Thorn in My Heart
Page 49
“Leana?” Neda leaned over her, brushing her damp hair away from her brow, a smile in her voice. “There's a braw young faither here quite beside himself to have a word with you. Might you gie him a bittie of your time?” Neda stepped back and motioned Jamie forward. “She's all yours, lad.”
Leana gazed over Ian's head and watched Jamie move toward the bed while Rose, a hand pressed against her mouth, eased away, disappearing into the shadows. Jamie did not look at Rose or at Neda. He did not even look at their newborn son. He looked at her, his wife. Straight into her eyes, as though stunned at the sight of her.
“Jamie.” She tried to wet her lips but could not. “I must look a fright.”
He knelt down on one knee beside the bed. “You look like the mother of my son.” Placing one trembling hand on hers and the other on their son's head, he bound them together with his touch. Neither of them could speak for all that was in their eyes.
The room grew quiet around them as Neda ushered the neighborhood women gendy out the door, sending them home to worried husbands and hungry children. The housekeeper was the last to leave, her face hopeful as she closed the door behind her.
All was silent but the fire in the hearth.
“Leana, will you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” She thought she had cried all her tears while she labored, but she was wrong. “I will do better than that, Jamie McKie,” she whispered. “I will always love you. Always.” When his face crumpled and he fell against the bed, she comforted him, smoothing back his hair. “Jamie, sweet Jamie. My love for you gives me the strength to forgive anything.”
His words were muffled. “You are more than I deserve, Leana.” After a moment he lifted his face to meet her gaze. “You are the blessing of God to me. I know that now.”
“And here is another blissin.” She nodded at the babe and held him out a bit. “Will you take your son?”
Jamie straightened, wiping a sleeve across his face, then gingerly gathered up his son and peered into his tiny face, awed. “He looks like…”
“Aye.” She laughed softly. “A twin of you.” When the child began to fuss, she held out her arms. “Better let me feed the lad. You'll stay and keep me company?”
Jamie slowly placed the infant back in her arms, then stood to his feet while she attended to the hungry newborn, kindly averting his eyes while she struggled to get the child setded. When she looked up with a small sigh of relief, Jamie was gazing down at her again, his face full of a yearning she'd not seen before. “Leana, would you believe me if I told you that God once spoke to me in a dream?”
She thought before she answered, stroking Ian's head as she did. It was clear Jamie had given the question a great deal of thought. “Aye, I believe God might speak to you while you are sleeping, Jamie. Heaven knows, I do.”
“You do?”
“Aye.” She smiled. “When you're snoring beside me, I can say anything I like to you and never be interrupted.”
The babe in her arms wriggled, and both of them laughed. “Already this one has found a way to come between us,” she teased.
“Nae.” Jamie was suddenly serious. “Nothing will come between us again.”
She shook her head, the smile gone from her voice. “Please do not make promises you cannot keep.”
He did not flinch at her words. “But I mean to keep them, Leana. Will you give me a chance to prove myself to you? To start fresh, from the beginning?”
“You have nothing to prove to me. To yourself, perhaps, and to God. But not to me, Jamie. I love you.” She reached up to cup his rough cheek and felt the warmth of him wash all over her. “Aye, we shall begin again. Now then, tell me about your dream.”
“So I will.” He found a chair and pulled it as close to the bed as he could, keeping his gaze locked with hers as he smoothed the bedcovers around her, patting the nursing babe in passing. “You'll remember me telling you about the first night I left Glentrool, when I slept beneath the stars on a stony cairn.”
“I remember,” she murmured. “The night you slept among the crushed berries of Jacobs ladder. The night you might have died.”
“But I didn't die, Mistress McKie.” He leaned over and gendy kissed her, his lips still wet with tears. “I dreamed.”
Author Notes
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as Was said to me.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
One of the more famous paintings of Robert Burns shows a rapt young Walter Scott seated on the floor, holding an open book while staring up at the legendary poet entering Sibbald's Library. With my first historical novel in hand, I feel a bit as Walter must have, humbled and awed by the talents of those who've already traveled this ground. When I read John Buchan or Neil Munro, George MacDonald or Samuel Rutherford Crockett, Robert Louis Stevenson or Sir Walter Scott, I wonder that I have the nerve even to try my hand at eighteenth-century Scottish historical fiction.
Then I remember that the whole notion ‘twas not my idea to begin with, and I rest in the divine guidance that brought me here and the kind souls whoVe walked beside me with their gleaming candles held high, whispering words of encouragement. A special thanks to my editorial team at WaterBrook Press—Laura Barker, Carol Bardey, Rebecca Price, Lisa Tawn Bergren, Dudley Delffs, Paul Hawley, and Danelle McCafferty—and to my cherished early readers, Sara Fortenberry, Diane Noble, and Benny Gillies—and to my eagle-eyed proofreaders, Susan Richardson and Leesa Gagel. Your enthusiastic direction made all the difference.
My fictional journey across Galloway began seven years before Thorn in My Heart found its way into print. When Scodand beckoned as a possible setting for my tale about a woman who was neither beautiful nor loved, a visit to bonny Galloway put the question of location to rest. Photo albums began to fill, as did my writing-loft bookshelves. Five research trips to Scodand and two to England followed as the story unfolded. A thousand colorful photographs and five hundred Scottish resource tides later, Thorn in My Heart finally saw the light of day.
Except for historical figures mentioned in the text, such as Robert the Bruce, few of the characters in the novel lived and breathed in 1788. The locations, however, are very real indeed. The only placenames plucked from my imagination were Maxwell Park—though Galloway is thick with Maxwells—and the farm in Kirkbean called Nethercarse. I simply couldn't bear to think of sullying some fine Galloway farm by having that ugsome Fergus McDougal live there. As to the rest of the major characters, if their stories feel a wee bit familiar, that's by intent. You'll find a parallel tale in the Bible, specifically in Genesis 25:19-34 and Genesis 27-29. Leah's heart-piercing story cried out to be told, and I could hardly refuse her.
Perhaps this novel has introduced you to some delightful Scottish words. Pernickitie is my personal favorite. I consulted the Concise Scots Dictionary (1999) for accuracy and Charles Mackay's A Dictionary of Lowland Scotch (1888) for sheer pleasure. Proper spellings for the clachans and burghs of Galloway varied from map to map and book to book, sometimes differing in the same book. Francis Grose's The Antiquities of Scotland (1797) shows Threave Casde spelled Thrive m the caption beneath the sketch of the casde, then Thrieve and Thrieff'm the text. You'll recall that Jamie passed brooding Threave Casde on his journey east. The image of Threave on the back cover was taken by Allan Wright, a talented Galloway photographer, whose work can be enjoyed at www.LyricalScodand.co.uk. For consistency, I based the spellings for Thorn in My Heart on Sir John Sinclair's The Statistical Account of Scotland (1799), the most useful of all my research volumes.
Two contemporary Scottish ministers were exceedingly helpful during my research visits. Reverend William Holland, minister of New Abbey Parish Church (yes, two words now), not only offered generous hospitality in the form of shortbread and tea at the manse but also answered dozens of questions about parish life in the late 1700s. And Reverend Hugh Steele, minister of Monigaff Parish Church (yes, one N now), was kind enough to tromp about the kirkyard with me to loca
te the gravestones of many a McKie, then directed me to the stained-glass windows above the pulpit depicting Jacob and Esau, as well as Rachel. Another serendipity.
Since raising blackface sheep is not one of the skills on my resume, I am indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Dempster of Castlehill Farm near Lockerbie, who made me most welcome in their kitchen and filled my tape recorder with the wisdom and experience of their years of raising sheep. At East Culkae Farm in Sorbie, Mrs. McMuldroch chatted about farm life while serving the creamiest, sweetest Scottish tablet (a buttery sort of fudge) that I've ever tasted.
The House o’ the Hill Inn was infamous among smugglers, appearing on most of the oldest Lowland maps from the 1600s on. On my latest visit to Galloway, I slept and supped at the present House o’ the Hill (circa 1800), where the friendly proprietor, one John Allwood, not only shared his maps and lore with me but gamely escorted me up to the crest of the hill where the original House o the Hill stood. The ruins remain, surrounded by pines. (I'm quite certain I heard Walloch crashing through the trees, its braw rider desperate for lodging, but never did catch a glimpse of them.) John and I surmise that the ruins date from the seventeenth century, though they could be even older than that.
When Lachlan suggests Leana run off to Gretna Green to marry, he is referring to an infamous spot just inside the Scottish border where couples could be joined in matrimony without the usual waiting period. In Leana's time, this irregular wedding would have been conducted by one George Gordon, the “high priest” of Gretna Green until 1789. An old soldier, not a clergyman, Mr. Gordon reportedly wore a bygone military uniform with a huge cocked hat, a scarlet coat and jackboots, and a ponderous sword swinging from his belt. His “church,” such as it was, looked more like a barn, and his “altar” was an ale cask, its only redeeming feature being the open Bible that sat on top of it.
Leana mentions the book Primitive Physic, or an Easy and Natural Method of Curing Most Diseases. Written by Reverend John Wesley (1702-1791), the book was in its twenty-first edition by 1785. Very popular in England, some copies of this book of useful remedies made their way north to Scotland as well. Ministers were often the most educated men in the parish and were frequendy called upon to give medical advice, turning to books such as Primitive Physic for guidance.
For most of the Scottish nonfiction books on my shelves, as well as the custom map at the front of this novel, I have cartographer and antiquarian bookseller Benny Gillies to thank. His tidy bookshop near Castle Douglas in the village of Kirkpatrick Durham—filled with Scottish books, maps, and prints—is a bibliophile's paradise. Should a trip to his shop not be on your calendar this year, do visit him online at www. bennygillies. co.uk.
My heartfelt thanks go to the librarians of Casde Douglas, Dumfries, and Kirkcudbright, who made me feel welcome and guided me through their shelves. In addition to the tides mentioned above, the following dozen were the most helpful:
William Andrews, Bygone Church Life in Scotland (1899)
Tess Darwin, The Scots Herbal: The Phnt Lore of Scotland (1996)
Rev. C. H. Dick, Highways and Byways in Galloway and Carrick (1916)
Malcolm Harper, Rambles in Galloway (1896)
Marion Lochhead, The Scots Household in the Eighteenth Century (1948)
James A. Mackay, Burns-Lore of Dumfries & Gattoway (1988)
John Mactaggart, Scottish Gaovidian Encychpedia (1824)
Stuart Maxwell and Robin Hutchinson, Scottish Costume: 1550-1850(1958)
Andrew McCormick, The Tinkler-Gypsies of Galloway (1906)
F. Marian McNeill, The Scots Kitchen: Its Traditions and Lore with Old-Time Recipes (1932)
Eunice G. Murray, Scottish Women in Bygone Days (1930)
Marjorie Plant, The Domestic Life of Scothnd in the 18th Century (1952)
For those who enjoy such information, you 11 find my full bibliography on my Web site, www.LizCurtisHiggs.com/Fiction, along with photos of some of the locations featured in Thorn in My Heart, additional historical notes, diaries from my Scottish trips, reader comments, links to my favorite Scottish sites, recommended Scottish music that inspired me as I wrote, and some delicious Scottish recipes. Should you care to use Thorn in My Heart as a springboard for a biblical study of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel, you 11 find a guide for that on my site as well.
Kindly contact me directly to request my free newsletter, The Graceful Heart, printed and mailed once a year, and any of the following free items that might be of interest to you:
Thorn in My Heart Reader's Guide
Thorn in My Heart Bible Study Guide
Thorn in My Heart Galloway Guide
Here's how to reach me:
Liz Curtis Higgs
P.O. Box 43577
Louisville, KY 40253-0577
And please visit my Web site:
www.LizCurtisHiggs.com/Fiction
Until next time, dear reader, you are a blissin!
Scots Glossay
aboot—about
often—often
ain—own
ane—one
auld—old
awa—away, distant
bairn—child
bethankit!—God be thanked!
birsie—hairy, hot-tempered
bittie—small piece
bUeberry—whortleberry
blether—babble, gossip
bletherie—talkative
blissin—blessing
bothy—cottage
bowsome—compliant, obedient
brae—hill, slope
braisant—shameless
braw—fine, handsome
bricht—bright
brither—brother
brose—oatmeal pudding
brownie—domestic sprite
Buiky the—the Bible
burn—brook, stream
by-pit—makeshift, substitute
byre—cowshed
cantie—contented
cantrip—charm, magic, trick, mischief
carse—low-lying land by a river
chauvies—children (Gypsy cant)
chchan—village, hamlet
cliver—clever
close—passageway, courtyard
collieshangle—disturbance, dogfight
creel—a deep wicker basket
creelin—custom for a newly married man that involves carrying a creel full of rocks
cryin siller—coins required for the marriage banns to be read
dashelt—battered
deid—dead
deil—devil
donsie—wretched
doocot—dovecote
doon—down
douce—amiable, sweet
dout—doubt
drap—drop
dreich—bleak, dismal
dry stane dyke—stone fence without mortar
dwale—nightshade (Chaucer)
faither—father
fankle—entanglement
fash—vexed, annoyed
fause—counterfeit, false
fee—engage, hire as a servant
ferlie—superb, wonderful
fey—close to death, doomed
flindrikin—flirtatious
flit—transport, move ones household
flooers—flowers
fouterie—trivial, paltry
frichtsome—frightening
fu'—full
gaberlunzies—beggars
gavelock—crowbar
gentrice—gentry
gie—give
gouden—golden
granbairn—grandchild
granmither—grandmother
green—young, youthful
grye—horse (Gypsy cant)
guid—good
gustie—savory, tasty
hae—have
halie—holy
hatesome—hateful
hauflin—adolescent boy, young farm worker
heidie—headstrong, rebellious
heirship—inheritance
heiven—heaven
&
nbsp; het—hot
hizzie—hussy
hochmagandy—fornication
hoose—house
hoot!—pshaw!
homers—those who make spoons, etc. from horns
howdie—midwife
howre—whore
hurlie—trundle, move about on wheels
ill-deedie—mischievous, undisciplined
ill-fashioned—ill mannered
ill-paid—regretful
jalouse—imagine, presume
kell—headdress worn by a young, unmarried woman
kenspeckle—conspicuous, familiar
kintra—of the country, rustic
kirkin—a ceremonial attendance at church after a wedding
kist—chest
kittlie—itchy, sensitive
lang—long
lat—let, allow, permit
lickspit—a toady, a fawning subordinate
lingtow—a coil of rope
lingtowmen—men who smuggled goods across land
loosome—lovely
losh!—lord!
luckenbooths—locked stalls
luver—lover
mair—more
mart—an ox, slaughtered and salted for winter
mebbe—maybe, perhaps
meikk—great, much
mither—mother
mony—many
morns morn—tomorrow morning
neeps—turnips
nicht—night
niver—never
och!—oh!
oo aye!—yes! (from the French out)
oot—out
orraman—odd-jobs man
pernickitie—cantankerous, touchy
pit the brain asteep—meditate
pud—pulled
puir—poor
ramstam—rashly, rudely
reested—smoke-cured meat
reive—raid, rob, pillage
ricklie—ramshackle
roarie—noisy
rubbage—rubbish
sae—so
saicret—secret
sair—sorely, vehemently
sark—shirt