Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  A wealthy suitor for Rose. Fergus McDougalfor me.

  Appalled at her selfish thoughts, she searched in vain for a suitable comment. “I'm so happy for you, Rose.” And she was, truly she was. She would allow nothing—least of all their future marriage prospects— to drive a wedge between them. She would not.

  “Do you know what Lady Maxwell said of us?” Rose tipped her chin up, assuming the gendewoman's haughty air. “ ‘You and your sister are hardly kintra folk, my dear. Your father is laird of his own land, and Auchengray is a perfecdy respectable property’ That's what she said, Leana! Isn't it wonderful?”

  “Aye,” she murmured, “wonderful.” Leana bit her tongue to keep from asking if Lady Maxwell noticed how the poorest among their neighbors truly lived. Huddled in rough stone cottages, their window-less walls blackened with peat smoke, their cupboards bare, the hardworking kintra folk could only dream of drinking tea at all, let alone at Maxwell Park.

  Rose still held her chin aloft, an imaginary saucer in her hand. “Then her ladyship said, ‘You would do well to appreciate what your family has accomplished. It is that spirit of improvement that most impresses me about you, Miss McBride.’ Ochllsrit that grand, Leana?”

  “Grand.” Her apron was growing heavy and her heart heavier still. “Corne, lass. Neda is waiting for these vegetables. Neeps may not be the usual fare at Maxwell Park, but they'll fill our table well enough.”

  Her sister groaned and rolled her eyes as she followed Leana into the kitchen. “None for me, thank you.”

  Neda stood at the hearth giving orders while two scullery maids, Annabel and Eliza, wisely obeyed. “See that ye slice those carrots thin as reeds, otherwise Mr. McBride will toss them to the dogs and ye along with them.” Neda softened her words with a broad wink. “And dont be slippin a bittie in your cheek when ye think I'm not lookin. We've no rabbits in this hoose needing to be fed. Only the quiet one in the cookin pot.”

  Leana poured the turnips from her apron onto a cutting table and nodded at Rose. “Look what I found in the garden.”

  Neda gave the sisters her full attention as she poked a lock of copper-colored hair beneath her plain cap. “If it isn't Miss Rose McBride, home from an afternoon with the gentrice.” A wry grin stretched across her ruddy face, the skin freckled yet unlined despite her fifty-odd years. “Will ye be having supper with your family, or is Auchengray too common for ye now?”

  Rose brushed off her comments with an airy hand. “I'm quite full at the moment, though I'll surely be famished by the time supper is served.” She swept through the cluttered room, holding her skirts above the floor as though the surface were hard-packed dirt and lime instead of good, clean brick. “I'll be back to help in the kitchen as soon as I finish cleaning my shoes.”

  Leana watched her sister move toward the stone stair, skirts still in hand, certain Rose would not appear again until the supper bell rang. Which she didn't.

  Not a word was said about Maxwell Park that night. After their supper of stewed rabbit seasoned with onions, surrounded by Leana's freshly picked vegetables, the table was wiped clean and the family Bible placed in front of Lachlan. “Let us worship the Almighty,” he intoned, opening the thick book. His voice reminded her of Reverend Gordon, who scowled when he spoke and growled when he preached. Neda and the other servants sat about the room on rough benches, the rushlights above them doing little to dispel the evening gloom.

  “From the Seventy-eighth Psalm,” the laird of the house announced, his sharp eyes regarding his congregants closely. “Repeat each line after me. ‘Give ear, O my people, to my law: incline your ears to the words of my mouth.’ ”

  Leana recited the familiar verse, struggling to incline her ears and master her emotions. What vexed her so? Was it Roses bright future…or her gloomy one? Her fathers even gaze met hers. The line of his mouth was grim. Had he guessed her feelings?

  He read again, then paused, keeping a close eye on her. “I will open my mouth in a parable: I will utter dark sayings of old: Which we have heard and known, and our fathers have told us.”

  Our Father. Her eyes wandered to the hearth as her thoughts drifted. Did God the Father resemble Lachlan the father? Often cross, sometimes cruel, waiting for her to make a mistake?

  “Pay attention, Leana!”

  Her head snapped in his direction. “Y-yes sir.”

  “Now then. The fourth verse.” Lachlans eyes narrowed. “Do not miss the meaning of this one, daughter. ‘ We will not hide them from their children, shewing to the generation to come the praises of the LORD, and his strength, and his wonderful works that he hath done’” When they'd all responded in unison, he reminded them, “That is my responsibility. To teach my household, servants and daughters alike, that we are to fear God.”

  Leana thought back over the words and did not remember fear being among them. Not in that verse. Words like praise and strength and wonderfulwere the ones that caught her attention, while her father rushed over such words, dwelling on those more sobering.

  He continued reading about fathers teaching their children the commandments of God, even as the patriarch Jacob had taught his own sons. It was Leana's turn to watch closely and see if memories of his only son, dead at birth, might cloud Lachlans eyes or muddle his words. They did not. His voice was stern as ever, despite the promise he gave from the Scriptures: “They might set their hope in God.”

  Hope. Leana's gaze drifted to die front window, black with night. She'd not lost hope in God, not yet. But hope was waning nonetheless. In a year or two Rose would be married and gone, sharing a new life with some Galloway gendeman, leaving Leana with a meager choice: Stand in the parish kirk with Fergus McDougal by her side or remain at Auchengray as a stayed lass, unmarried and unloved, while her father grew old and gray and his bitter tongue sharpened with age.

  Even lemon balm from her garden couldn't ease the painful knot inside her.

  “Let us pray,” her father declared, closing the Bible with a soft thud.

  Leana squeezed her eyes shut, praying more fervendy than she could ever remember. She loved Rose dearly and did not wish her sister ill, not for a moment. She only longed for a small measure of happiness for herself. A hope and a future. With a young husband who loved her for all the right reasons.

  Please, God. Please. Her silent prayer took shape and form, sculpted by her imagination. Let him be a braw man of twenty-odd years, not a stout man of forty. Let his kind eyes and ready smile warm the air around him. Let his head rise well above hers and his smooth brow conceal a fine mind. Please, God. If such a man existed, let him come to Auchengray before it was too late.

  Eighteen

  The man is coming, and the hour,

  The shaft is on the wing.

  HENRY INGLIS

  I beg your pardon, lass, but how far is it to Auchengray?”

  The dairymaid, not ten steps ahead of Jamie, halted her wooden pails in midswing and eyed him over her shoulder, a shy smile playing across her features. “Sir, if ye shot an arrow o'er Lowtis Hill, ye'd pierce the verra heart of Auchengray.”

  Jamie's pulse quickened. “Might you tell me how to find it?”

  “Oo aye!” She turned to face him, putting down her heavy milk buckets with a slight grunt. “Ye'll go past Drumcultran—that's the auld tower up this road, d'ye ken?—and then doon the hill. Ye'll be fordin a burn as wide as ye are tall, aiming all the while for Lowtis Hill. See it there?” She pointed one stubby finger toward a steep rise covered in the hazy blue mist of late morning, its heathery slopes dressed in a velvet patchwork of muted purple and russet brown.

  “ Wbanyoxx come to Lowtis,” she continued, “follow the road round the north of it, past the Maxwell place. At Lochend ye're not two miles from Auchengray, just doon the same road on the left.”

  He would arrive within the hour. From habit, Jamie reached for his watch, then exhaled with irritation when his fingers found naught in the pocket but lint. “Have you some idea of the time, lass?”


  She shrugged. “Didn't I just come from Mistress Chalmers hoose this Wednesday mornin’ and her wantin mair milk than ane lass can carry? ‘Twas ten o'clock by her wag-at-the-wd. Pendulum swingin steady as could be.” Her frank gaze wandered from his unshaven face to his unshod feet. “Will the folk at Auchengray be expectin ye, sir?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, not sure of the answer. Had his letter found its way into Uncle Lachlan's hands? If so, he'd be happily received, even in such a wretched state. If not, he'd quickly explain his predicament— omitting certain details—and throw himself at his uncle's mercy. With any luck, Lachlan McBride was a compassionate sort.

  “I'm much obliged, lass.” Jamie reached up to tip his hat before remembering he'd traded the sorry thing for a night's sleep on a cold barn floor north of Carlinwark and two hard bannocks for breakfast. Dropping his hand, he strode past her without further ado, noting she wore the rough country shoes and stockings of her class. He was an educated gentleman and she, a poor milkmaid, unaccustomed to men doffing their hats at her. What did it matter how he treated her?

  Jamie slowed his steps, his conscience stirring. It did matter. The Buik clearly said, “In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.” His mother had not taught him that, nor had his schooling. It was a lesson learned at his father's feet on a wintry Sabbath morning at Glentrool. He could still hear Alec McKie's strong voice filling the room: “Before honor is humility, lad. Mind your pride.”

  Chastened by the memory, Jamie turned and called out to her retreating back, “A good day to you, miss!” and bowed properly. Though his head and feet were bare, at least he'd done the honorable thing.

  The sky above was a cloudy Galloway gray—neither dark nor light, stormy nor bright—yet around the edges a fringe of watery blue touched the hilltops. A faded linen cap trimmed in blue lace. Would his lady cousins, Leana and Rose, wear such caps when they greeted him at their doorstep? “Leana,” he said aloud, trying the name on his tongue. He softened all the vowels in Lowland fashion and was pleased with die sound of it. Leh-ah-nah. “And Rose,” he said, drawing out the O with some relish. A bonny flower in any garden. “But not without its thorns,” he reminded himself.

  The brilliant hues of a male pheasant caught his eye as it skittered beside the dry stane dyke, long tail smardy cocked, brown and red feathers gleaming. “Would that I had such a fine suit of clothes,” he mused, ashamed of what the lasses might think of their cousin from the west. He would bathe in Lochend and wash off what he could. Soon enough one of Auchengray's servants would take a razor to his face, but until then his beard was hopeless.

  Jamie shifted his gaze from the road ahead long enough to assess the granite walls of Drumcultran towering over his left shoulder. The fortified house with its parapet walk stood amid a noisy farmstead of hens and chicks, ducks and geese, all clucking and quacking at once, paying him no mind. He returned the favor, increasing his pace to escape the din, and tried to ignore the sharp stones that pierced the soles of his feet with every step. Following the dairymaid's instructions, he soon crossed the narrow burn, pausing to soothe his feet in the cool stream before shaking off the water and pressing on.

  Not much longer now.

  The closer he came to Lowtis Hill, the more massive it appeared until the thickly wooded mound was all he could see. He circled around to the north, past the estate the lass had said belonged to a Maxwell. Nothing unusual; Galloway was thick with Maxwells, many of noble birth. The house was impressive, an elegant country estate surrounded by tidy outbuildings and a walled garden that invited closer inspection. Someday he might call upon them, though he'd not be in the neighborhood long.

  Vague memories of his first and only visit to Auchengray stirred inside him. He'd been a lad of twelve then, not prone to notice his surroundings. Yet the curve of the road looked familiar, and the gende roll of the land offered a pleasant welcome. Almost like a homecoming. It was here his father had stopped the carriage and pointed ahead to Lochend, where his grandfathers servant had found Rowena drawing water for Auchengrays flocks long ago. She must have made a very bonny sight, because the servant quickly dressed her in gold bracelets and proposed on Alec's behalf.

  Jamie could still remember his fathers telling his young sons that day by the loch, “A marriage by proxy is full of surprises.”

  “Perhaps so, Father,” Jamie murmured now, his voice lost in the rusding of the leaves beneath his feet. “But I intend to see my betrothed before I agree to marry her.” He grinned, knowing he would see both his bridal prospects, and very soon.

  The lochs smooth surface glistened between the trees. No more than half a mile long, it would serve nicely—not for a trysting spot with his future wife, but rather for a much-needed bath. He walked the length of it until he reached the head of the loch where a copse of trees offered sufficient cover. After tossing his filthy coat, waistcoat, and breeches over the lower branches of an accommodating pine, he stepped into the water with care, not certain how steep its banks might be, using his walking stick to prod the floor of the loch. It was cold, colder than the shallow stream had been. He found a likely spot and planted his stick in it, then sank into the water up to his neck, shivering as he dipped back to soak the grime from his hair. And to think he'd considered wearing a wig to impress his cousins! It wouldn't have lasted past Raploch Moss.

  He ran his fingers through his thick hair, disgusted to find twigs and stems tangled among the badly knotted strands, then straightened to see what could be done for the stains on his shirt. As he scrubbed with his bare hands, he took in his quiet surroundings. The far shore of Lochend boasted fine, gende hills dotted with heather and whin. Moorhens with bright red bills paddled about the surface, keeping a safe distance from the long-legged newcomer. When the slippery scales of a fish moved past his shins, Jamie leaped with a starded shout, then peered down into the clear water. A long-snouted pike glided by, then vanished.

  “Fancy that, Ben McGill!” Jamie announced to the moorhens, picturing the look of astonishment on the face of the bletherie New Galloway weaver. “I've not caught an eel, but I've found a meikle pike—”

  “Who's Ben McGill?” a male voice demanded.

  Jamie turned too quickly, thrashing his arms through the water to keep his balance. A trio of young men draped in shepherds’ plaids looked on with obvious amusement.

  “Can I help ye, sir?” one cried, playfiilly offering his wooden crook. The others eyed the discarded clothes dangling from the pine boughs, plainly curious.

  “He's a gentleman from the look of his coat.”

  “Aye, but a poor one from the lack of his boots.”

  Jamie managed to climb out of the water after several awkward attempts and stood before them, his shirt and drawers drenched, his blistered heels and fiercest scowl both on display. “Have I properly entertained you, lads, or must I dance to a hornpipe?”

  “Och! No need for that,” the oldest looking of the three assured him. “Its clear ye've had a long journey, sir. Call me Rab Murray, if ye like.” He offered his hand and introduced the others while Jamie squeezed water from the hem of his linen shirt.

  “What parish is home for you lads?” If they hailed from neighboring farms, their friendship might prove useful.

  “Newabbey,” they replied in unison.

  “Is that so?” Jamie grinned back at the three of them. “Do you know Lachlan McBride, by chance? Grandson of Neil McBride?”

  “Aye.” The three exchanged a look Jamie couldn't decipher.

  Jamie wiped his dripping chin with his forearm, regarding the young men with some concern. Perhaps his uncle suffered from some malady or—God be about usl—was already dead and gone. “Is he…is he well, this Lachlan McBride?”

  “He is well, aye,” the youngest of the three said. “Matter o’ fact, if ye stay right whaur ye are, ye'll be sure to see one o’ McBride's daughters come walkin by anytime.” The lad craned his neck down the shady lane. “We passed her a bit ago, headed
off to tend her faither's sheep. Aye…aye, I'm sure that's her. Comin’ now, she is.”

  “Now?” Jamie grabbed his breeches, trying in vain to swallow while his heart pounded in his throat. “Are you certain, lad?” He shook the fabric to loosen the worst of the dirt, then shoved one leg inside the tight-fitting buckskin breeches before he realized his legs were still dripping wet.

  “I'm verra sure,” the young shepherd answered, grinning. “A beauty, that one.”

  Nineteen

  I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty;

  I woke, and found that life was Duty.

  ELLEN STURGIS HOOPER

  Leana saw him from a distance, walking up the road to Auchengray. Her hands gripped the gate, chilled at the prospect of seeing him again. Bad enough that last night she'd dreamed of him, dreamed of Fergus McDougal, of his thick, eager fingers plucking at her gown. Today she would be alone with him.

  “Its only a wee stroll over Auchengray Hill,” Rose called from her perch atop the dry stane dyke. “Not more than an hour or two, Father said, and with Willie not far behind you. He'll see to it the man behaves himself. And I'll be near as well, tending the sheep for Duncan. You've nothing to fear.”

  “I pray you are right.” Leana moved closer to her sister, one hand nervously tugging at her dress bodice, pulling it toward her chin. “Mr. McDougal is also joining us for dinner. Whatever will we talk about?” she murmured, watching the man draw near. “He's almost as old as Father.”

  “Not that old, though past forty, I'd say.” Rose, swinging her feet like a child at play, smiled mischievously. “Could be if you'd mention his age…oh, every few minutes or so, he'll see what a terrible mistake he's making.”

  “But they've struck a bargain, the two of them,” Leana fretted, keeping her voice low as Mary, the laundry maid from Newabbey village, strode past Mr. McDougal and through the gate, headed for the house. “Good day to you, Mary,” Leana called after her. No need to consult a watch; Mary arrived every Wednesday morning at precisely ten o'clock, no matter the weather. “Father has spoken to Mr. McDougal,” Leana hissed as he drew near. “It's been decided.”