“Treat it immediately with balsam and sulfur.”
Duncans slight smile was his only response. “Go on.”
Jamie searched his mind for something that might impress the seasoned shepherd. “Sheep will teach you their habits if you'll inspect the pads of their feet.”
“Will they now? Studied that at scuil, did you?”
“Nae. Henry Stewart, our head shepherd, showed me how.”
“Then show me.” Duncan stood back and waved Jamie forward.
Jamie brushed his hands over the nearest ram, calming him with his voice and bending closer to examine the animal's forefoot. “A healthy tup, this one. You've led him across some stony ground of late, but it looks as if he's been feeding in a grassy pasture all of his two years.”
Duncan slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him on top of the ram. “Right ye are, lad! Well done. Now then, why d'ye think I might be worried about my flocks this year mair than most?”
Jamie watched the man's face twitch with amusement and took an educated guess. “Might it be because the old shepherds say, ‘A leap year is never a good sheep year’?”
“Och! Ye're too diver for me, young Jamie. And what d'ye know of breedin?”
“Nothing, sir,” he said with a solemn face. “I'm a bachelor.”
The shepherd cackled like an old woman, slapping his leg so hard he frightened the tups, which bounded away from him. “I'll enjoy havin yer company, lad, and that's a fact. It gets lonely, this work. How lang will ye be staying at Auchengray?”
“A month,” Jamie said. “Long enough to help with the breeding.” Long enough to earn Lachlan's trust. Long enough to win Rose's heart.
“Until Martinmas, ye say? Lucky for me. D'ye raise blackface up in Glentrool?”
“Aye, we do. Only one lamb per ewe, due to die hills, but healthy ones.”
“And how d'ye ken when a ewe is ready to lamb?” Duncan was testing him again.
Jamie smiled. “Her udder drops.”
“Should ye move a ewe once she starts in?”
“Nae sir, you should not. Move the ewe, and she'll tarry with her lambing.”
“Aye, that she will.” Duncans grin was ear to ear. “That she will.” He filled a trough with fresh feed, whisding to himself as he did, then turned to reach for another sack. “So tell me, Mr. McKie, is Lachlan McBride payin ye for yer labors these lang thirty days?”
“Food and lodging is all. Salary enough for a young man who appears at his uncles gate unannounced with only the clothes on his back and those in tatters.”
Duncan eyed him, the smile still in place. “I ken a canny man when I meet him. You'll get mair from yer uncle than bannocks for breakfast and a pair of auld boots, or my name is not Duncan Hastings. I think ye might have in mind claiming his most valuable possession. Am I right, lad?”
“Perhaps.” Jamie looked away before the man saw the truth in his eyes. “Time will tell.”
Duncan squeezed his arm with a gruff tenderness. “Aye, I believe it will. Come, we've rams to feed, rain or no. Woe to the shepherd that leaveth the flock, eh, Jamie?”
They worked side by side, the veteran shepherd and the hauflin, as Duncan called him. A half-grown lad, green and untested. For once it felt good to be younger, to be the new hand on the farm. He was learning the hard way, learning by doing. Duncan was patient with his mistakes and generous with praise. When Jamie moved too quickly, Duncan held out a steadying hand. When Jamie spoke too loudly, Duncan's index finger, pressed to his pursed lips, said all that needed to be said. The two quickly grew comfortable with each other, exchanging herd lore.
Other shepherds came by as they worked, observing the tups, offering their opinions on which animal would produce die most lambs come Eastertide. One feisty lad, no more than a dozen years old, declared with certainty, “The best rams are the ones with a twin brother.”
“And who told ye that rot?” Duncan demanded.
“You did, sir.”
“Aye, and I was right. Twins make the best rams.” He winked at Jamie. “Ye ve a twin bnther back at Glentrool, d'ye not?”
Jamie's neck grew warm. “Aye, I do.” What had Lachlan told his overseer about Evan? “But not a true twin. Sired by the same father but of different seed.”
The young lad piped up, “Who was born first then?”
“It depends,” Jamie said, busying himself with a sack of oats.
The boy persisted. “Depends on what?”
“On whom you ask. My mother will tell you I'm the older.”
Duncan laughed, and the others joined in. “Who better to ken sic a thing? If yer mither says ye're the firstborn, lad, believe it with all yer heart.”
Not only his mother. God said so. That's what Rowena McKie had told him. From the beginning of Jamie's life, the Almighty had placed his hand on the lad, his mother said. Held it there still, if Jamie's strange dream proved true. When Alec McKie had laid his gnarled fingers on Jamie's head that last night at Glentrool, Jamie sensed that it was more than a father's touching his son; it was God's blessing flowing through the patriarch's fingers. Odd that he should think of that today, standing up to his ankles in mud and sheep dung, shepherding a flock not his own.
“Whaur is yer head, lad?” Duncan punched his shoulder with a gende fist, rousing him from his reverie. “Time to clean up for supper. We'll work tomorrow and Wednesday mornin, but then ye've a fine dinner to dress for.”
“A dinner?”
“Aye. Mr. McDougal is coming to pitch his woo at Miss Leana.” Duncan's eyes had a mischievous twinkle. “If ye ask me, I dinna think the lass is holdin out her hands to catch it.”
Thirty
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
Leana was present at the dinner table, and yet she was not. Her hand moved, lifting the glass to her lips. Her head bobbed in deference to her father, to Mr. McDougal, to Cousin Jamie. Her mouth curved into a smile when Rose served up diverting anecdotes like they were date pudding. Leana swallowed when necessary, spoke only when spoken to, and clenched her toes to keep from weeping.
Neda, watching over the elaborate dinner service, eyed her with particular curiosity. She had no way of knowing how Leana suffered in silence, grieved by the sight of that lecherous farmer—that hatesome man!—seated across the table from her. Regardless of her misery, dinner proceeded on schedule, all five of them playing their roles like marionettes on a Paris stage. Serving platters came and went, covered with fish, then flesh, then fowl: trout from the nearby River Nith, smothered in cream; reested mutton, salty and smoky; and roasted duck in a rich gooseberry sauce. Carrots from her summer garden, prudently stored in the cellar, added color to the overflowing plates. Leana ate what she could, which was very little.
Willie, scrubbed and dressed like a proper house servant, faithfully stood behind her chair, offering her a spoonful of this, a slice of that, but she repeatedly shook her head. It was not food she hungered for; it was freedom. The freedom to choose for herself a man who could make her happy, a husband whom she might please for the rest of her days. That man was seated across from her, though not directly so. On Mr. McDougal's right sat the one she'd placed her hopes upon. Jamie.
All at once her cousins gaze found hers. “A shilling for your thoughts, Leana.”
Her mouth fell open. She closed it just as quickly while gripping the napkin in her lap. “Cousin James—”
“You know better,” he chided her gently. “Call me Jamie.”
“Aye, Jamie. My thoughts, you say? I was…thinking of…”
“Ewes!” Rose smiled as she said it. “Tell us about your work with the tups, Jamie.”
He cleared his throat, the slight shake of his head a tender reproach. “Hardly a topic of dinner conversation, Rose.”
“How wrong you are, lad.” Lachlan, playing the merry host, beamed at his nephew and winked a
t his guest. “Mr. McDougal and I would be delighted to hear the details.”
Jamie warmed to his subject, though Leana noticed he worded things with great care to avoid sending his lady cousins ducking under the table in red-faced embarrassment. The older men, despite all their farming experience, seemed fascinated by Jamie's astute observations. Leana and Rose stared at their plates and pushed the food around with their forks until, blessedly, Jamie was done discussing his morning hours with the tups.
“Something of interest to the lasses now,” Jamie suggested. “Rose?”
Lachlan interrupted before she could answer. “Women care about only two things: husbands and bairns.”
“Not so!” Rose jerked her chin, clearly miffed. “Many things occupy a woman's mind. Gardens. Poetry. Music. And food.” She aimed a pointed gaze at their plates. “Something which men find of great interest.”
“Hear! Hear!” Mr. McDougal banged the handle of his knife on the table in agreement, grinning all the while at Leana. “What sort of cook is your sister, Miss McBride?”
“Leana is a fine cook, sir, and an even better seamstress. She's skilled with a spinning wheel and gifted at making things grow.” Rose turned toward her, love and compassion shining in her eyes. “But my sister's mind is her greatest asset. Wise is the man who appreciates it.”
Leana marveled at her brave sister speaking in her defense. If only she could be so bold herself. Fergus McDougal did not affirm her sisters heidie comments, but Jamie nodded ever so slighdy, as though he might secredy agree—or not. It was difficult to be sure.
“That's quite enough, Rose.” Lachlan trained a stern eye on her. “No need to praise your sister's merits. They are only of interest to one man at this table, and he is already quite convinced. Am I right, sir?”
“Aye.” Fergus leered at Leana.
Jamie gazed at Rose. Only Rose.
Nae. Leana looked down at her plate, refusing to see what was plainly written on Jamie's face. Nae. Rose would never let such a thing happen, even though the lost Maxwell debut had struck a terrible blow.
After moping around the house all yestreen, Rose had awakened as her usual, buoyant self. Before breakfast, bundled in their cozy box bed, the two sisters had revealed their deepest secrets: Leana admitted to caring more for Jamie than might be proper. Rose confessed that, soon after Jamie arrived, he'd kissed her—briefly—standing in the middle of their sheep pasture.
Leana was shocked. “He… kissedyovi”
“It was nothing. Like the kiss of an older brother or an uncle,” Rose assured her in a whisper. “Now we must see that he kisses you, and not like a relative!” They'd stifled their laughter in their pillows. “Aren't we a pair?” A pair determined to see Jamie choose the right sister for his bride. Unless it was too late. Unless he had already chosen.
“Miss McBride.” Fergus McDougal's voice brought Leana's head up with a snap. “Your sister declares you a good cook, yet you've no appetite.” His brown eyes studied her across the table. “Are your thoughts…elsewhere?”
“Nae sir.” She managed a faint smile. “They are very much centered on a certain gendeman at this table.” He would think her coy; she spoke naught but truth.
“I'm glad to hear it.” He looked pleased with himself and exchanged nods with her father.
Her clever comment was not so clever after all. If she wasn't careful, Fergus McDougal would end their meal with a formal proposal of marriage. He'd made his intentions quite clear. Once their promises were made, sealed with the pressing together of their thumbs and an exchange of gifts, there would be no turning back.
But she had no gift for Fergus, least of all the gift of herself.
She could not let it happen. Not today. Not ever.
Please, God!
Leana could not bear to look at the man seated across from her, yet if her gaze strayed toward Jamie, her own intentions would be obvious. She would address her father then and make certain Jamie was in her line of sight. “Father, tell us your plans for Martinmas.”
He shrugged. “The same as Mr. McDougals, I suspect.” Her father oudined their November outing to Dumfries while Leana took in the firm line of Jamie's chin, the curve of his high cheekbones, and the heat of his gaze, pointed in one direction: Rose.
Her father's voice faded. Leana felt the room pull away from her, as though she were looking at it through Reverend Gordons new telescope and adjusting the lens. Her perspective changed. She could no longer refuse to see what was clearly before her.
She had been deceived. By no one but herself.
Leana pressed her lips so tighdy together she feared she might pierce the skin with her teeth. Despite what she'd foolishly believed, her father would not be dissuaded regarding Fergus McDougal. That was painfully obvious. Yet there were delusions greater than that one, lies she'd whispered into her pillow every night since Jamie had arrived.
She'd told herself that Jamie, a handsome, intelligent young man, would choose a plain woman over a beautiful one.
She'd convinced herself that when he smiled at her, it meant he cared for her. That when he'd caught her elbow on the stair, it was because he wanted to touch her.
She'd assumed that if she let him see her heart, he would want it for his own.
But Jamie wanted Rose. She saw that now, in the warm glow of his eyes as he gazed at her sister, in the curve of his mouth when Rose said his name.
Jamie.
He wasn't looking for a woman to cook or stitch or spin wool or plant a garden. He wanted Rose, a bonny young lass who could not help but learn to love him.
I would love you, Jamie. The pain in her chest was unbearable. I would, I would.
“I would like to make an announcement, if I may.” Fergus McDou-gal's voice pierced her thoughts, pulling her back to the table, back to the present with its cold, hard truth. He smiled at her with his stained teeth and his knowing gaze and his sagging jowls. “What I am about to say will be a surprise to no one at this table.”
Leana was on her feet before she realized it. “I…forgive me, Father.” She ran from the room, nearly knocking over Willie and his tall glasses of syllabub, then flung herself out the front door. Looking wildly about, she stumbled down the grassy path toward the road to Newabbey, stopping halfway, bent in two with pain.
Please, God.
Jamie was the man she had prayed for. Not Fergus.
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, ashamed of the stubborn tears that would not stop, and wandered aimlessly toward the orchard. Perhaps she would lose herself among the trees. What she would not do was go back and sit across the table from three men who neither knew nor loved her. Fergus saw only her useful parts—her hands, her body—but not her heart. Her father saw her as livestock, to be traded or sold as needed. And Jamie saw her not at all.
Leana hid inside a cherry tree's woody embrace and waited for who knew what. Would it be her father storming out the door, breathing threats? Her sister, knowing all too well the situation, anxious to dry her tears? Or her suitor—the word felt like a cherry pit in her mouth— demanding an apology for something he couldn't possibly comprehend?
The front door opened quiedy. It was Jamie.
He walked direcdy toward the orchard, as though he knew where to find her, his steps quickening until he reached her side. Softly he touched her hand, eyes filled with sympathy. “Leana.” His voice was like a shepherds comforting a newborn lamb. “Leana, I'm sorry.”
“Sorry?” She turned away to hide her tears. Jamie had done nothing to hurt her, not on purpose. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I…” He sighed heavily. “Because.”
She felt a lightness in her chest, a tiny flicker of hope. Might he care after all? Did he regret favoring Rose with his attentions? Leana turned toward him, lifting her chin, hiding nothing. “Jamie, I thought…” She swallowed hard. “I'd hoped…”
But there was no hope in his eyes. It was more like pity. “I truly am sorry, Leana.”
/>
“Jamie…” Overcome, she fell forward, her head pressed against his shoulder. “Oh, Jamie!”
She felt his hand touch the back of her head, smoothing her hair, and could not stop herself from pressing against his palm. “Why did they send you to find me?” she whispered.
“They didn't send me.” Jamie shifted his hands to her arms, holding her steady as he leaned back a bit to look at her. His mouth hinted at a smile. “I just move faster.”
The front door exploded open. Lachlan. Fergus. Angry shouts flew toward the orchard like two carrion crows on the wing railing at each other with their deep, hoarse calls.
Leana stepped away from Jamie's innocent embrace, but it was too late.
“Do you see?” Fergus shouted, waving his dinner napkin like a flag as he marched toward them. “Do you see your daughter in another man's arms?”
“He is her cousin,” Lachlan barked, close on the man's heels. “Nothing more.”
Both men reached her side and stood a handbreadth apart, their faces the color of beets. They had not come to blows, but it appeared they'd considered it. Their eyes bored into hers, their fury aimed in a fresh direction.
She sensed Jamie behind her, closing the gap. A wall of support. He spoke first. “Gendemen, I found my cousin weeping in the orchard. My uncle is right: I meant only to comfort her. Surely you can see—”
“I see a woman who has thoroughly rejected my proposal of marriage.” Fergus McDougals eyes protruded more than usual, and he spewed spitde when he spoke. “Three times I've called on you, Miss McBride, and three times I've been less than warmly received.” He yanked on his waistcoat, his hands shaking with rage. “Nae, three times I've been made to feel a fool.”
Leana lowered her gaze. She could not argue with a man who spoke the truth.
As he gathered steam, his neck seemed to thicken. “You have no regard for me and even less for your fathers wishes. Did he not assure me you were the agreeable sort? Aye, he did! The very words he said were, ‘She'll lift nary a finger nor a word against you.’ Yet you rudely abandoned me at this table on two occasions, the last to consort with your lover in the orchard—”
Thorn in My Heart Page 20
