Whence Came a Prince (10 page)

“Oh, my poor niece.” Meg smoothed her hands over Leana’s hair, as if to calm her, though she was the nervous one. “This child of yours—”

“ ’Tis her
sister’s
child now,” Catherine Rain corrected her with a haughty sniff.

“Indeed not.” Her aunt stiffened. “ ’Twill be Leana’s bairn to raise, not her sister’s. Come winter when the child is born—”

“Meg!” Leana cried, but it was too late.

Agitated comments flew round the room like a trapped bird trying to escape. “
Another
bairn?” “It canna be.” “Who’s the faither?” “Mebbe she doesna ken.”

When their flapping died down, the women merely gawked at her, clutching their forgotten needlework. The air grew thick with their silence.

Leana looked heavenward, summoning the courage to speak. “My aunt has told you the truth: I carry a second child by Mr. McKie. Conceived when we thought we were rightly wed.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her; with the fear of discovery gone, so was her shame. “The child will be born in my own parish. I hope to leave on Friday for Newabbey.”

Aunt Meg gripped her arm. “But, Leana—”

“Nae, Auntie.” She wrapped her in a brief embrace. “ ’Tis time. The good women of Twyneholm have weathered enough this morning.” Leana turned toward the minister’s wife. “I beg your pardon, Mistress Scott, for disrupting what should have been a peaceful hour of sewing.”

“On the contrary, Miss McBride.” Her voice, her gaze, bespoke uncommon grace. “You’ve demonstrated remarkable courage. ’Tis a more vital lesson than improving our needlework. All of us have learned something by your honest confession. Haven’t we, ladies?”

Though no one spoke, their penitent expressions said enough.

Mistress Scott glanced down at the various sewing baskets strewn round the carpet, then shifted her gaze to Leana’s chair. “I see your aunt brought along your pretty gown. Had you planned to mend it?”

“Nae.” Leana swallowed the last of her fears. “I planned to sell it.”

“
Sell
it?” Aunt Meg gaped at her. “Your best gown? Whatever for?”

“To raise the silver required to hire a chaise.” Leana gathered up her gown, fragrant with the scent of lavender, and spread it before them. “While hardly new, it is clean and pressed, without spot or wrinkle. ’Twas my bridal gown. Made by Joseph Armstrong, a tailor in Newabbey village.” She paused, uncomfortable at having to mention money. “Though it cost a good bit more, I need only fifteen shillings for my journey home. Even that may be asking too much—”

“Nae!” A chorus of voices responded at once.

“I’ll gladly pay fifteen shillings for it.” Grace Burnie leaned forward to touch the fine embroidery. “I’ve admired your gown every Sabbath since you arrived. Though I’m not so slender as you, I could easily have it altered.”

“You could,” Leana managed to say, bewildered to find them so interested.

“But ’twould fit me just as it is.” Ann Palmer, one of the younger women present, pulled the gown toward her waist to prove it. “Mother, we could offer Miss McBride sixteen shillings for her gown, could we not?”

“If you think it suits you—”

“Well, it suits
me
better,” Sarah McCulloch insisted with a toss of her auburn hair. “I have coins for Friday’s market in my reticule and am prepared to pay eighteen shillings. Perhaps Miss McBride could use a bit of extra silver. For the bairn.”

“Ye’ll none o’ ye
tak
it!” Janet Guthrie cried with glee. “Me dochter needs
sae
fine a
goun.
Twenty
shullins
, Miss McBride.”

Leana stood transfixed, watching as one woman, then another, tugged at her gown, arguing over who might own it and for how many shillings.

“Miss McBride?” A familiar male voice carried across the room, silencing all the others. Reverend Scott appeared at the bottom of the stair. “From here, that gown looks quite new. Does it appear so to you, Mistress Scott?”

The older woman smiled, inspecting the gown more closely. “Not a mark or a blemish. Worthy of a bride, I’d say.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He moved across the sea of women, who parted to make way for him. “Our granddaughter will be married in the kirk next month. ’Twould please Mistress Scott and me to see her so adorned.”

Worthy of a bride.
Leana held out the gown with steady hands. “ ’Tis yours, then, for fifteen shillings.”

“I said it looked new,” he reminded her, laying the gown aside. “And I believe Mistress Guthrie offered you twenty. What, pray tell, did the gown cost your father?”

Dare she confess it? “Two pounds sterling,” she said at last, appalled at the exorbitant figure. Indeed, she heard more than one stifled gasp.

The minister pulled a leather purse from his waistcoat pocket and shook the contents into his wife’s open palm. “Pay the young woman her due.”

Leana watched in disbelief as Lydia Scott pressed a fistful of silver into her empty hands. “Sufficient to see you safely home.” Lydia smiled and closed Leana’s fingers round the coins.

Stunned, Leana could only look at the two of them. The gracious wife. The generous minister. “Wh-why?” she finally asked. “Why would you do so charitable a deed after all I’ve admitted this morning?”

Reverend Scott took his time answering. “John Gordon wrote me soon after you arrived. The details of his letter were just as you confessed them here.” He gestured toward the stair. “Pardon an old minister for eavesdropping.”

Leana could not hide her confusion. “If you knew … then …”

“This is what I know.” His tone brooked no argument. “Only a woman whose soul has been cleansed by the Almighty could speak so boldly of her past, certain of his mercy.”

The minister drew his wife to his side. “The fruit of your womb is God’s blessing on your life. The silver in your hands is ours.”

With trembling hands Leana clasped the coins to her middle, praying her tears conveyed her thanks.
I am coming home, Neda. Home!

“Return to the people you love, Leana.” Lydia Scott rested her head on her husbands shoulder. “And to the ones who love you.”

R
ose gazed across the garden from beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, wondering if Jamie had spied her tiptoeing toward him. Ian was taking his afternoon nap, giving her a peaceful hour to seek her husband’s company. She’d bathed her hair in rose water and donned his favorite blue gown. Might he notice?

Jamie was sitting under the yew tree engrossed in a book, his long legs stretched before him, his broad back pressed against the purplish-brown bark. The yew, taller than the house and older by centuries, had sheltered many a soul seeking respite from the heat. After two days of incessant rain and mist, Rose rather liked the sun on her shoulders, though nothing warmed her like the sight of the man she loved.

“Jamie,” she called softly, not wanting to startle him. When he looked up with a hint of a smile on his face, her throat tightened. So handsome, this husband of hers! She ducked beneath the yew’s branches, glad to have Jamie to herself in a cozy bower. “Why aren’t you off counting your sheep,” she teased him, “instead of reading that dreary book?”

His smile broadened. “Rab, Davie, and some of the other herds will arrive Monday noon for the shearing. ’Til then my flocks have little need of me. And grim as the subject may be, I’m enjoying my book.” He held up Defoe’s
The Journal of the Plague Year
, borrowed from Reverend Gordon’s bookshelf. “Far more insightful than the Pepys account, eyewitness or not. Did you know a comet appeared in the London sky before the plague and another before the great fire?”

“Truly?” She reached for the slim volume, curious to see for herself. “I suppose ’twas a sign from the Almighty.”

“Many a Londoner thought so.”

When she scanned the page, several phrases caught her eye. “Doomed to be destroyed,” she read aloud, shivering at the thought. “ ‘A blazing star … A rushing, mighty noise, fierce and terrible.’ Oh!” She quickly closed the book, lest the pages singe her fingers. “Do you believe the Almighty speaks to his people in so kenspeckle a manner?”

“He spoke to me that way,” Jamie reminded her, slipping the book out of her hand and tucking it inside his vest. “You’ve heard me describe my vision of winged creatures and a voice that roared like the sea.”

The notion of Jamie’s dream frightened her still. Could it possibly be true? “I’ve awakened from many a strange story,” she confessed, “though I never imagined God as the author.”

“Nor had I, Rose. Not until that October night I slept under the stars. I heard a voice say, ‘Behold, I am with you wherever you go.’ ” Sincerity shone on Jamie’s face, nigh to convincing her. “It was no simple dream, for I sensed his presence and answered him as well.”

“I believe you,” she said, trying hard to do so. If Jamie truly heard his voice, perhaps it meant he was … well, devout.

He chuckled. “Are you thinking I’m a bit daft, Rose?”

“Not at all.” How
did
this man read her thoughts?

“Come.” Jamie circled her wrist in a firm grasp and pulled her down onto his lap. She landed with a soft gasp, her skirts dragging across a carpet of dried berries and leaves. “I’ll not have my young wife fearing her husband is
brainwode.
”

“Your mind is quite sound,” she assured him, thrilled when he drew her close. Soiled hems could be cleaned and wrinkled gowns ironed; only winning Jamie’s heart mattered. “I am glad you are mine, Mr. McKie.”

He gazed into her eyes for a moment, anticipation singing in the air like birdsong. “My sweet Rose,” he murmured, before fitting his mouth to hers.

She responded at once, wanting there to be no doubt of her affection.
I love you, Jamie.
What she dared not put into words, she breathed
into her kisses. And what he could not bring himself to say, she pretended to hear in his low sigh.
I love you. Rose.

It was many minutes before she noticed the sound of male voices in the steading and the dampness of the ground beginning to seep into her skirts. “Oh, me.” Flustered, she pushed back an abundance of wispy tendrils. “Jamie, perhaps we might … take a walk?”

“A worthy plan, dear wife.” He laughed with his eyes first and then low in his chest. “The rough bark of the yew has left an imprint on my back.” Jamie stood, then helped her to her feet and brushed the debris from their clothing. “Suppose we stroll round the gardens.”

He ran his hand lightly over her braid, then slipped his arm round her waist as together they emerged into the sunshine, greeted by the musical
chi-chi-chi
and bright plumage of a greenfinch on the wing. Above them shone a cloudless sky, painted a pale blue gray, like Ian’s eyes. Evidence of the recent rain was everywhere: The borders were as saturated as a sponge, creating puddles for them to dodge every few steps.

Jamie frowned at the unkempt rectangles of soil. “Auchengray’s gardens are not what they once were.”

“Eliza is too busy elsewhere.” Rose gestured at the rows of freshly turned earth still waiting for
neeps
, radishes, lettuce, and peas to be planted. “I fear we may not have many fresh vegetables this season. Meanwhile, Annabel is trying to learn how to spin wool, with limited success. Now that Leana is gone …” Rose silently chastised herself. She’d not intended to mention her sister, especially not to Jamie and especially not today. But Leana came to mind so often ’twas hard to avoid.

The entire household quietly mourned Leana’s absence—in the sewing room, the kitchen, the nursery, the stillroom, and in the gardens most of all. Weeds choked the beds where her gillyflowers grew, and her physic garden sorely needed tending. Leana’s chair in the dining room remained polished but seldom used. Her apron hung on a kitchen hook, gathering dust. Even Ian grew fretful at times, looking round as though he expected his mother to appear.

Last Tuesday Rose had run to the top of the stair, certain she’d heard Leana’s voice in the entrance hall. She’d been greatly disappointed—aye, and a tiny bit relieved—to discover a neighbor had come to call instead.

“Will she e’er return to Auchengray, Jamie?”

He did not answer her at once, but when he did, he sounded certain. “I do not believe she will. At least not until long after we’ve left for Glentrool.” A look of concern crossed his face. “You did write her, Rose, and tell her we would not be departing until Lammas?”

“My letter should arrive at her door by Monday.”

Jamie drew her to a stop at the edge of the rose beds, each shrub encircled with smooth rocks from Glensone Burn. Leana had doted on their mother’s roses—grinding bones for fertilizer, watering the roots when the rain did not, staking new plants in a well-sheltered corner where the wind could not reach them. Though Rose was named for her mother’s favorite flower, she did not care for their sharp thorns. Leana, however, loved every bloom: Maiden’s Blush, Rosa Mundi, and the white Musk climbing the stone wall.

And you, Rose.
Aye, Leana had nurtured her most of all.

Jamie tightened his arm round her, as if he sensed her shifting mood. “Do you miss your sister?”

She ran her fingertip across a firmly wrapped rosebud. “All of Auchengray does. Especially your son.” A familiar ache crept into her throat. “I know so little about children, Jamie. I fear I may never be the mother Leana was nor the mother Ian deserves.”

“That’s not so,” he countered, sounding as though he meant it. “I saw the look of wonder on your face the night he was born. You’ve cherished the lad from the first.” When she only nodded, he bent closer. “After Hogmanay you will have a child of your own. Two bairns who need you.”

“And a husband who needs me as well?”

Jamie kissed the hollow of her neck. “You can be sure of that.”

She leaned against his chest, so happy it made her lightheaded. “The sun is warm, and I’m feeling drowsy. Take me up the stair. Please?”

He escorted her withindoors, acknowledging the servants in passing. The house was quieter than usual; her father had departed for Edingham Farm after breakfast. “To inspect my future holdings,” Lachlan had said with a shrewd look in his eye. Rose was simply glad to have the man gone for the day.