Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Jamie gripped her hand, his eyes wide, his voice low but urgent. “What, Leana? Is something wrong?”

  She turned to him, longing to stand, to shout with joy and abandon, “Nothing is wrong.” Her voice was the softest of whispers, yet it was strong, and the words were certain. “Jamie, I love you. I've always loved you.”

  “Leana, I…”

  The first contraction seized her, bending her in half, squeezing her in two. She could not breathe; she could not speak. She could only cling to Jamie's hand and God's invisible strength as she tried to stand. Help me, Jamie!

  Seventy-Six

  My God, my Father, and my Friend,

  Do not forsake me in the end.

  WENTWORTH DILLON

  God, help me!” Jamie shouted, gathering Leana in his arms, his heart pounding.

  It had begun.

  Neda was the next one to clamber to her feet, quickly making her way to his side, assessing the situation with an experienced eye. “The lass will niver make it home.” Neda turned and raised her voice above the murmuring congregation. “Reverend Gordon?”

  The minister stood transfixed in his lofty pulpit, his sermon notes forgotten, his jaw drooping. “Mistress Hastings?”

  “We've need of the manse, sir, and yer guid wife as well.” Neda did not wait for an answer but instead guided Jamie and Leana out of the pew and into the aisle, calling a handful of women by name. “Come, ladies. Ye're needed at once.”

  Jamie's only concern was Leana, who clung to his arms for support. “Carry me, Jamie,” she whispered hoarsely. Without hesitating, he slid one hand behind her back and the other behind her knees and lifted her off the floor, mother with child, as though she weighed nothing, as though the burden were borne by unseen arms. Leana wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her damp cheek against his chest as he strode toward the doors, held wide open for them.

  Help me, God. Help us both.

  He carried Leana the short distance to the manse next door, almost running by the time he arrived, a flock of women trailing behind him. Mistress Gordon was already at the front door, waving them in. “There's always water on the fire, and I've plenty of linens. Come, come.” Candles were quickly lighted in the spence and fresh sheets thrown over the minister's bed while the women made room for Jamie and the limp woman in his arms.

  He lowered Leana onto the mattress with exceeding care, not wanting to hurt her further, for she was clearly in agony.

  “Jamie,” she sighed, cradling his cheek, “pray for me.”

  “I will, I will.” He gripped her hand as she bent in two again, waiting while the wave of pain crashed over her, then receded, leaving her breathless. “Go, my husband,” she said, stifling a moan. “The women will attend to me.”

  My husband. He released her hand, reluctant to do so. “Are you certain, lass? I will wait outside the door. Praying, just as you asked.”

  “Good.” She nodded, taking a deep breath. “I love you, Jamie.”

  “Leana, I—”

  “That's enough, lad.” Neda abrupdy yanked the sleeve of his coat. “Ye re more hindrance than help, if ye want to know the truth of it.”

  Two women escorted him from the room before he could protest. The door closed in his face, gently but firmly, and he was left standing in the dim hall, blinking until his eyes adjusted enough for him to find a chair.

  He sat close by the door where he could listen and be available if needed. Except no one in that room needed him, for any reason, not even Leana.

  Leana.

  His head sank into his hands.

  Leana McKie—aye, his wife, though he'd never treated her as such—had carried his child for nine long months without complaining, without asking anything of him but the smallest favors. “Rub my back, Jamie?” And he would do as she asked but no more. “Might you bring some tea?” she would say, her voice hesitant, then thank him profusely for doing such an insignificant task. She suggested names for their son, good names—Robert, Simon, Lewis—but he pretended it didn't matter.

  Leana told him she loved him daily.

  Leana showed him she loved him by the hour.

  And what did he do? He loved Rose. Told her so. Showed her with gifts and heated glances. He was not unfaithful to Leana in body but desperately false in every other way that mattered.

  He had ruined Leana's life and broken her heart for naught.

  And she had forgiven him, without his even asking for her forgiveness.

  Oh, Leana!

  From behind the spence door came a groan that sounded as though it were torn from Leana's body. Jamie groaned with her, his own pain only starting.

  “Are ye prayin, lad, as ye should be?” Duncan came up behind him and pressed his rough hand around the back of Jamie's neck. “Are ye thinkin’ aboot what it means to be a faither?”

  Jamie only nodded, not wanting Duncan to know what desperate thoughts were running through his mind.

  But Duncan knew him too well. “And are ye thinkin what it might mean to the child's mither to know that she is loved by her husband?”

  “But I don't—”

  “Wheesht!” Duncan slapped him on the back, hard. “Enough o’ that foolishness, lad.” Duncan marched over to an empty chair and yanked it up to the door. “Ye'll listen to what I have to say and mind me as though I were yer ain faither come down from Glentrool.” He banged the chair into place across from him and sat down with a decisive thump. “Do I have yer attention, Jamie?”

  Jamie was stunned. “Aye.” Duncan had never been so forceful.

  “Here's the truth of it, lad. And ye ken that I care for ye, and so does me Neda, so don't be getting’ all in a huff when I say what I must.” The overseer leaned forward, his eyes kind but his jaw firm. “The fact is, ye've niver known what it means to love someone, lad. Instead ye've worshiped yer mither and hated yer brither and deceived yer faither— aye, I ken all aboot that. There's none at Auchengray who don't. And ye put Rose McBride on a pedestal she niver deserved. But that woman in that room, yer ain Leana—”

  Duncan choked on her name, pointing at the door as she cried out in pain. “Leana, yer only wife, who has loved yer miserable self for a lang and thankless year, is in that room layin down her life for yer son. And what does this guid woman get from her husband?”

  Jamie could barely say the word. “Nothing.”

  “Naught but cold hands and a colder heart and a wanderin’ eye. The dear lass has asked nothin of ye, not ane thing, except that ye let her love ye and that ye love her in return. YeVe only done half that, Jamie. Ye ve taken all the love she had to give ye, but ye ve given none back.” The man's eyes were bright with tears, his voice shaking. “D'ye hear me, lad? D'ye hear her, beggin for mercy from her travail, all to give ye yer firstborn?”

  Jamie nodded, his head falling forward, his own tears dripping to the floor. Words would not come. Only pain came, in waves, like Leana's labor, wearing him down, grinding his pride into bits. Forgive me. Forgive me. It was all he could think.

  His heart felt like a fist, tight in his chest, the pain unbearable.

  Forgive me. Please, God. Forgive me.

  His sins unrolled like a scroll before him, too many to count, too many to bear. The lies, the deceit, the greed, the selfishness. The shameful ways he'd treated his brother, his father, his wife. God, forgive me.

  How dare he ask God for forgiveness when he could not forgive himself? When his sins were without number?

  O God, in the multitude of thy mercies, hear me.

  Duncan rested a hand on his shoulder, saying nothing for a time, only squeezing it now and again. “Your wife's in pain, Jamie, make no mistake. A woman in travail has naught but sorrow, for she kens her hour has come.”

  As though in answer, Leana moaned loudly, calling his name. “Jamie! Jamie!”

  He shot to his feet and pounded on the door. “I'm here, Leana! I'm here.”

  “Sit ye doon, lad. Ye've no business in there.” Duncan tugged him back
to his seat, a wry smile on his craggy face. “Just pray she only calls ye Jamie and not somethin meikle worse, eh?”

  “But I have to do something, Duncan. Listen to her.” He pressed his hand to his mouth, stifling his misery.

  “Ye'll wait, Jamie, like every faither has waited since Adam himself. ‘Twill be the most helpless hours of yer life, for ye canna do ane thing to help her. But fear not. As soon as she's delivered of the child, she won't remember the pain for the joy that yer son is born. Yer son, Jamie. Are ye hearin what I'm sayin to ye?”

  Jamie dropped into his seat and hunched over, his hands pressed to his head. “You've cut me to the quick, man. I hardly know what to say or do.”

  Duncan snorted mightily, then laughed a great, rolling laugh that came from his chest. “ ‘Twill be the easiest thing done in this house today. Ye're goin’ to beg God for mercy, Jamie. Ye're goin’ to pray like ye've niver prayed before. No young man of my acquaintance has ever needed mercy more and deserved it less, but ye'U ask for it, and Almighty God will give it to ye because he can. D'ye believe that, Jamie?”

  I will never kaveyou. Jamie gulped. “I believe it, aye.”

  “Say the words with me, lad, for ye learned them at yer faither's knee: ‘Have mercy upon me, O LORD; for I am weak.’ ”

  Jamie choked out the words. “Have mercy upon me, O LORD, for I am…weak.”

  “Aye, that's the way. Ye are weak, Jamie, but there's not a man who isn't, if he's honest. What ye're doin now is the strongest thing a body can do.” Duncan rested a hand on Jamie's shoulder. “Now ye're going to pray for the courage to love and respect yer wife. Can ye do that, lad? Can ye pray sic a thing and ken that yer words are bein heard?”

  “Aye.” Jamie fumbled for his handkerchief. “Aye, Duncan, I can. And I will.”

  “Guid. I told ye these words afore, the day ye heard aboot the babe. Now ye need tae speak them for yerself, Jamie. Will ye say them after me? ‘Husbands, love yer wives.’ ”

  “Husbands…” Jamie broke down. Nothing would come but groaning.

  Duncan's voice was low but sure. “Take yer time, lad.”

  Like granite chipped from a Dalbeaty quarry, the truth finally came out. “I am not…a husband.”

  “Aye, but ye are. The law and the Lord say so.” Duncan moved closer, stretching his arm across Jamie's shoulders, his own gruff voice strained to the breaking point. “Come, we'll say it together. ‘Husbands, love yer wives.’ ”

  “Husbands…love your wives.” Forgive me, Leana.

  “Aye, that's good, Jamie. ‘Even as Christ also loved the church.’ ”

  “Even as Christ also loved the church.”

  “And so he did. Now the last of it: and gave himself for it.’ ”

  The hardest of all. “And gave himself for it.”

  “That's how much love Leana deserves, Jamie. All you can gie her.” Duncan stood with a grunt, then squeezed Jamie's shoulder with affection. “Ye ken what else needs to be said and done this night. I'll be in by the hearth if ye need me.”

  Jamie nodded, blowing his nose. He was ashamed of many things but not of his tears. Not now, not with Duncan. Duncan cared about him. It was plain as day on the man's face. Leana loved him too, and that was plainer still.

  Left to himself, Jamie bowed his head, pressing his forearms into his knees, and said the only thing left to say. Hear me, God. Hear me.

  On the other side of the door, his wife called for him again, her voice pleading. “Jamie! Jamie!” Leana. She loved him completely. And he needed her love. Desperately.

  Please, God, help me love her in return.

  Jamie clenched his hands together, determined to keep praying until his prayer was answered. Please, God, help me love her in return.

  Seventy-Seven

  A Man like to me,

  Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever.

  A Hand like this hand

  Shall throw open die gates of new life to thee!

  ROBERT BROWNING

  He must love you, lass, to stand so close to your door.”

  Leana looked at Mistress Bell through a sheen of unshed tears. “Who?” she whispered, her throat parched, her lips so dry she feared they might stick together. “Who is close by the door?”

  “Your husband, of course. The one you keep calling for.”

  Jamie.

  Leana fell back on the pillows, already exhausted, yet strengthened by the thought of him so near. Jamie, the man she loved and would always love, even if he never loved her in return.

  In a corner of the shadowy room she spied her sister, looking forlorn. “Rose,” Leana called, holding out a weak hand. “Come closer, dearie.” Before Rose could move, another spasm racked Leanas body. Nedas hand clasped hers with a comforting grip while Leana bore the pain as best she could. When Leana opened her eyes, Rose was there, hovering nearby, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Leana,” she whispered. “Are you…” ones hne.

  Neda spoke too sharply, Leana thought. Poor Neda. Always protecting her like the mother she was. Leana reached for her sisters hand. “Rose is worried because.

  “Aye, because of yer mither. I should have realized.” Nedas features softened as she slid her arm around Roses waist and pulled her close. “Agness McBride would be proud of ye both tonight, behavin like sisters, helpin each other.”

  A stream of tears started down Roses cheeks, but she would not let go of Leanas hand to dry them. “Leana, Ym…I'm…sorry” The word came out on a sob.

  “I know you are, dear sister. So am I. Sorry as can be.” The pain came again, stronger, more insistent. She could only squeeze the hands that held hers and endure. It finally passed, followed by a short spell of blessed relief.

  “Lass, tell me quick.” Neda leaned forward, searching her face. “D'ye have yer mither's blue thread on yer person? Always wise to carry it aboot when ye're near the end o’ yer time. The fever and all.”

  “Nae, I…nae.” Leana struggled to marshal her wits. “When Mother died, Father was beside himself. He…he cut off the thread and threw it in the fire.”

  Neda's eyes widened. “I'd completely forgotten! Och, lass, that does not bode well.” The housekeeper turned toward the other women of the parish behind her. They shook their heads, their faces anxious, their whispers tense.

  Leana tried to sit up, determined to say what she must before she could say nothing at all. “Neda, you were the one who told me the child was a gift from God, aye?”

  “Och! Ye ken verra well that I did.”

  “Then trust the Almighty to bring this babe into the world.” Leanas words faded into a groan. She felt the baby turning, moving, fighting. Seized with a fresh stab of pain, she drew her knees toward her distended belly, groaning through another contraction, then fell back a minute later, grateful for a moment to breathe. They were coming closer. Soon, soon.

  Neda bent over her, wiping her brow with a cool cloth. “Are ye sayin ye want to put aside the auld ways, Leana?”

  “Aye, that's it.” Leana sighed, grateful she understood. Almighty God had no need of rusty nails or fir candles or spoonfuls of salts. “See that the women hold their Bibles over me. And pray.”

  Neda nodded, then stepped away to tell the others. Leana could hear their agitated murmuring somewhere on the other side of the fog that enveloped her birthing bed. No matter. God alone would see her through.

  Day turned into night, and still she labored. She breathed when she could, screamed when she needed to, and prayed without ceasing. The room was a cave, and she was trapped in its black center, clawing the sheets, begging for deliverance. Help me, Lord, Rose stayed close by, her hands clasped, her eyes beseeching. “Don't die, Leana!” she whispered. “Don't die!”

  “I'm not dying, Rose,” she assured her between gasps. “Pray…pray for the baby to come.”

  A distraught Jamie burst into the room at one point, shocking the poor women senseless. In the darkened room—the candles burned down to stubs, her pain unending
now—Leana could barely see him oudined by the flickering light of the hearth. She said his name, though it sounded more like a groan. “Jaaamieee…”

  “Please, Neda!” His voice was desperate, pleading. “Please, she's calling me. Can't you hear her? I need to see my wife. Just for a moment, please.”

  But Neda brooked no visitors in a birthing room and hastily pushed him back out the door. “It won't be lang now, lad, and ye'll have her all to yerself. Patience, Mr. McKie.”

  Leana watched him leave, his broad shoulders sagging. Poor Jamie. She prayed for him to be strong and for God to be stronger still. For her sake. For their sons sake. She had no doubt it would be a boy Ian. That would be his name. Gift from God. Aye, the perfect name.

  Then all conscious thought flew from her head.

  The end had come.

  “Almost, Leana.” Nedas voice. “Ye're so close, lass.” Push. “There's the head. I see it!” Deep breath. “Wait now, wait…and…push!”

  The women circled the bed, their heavy family Bibles held high, their voices lifted up as well. “Deliver her, Lord!” When the child came at last, a lusty cry pierced the air, and all joined in the chorus, Leana the loudest among them.

  “Yer son is born!” Neda crowed, gathering the slippery bundle into her arms while Leana lay there, exhausted and drenched with tears, able to do litde more than open her eyes. She heard Jamie outside the door, banging on the wood, begging to know if she was well, if the babe was well.

  “Someone tell Jamie,” Leana whispered hoarsely, watching Neda quickly bathe the whimpering infant. At last the babe, wrapped in fresh linen, was tucked into her waiting arms. How snugly he fit, how right he felt!

  Neda kissed them both, her eyes brimming with tears. “Well done, lass. Well done.”

  Leana nodded her thanks and pressed her lips against his tiny head, still wet from the water, still warm from her body. Ian. His hair was dark brown and soft as down, like his father's. “Welcome, Ian James McKie,” she whispered. “God has given me the gift of you this night, and I will praise his name forever.”