Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  She seemed pleased with the results and touched his gloved hands to be sure. “They'll do. You'll see. Once he has eaten your food and blessed your head…” A slight shrug of her shoulders finished her thoughts. “He'll not be sorry, Jamie.”

  “When he discovers I'm not Evan, Father will be more than sorry. He'll be furious. And no wonder.” Disgusted with himself, he snatched off the gloves and flung them on the floor. It was wrong, every deceiving bit of it. No matter how much he wanted to claim his father's blessing, he could not steal it and take pleasure in it as well. “He will banish me from Glentrool and curse the day I was born.”

  Rowena's eyes grew black as midnight. “Then let him curse the woman who bore you.”

  “Mother! You don't know what you're saying.”

  “Aye, I most certainly do!” A hint of color moved across her cheeks. “I also knew the will of God when I heard it.” She retrieved the gloves with a hasty swipe and pressed them firmly into his hands. “Remember what I've told you all these years?”

  He mumbled a phrase she'd repeated more often than bore counting. Words that his mother insisted came from the Almighty himself and not from a mere midwife. The older will serve the younger. How many times had he soothed himself with that promise when Evan sent him to bed with bruises? Or thrown them in Evan's face when his older sibling had bested him at hawking? The time had come to test the prophecy made long ago in the glen of his birth. A glen that would become his inheritance within the hour, if his courage would hold.

  “The howdie told me to be ready.” Rowena wrapped the warm bread in a cloth and tucked it beneath his arm. “And so I am. The table is set with pewter, glass, and claret. Your father is waiting for his dinner.” She lowered her voice to a faint whisper. “You want this, Jamie. I know you do. Now go.”

  Four

  The bow is bent, the arrow flies,

  The winged shaft of fate.

  IRA ALDRIDGE

  Jamie gripped the platter of meat and strode toward the dining room j door with his brothers plaid tighdy pinned to his shoulder and his hands covered with the skin of an innocent goat. His mother knew him far too well. Right or wrong, he did want Glentrool. Would lie for it. Steal for it. Beg for it, if it came to that.

  His mother opened the door enough for him to slide past, then latched it securely behind him without a word. No going back. Only forward, toward his father, seated in the place of honor at the head of the long table. Jamie paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust after the bright firelight of the kitchen. The room was square, the beams darkened by peat smoke, the walls covered with dingy portraits of McKie ancestors from decades past. One shuttered window offered a meager light, guiding him forward, closer to the man whose name he bore.

  The patriarchs gray head hung low, his chin resting on his once broad chest, now sunken with age. Slender fingers gripped the arms of his chair. His elbows jutted out, as though any minute he might rise to his feet. His clothes were clean though long out of fashion, the plaid wrapped around his bony shoulders faded and worn. The old man waited, unmoving, for his dinner.

  Jamie swallowed whatever pride he had left.

  “Father?”

  Alec McKies head shot up, his unseeing eyes searching the room nonetheless. “Who is it?”

  “Its…Evan. Your firstborn.” Jamie nearly choked on the bitter lie, then forced himself to speak again, keeping his voice low and gruff like his brothers. “I've brought the venison you asked for. So…so that you 11 bless me, as you promised.”

  Och! What a fool he was, blurting it out like that. Goat meat or venison, it no longer mattered. He'd given himself away with his too-eager words. Standing at the far end of the table, he gripped the heavy platter and waited for the inevitable. The mantel clock ticked loudly in the silent room, matching each heartbeat thumping in his chest.

  His father cleared his throat with a gurgling cough. “You mean to tell me you've managed to hunt this deer, clean it, skin it, gut it, and hang it to a high flavor, all in so few days? How is that possible, my son?”

  Jamie closed his eyes. It was useless to pray. He would seek mercy later. “The Almighty guided my bow.”

  “Is that so?” His father lifted his head, squinting at him in the dim light, his rheumy eyes unfocused.

  Between the gray mist curling through the cracks around the window and the thickening peat smoke, even Jamie couldn't see clearly. He studied his father's features as best he could. Was the old man suspicious or merely curious? Before Jamie could decide, his father urged him forward with a feeble wave.

  “Come closer, Son. Let me touch the hands of a hunter.”

  Heat rushed to Jamie's face. Evans hands, he means. He put the platter aside and moved toward his father, balling his gloved fists in agony. Why on earth had he listened to his mother? He should have let her make a fool of herself, let her risk everything. Such regrets were useless now. He was standing before his father, and he was still Evan, if only for a moment longer. He bent over and rested his fingers on his father's sleeve, holding his breath as the man lighdy patted the top of his hairy glove.

  “I must confess, lad, your voice sounds more like young Jamie. But these are Evan's hands, no doubt of that.”

  Jamie nearly groaned with relief. No doubt. He rose, quickly withdrawing his touch.

  “A pity to be so blind that I cannot see my own blessed son.” His father's tone was gruffly teasing when he added, “You are Evan, aren't you?

  Jamie closed his eyes in shame. “I am.”

  The man nodded, as though satisfied. “Enough of this chatter. Bring me your venison. I've been tormented by the fine smell long enough.”

  Jamie turned to reclaim the platter from the sideboard, then placed the steaming meat on the table. He watched, teeth gritted, as his father leaned forward and hung his prominent nose over the offering. Surely the smell would be his undoing. His father would realize it was goat meat and guess the rest. But the old man said nothing as he stabbed at the food with his fork and poked it into his mouth with eager anticipation.

  His father chewed several bites in a row, then shook his head. “Something is missing,” he muttered, piercing yet another hunk of meat.

  “M-missing?”

  His father clinked at his empty glass with the blade of his horn-handled knife. “Something for an old man to drink. Or were you hoping I might choke to death on this roebuck of yours?”

  “Sorry, Father.” With a less than steady hand, Jamie poured a glass of the claret that his mother had opened earlier. His own dry throat longed for a taste of the dark red liquid. Instead he dutifully sat in a straight-backed chair by the door and let his father eat in peace, as was the man's custom, the silence punctuated by an occasional grunted request for more of this or that.

  When Alec McKie unwrapped the kitchen cloth to discover fresh bread waiting for him, he grinned like a child just served syllabub. “Bread to celebrate, is it?” he crowed, tearing the loaf in two with glee. The McKie household was unaccustomed to bread, wheat being scarce in Scotland. Oatcakes or barley bannocks were the usual fare. His father's gnarled hands worked the soft bread through the meat juices, then tucked the sopping mess into his mouth with obvious delight.

  Jamie fingered Evans plaid through his gloves, grateful to draw a deep breath for the first time in nearly a week. It grieved him to admit it, but his mothers plan was working. She'd insisted her husbands appetite would overrule his common sense and all his other senses as well. And she'd been right.

  Jamie reminded himself that it was not the first time he'd served a meal with less than honorable intent. As a lad of fourteen, he'd been about to eat a hearty bowl of barley broth when his brother staggered into the house, famished from a long afternoon of stretching arrows across his bow. Evan demanded his bowl of broth, and Jamie struck a bargain with his hungry brother: “Swear that I'm the older, and you can have my broth.”

  “Who cares who's older?” Evan fumed. “Just give me your broth before I starve
to death.”

  Jamie circled the bowl with his arms, as though guarding it. “Swear first.”

  Evan spat out an oath, then threw himself into a chair and pulled up to the table, thrusting out his hands with an ugly sneer. “Give it to me, and be quick about it.”

  Jamie remembered serving the broth with fresh bannocks and a victor's smile. Nothing tasted better than beating his brother, whatever the game. In those days Evan didn't care who inherited Glentrool. Perhaps his brother's foolish bargain of a decade past would prove useful on this grim day. Jamie would take any favor providence might care to bestow. The ruse was not quite finished. He had yet to get what he came for.

  His father leaned back in his chair with a satisfied belch. “A gustie fine meal, that.” He threw out his arms in a welcoming embrace. “Come now, Son. You've done your part. Time I did mine.”

  Jamie scrambled to his feet, uncertain of what was expected of him. “Sir?”

  “Kiss my cheek, then let me give you my blissin.”

  Ignoring the uneasy knot in his stomach, Jamie knelt beside his father's chair and leaned into his embrace, pressing his lips against the man's dry, leathery cheek. Suddenly the mantel clock began to chime the hour. One. Two. Three. Starded, Jamie yanked his head back as a shiver of fear skipped along his spine. His brothers voice and hands were deception enough. A false kiss went beyond the pale.

  His father, oblivious to all but what he chose to believe, squeezed the aromatic plaid around Jamie's shoulders. “Aye, this is my beloved heir. Smelling like the moors and mountains of Glentrool, which Almighty God made long before the first McKie fought to claim it. God himself knew that one day it would all be yours, my son.” His fathers eyes filled with tears as he laid his wizened hand on Jamie's head.

  The weight of it nearly crushed him. He longed to cry out the truth, to be spared the guilt growing inside him. No, Father! It's Jamie. Look and see before it's too late!

  It was already too late. Alec McKie had risen to his feet, using his other hand to steady his tottering legs. His voice was surprisingly strong, his words utterly sure. “May Almighty God bless you, my son. May he bless your land with rain and sun, your flocks and herds with abundant grazing. May your brother be subject to you and all Glentrool look to you as their laird. Cursed be anyone who curses you. And blessed be all who bless you.”

  Jamie trembled beneath the man's touch, letting the words he'd waited a lifetime to hear sink deep into his soul. Never mind that they were his by proxy. They were his, forever. His father had blessed him, had deemed him worthy to bear the hallowed name McKie.

  “Thank you, Father,” he whispered in response, straightening to look into his father's face, praying his sire might know the truth after all. The eyes were open but unseeing, the face smiling yet aimed at some distant point across the room.

  It was then Jamie heard voices coming from outside the house. Evan. Judith. His mother, sounding frantic. Had they been there long? This much was clear: They were headed in his direction.

  “I must go.” Jamie tried to sound calm, bolting to his feet and gathering the remains of dinner with little grace. “I…1 will do my best to honor your blessing.” Plate and silver in hand, he hurried to the door that led to the kitchen. To freedom, he hoped. To escape. At the last he turned to watch his father drop back into his chair, confusion etched on the patriarchs features. Jamie called across the room, neglecting to lower his voice. “Forgive me, Father. Forgive me for…leaving so quickly.”

  Jamie yanked open the door, pressing his armful of dishes against the borrowed plaid, soiling it further. The kitchen was blessedly empty. He discarded the remains of dinner and tossed the musty plaid aside, his mind racing.

  Two rooms away familiar voices drew closer, and the front door shut with a sharp bang.

  Five

  The sky is changed!—and such a change! O night,

  And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong.

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  Aloud crack of thunder rumbled through Rose McBrides open bedroom window, rattling the panes and her nerves as well. Throwing aside her woolen coverlet, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and hurried barefoot across the room. To her dismay, the rain had already drenched the curtains. Och! What a nuisance!” She thrust one arm into the downpour and yanked the casement sash closed.

  Patting herself dry with the hem of her nightgown, Rose shivered in the darkness as she watched the rain pelt against the glass at a sharp angle. Sheep bleated in the distance, a pitiful sound like lost children calling for their mother. “Hush now, wee ones.” Rose peered out into the inky night, knowing they were safe yet worrying nonetheless. Auchengrays flocks were accustomed to copious amounts of wet Scottish weather, but thunder and lightning were another matter. There was naught to be done but wait for the storm to run its noisy course and hope the morning would bring a warm October sun and drier skies.

  Rose gathered her damp nightgown around her and climbed back into her box bed, grateful for its cozy warmth. Built into the wall, the enclosed bed had three solid sides and a fourth that opened into the room. She closed her bed curtains, then burrowed deep into the folds of wool, already feeling sleepy again, when a second thunderclap stopped her heart for a full beat. “Hoot!” she fumed, slapping her hands on the covers. Would she never get a decent nights rest?

  Her ears perked up at the sound of soft footsteps in the hall outside her door. Someone else was awake. Leana. A gende knock on the door followed.

  “Come in,” Rose whispered, loud enough so her sister might hear but their father would not. Lachlan McBride did not take kindly to midnight disturbances.

  The door creaked as she opened the bed curtains. Leana glided in, bearing a candle that lit her womanly features, now decorated with a smile. “I knew you couldn't sleep through such a clamor.”

  “Youre right, as always.” Rose patted the edge of her bed, making room for company. “Sit you down,” she said, which Leana did, easing onto the heather mattress.

  Five years older and many shades paler, Leana was in some ways her mirror image, in others her complete opposite. They were the same unremarkable shape and size. Not too tall, not too short, not too round, not too thin. The same wavy hair fell down to their elbows, more sparse than they both liked but easily dressed. The same slender hands and feet graced their limbs.

  By the light of day, those similarities shrank to nothing. Only their striking differences caught the eyes of their neighbors. Her shiny black mane and Leanas colorless one. Her dark eyes, which every man noticed, and Leanas grayish blue ones, which nigh to vanished in a certain light. Her rosy lips and Leanas full but wan smile. The two sisters were sunlight and shadow, summer and winter. As one blossomed, the other seemed to wither. Rose could no more explain it than she could take credit for it.

  Leana glanced at the rain-streaked window. “The sheep will be fine, wont they?”

  “You know they will.”

  “And what of you, my little sister?” Leana leaned closer, examining her. “Rose, you look unwell.”

  She jerked her chin, embarrassed by such scrutiny. She'd been feeling a bit feverish all day, but what of it? “A good nights sleep will cure whatever ails me. No need to concern yourself.”

  Leana regarded her evenly. “Is that a hint you're dropping?”

  “I'm saying I don't need you to fuss over me, Leana.”

  Her older sister abrupdy stood. “And so I shan't.”

  “Corne now, Leana. No need to get all kittlie” The woman was too sensitive by half, and Rose knew all her tender spots. She tugged on the sleeve of Leana's nightgown. “Stay with me until the storm passes.”

  Leana setded onto the bed, her face pointed toward the window. Neither spoke for a full minute, listening to the tempest raging outside Auchengray's whitewashed walls.

  In the flickering candlelight, Rose studied her sisters profile and was struck anew by how much older Leana looked now than at the start of summer. A woman thro
ugh and through, ready for marriage and motherhood. More than ready. Their father had yet to find a suitor worthy of Leana, or so he said. Rose saw through his subterfuge. With no wife under his roof and no more guineas in his ledger for yet another housemaid, their father wanted efficient Leana to himself. To tend the kitchen garden and spin the coarse wool from their blackface sheep and stir prunes into his cock-a-leekie soup.

  Rose feared it might be the same for her in a few years. Auchengray needed her skilled hands with the flocks, her gende touch with the horses. Most of the local gentry made certain their daughters were engaged in more genteel pursuits—painting on glass, making wax flowers, writing letters, and playing whist—but not their father. He saw no reason for his daughters to lead a life of leisure when their able hands spared him from hiring more servants. If either of the girls ever married, their husbands would be forced to pay handsomely, Rose was certain of that.

  Let some son of a Galloway farmer steal one of his daughters for a song? Not Lachlan McBride. Not this year. Not any year.

  “It wasn't the thunder that woke me,” Leana finally confessed, fingers picking absendy at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I haven't slept a wink.”

  “You?” She was dumbfounded. Leana was the soundest of sleepers.

  “I couldn't help it, dearie.” Leana didn't meet her gaze, staring instead at the window as lightning tore a ragged gash in the night sky. “Remember, our father had a visitor yestreen.”

  Not just any visitor it seemed. “Do you mean a…suitor?”

  When Leana shrugged at the question, Rose touched her hand in silent support. Courtship was ho longer a topic for easy discussion. Not when so many young men of late had crossed Auchengray's threshold hoping to catch a glimpse of her instead of seeking out Leana.