Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  The small lad, so thin he appeared not to have eaten for a month, placed the heavy smoothing iron by the fire, its gooselike neck silhouetted in the glowing peat. His own neck was almost as narrow. The collarbones sticking out of his shirt begged for meat. Leana would see that he left with a bannock and some pickled mutton in his pocket. As to the tailor, he, too, bore the look of poverty. The marked hump on his back and cruel bend to his posture meant he'd had a difficult way of it from his first breath. She vowed to pay the man twice his wage and face her father's disapproval.

  Leana lit another candle, knowing frugal Lachlan would object to that as well. Still, the room was too dark for the tailor to see clearly. The forenoon sun was out but hardly shining, its meager rays lighting the room's two casement windows. Leana moved the candles closer, then gave the men room to work as she circled the nervous bride, who stood on a stout wooden box in the center of the sisters’ bedroom. Praying as she walked, Leana begged the Almighty for patience with Rose and a generous spirit. She had known this day would be difficult and had prepared herself for it, or so she'd thought. Now that it was here, her words felt wooden and her heart like a stone.

  Jamie, oh, Jamie. How his eyes would light at the sight of Rose in so becoming a gown. If Leana thought it might win Jamie's affections, she would gladly pay the tailor to make a second one to match it. A foolish notion, of course. No dress, however flattering, could make such a dramatic change in Jamie's heart. He would simply say, “Don't you look fine, Leana.” But his eyes would never show what she longed to see reflected there, nor his lips say the words she ached to hear: In you whom I bve, Leana. You ahne.

  Leana shook her head, dislodging the traitorous thoughts, and forced a smile to her face. She must be happy for her sister. Must. If Rose were marrying another—any man but Jamie McKie—Leana would be overjoyed. Think of that then. What she could not dwell on were her own feelings for Jamie, which had strengthened rather than diminished. The reason was simple: The worst had already been endured. Jamie would never be hers, so she had naught to fear, and little to lose, in loving him.

  True, her love was one-sided, but it was love in its purest form. Chaste. A love born of admiration and respect, not youthful lust. Whether he knew it or not, Jamie needed‘her love, needed a constant and steady source of support, something she feared childish Rose could never manage. Leana kept the secret of her continuing regard for Jamie well hidden. Once the wedding was past and all hope lost forever, she would bury her feelings for Jamie in the frozen soil of her garden beside the sharply pruned Maiden's Blush. For now, her love grew in silence, like the misdetoe in the crevices of her apple trees, unseen yet potent.

  Comforted by her thoughts, Leana watched her sister hold her arms akimbo, struggling to accommodate the tailors wishes and not lose her balance. Roses voice trembled as she asked, “How does it look, Leana?”

  She could only speak the truth. “Wonderful, dearie. The color especially.” It was far and away the most fashionable gown Rose McBride had ever worn. The damask was a pale dusky rose, the robe styled high above her waist, the seam covered with a sash of a darker hue. The petticoat beneath it matched the kell from Dresden, as creamy white as Roses flawless skin. A shoemaker in Newabbey had managed to make damask slippers to match the dress. Neda recommended the shoes be carried to the kirk for the ceremony and not worn until the last minute, and Leana had agreed. Come Hogmanay, east Galloway weather could be frightful.

  Leana nodded at the tailor and his apprentice. “Thank heaven you two had a dry day for your walk from the village, or my sister's gown might have been ruined before the neighborhood ever saw her wearing it.”

  Rose pressed a hand against her chest. “What a horrid thought!”

  “So it is, lass.” The tailor stood to his feet, his crooked back even more pronounced. “Once I've pressed it smooth, ye're not to wear the dress again until your wedding day, nor can it be altered on the morning of your marriage, not by one stitch.” He turned to Leana. “Ye'll see to it, Miss McBride? Bad enough that our fitting took place on a Friday without yer sister handing ill luck an invitation to the wedding.”

  “Och!” Roses hands flew to her cheeks, which now matched the rosy gown. “The invitations! I completely forgot.” She waved her arms up and down, pins flying. “Jamie and I planned to deliver our invitations this afternoon. Surely we've finished here.” She nearly jumped from her perch before the tailor placed his hands firmly on her waist.

  “Steady, lass. I've more of the hem to mark, and the sleeves still need fixing.” He consulted his watch, shaking his head all the while. “We ve another hour of work that can't be managed without ye.”

  Rose wrung her hands, imploring Leana with her eyes. “Is there nothing to be done? We were to deliver the invitations round the parish on Tuesday, but the rain was so fierce we feared we'd be soaked to the skin. You'll remember on Wednesday, Neda had every woman in Auchengray making treacle candy. Then on Thursday a north wind blew down from Queensbury… Och! We must leave at once. Leana, think of something!”

  Leana looked at the apprentice, nigh to cowering by the chimney-piece, and the tailor, whose face resembled that same north wind, cold and foreboding. “Gendemen, if I may make a suggestion. Might I… that is, would it be acceptable to you if I took my sisters place? Just for the balance of the fitting?”

  The tailor threw up his hands with a lengthy groan. “Ye've no regard for tradition, Miss McBride. The wedding gown is not to be worn before the bride herself has been married in it.”

  “Ill luck again, is it?”

  “Ill?” The tailor shook his head, rolling his eyes as he did. “Disastrous, if ye want to know the truth.”

  The sisters gazed at each other across his wagging head. Would it really be such a risk for a mere fitting?

  Rose made the decision for them. “Mr. Armstrong, we re grateful for your concern. If it were anyone other than my sister, I would never risk such a foolish thing. But since it is my dearest Leana, and since I must deliver my invitations today…well, we've been wearing each others dresses for several seasons. I don't suppose it will matter just once more.”

  “Whatever ye say, lass. It's yer wedding.”

  The men left the room while Leana and Rose switched gowns amid much laughter and sticking of pins. Rose stood back to admire the dress. “The color suits you as well, Leana.” She knit her brows in mock annoyance. “See that you don't grow too accustomed to the feel of this dress on your bonny shoulders. The gown is mine, don't forget. And so is the bridegroom who goes with it.”

  Leana stilled, swallowing a sour taste in her mouth. “How could I forget such a thing?”

  “Leana.” The color drained from her sister's face. “I'm…I'm sorry. I meant it only in jest. I never…” She shrugged, dropping her chin to her chest. In a small voice she added, “Forgive me.”

  “There's naught to forgive, dearie. You were only teasing.” Leana reached out and pulled her sister into a loose embrace, not wanting to prick her with a pin or tear a fragile seam. “Go on, see to your invitations. Your friends are no doubt wondering if they 11 be invited at all and will be most glad to see you appear at their gate. Mr. Armstrong and I will make certain your gown is perfect.”

  Rose hugged her back and whispered a teary thank-you in Leana's ear. “My dress is the one thing that doesn't concern me. All the rest of it scares me widess.” She slipped out the door, her cheeks still pale, and sent in the tailor and his apprentice, who wasted no time getting to work.

  Leana patiendy stood while they pinned and measured, relieved when Mr. Armstrong assured her, “Ye and yer sister are nigh to twins, so close are yer measurements. ‘Twas good of ye to do this for her, Miss McBride, ill luck or no. Yer sister seemed eager to take her leave.”

  “Aye.” She stared out the nearest window, the gray hills in the distance as bleak as her future. Any moment the chaise would be summoned and Rose sent safely on her way with a maid to keep her company. Astride Walloch, Jamie would d
eliver his own invitations— precious few since he'd been in the parish less than three months—while she, the older sister, stood proxy for the missing bride.

  “Come, miss.” The tailor reached for the kell. “Nothing remains but to see this hung round your head.” He shook out the long headdress with surprising grace, then stood on tiptoe to drape it over her hair. It landed softly, as pure as early December snow falling on Lowtis Hill. He tugged the folds around her face, covering her hair. “A pretty piece of needlework, to be sure. From Dresden, ye say?” He stood back, nodding his approval, then walked around her, muttering to himself. “A pity you can't see for yerself, Miss McBride. From the back, ye'd never know it wasn't yer sister.” He continued around until he stood before her once again, then gave her a sly wink. “Even the bridegroom himself might be swicked, aye?”

  Forty-One

  When I was at home, I was in a better place;

  but travellers must be content.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Rose peered out the bedroom window into the wintry darkness, touching the silver brooch pinned close to her heart. Dawn was an hour away, yet already she heard Willie working outside the stables below, harnessing old Bess to the chaise. “Promise you'll take good care of my bridegroom while I'm gone, Leana?”

  “Aye.” Her sisters voice was nigh as chilly as the room. “Jamie will be well looked after.”

  Rose turned to touch Leana's cheek in tacit thanks, wishing her sisters smile didn't look so strained. Since the afternoon nearly two weeks past when Jamie and she had delivered the wedding invitations, Rose had sensed Leana pulling away from both of them, quiedy folding inside herself like a handkerchief about to disappear in a pocket.

  And now she was the one preparing to vanish from sight. Custom required the bride to flit for the week before her wedding, so flit she must. “ ‘Ts improper to have you and Jamie living under the same roof before you wed,” her father had cautioned. “Your Aunt Margaret will keep your mind off things and well out of harm's way.” Rose had offered to stay closer to home—visit Susanne Elliot's family in Newabbey perhaps—but her father had been firm. “Twyneholm,” he'd said. Twyneholm it was.

  She would return on the morning of her wedding day with her Aunt Meg in tow. The women of Auchengray would await her arrival, gown and kell at the ready, while down the hall Jamie would be in Hugh's capable hands.

  A week! Hardly enough time to know her own heart, let alone alter it.

  Her father was right: Twyneholm was the ideal diversion.

  Leana folded a pair of long woolen stockings and tucked them inside Rose's traveling trunk. “I cant imagine how Jamie will survive without you for seven days,” Leana said, her tone more amiable. “Duncan and I will see that he's occupied. And what will you find to keep you busy in Twyneholm, do you suppose?”

  “If I know Aunt Meg, she'll put me to work scrubbing the floor or polishing her silver.”

  “Her silver?” Leana's slight laugh warmed Rose's heart. “Have you forgotten? Our dear aunt has one silver plate she uses to impress her neighbors. Your polishing chores will last all of an hour. And the flagstone floor will not require more than a wet rag on a dry morning to set it to rights. Do it first thing so you wont come home with chapped hands for your wedding day.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Rose glanced down at her hands, already more pink and rough than she liked. “Mother's gloves will do for the ceremony, but I dread thinking of Jamie touching these pitiful hands on our wedding night.”

  “Come, let me see them. I've a remedy for everything, you know.”

  When Leana lighdy brushed her outstretched hands, Rose felt a lump creep into her throat. Leana's touch was as gende as their mother's must have been. Oh, Leana. What would she ever do without her sister when the time came to leave for Glentrool?

  Leana turned her hands over, inspecting the palms. “Beeswax and pine resin make a fine healing balm. Aunt Meg will have plenty of wax stored from her hives. I'll see that Willie slips some fresh pine boughs in the chaise before you leave. Won't that add a lovely fragrance to your journey?”

  “Mmm.” Rose closed her eyes at the thought of it. “Like Christmas.”

  “Wheesht!” Leana held a finger to her lips. “Father might hear you.” She laughed in spite of her warning. “Or worse, Reverend Gordon.”

  The kirk had long ago banned any celebration of Christmas or the Daft Days that culminated on Twelfth Night—too pagan, too papist, and entirely too frivolous. Each winter Neda reminisced about one December in her youth when a certain minister had visited his parishioners unannounced on the 25th, checking to see that all were busy about their labors and that nothing festive was cooking on the hearth. Neda, it seems, had hidden the roasted goose beneath the bedcovers in the spence and banished the puddings to the cellar, biting her tongue to keep from wishing the dour man a blessed Christmas as he left.

  Hogmanay, however, remained on every Scottish calendar, a practice which the kirk reluctandy condoned. More than any other year in recent memory, the McBride family would have reason to rejoice when the kirk bell rang in the New Year. Until then, Rose was off to another parish to count the days, with only her aunt for company. Not that she minded. Aunt Meg was, to put it mildly, an original, though she had no use for the womanly arts. Rose handed her sister a few last items to include in her trunk, groaning as she did. “Pack my sewing kit and darning needle as well. I fear I'll have need of them both.”

  The corners of Leana's mouth lifted into a genuine smile, her first of the morning. “And soap to scrub your feet?”

  “Oo aye! I'd almost forgotten.” Rose stared down at her stockings, dreading to see how the skin beneath them might look by the light of day. “Yestreen was a bit of nonsense, wasn't it?”

  Neda stuck her head in the doorway. “Necessary nonsense, lass. ‘Tis your wedding, and all must be done according to custom, including the foot washing.”

  Last evening Jamie had gathered with the men of the neighborhood in the front room, with Duncan serving as the proper overseer. In the kitchen, Susanne Elliot supervised the lasses. “Stockings off, Rose, and plunk your feet in the tub of water Neda's drawn for you. Nice and warm, eh?” Amid much giggling and splashing, Rose's wet feet were rubbed with candle grease and soot until they were black as could be. “Doesn't our Rose make a lovely bride?” Susanne teased. No sooner had Rose's friends washed her feet clean with soap than another blackening ensued, even as the men blackened Jamie in the next room. The night's revelry dissolved into laughter and song, not ending until Rose and Jamie sent their guests home long past midnight.

  The couple had met on the stair—stockings in hand, feet streaked with black, her skirts soaking wet, his breeches the same. Their smiles were weary but their hearts full. She'd tugged on his shirttail, hanging out in shameless disarray. “You look a fright, Mr. McKie.”

  “As do you, Miss McBride.” His gaze had traveled the length of her, making her shiver on the moonlit stair.

  “One more week, guid sir.”

  “Seven verra lang days, my bonny wee bride.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Jamie, am I too young for you?”

  “Never, lass.” He smoothed her hair back from her brow, his gaze lighting her face like a candle at midnight. “Am I too old?”

  She'd shaken her head, then kissed his palm and hurried up the stair, afraid to say more, wary of exploring the unfamiliar sensations that sang inside her.

  Aye, Twyneholm was the very thing to get her mind off her handsome bridegroom and the moss green eyes that saw more than she dared imagine. Whether she loved him, she could not say. But he was bonny; aye, he was that.

  In the murky light of approaching dawn, Willie waited for her by the chaise. The orraman was as patient as their old mare Bess, whose breath filled the morning air when she whinnied, her tail swishing, her huge eyes half closed. Leana appeared while Willie was loading the trunk. In her arms were freshly cut pine boughs, and on her face was naught but a sister's love.
Dear Leana.

  Leana handed Willie the evergreens to store, then wrapped her arms around Rose in a last embrace. “Godspeed, Rose,” she whispered beneath the hood of her wool cloak. “See that Willie keeps a firm hand on the reins and a careful eye on the roads.”

  “Aye.” Rose blinked away the tears pooling in her eyes. “Tell…tell Jamie good-bye for me.” She glanced up at the window to her bedroom, where Jamie should have been fast asleep. Instead, she caught a glimpse of him at the window before he stepped back, away from view. According to custom, Jamie was not to see her for a full week, not until he walked into the kirk and found her waiting for him. Soon, Jamie. Soon.

  By the time she'd climbed into the chaise, Neda and Duncan had come out to wish her a safe journey, joined at last by her father. He kissed her cheek, his unshaven chin scraping against her skin. “See that you're home by noon on Hogmanay, lass.” His features were drawn in a scowl, yet his eyes shone. “If you're late, Jamie may grow weary and marry another.”

  Rose laughed merrily, grateful for her father's jest. It eased her leaving, which was becoming more difficult by the minute. In two weeks she would be leaving for Glentrool forever. Och!It didn't bear thinking. “Farewell, dear family.” She patted Willie's arm to signal she was ready. “My prayers are with you all.”

  “And with you, dearie.” Leana waved as Bess jerked forward, pulling the chaise down the drive. “Hurry home, Rose!”

  The harness bells jingled in the frosty air, drowning out the last of their farewells. Rose settled back in the chaise, grateful for the heated brick beneath her feet and the warmth of her fur muff and heavy green cape, for the winter morning was bitterly cold. They turned onto the road that took them west along Lochend, its surface glassy and still. She gazed at Maxwell Park as they trotted past, admiring the enormous front door festooned with garlands and the windows bright with candles. Lady Maxwell had no doubt been awake for hours, putting the final touches on her plans for Hogmanay, so different from her own.