Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  The atmosphere suited her unsetded mood. At dawn a knot of apprehension had settled in her stomach, tightening as the morning dragged on. An inkling of something about to occur, something close to home, would not leave her in peace. What it might be, she could not fathom. Perhaps it was naught but a change in the weather.

  Spying a few apples just beyond reach, she moved up another rung on her ladder, drinking in the view as she did. Her beloved Auchengray stretched around her, its fields burnished the color of antique gold. Three miles east stood the village of Newabbey with its cozy cottages and parish kirk that greeted the McBrides every Sabbath. The western horizon hung thick with rain that would soon water the elegant walled gardens of Maxwell Park. To the north stretched hilly woods of oak and ash, elm and beech, and, farther still, the bustling streets of Dumfries. Leana knew, without turning around, what loomed behind her: Tannock Hill and, beyond it, Criffell, rising nearly two thousand feet from shore to summit, dominating the Solway coast. Many a sailor claimed to have spied diamonds sparkling among Criffells rocky crags, but no gem-stones had ever been found, as often as the more ambitious among them had searched.

  The distant bleating of sheep echoed across the hills, magnified by the hollowness of the air before the coming storm. The low clouds seemed close enough to touch. Leana craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the flocks and her sister, Rose. Overseeing all of Auchengray and its flocks was Duncan Hastingss responsibility. But Rose, who couldn't bear to remain indoors a moment longer than necessary, invariably found some excuse to join the seasoned shepherd at his labors.

  Leana, with her pale skin and sensitive eyes, stayed safely inside and away from the suns glare. She tended her gardens at dawn when fog and mist offered a cloak of protection, then spent the balance of her daylight hours spinning wool or embroidering linen, squinting through her dreadful spectacles. She knew full well that her younger sister thought her overly cautious. “Shame on you for hiding in the house, Leana!” Rose had chided her recendy. “You're much too timorsome for a McBride.” Perhaps she was timid, but only compared to the bold and fearless Rose.

  There were other differences between the sisters, some less obvious than the color of their eyes or the five years that separated them. Rose disliked routine; Leana thrived on it. Rose found a new interest every week; Leana was content with her gardening season after season. Rose maintained an ever-shifting collection of friends; Leana found quiet companionship among her borrowed books and occasional visits from Jessie Newall, a young married lass from a neighboring farm. Despite their differences, the sisters were as close as two rosebuds on the same thorny stem, bound together with a loyalty born of love and utter trust.

  Leana climbed down the rickety ladder, grateful to have her feet on solid ground once more, and lifted the two heavy baskets of apples, pleased at the heft of them. If there were currants and cinnamon enough in the larder, their housekeeper, Neda Hastings, would see to it that fresh pies appeared on tomorrows table and the next day as well. Leana hurried toward the kitchen door, the first drop of rain stinging her neck. Maybe Rose would help pare the apples or roll out the crust. Or maybe not.

  Just beyond the cherry trees, a peal of laughter rang out. Seconds later Rose bounded into view, her thick, black braid bouncing behind her. “Leeeannaaahhh!” she sang, twirling about in the stiff breeze, arms lifted to embrace the coming rain.

  As Leana watched Rose gambol about like a lamb finding its footing, she felt a catch in her throat. Dean dear Rose. Even at fifteen she was still a child. Her own child in many ways. A strong need to protect her younger sister swelled inside Leana like the Solway tide rushing to shore. Rose was so impetuous, even careless at times, blind to the dangers of the world beyond Auchengrays whitewashed walls. It was that very innocence that made her utterly charming. And wholly vulnerable.

  “I've missed dinner, haven't I?” Rose laughed again, flinging open the back door with abandon, her eyes twinkling. “Naughty Rose, as usual. Father will kill me. Or you might.”

  Leana grinned and shook her head, carting the harvested fruit over the threshold. “No one would dream of doing such a thing, Rose.” As she deposited the apples on the stone floor, she murmured, “Do keep your voice down though. Father's expecting company and will not take kindly to your roarie ways.”

  Rose sniffed dramatically. “No noisier than usual.”

  “As you say.” Leana tugged her sisters braid with genuine affection. “Upstairs with you now. See to your filthy hands and face.”

  “Mothering me again, are you?”

  “My favorite task,” Leana assured her, gently prodding her forward. “Every girl needs a mother, Rose. Neda stepped in to mother me years ago and later gave me the happy task of doing the same for you.”

  “But I dont need—”

  “Wheesht!” Leana lifted a finger to her lips in warning. “I hear voices in the spence. Away with you, and not another word.” She watched Rose grab her skirts and disappear up the steps, lower lip protruding in a decided pout. Bless the girl, she would recover her good spirits by the time she rounded the bend on the stair.

  Leana turned instinctively toward the mens voices, curiosity drawing her to the closed door. Who'd come to call on such a weatherful day? Her father's prudent ways and shrewd manner—bordering on dishonest, some whispered—made him the most successful bonnet laird in the shire, earning him the begrudging respect of the local gentry. A prosperous farmer and landowner, Lachlan had once merely worked the land, as Duncan now did, with a common wool cap known as a Scotch bonnet perched on his head. When Lachlan purchased Auchengray from the heritor some ten years past, his worn bonnet had given way to the three-cornered black hat of a gendeman. A man in his position might welcome anyone into his home, from lowly peasant to Lord Maxwell himself. One such person spoke with her father now…but who?

  She stood outside the door, ears straining to hear. Strong winds whistling between the panes and ratding the shutters nearly drowned out the muted conversation in the spence. The family spent most of their waking hours in the larger living room, while the adjoining spence, a small parlor, was used for entertaining privileged guests. It held the best pieces of furniture, including her father's bed, as was the custom. The only drawback was the rooms shallow hearth. When guests arrived, a wee stove with a bit of lighted turf inside served as a footstool, keeping their feet warm if nothing else.

  But which guest, Leana wanted to know. Giving in to temptation, she leaned her ear against the wood just as the winds subsided and Lachlan McBride's sonorous voice carried through the door.

  “My daughter Leana is the backbone of this household.”

  A warm glow filled her cheeks. Her father seldom spoke so kindly about her.

  “Aye, I ken she's a hard worker, Mr. McBride.”

  A familiar voice. Older. Someone from the next parish, though his name evaded her. And what were they doing discussing her so freely? She pressed closer, straining to hear what else the mysterious neighbor might say.

  “I've oft thought of how useful the lass might be at Nethercarse.”

  Useful*‘She backed away from the door, stunned. Was she no more than a servant to be hired away at Martinmas? Certainly not. In any case she'd hardly welcome a visit to Nethercarse, a large but dreary farm in Kirkbean parish with a herd of shilpit cattle. They'd passed it many a time on the road to the Solway coast, the property poorly marked by a battered sign on a crumbling stone gate.

  “But Leana is also useful here at Auchengray.” Her fathers voice sounded stern, almost defiant. “As it stands, I find your proposal unacceptable.”

  Her heart fluttered. Proposal?

  On the other side of the door, Lachlan cleared his throat importantly. “Unless, that is, you truly…ah, value her many talents. Do I make myself clear? Come up with a more generous offer, Mr. McDougal, or I canna even consider it.”

  McDougal Leana sank to her knees, her right shoulder sagging against the wood.

  “You're a
canny man, Mr. McBride,” she heard the man grumble. “Always thinking of filling your thrifite, aren't you?”

  “My money box is my business, Mr. McDougal. And so is my daughter.”

  Fergus McDougal She'd seen him at market. He was past forty and looked older still—a dried-up, ill-fashioned farmer who'd worked his first wife into an early grave, leaving him with a house to manage and three growing children to feed. A widower, like her father. It seemed the men understood each other. Fergus McDougal needed a housekeeper and a governess, but a wife came cheaper. And Lachlan McBride needed silver more than he needed a daughter. Silver that would buy more sheep, expand his holdings, impress his neighbors.

  “Make another offer come Monday,” her father said. “I'll be expecting you.”

  Leana touched her hand to her throat, as though holding back all she might say, and felt her pulse pound against her trembling fingers. She was ready to marry, but not like this. A woman should marry for love. Not for money, nor for pride. And not Fergus McDougal. Please God, no.

  The sudden scrape of chairs against the stone floor startled Leana to her feet. She darted through the living room, hearing the door behind her unlatch at the very moment she turned down the hall toward the kitchen. Breathless with fear and dread, she stumbled into the kitchen and found Neda, head of their household servants, calmly plucking a chicken.

  “Neda,” Leana managed between gulps of air. “Father is…well, he's…”

  “Talking to Fergus McDougal, I ken.” Neda yanked out another fistful of feathers. “Probably seein if that miserly man will sell him some dairy cows. Mr. McDougal is a man of means, though ye canna tell by the look of him.” She dropped the feathers into a basket by her feet, shaking her head as she did. “That farther of yers niver tires of makin a bargain, does he?”

  “Nae.” Leana groaned, sinking onto a three-legged stool. “He doesn't.”

  Three

  Fathers by their children are undone.

  WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE

  Father will kill me. Or at the least disown me.”

  “Jamie, think!” His mother threw her hands into the air, her patience clearly worn thin from days of pleading her case.

  Jamie had done a good deal of thinking. In particular, he'd thought about how angry his father would be when he realized he'd blessed the wrong son—if the plan even succeeded, which he greatly doubted— and how furious his brother would be when he discovered his blessing had been stolen.

  His mothers thoughts, on the other hand, were centered on his fathers appetite. Standing in Glentrools great stone kitchen, an apron tied over her good linen dress, Rowena McKie had spent most of the morning doing what she did best: marshaling dinner. Crocks of freshly churned butter and ripe cheese stood at attention. Baskets bearing the seasons last harvest of beetroot and peas awaited further orders. Inside the brick oven nestled beside the massive hearth, fresh bread had passed muster and had baked to a crusty, golden brown.

  Though Glentrool boasted a cook imported from Marseilles and a bevy of servants, his mother was happiest overseeing important meals herself. As a girl of seventeen, she'd studied the domestic arts in Dumfries, preparing herself for the day when a manor house would be hers to command. Her training was evident; she'd gone to great pains for an ordinary Saturday dinner. But then, Jamie reminded himself, this was no ordinary meal. Before it was over, he would be laird. Or he would be dead. When he mentioned that possibility to his mother, she lost what remained of her fine temper.

  “Och! When has Alec McKie ever lifted a finger against his own blood? Never, that's when.” She snapped her fingers at the cooks helper, who in turn poked at the meat roasting on the spit. “Is it done, Betty? Seasoned to Mr. McKie's liking?”

  Aubert Billaud, their pernickitie French cook, had long since abandoned his post in a huff, leaving Betty to fend for herself. Her red hair gathered up in a tidy knot, her face and hands freckled by the sun, the buxom lass kept her opinions to herself and merely nodded.

  Rowena left nothing to chance. “A pinch of nutmeg, a pinch of mace, aye?”

  “More than a pinch, Mistress McKie.”

  “Good. I've no further need of you then. Leave me to serve my husband.”

  Bettys eyes widened. “But, mistress—”

  “Away with you! A wife can serve her husband a meal if she takes the notion, can't she?”

  Jamie bit his tongue. When his mother boiled hot as Scotch broth, arguing with her was poindess. The girl quit the room without another word, her bare feet soundless on the flagstone floor. He watched the door latch behind her skirts and envied her escape.

  “You chose well,” his mother commented, nodding at the meat. “Two goats will hardly be missed among five thousand sheep.” She moved about the hearth, stirring the various pots that hung over the fire, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. “We've tatties and neeps to serve with the meat and claret to wash it down. Your father's appetite should be more than sated.”

  Eying the generous portions, he imagined all the calamities the hour ahead might hold. “Potatoes and turnips won't hide the fact that this is not venison.” He stared at her pointedly. “And that I'm Jamie, not Evan.”

  She met his gaze, then held it. Held it for so long he wondered if she would ever answer his charge. “If he asks, tell him it was a doe,” she said evenly. “A young one. The flavor is milder.”

  His stomach sank. “Must I tell tales about the meat as well?”

  “Aye, you must!” The spoon in her hand hit the edge of the iron pot with a sharp crack. “Are you so daft that you cannot feel disaster nipping at your heels? Your brothers roebuck is already hanging in the meat cellar, cleaned and skinned, hours away from your fathers table.”

  “Mother, I'm—”

  “Hours, Jamie!” She pointed her spoon toward a pile of green shallots wrapped in a cloth, her hand trembling. “See those? Your brothers wretched wife picked them this morning, then strolled into my kitchen and announced, ‘Mr. McKie likes shallots with his venison.’ As if I dont know how my own husband likes his game!” Her voice, stretched tight as a hunter's bow, nearly broke. “That donsie woman is counting the minutes until her husband is the future laird of Glentrool and she its mistress.”

  Rowena despised her daughter-in-law. “Inferior English stock,” she'd grumbled under her breath on Evan's wedding day. Judith was a Cumberland lass, a Sassenach from the south. That was enough for their mother. The girl was not to be admired or trusted for any reason. Jamie didn't much care for his sister-in-law's simpering, affected manner either but surprised himself by rising to her defense.

  “Judith would never do such a thing.”

  “Now who's telling tales?” His mother exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as if she bore a heavy burden. “Son, if you have any regard for me or for Glentrool…”

  It was a constant refrain. He had no choice but to answer, “You know that I do.”

  She circled the table, closing the gap between them. “Then you must go through with this, Jamie.” She touched his arm, and her features softened. “Would that I'd told your father that you were the firstborn from the very beginning and spared this day's deceptions.”

  “Would that you had,” he agreed and meant it. “Too bad the midwife didn't tie a red string round my wrist like that babe in the Buik.”

  “Litde help a scarlet thread would've been.” She brushed a stubborn clump of hair back from his brow, then patted his cheek. “We'd have lost sight of it in your brother's red locks.”

  Evan and James. One red and woolly, one dark and smooth. Two brothers cut from altogether separate bolts of cloth. But only one could be hailed as McKie of Glentrool.

  He turned to watch her wresde the meat off the spit and onto a serving platter and knew the time had come to slip into his older brother's identity and spirit away his blessing. It was unthinkable. Unforgivable. Yet do it he would. For his mothers sake, aye, but for his own sake as well. Glentrool was more than land and livestock; it was
his lifeblood.

  Jamie asked her the one question that had haunted him for days. “How will I ever look Father in the eye again?”

  She lifted her chin and offered a rueful smile. “Your father can't look any of us in the eye, blind as he is. That's why this scheme of mine will work.” Glancing briefly at the door to the dining room, she added, “The day is gray and dreich, the fire dying, the room smoky with peat. Stay at arm's length, and keep your voice low, like your brother's.” She finished arranging the vegetables around the goat meat, then rinsed her hands in a bowl of water and dried them on her apron before she pulled it off and discarded it in a basket of dirty linens. “Your father will smell Evan's hunting plaid on you, reeking of moss and heather, and be thoroughly convinced.” She paused to adjust the woolen fabric draped across his shoulder, wrinkling her nose as she did. “When he tastes your seasoned meat, prepared just the way he likes it, your father will know without any doubt whatsoever that you're his beloved heir.”

  Jamie took a deep breath, wishing he could inhale her confidence, then glanced down at his hands. The hands of a gendeman, not a hunter. A terrible prospect gripped him. “What if Father touches me? My skin is smooth, and Evan's is—”

  “Birsie. I remembered that in the dark of the night and nigh to fainted ‘til I thought of something. Here.” She thrust a small, furry bundle at him. “These should do.”

  He unfolded a pair of crudely fashioned goatskin gloves and brushed his hands over them in disbelief. “What sort of swickerie is this?” The fur was a dingy white, not bright red like the hair that covered Evan's arms and hands, but the color was of no consequence. Clever woman. He didn't need to ZwHike his brother. He needed to feel like him. Though clearly made in haste, the snug gloves fit over his fingers like a second skin. He stuffed the ragged edges inside his cuffs, then stretched out his hands. “Mistress McKie, you amaze me.”