogmanay Night. Not the last, but the ane afore it. Ye were tae marry a lad by the name o’ James McKie. But yer sister’s luve was powerful. Enough tae fool them both. Now there’s a bairn that shoulda been yers. And a man that’s yet tae be.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “Yet to be what?”

“Tae be yer husband.” Lillias abruptly stood, slipping out the door before Rose could stop her.

Jane grasped her hand, half standing herself. “Rose! This woman is either a true witch or a madwoman. And I don’t relish either possibility.”

“But I thought you wanted—”

“What I
wanted
was to spend an amusing hour with a silly auld spinster pretending to be a witch. Truly that was all I expected.” She aimed a wary glance at the door. “Lillias Brown is the devil’s midwife, Rose. Are you certain you want to hear what she has to say?”

Rose bit her lip, staring at the fire burning yellow once more. The old woman, whether wicked or wise, knew the truth about Jamie. And Leana. And her. If Lillias had some means of looking beyond the here and now to a day when Jamie would belong to her … then aye, Rose wanted to know more. Whate’er the cost.

“I do want to hear what she has to say, Jane.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “But if you prefer we take our leave, we’ll do so at once.”

Jane turned her head to survey the cottage once more, with its stacks of parchment and odd piles of weeds. “We’ll tarry, Rose. For a short while. Perhaps the wutch has some news for me as well.”

“News ye’ll not want tae hear.” All at once Lillias stood inside the cottage. The door was closed, though they’d not heard her enter. “News o’ the sort I’m not keen tae share.” In one hand Lillias bore a small oak branch with two acorns still attached and in the other, freshly picked ivy. Laying the oak across Rose’s lap, Lillias said simply, “Because ’Tis Thursday.” She wrapped the ivy round Rose’s neck, leaving it loose like a necklace draped across her bodice. “Because ’Tis needful.” The auld woman sighed, a mournful sound. “ ’twould be better if ’twere Friday at ten o’ the clock. But we canna always have what we want.” She jerked her head toward Jane. “Can we, lass?”

“What news are you not keen to share?” Jane said sharply, her
patience thinning. “If you have something to tell me, Lillias Brown, by all means do so.”

The woman laid a wizened hand on Jane’s high forehead, working her jaw as though speaking without forming words. “ ’Tis feverfew ye’ll need, though hard tae come by in winter.” Lifting her fingers off Jane’s brow, Lillias passed her hand through the fire, then reached inside a tall cupboard filled with square boxes. No two were the same size. She clutched a handful of dried stems and flowers and tossed them into an empty bowl, then added steaming water from a kettle on the hearth. “Put yer head o’er the bowl and breathe deep. Ill weeds wax weel, ye ken.”

Jane eyed the bowl, suspicion etched across her features. “Since I am not the least bit ill, I’d rather not, thank you.”

Lillias stared at her for a long time while the steam continued to rise from the bowl between them. “Ye’ll not take what guid I’ve offered?”

Jane seemed ready to say something, then pinched her lips and shook her head.

At that, Lillias turned toward Rose, dismissing Jane as though she no longer existed. “Then ye
maun
be the one tae tak the feverfew into yer body, Rose. Dinna waste it, for ye’ll sairlie need it as weel.”

Though she, too, was not suffering from any sickness, Rose stood to do the woman’s bidding, weaving a bit as she bent over the bowl.

“Closer, lassie.”

Rose leaned farther down as Lillias laid a thin towel over her head, trapping in the pungent steam. The moist heat felt wonderful, clearing her head of the congestion that had settled there a few hours earlier. The feverfew, whatever it was, smelled musty. Bitter. But not evil. Nothing that felt so divine could be dangerous. When Rose lifted her head a few minutes later, blinking as the cooler air touched her hot cheeks, she smiled and took a deep breath, then coughed.

“There,” was all Lillias said. “Keep the towel wi’ ye on the ride home. Wrap it round yer neck.” She glanced at the window. “We’ve little time left, Rose, but a bit more tae do. Will ye drink some tea if I brew it?”

“Aye.” Rose settled onto the stool, eying Jane, who seemed preoccupied studying the laces in her boots. While the widow prepared tea, Rose leaned toward her friend. “Jane,” she said softly, “we’ll drink this
tea, and then we’ll hasten home to Dumfries.” When Jane looked up, Rose was struck by a terrible sadness in her friend’s eyes. As though Jane had seen some dreadful thing but could not name it. “Soon, Jane. I promise we’ll leave soon.”

Jane nodded absently, her gaze wandering to the bones over the wutch’s bed.

Lillias served only one cup of tea. To Rose. “Drink wi’ haste, while ’tis hot.” The wutch folded her hands, her eyes trained on the cup as Rose brought it to her lips. “Dinna fear what it contains. Naught but black tea, rose hips, and
hindberry
, though the deer ate most of the last afore I could pick it.”

Rose nearly burned her lips on the tea, yet felt compelled to drink it. “What is it meant to do?” she asked, wetting her lips to lessen the sting.