Behold, I am with you. The words, whatever their source, pounded inside him. I will never leave you. Comfort indeed when he felt so alone. With each breath the air grew colder, moistened by the peaty ground of Raploch Moss. He threw the plaid over his shoulders and tucked its ragged ends inside his coat, his spirits lifted by thoughts of the helpful shepherd. He would need another meal tomorrow. For now, solid ground and a safe spot for tethering Walloch would be sufficient.
“Soon,” he whispered into his mounts ear, his eyes straining to see ahead. The gloaming had nearly faded into night when Jamie felt Wallochs hooves strike the packed dirt surface of the Edinburgh road. Sheer relief made him giddy. “Ride, boy!” he cried, not caring who heard him. The horse needed no further urging, lengthening its gait into a full gallop. Jamie grinned as the night wind blew past his ears. The rhythm of Wallochs hooves pounding the road matched the merry beat of his heart.
When it grew too dark to ride so recklessly, Jamie slowed to a trot and looked for a proper hiding place for the night. Before long he spotted an inviting grove of pines by the wayside and guided the horse toward the tall evergreens, then dismounted. Walloch stepped cautiously over the soft carpet of pine needles, and Jamie did the same, confident it was dry and sleepworthy. He unbuckled die girth and lifted off the saddle with a grunt, then used the shepherds plaid to brush the worst of the debris from Wallochs coat. “You'll be missing young George tonight,” he murmured, doing his best to make his mount comfortable. “Things will be better once we get to Auchengray, I promise you that.”
Jamie perched his hat on a fallen log, then wrapped the plaid around him. He knelt down in a thick pile of needles, sinking into them with a weary sigh. Three long, anxious days had taken their toll. He would sleep soundly, knowing Walloch would whinny at the slightest threat or disturbance.
Closing his eyes, Jamie fell asleep in mere moments. If he dreamed, he did not remember it. It was black as midnight when a coarse, guttural voice woke him with a start and the thud of a heavy branch on the back of his neck sent him sprawling across the ground.
Thirteen
Heaven from all creatures
hides the book of fate.
ALEXANDER POPE
Leana plunged her hands into the loamy soil of her garden and breathed in the fresh morning air. Fergus McDougal was expected any moment, and by noon her fate might be decided. Until then, she would enjoy the last of her blooms and pretend Mr. McDougal was a handsome lad of four-and-twenty with a fine set of teeth, copious hair, and a penchant for books. “And flowers,” she whispered, drinking in her surroundings.
Purple spikes of betony delighted the eye, even in October, and French marigolds still shone like tiny suns against the dark green leaves. A stand of rosebay willowherb prepared to release its snowy shower of white seeds. In the next row the kitchen garden had a different appeal: It made her mouth water. Yellow turnips with their purplish tops fairly begged to be mashed with butter and salt. Dutch parsnips and cabbage, already plucked from the ground, would someday find themselves nesded in mutton stew, while leafy kale waited for the first frost to bring out its spicy flavor in a well-seasoned broth.
Not to be outdone, her physic garden rivaled that of any howdie or healer, the tender plants providing a soothing balm for her neighbors when illness struck. Each plant was carefully marked and planted in the same spot each year. “Heaven help me if I gave someone henbane instead of heartsease!” she'd once explained to a visitor. Prepared with caution in her stillroom, henbane healed the worst of headaches. In larger doses, it was, like its herbal cousin Jacob's ladder, a deadly poison.
Leana stood and brushed the soil off her hands, then pulled out a paring knife and snipped some lavender petals drying on their stems. A nagging tension had settled into her shoulders, tightening as the mistymoisty air crept up her spine. Perhaps an infusion of lavender would ease the pain. She slipped the petals into her pocket and walked the length of the physic garden, past meadowsweet and chamomile, harts-tongue and pearlwort, stonecrop and valerian.
Finally Leana reached the plot of ground that pleased her most: her mother's rose garden. It was planted the year Agness McBride arrived at Auchengray as a new bride full of good intentions. She'd chosen delicate colors, which suited her genteel nature—Maidens Blush, Rosa Mundi, and fragrant white Musk climbing the dry stane dyke. Leana's few memories of her mother were rooted in this garden, where she'd sat at her mother's feet, pulling out tufts of grass while her mother sang to her roses. “Pruning and crooning,” her mother called it. “A lullaby for the flooers I like and for the wee daughter I love.”
But her mother's healthy spirit dwelt in an unwell body. After losing Randall, Lachlans only son, at birth, her mother had a difficult time bearing Leana, then breathed her last giving birth to Rose. Agness McBride's dying wish was that her infant daughter be named for her favorite flower. Her husband complied, though it would be Leana who carefully tended her mother's plantings. Ever since Rose first toddled into the garden, the girl had no use for the sharp thorns and pernickitie nature of her namesake flowers. “Too hard to grow, too painful to touch,” her sister later confessed. “But they bloom with one glance from you, Leana. Our mother should have named you Rose, not me.”
Mother. Leana thought of her daily, missed her always, but especially when she worked amid the gentlewoman's roses. The mild climate of east Galloway, tempered by the warm ocean currents that swirled across the Adantic and through the Irish Sea, meant that even now, well into autumn, a few stubborn blooms remained. Leana carefully lifted one fading Damask rose to her face and sank into its silken center, inhaling the sweet perfume.
“Mind the thorns!”
Starded from her reverie, Leana turned, grasping the flower too tighdy and pricking her forefinger. “Ouch!” She dropped the bloom and pressed her bleeding fingertip to her lips as her younger sister hurried toward her.
“Poor thing, are you hurt? Let me look.” Rose examined the tiny puncture, making appropriately sympathetic remarks as she did. “Those naughty flowers! You really should wear gloves.”
Leana pressed her thumb against her finger to stanch the blood before it stained her dress. “But then I can't feel the soil between my fingers.”
Rose wrinkled her nose. “Exacdy.”
Amused, Leana knew gardening was the last subject on Roses mind. “Now then, what did you come bounding out here to tell me?”
“Goodness, I almost forgot! It's Mr. McDougal. He's here, talking to Father in the spence.”
“Oh dear.” Leana dropped her hands to her side and took a deep, steadying breath, her sore fingertip forgotten. “That means Father will call for me any minute and expect me to look presentable.” A quick glance at her nails, embedded with soil, sent her flying toward her bedroom with Rose close on her heels, oifering advice.
“Let me dress your hair,” Rose insisted, breathlessly trailing her up the steps. “Neda braids it too severely to my way of thinking. And for heavens sake, take off your apron.” They paused at the landing, and Rose eyed her nails with horror. “And those hands! Come, we'll hide in my room until Father bellows for you.”
Leana surrendered to her sisters ministrations, grateful for her skill with brush, comb, and powder. Neither her loom nor her garden cared what Leana looked like, but Lachlan very much cared and would punish her severely if she did not look her best. In minutes Rose had worked several minor miracles, scrubbing Leanas dirty hands until they were pink and clean, turning her tighdy woven braids into softer, looser ones neady gathered on top of her head like a yellow spring bonnet.
“If only youd cut one of those pink roses,” Rose murmured, continuing to poke stray hairs into place. “It would sit like a bonny bird in a nest, it would.”
“And lay an egg, no doubt.” Leana pressed her hand to her mouth as a nervous laugh slipped out. “Imagine Fathers face if—”
“Leana!” A sharp knock at the door brought both sisters to their feet. “You are to join Mr. McBrid
e in the spence at once.”
“Aye, Neda. Im coming.” Leanas hands shook as she brushed them over her skirt. Silly to be so timorsome. She hugged her sister, taking care not to undo her handiwork. “Whisper a prayer for me, Rose. Mr. McDougal may yet change his mind.”
Rose nodded, biting her lip.
Leana found Neda waiting for her on the landing, the housekeeper's features somber. “Come quickly, lass.” Leana did as she was told, following the woman's plain drugget skirt as it swished around the corner and through the house to the closed spence door.
Neda knocked, much more lightly this time. “She's here, sir.”
Lachlan McBride swung open the door, took Leanas elbow, and guided her into the room. “This way, Daughter. That will be all, Neda.” The woman curtsied and was gone. Behind Leana the latch fell into place with a decisive click.
Her fathers voice was smooth, persuasive, yet his gray eyes were cold. “Leana, I believe you've met our neighbor from the next parish, Mr. McDougal. Yestermorn on the road to kirk, I'm told.”
Speak d the de% and hell appear. She gazed at the man seated in Auchengray's second best chair—her father, as always, claiming the best for himself. Fergus McDougal's ample form spoke well of his larder but not of his labor. Like her father, he was probably accustomed to giving orders and letting others do the hard work of farming his land. She curtsied, though none too deeply. “Mr. McDougal.” She would not pretend to flatter him by commenting on their Sabbath meeting. His frank stare would see right through her duplicity.
“Miss McBride, ‘tis a pleasure to share your company once again.”
He looked worse when he smiled. She averted her eyes, staring instead at the clock ticking on the chimneypiece. “Aye,” she said, hoping it would suffice. She thought of Rose's name for him and put it out of mind just as quickly. Tasty a dish as it was, boiled haggis did not a bonny sight make.
“I've been discussing a certain proposal with Mr. McBride.” Fergus leaned back in his chair, pushing his stomach against the buttons of his coat, straining them further. “We've come to a place in our…ah, negotiations where it seems prudent to include you.”
Her father's thrifite caught her eye, displayed rather than hidden, its wooden lid slighdy ajar. She kept her voice steady and her face blank. “Here I am, at your bidding.”
“Sit,” her father commanded her. “Next to Mr. McDougal. Do try to smile, Leana.”
She couldn't stop herself. “So he can see whether or not I have all my teeth?”
“Leana!”
She dipped her head, shocked at her own heidie behavior, then looked up when Mr. McDougal of all people came to her rescue.
“Now, now, Mr. McBride. Your daughter is merely more headstrong than Vajaloused.” He reached over and patted her arm. “You ken how the old saying goes: ‘Bitin and scratchin are Scotch folks’ wooin.’ If she'll promise not to scratch, I'll promise not to bite.”
“Of my two daughters, Leana is by far the gender one.” Her father's eyes bored into hers. “She'll lift nary a finger nor a word against you, McDougal. I'll see to that.”
“Will you now?” Mr. McDougal pivoted in his chair and studied her more closely than he should have, appraising her from head to toe, his unblinking gaze finally settling on her face. “Eyes seem a bit weak,” he murmured. Then raising his voice as though she had hearing problems as well, he asked, “Can you see clearly, Miss McBride? Won't do to have a blind woman caring for my bairns.”
“I can see perfectly well,” she said evenly. Well enough to know that Fergus McDougal was an ill-mannered buffoon. “Though bright sunlight hurts my eyes, I am fully capable of caring for children and managing a home. And I've spectacles to wear when I stitch.”
Her father swept his hand through the air, indicating the various needlework samplers displayed on the spence walls and the wool rug beneath his feet. “As you can tell by her handiwork, she is skilled with both needle and spinning wheel.”
“Aye, so she is,” Mr. McDougal agreed, patting her arm again and finishing with a firm, meaty squeeze that made her feel faint.
Lachlan eyed them both. “We've not discussed it, but if you have any concerns, might a handfast be wiser?”
“A handfast? Father!” Leana touched a hand to her cheek, expecting the heat to singe her finger. Before the Reformation it was common in Scotland for lads and lasses to live under the same roof for one year and one day as though they were husband and wife. At the end they could part company with no loss of honor for either party. The kirk had put an end to the immoral practice long ago.
“Nae,” Mr. McDougal protested, to her great relief, “I've no time for a handfast. And neither, I think, does Miss McBride.”
“What of Gretna Green then?” Lachlan stroked his chin. “Many a lad has escorted his bride to that wee village for a hasty wedding. Not with a real minister, of course, but legal enough for us Scotsmen. Its not forty miles to the Dumfriesshire border. You'd be married on the spot and in bed that night.”
“Father!” Leana knew she was crimson, a most unbecoming color.
“It seems your daughter is too proper for such conduct, much to her credit. The lass must be wooed.” Mr. McDougal turned to her, eyes gleaming. “When shall we commence to courting, Miss McBride? Would Wednesday be too soon?”
“Wednesday?” lianas heart sank. “ This Wednesday?”
The gendeman farmer shrugged, waving his blunt fingers. “Not to worry, Miss McBride. The banns are far from being read. I'll court you properly for…shall we say a month? By Martinmas, I wager, you'll be well won.”
“She is won already.” Her father's sharp tone brooked no argument. “Court her all you like, McDougal, but know that your offer has been accepted.”
“Glad to hear it.” The farmer rose with some difficulty, then yanked his coat into place. Watching him, Leana wondered absently if his buttonholes sighed with relief when he undressed at night.
Long ago Leana had accepted that she would not marry a wealthy man or a handsome one. Such things mattered not one whit. Instead she prayed that her fixture husband would be a man whose faith in God made him trustworthy. A man who was always loving and kind by intent. A man nothing at all like her father.
More than once working in her garden she'd closed her eyes and imagined a fine husband fathering six cantie children happily gathered round her skirts. Nae, seven. A full quiver. Fergus McDougal came with three children of his own and would no doubt expect her to bear him many more. The children she would quickly grow to love; the husband she would not. Leana stared at the mans hunched back as her father steered him toward the front door, one hand squeezing the farmers fleshy shoulder, and knew all hope was lost.
Fourteen
Behind the dim unknown,
standeth God within die shadow,
keeping watch above his own.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
His watch was lost. His hat was ruined. His beloved mount was gone for good.
“A horse, a horse,” Jamie recited with a weary groan, trudging along the Edinburgh road. “My kingdom for a horse.” Not just any horse. Walhch. A finer beast could not be bought or borrowed—or stolen— in all of Scodand. The pilfered pouch, map, and coin were easily remedied. Not immediately, but eventually. Walloch was irreplaceable and, that morning in particular, woefully missed. Jamie hadn't seen the faces of the miscreants who'd knocked him unconscious and taken off with his mount. Highwaymen, he guessed, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck and wincing at the pain.
Naught to be done but press on to New Galloway as planned, although miserably on foot. The miles to Uncle Lachlans house stretched endlessly before him. It was Tuesday. Would he arrive by Wednesday? Thursday, at the latest. Never, if he continued to sulk and drag his feet. Grateful for what he had—dry weather and comfortable boots—Jamie drew a deep breath and lengthened his stride. He was a McKie. The world had not yet devised a scheme that could defeat such men.
Head held high, crowned with his
much-battered hat, Jamie surveyed his hilly surroundings as he walked. It was a mild morning. The sky, a watery shade of blue, was dotted with sharp-edged clouds, as if cut from sailcloth and pasted in place. Ling heather blanketed the autumn moors with dusky purple. Thickets of evergreen whin sprang up here and there across the rough, grassy hills. Among the whin hopped a flock of chaffinches pecking at the ground for breakfast, each one singing a loud chwink as it flew off.
Jamie climbed steadily while his groaning stomach reminded him how many hours had passed since he'd shared the shepherds brose. Heaven alone knew when he would find such hospitality again. Fate had been kind in one respect: Jamie had been tightly wrapped in the shepherds plaid when the highwaymen appeared, so they'd left it behind. He adjusted the fabric over his shoulder, momentarily distracted by the memory of Evan and his musty hunting plaid. This one gave off a similar aroma. At least he'd be dry and warm when nighttime came again.
Flocks of blackface sheep stood about on both sides of the road, heads bent to the ground, horns curved about their ears. They were evenly scattered as though carefully placed by a shepherd making good use of his masters grazing land. Out of habit Jamie weighed and measured them by sight, guessing what they might earn at market, noticing which ones were ready for mutton stew, which ewes looked best for lambing. The landowner would be bringing the tups in shordy, breeding his flocks for next Easter's lambs. Poor, innocent ewes knew nothing of what was to come.
Jamie halted in his tracks. Like his cousins, Leana and Rose, They, too, waited—unaware that he was headed in their direction. Not knowing that he intended to choose one of them for his wife, to bed her well and breed a son. How else could he be certain that Glentrool would always belong to him and to his seed? Rowena's hastily written letter to her brother, Lachlan, was meant to open the doors of Auchengray and convince his uncle that his daughter's marriage to Jamie came with the McKie blessing…and the McKie lands.
Thorn in My Heart Page 9
