Leana pointed to the piney carpet. “Remember playing leapfrog there?”
“Aye.” Rose slowed long enough to survey the familiar spot before continuing her breathless pace. “And I remember picking needles out of my hair for two days.”
Leana tugged on her sisters braid when it bounced within reach. “Your memory fails you, little sister. I was the one who plucked those pine needles out while Neda lectured us on proper games for young lassies.”
“Lectured you is more like it,” Rose tossed over her shoulder. “I was the innocent party.”
Leana heard the smile in her sister's voice. Rose was innocent in so many ways. The dear girl marveled at London fashions she'd not seen, paid no mind to the village lads who gazed at her with lovesick glances, and thought Lady Maxwell considered her a peer. In truth, naive Rose merely amused the gendewoman. Leana fretted each time her sister visited the red sandstone elegance of Maxwell Park, knowing she'd come home dreaming of riches that stretched far beyond Auchengray's dry stane dykes.
“Nearly there,” Rose sang out.
Leana put aside her concerns to feast her eyes on the lush green meadow beside them. Newabbey Pow, with her sparkling clear waters, meandered through the sunlit expanse, shadowed by the hills that gathered around Criffell's feet. The grimy walls of a snuff mill appeared— the scourge of the neighborhood, by their fathers measure—then another sparse forest of evergreens enveloped the sisters in a piney bower again. When at last they reached the village, both sisters were flushed and thirsty. Guarding their skirts, they crouched by the meandering burn to drink their fill.
Leana had just scooped up another handful of the cool water and brought it to her lips when a male voice behind her so startled her that she splashed it down the front of her dress instead.
“Miss McBride?”
She stood in haste, nearly losing her balance, then spun around to discover Fergus McDougal seated on a horse-drawn cart. She was grateful their kirk was so near, or the bonnet laird might have insisted they both join him on the narrow seat. Neither the horse nor the cart had much to recommend it. As to the farmer in his Sunday attire, she noticed only his wide brown eyes focused intendy on her. “Mr…. McDougal I believe?”
“Aye.” When he smiled, she saw that his teeth matched his eyes. 1 he verra one.
“Wh-what a surprise to find you in Newabbey this Sabbath morning.” She brushed her hand across her dress as though the spilled water might sweep off like birch leaves. Or cornmeal. Or pine needles. Where was Rose?
“Mr. McDougal,” her sister chimed in, stepping close beside her, “hadn't you best be getting on to Kirkbean? To your own parish?”
His smile broadened. “Mebbe ‘twill be your sister's parish before long.” He tipped his hat, ignoring Rose altogether. “I've always favored a woman with fair hair and a strong back.”
Leana stared at his blond mare and nodded. “I see.”
He leaned across his knee with some effort and winked, as though such a gesture might bring her into his confidence. “I've an appointment with your father in the morning, Miss McBride. I'd be obliged if you made that discussion a matter of prayer at kirk this morning.”
“Oh, aye,” Leana assured him, her mouth dry as oats. “I'll pray most fervendy.”
“So will I, lass.” He straightened, nodding confidendy, then shook the reins. The cart jerked forward. “So will I.”
Twelve
Does the road wind up-hill all die way?
Yes, to the very end.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Jamie stood along the banks of Black Burn, shaking the cold water off his unshaven face. He missed his valet this morning and, in particular, the man's way with a razor. Drying his hands on the plaid, he pulled on his hat and started up the steep slope toward House o’ the Hill stables, where he knew his horse waited for him. Did his brother wait as well, dirk in hand? Nothing would surprise him, not after the strangest of dreams and a most rude awakening. The sly-tongued Gypsy tinkler had continued south, leaving the future heir of Glentrool to face the day without money or map. Jamie had regained his wits though and intended to use them.
The pungent smell of peat smoke tinged the chilly air as the inn came in sight, its stock fences sheltered by an old stand of sycamores, protecting the beasts from the elements. He felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of young George. Last night he'd promised the stable lad a second coin for brushing down Walloch's filthy coat. He'd paid a fair wage, yet he'd promised more, a promise he could no longer keep. Jamie paused long enough to shake out the borrowed plaid with a vigorous snap, then folded it carefully to conceal the berry stains.
Judging by the sun, still low in the eastern sky, and by his growling stomach, it was nearing eight o'clock. A quick glance at the watch in his pocket confirmed it. The lingtowmen and their packhorses, laden with contraband, had no doubt departed the inn hours earlier under cover of darkness, eager to get their smuggled goods safely over the moors before the Sabbath dawn—or an overzealous exciseman—put a stop to their activities. Even the righteous Alec McKie availed himself of their goods when the price was favorable, which it always was. Salt and tea for the larder, candles and linens to store in the spence, printed silks to please Rowena—all found their way through the doors of Glentrool, courtesy of Thomas Findlay's shrewd bargaining.
Home. Jamie trudged up the hill, chagrined to realize how much he already missed Glentrool and its odd assortment of characters. Ivy Findlay, with her pinched features and tighdy drawn brown hair, ruled the household staff with a piercing gaze. Ivy's husband, Thomas, factor to the McKies, had taught Jamie all there was to know of balancing ledgers. Aubert Billaud, of the high forehead and long nose, called Marseilles his true home and Glentrools kitchen his domain. Jamie imagined them pressed and dressed by now, prepared for the long journey south to the kirk at Monnigaff. Six horses carrying six riders: Alec and Rowena, Evan and Judith, Thomas and Ivy.
In agreeable weather the rest of the household walked to the kirk with Henry Stewart, Glentrools head shepherd, leading the way. When winters worst kept everyone home, Alec led them in worship around the hearth. Jamie, seated at the elder McKies feet, sometimes caught a glimmer of his father's zeal for God. His grasp on it vanished the next moment, but he couldn't deny what he saw and felt during those Sabbath hours at home.
“Guid Lords Day to ye, sir!”
Jamie looked up with a start and found George bounding out to greet him, the wiry lad's clothes appearing even more threadbare by the light of day. Jamie handed him the plaid with a hasty apology. “Beg pardon for returning with your plaid but not, alas, with your coin.”
The boys cheerful countenance fell. “I'd hoped to put it in the collection box this mornin. For the puir, ye ken.”
Jamie's neck grew warm. “I'm sorry, George. Truly I am. You see, I…I lost my traveling pouch.” What was he to do? Confess to a child that he'd been robbed while he slept? “When I find it, I'll be certain to pay you what I promised.”
“I'm sure ye will, sir.” George studied him closely, his grubby fingers wrapped around the plaid. “Are ye not the laird's son?”
The heat in Jamie's neck spread to his face. “Aye.”
“A McKie without coins in his pockets?” The boy shook his head in wonder. “Niver heard of sic a. thing.”
“Well, now you have.” Jamie marched past him toward the stable, anger and shame fighting for the upper hand. “Saddle my horse, and I'll be on my way.”
George scrambled to catch up with him. “Home to Glentrool is it, sir?
Jamie ignored the question, slowing as he approached his tethered mount. Home? Walloch was all he had left of home. He ducked beneath the crudely thatched roof laid with branches and bracken and lowered his voice. “Morning, boy.” The gelding lifted its sleek ebony head and whinnied in greeting. All at once Jamie felt calmer. Speak quietly. Move slowly. Glentrool's stable master had taught him well. Jamie stroked the horse's neck, putting them both at ease.
“Ye've got a fine animal there,” the stable lad said softly. “Already been fed and watered. I'll have ye saddled in a blink, Mr. McKie.” The lad was good as his word. Moments later Jamie was riding over the crest of the hill with the Crée Valley behind him and the glistening Trool before him. He brought Walloch to a gende halt and gazed down at the familiar landscape. Home to Glentrool, is it? And then what? Ask for more money, draw another map? Or admit defeat and beg his brother for mercy? Having no money in his pockets meant no lodging at inns along the way, no evening meals at friendly tables. A plaid on rocky ground and stale bannocks from a pouch were good enough for one night but a poor prospect for several nights in a row, even if he still had such things in his possession, which he did not.
Behold, I am with you.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. A remnant from his troubled sleep perhaps. Or the lingering taste of Jacob's ladder. It was decidedly of the God of Abraham and Isaac, not the God of his grandfather Archibald and his father, Alec. Only a dream at the end of a wretched day. He was alone and must fend for himself, without silver or copper, without map or compass. Taking hold of the horses reins, Jamie descended into die glen, toward the opposite side of the loch from Glentrool. He would head due east through the mountains. Not the longer, more civilized route south, then east through clachans and burghs, as he'd planned. Rather, the shorter, wilderness trek toward the Rhinns of Kells and across Raploch Moss, with only his horse and the rising sun to guide him.
It was rough going, dodging boulders as he threaded through the ancient forest of oak and hazel. An occasional break in the trees gave him a last look at Glentrool. He slowed, finding it hard to bid farewell to the place he'd called home. There was the island he and Evan had paddled out to as lads. The steep falls of Buchan Burn, whose rushing waters had lulled him to sleep on warm summer nights. By day the twins had often shoved each other into the Buchan's turbulent linns, arriving home cut, bruised, and laughing. Whatever brotherly relationship they'd once had, it was gone by the time they were grown, ruined by greed, pride, envy, anger—he no longer knew which to blame.
Jamie rode across the meadows beyond the loch, pausing at Glen-head for a final backward glance before resolutely turning east, swallowing hard as he rode. The sun arced across the sky at an autumn angle, its warmth a welcome hedge against the stiff winds blowing down from the Merrick range. Now and again he spied a fox darting through the undergrowth though nothing edible crossed his path. Walloch was well satisfied with the bubbling water of Glenhead Burn and the abundance of grass along its banks. Jamie's stomach was not so easily appeased. As the day wore on, it ceased growling and merely ached. He scoured the ground for berries and searched the sparse woodlands for a wild apple tree. Thoughts of food consumed him.
The woods gave way to stark moors and rocky fells. Above him, brown-and-white goats perched on craggy shelves no wider than their hooves, looking down at the intruder on horseback. Their staccato bleating sounded as if they were laughing at his plight. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Across the vast track of moorland, the distant call of red grouse taunted him. Go-back, go-back, go-back. The hours dragged on, gray and colorless as the landscape. His seat ached from riding, his hands from gripping the reins. By late afternoon when a shepherd's bothy came into view, Jamie offered up a grateful prayer and urged Walloch forward toward the low cottage. The walls were made of rough stone without mortar, the roof thatched with heather. A bright-eyed shepherd came out to greet him, bearing a brimless Scotch bonnet on his head and a kind smile on his weathered face.
“D'ye ken whaur ye're goin, lad?”
Jamie waved vaguely toward the moors. “East to New Galloway, then south along the banks of the Ken.”
The older man appraised horse and rider, eyebrows arched. “Not a path the gentrice usually favor.”
Jamie only shrugged in agreement, hoping to discourage any further questions.
“Names Gordie Briggs,” the shepherd offered, jerking his head toward the cottage. “Join me for a bit o’ supper? ‘Tis naught but broth and barley, hardly what ye're used to eatin, but—”
“Aye.” Jamie had already dismounted, not caring how eager he appeared. “Much obliged, Gordie.” He followed him inside, noting the freshly swept earthen floor and the stone flags round the hearth, the tidy shelf of provisions, and the peat fire as warm and inviting as Gordie himself.
Within minutes Jamie was busy tucking away a generous serving of thick broth with bannocks as hard as Walloch's hooves, grateful for both. In return, he served the shepherd a plateful of neighborhood gossip, knowing the tales would travel far beyond the peat-blackened walls of the bothy. In the lonely glens, a shepherd spread news more efficiendy than the London Chronicle. Jamie mentioned nothing of consequence, keeping an eye on the open door and the fading sunset beyond it. An hour at the most and darkness would descend on the hills like a shroud.
“Ye sure ye won't spend the night, lad?” Gordie peered at him by the flickering light of a fir candle. “ ‘Twill do ye good to sleep near a warm hearth stead of oot on the moors on a moonless night.” A faint smile, more gums than teeth, decorated his wizened face. “I've ne'er seen a more wabbit soul in all me days.”
“Aye.” Jamie's shoulders sank at the admission. “I'm weary, no denying it.”
The shepherds eyes held no judgment, only compassion. “Seems ye're in a hurry to put a meikle mountain or two between yerself and whatever it is ye're runnin from.”
Jamie's mouth grew dry. “B-beg your pardon?”
“I'm thinkin this journey east was not of yer ain doin.” The shepherd met his gaze and held it, then slowly rose and moved about the bothy, tidying up after their meal. “Ye'll be safe here, lad. No one bothers Gordie Briggs. Find a spot by the hearth, and I'll throw a plaid o'er yer back.”
Jamie was too tired to argue. He did as he was told, yanking off his boots, then stretching his long frame across a sheepskin spread over the flagstones and using his forearm for a pillow. “I'm much obliged, Gordie,” he mumbled as a plaid was dropped over him. The familiar scent of the peat burning on the grate warmed him from head to foot, and he soon sank into an untroubled sleep.
When Gordie shook his shoulder, starding him awake, Jamie was distressed to find the sun filling the forenoon sky. He'd given his brother more than enough time to catch up with him. Jamie made short work of straightening his clothes and washing his face with the wet cloth Gordie offered, rubbing the cold rag over his rough cheeks.
“Ye'll not leave without a dish o’ brose,” the shepherd insisted, his tone firm as he handed Jamie a bowl and a horn spoon. Too famished to refuse, Jamie bolted down the watery oatmeal mixed with salt and butter while the shepherd chattered on about the fine weather, praising God and quoting Thomson like a scholar: “ ‘Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, and spreads a common feast for all that lives.’ Isn't that the way of it this mornin, lad?”
Incredulous, Jamie paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “You've read The Seasons?
The shepherd grinned like a brownie, his merry eyes dancing. “Ye're lookin at this wee hovel o’ mine and thinkin I ve not been schooled.”
Jamie shoved the spoon in his mouth rather than admit that was exacdy what he'd been thinking.
“Me mither taught me to read from the pages of the Buik sixty-odd summers ago.” Gordie pointed to a thick Bible next to the cottages only window. “When I'm on the hills mindin the flocks, I read this.” He pulled a battered volume of poetry from his shirt, holding it up long enough for Jamie to see the title, then tucked it back inside. “Belonged to my father,” he explained. “The sheep seem to like the sound of me voice.” His gaze grew wistful as it aimed toward the door. “And I like sayin the words. They roll round yer mouth like fresh-picked blaeberries, hard and sweet.”
“So they do, Gordie Briggs.” Jamie regarded the man with newfound respect. “I'll wager your flocks are longing for a line or two of verse this morning.” He stood, putting the bowl aside to brush th
e dirt off his breeches. “You've been more than hospitable. It's time I saddled Walloch and made my way to New Galloway.”
The shepherd followed him outside, eying his mount without blanket or pouch. “Have ye no plaid?” Gordie asked. “Or are ye stayin at the coach inn?”
“I'm…not sure yet.” Jamie couldn't bring himself to confess the truth.
The shepherd disappeared into the dark confines of his bothy once more and emerged bearing a parting gift. “Best take this, lad. The night wind blows hard o'er the Black Craig of Dee.”
The stout plaid that had served as his bedding was thrust into his arms. Jamie accepted it with a duck of his head, humbled by the man's generosity. Gordie Briggs, a shepherd with litde to his name, gave freely. Jamie, inheritor of a vast estate, had nothing to give but thanks, and that came with some effort. The shepherd pointed out the best route to the distant village, then sent Jamie on his way with a block of hard cheese wrapped in cloth and a squeeze from his sturdy hand.
The going was slow along the shores of Loch Dee, shadowed by the rugged heights of Cairngarroch with its rocking stone, an enormous boulder so precariously balanced that even the slightest breeze tilted it back and forth. His late breakfast carried him through the day, and the shepherd's cheese served as a fitting supper. On the Sabbath he'd prayed for daily bread and a place for his head; he could not deny his needs had been met.
He emerged from the hills to face the bleakest part of his journey later than he'd hoped. The setting sun grew cooler on his back while the moon rose above the far eastern hills. Before him stretched nothing but moors, desolate and uninhabited, rife with bottomless mossy patches that could swallow man and beast in one black, gurgling gulp. He trained his eyes on the slow-moving stream called Clatterinshaws Lane and eased his grip on the reins, trusting Wallochs instincts to choose the safest passage through the watery, dark bog.
Thorn in My Heart Page 8
