Whence Came a Prince (46 page)

Rose gaped at him in astonishment. “Is
that
where the name comes from?”

“Do not let your husband tease you so.” Leana admonished Jamie with her eyes. “The parish is shaped like one. Hence, the name.”

Rose responded by sticking out her tongue.

Jamie trotted off, laughing. “Get thee to a kirk, lassie, and mend your ill-mannered ways.”

“Haud yer wheesht!”
Rose called after him, though her laugh equaled his.

“Sleep well, fair wife.” He lifted his hand in parting. “We’ll see you in the morn at your aunt’s cottage.”

Leana signaled the horses, sending the wagon forward. Such lively banter! Notably different than her own conversations with Jamie. With her, he was more serious. Thoughtful. Vulnerable. With Rose, Jamie matched his clever wit against her spirited nature. No wonder Jamie had chosen her sister from the first. Now that they were free to love each other without impediment, it was obvious that they did. Very much.

“Stop, Leana!”

Startled, she jerked the reins, bringing the horses to a ragged halt.

“There it is!” Rose pointed toward a cluster of buildings on the far side of the river. “Tongland kirk.”

They continued past the signpost for Culdoach Farm, then turned sharply and began their steep descent to the river. Leana paused short of the bridge, listening to see if they had the old stone bridge to them
selves, for the arch did not allow her to see the road beyond it. Gamely urging the horses across, she drove them into Tongland parish, then followed the road to a wooded glade, where the preaching house stood above the rushing waters of the Dee.

Rose climbed down before Leana could insist she wait for one of the maids to help her, then she yanked the tattered plaid round her shoulders.

Leana moved toward the edge of the driver’s seat. “Would you like me to pray with you?”

“Nae!” Her sister’s face went white. “You may pray
here
, of course.” She hastened toward the old kirk. “I shan’t be long.”

Leana watched her sister tug open the wooden door.
Poor Rose.
Expectant mothers did many a strange thing to ensure a safe delivery. Leana dutifully bowed her head and prayed for her sister’s health.

When Rose did not return at once, Leana bided her time studying the older building with its rectangular windows in the gable, topped with a birdcage belfry. The wall facing her was surrounded by well-worn rubble, as though it had been there much longer than the rest. Not uncommon in Galloway, where new kirks were built from the remains of previous ones—sometimes in the very same spot, sometimes a stone’s throw away. The ruins were left standing before God and man, roofless and abandoned, surrounded by gravestones long worn smooth by the elements.

The door swung open, and Rose appeared, led from the kirk by a crooked-back man full of years. The beadle, Leana guessed. He was chattering away like a magpie, while Rose slowed her steps to match his. Leana could see her sister was agitated, with her hands clutching her plaid and her eyes wide.

Leana tipped back her hat in greeting. “Who’s this you’ve found?”

“This is Mr. Lang!” Rose blurted out. “He can tell you all about the kirk. I … I’ve left something behind.” She turned and practically ran across the kirkyard, the door not closing behind her before she was out of doors again, looking greatly relieved.

Mr. Lang assisted Rose into the wagon and did indeed tell all four women more than they cared to know about the history of the parish kirk and the ancient thorns that marked the glebe boundary. When he
started describing the bridge over the Tarff Water leading to Twyneholm, Leana saw her chance.

“That is precisely where we’re bound, sir. You have our thanks for sharing your … store of knowledge. God be with you.” The horses moved at her command, and Mr. Lang’s gray head faded from view.

Rose sat wrapped in a silence thicker than her plaid. Leana slipped an arm round her sister and planted a light kiss on her forehead, then gently released her and guided the wagon onto the road bound west for Burnside Cottage.

“If there is something specific I might pray for, Rose. Something I might do …”

“Nae.” Her voice was small. “ ’Twill be over soon.”

“Our journey, you mean?”

Rose nodded but said nothing more.

The sharp tang of salt filled the moist air as they crossed a bridge no wider than their wagon and entered Twyneholm parish. Two more miles, most of it uphill, and they would reach the village. How good it would be to see Aunt Meg! She was not expecting them; there’d been no way to let her know they were coming. But she seldom vacated her cottage for long. Leana was certain that when they knocked on Burnside’s door, Meg would be there to welcome them.

Indeed she was.

“Leana? Och,
Rose!
Can it really be you?” Aunt Meg swept them through the door like pennies spilled from her purse, not wanting to miss a single one. “This must be Ian. What a braw wee lad! And who are these bright-eyed lassies? Such lovely red hair you have, dearie.”

Burnside Cottage was suddenly bursting with women. At Meg’s insistence, they each found a creepie or a stool or a chair. She, however, claimed Ian, who stared at the older woman with a look of confusion.

“Do you ken what you’re staring at, laddie? I’m your mother in forty years.” Aunt Meg winked at Leana. “She’ll be holding your sons and your grandsons the same way I’m holding you. With this silver hair and these blue gray eyes.”

Leana blinked away tears, amazed at the thought of holding her son’s children someday. Aye, even his
granbairns
, if she lived to see such
a blessing. When Ian began to fuss, Meg handed him over, then loosely embraced mother and child. “You look wonderful, Leana. How I’ve missed you.”

“And I you, Auntie.” Leana drank in her familiar scents: honey from her hives and coal from her cooking hearth and yeast from her baking. “We’d hoped to stay ’til the morn’s morn. Might we bide for one night?”

“Will you not stay two?” Meg looked them over, counting heads. “I’ve kept your hurlie bed made up just in case you hastened back to me, so we’ll put Rose in that. You can share my bed, Leana, and I’ve blankets and heather ticks for your maids. We’ll set up Ian’s crib in this corner, away from the window.”

The sleeping arrangements for her tiny cottage sorted out, Meg next saw to supper. Sharp cheese and oatcakes baked fresh that morning were served on her good silver plate, taken down from its place of honor over the hearth. Her table was so small that two women at a time took their turns eating supper. Rose excused herself to take a short walk—“for a bit of fresh air,” she said—and soon returned, flushed but smiling.

“Now that I’ve fed you properly,” Meg said, “and promised you a place to lay your head, I expect to be paid in full.” She held out her hand as if waiting for their coins. After an awkward moment, Meg cackled the way a woman of sixty years might. “Not in silver; mind you. In stories.”

Leana sagged to a chair in relief. “We have plenty of those. Why don’t you start, Rose? I’ll warrant you’ve an interesting tale to share. Has anything happened to you since we left Newabbey?”

“Someone else go first.” Rose’s smile faded. “I’m not … feeling well.”

D
rink this, dearie.”

Rose stared at the steaming cup of tea, wrinkling her nose at the bittersweet scent. “Betony, you say?”

“From the old Celtic words meaning ‘good for the head.’ ” Leana pushed the cup closer. “ ’Tis said to calm the nerves and chase away fear. I’ve only given you a bittie of it in your tea, Rose. When it comes time to deliver your babe, we’ll see you have plenty.”

They sat across from each other at Aunt Meg’s table, the first light of morning filtering through the curtains. Round the cottage the others were still fast asleep, burying their heads beneath their plaids to escape the dawn. Leana often awakened early; Rose seldom did. Fear, like a rooster’s crow, had stirred her from bed.

It was Tuesday.

Half the gold was blessedly gone. Four heavy bundles, each the size of a man’s fist, remained hidden in the wooden cradle with the dreaded gold cord. Yestreen’s furtive visit to Twyneholm kirk had unfolded more smoothly than the earlier one to Tongland. Och, that Mr. Lang! When his gray head had popped up from behind the pews he’d been cleaning, Rose had almost swooned. Did he discover the coins soon after they’d departed? Might he try to learn who’d left such a fortune for the poor of Tongland? Please God, he would
not.

The same errand in Twyneholm had been easier to manage. Having worshiped in the parish before, she remembered precisely where the collection box rested. She’d climbed the hill from her aunt’s cottage, then crept inside the empty kirk, deposited the coins, and returned to
Burnside Cottage before anyone missed her. Though it would be easier to leave all the gold in one place, such a sum might also catch a sheriff’s attention.

It was Morna Douglas’s treasure too, she reminded herself. On that count, Rose felt very guilty indeed. She consoled herself with the thought that, in her father’s keeping, the money would have been as far beyond the woman’s reach as it was in the Twyneholm parish poor box.

Rose hid behind her teacup, certain no one suspected a thing. Not even her sister.

“When Father finds out …” Leana began, sending Rose’s heart into her throat. “When he realizes we’ve all left Auchengray, which do you suppose will vex him more: Jamie taking the lambs that were rightfully his or Duncan making that possible?”

Rose waited for her wildly beating heart to ease.
Neither one, my sister.
She knew what would vex Father most.

“Dearie?” Leana reached across the table to brush back a tendril of her hair. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You’ve not been yourself since we left Auchengray. Deliriously happy one moment,
dowly
the next. Are you … in pain, Rose?”

Aye.
She hung her head.
More than you know.

Leana said nothing for a moment, though Rose still felt the light touch of her hand against her hair, comforting her. “I am concerned for your health and that of your bairn. Though Twyneholm village has no physician, Aunt Meg tells me a midwife resides not three doors down. Would you mind if we asked her to examine you? Just to be certain?”

All at once Rose felt lightheaded and queasy. When Dr. Gilchrist had examined her throat, she’d nearly fainted from the pain. “Will she … will it … hurt?”

“You’ll find no gender hands than a midwife’s,” Leana assured her. “Once the others are busy nibbling on bannocks to break their fast, we’ll pay a visit to Aggie McNeil’s cottage. Trust your older sister in this: You’ve nothing to fear.”

Rose slowly lifted her head.
I have everything to fear.

“Aggie has delivered many a bairn.” Aunt Meg beamed at the neighbor not much younger than she. “Folk say she’s the finest
howdie
in three parishes.”

Rose sat in the woman’s cottage, her knees pressed together to keep them from shaking. Her apprehension was somewhat eased the longer she regarded Aggie McNeil. On the brief walk from Burnside, Rose had pictured a wizened auld woman like Lillias Brown living in an eerie bothy full of
eldritch
herbs. Instead Aggie was clean scrubbed and tidy. So was her one-room cottage. Perhaps the midwife might be trusted.

“Come, Mistress McKie.” Aggie smiled, her face as round as her body, her cheeks firm and smooth, like a well-fed bairn. “This will not take long.” She motioned Rose toward a hard-backed chair. “Sit here, if you please.”

Rose did as she was told, grateful when Leana stood beside her clasping one hand and Aunt Meg the other. Aggie pulled up a chair and sat across from her, then lightly placed her hands on Rose’s belly, bending her pepper-colored hair closer. For a moment naught was heard in the room but the stiff fabric of Rose’s gown being massaged by the woman’s hands as she followed the contours of her womb.

“ ’Tis your fourth month?”

Rose exhaled with a smile. “Aye.” It seemed Aggie knew her craft well. “Though I’ve not felt any movement yet.”

“ ’Twill not be much longer.” Aggie’s face grew still. She leaned forward as though listening for something.

Rose regarded her with awe. “Can you … hear my babe?”

The midwife laughed softly. “ ’Tis not your child I’m listening for. ’Tis the Lord. Sometimes he gives me a … sense of things.” She shrugged, making light of her gift, but Rose knew better. Aggie had a goodness about her. Like Neda. Like Leana. A measure of grace not meted out to many.

Meg prompted her. “What sort of things, Aggie?”

“When the bairn might be born. Whether ’tis a lad or a lass.”

Rose exchanged glances with Leana, then confessed, “My sister is certain she bears a girl. And I believe I’m carrying a boy.”

“A mother who kens such things is usually right.” Aggie pressed
Rose’s middle again, more firmly this time. Her features, drawn into a knot, suddenly gave way to a smile. “Tell me, Mistress McKie: Would you mind two sons?”

“Twins?”
Rose could barely say the word. “Are you … certain?”

“Think of it, Rose!” Leana squeezed her hand. “We’d each have two children.”

Aunt Meg’s grin was so broad it threatened to reach her ears. “Do you remember coming to Burnside Cottage one December week and drinking water from the kirk burn?”

“Aye,” Rose breathed, not remembering it at all. Could the midwife be right?
Oh, Jamie. Twin sons!

“As I told you then, Twyneholm parish had five pairs of twins in two years. You have the burn water to thank, lass.”

Aggie laughed. “ ’Tis her husband, not the water, she ought to thank.”

Leana reminded them, “Jamie is a twin.”

“Well, there you are.” Aggie leaned back, a look of satisfaction on her face.

“And all his ewes bore twins this spring,” Rose said, “though I don’t suppose that matters.”

The other women laughed as Aggie patted Rose’s cheek. “It mattered to the ewes that gave birth to them. I do wish I could attend you when your time comes. Your husband’s family will ken a fine howdie in Monnigaff.”