Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Confused me?” She gaped at him. “Crushed me is nearer the mark.”

  “I am sorry, Rose.” He would keep saying those words until she believed him. “Truly sorry for …”

  “For loving me, Jamie?” She stepped closer, beseeching him with her eyes. “Are you sorry for that?”

  “Oh, Rose. You ken better.” A heady scent of heather wafted from the folds of her gown, stirring memories he was trying hard to forget. Was there something he might say to appease her? He stared at the canopy of golden leaves above him. “Perhaps … perhaps if Leana had not survived the birthing …” Even saying such a thing made his face grow hot with shame. “Perhaps then … our future together might have been different, Rose.”

  “Might have?”

  “Would have,” he hastened to amend, his guilt increasing. “After a year of mourning, you and I would have married, certainly. As it is, I must do the honorable and right thing.”

  “ ’Tis right, aye. But ’Tis not fair.” She started to pout, then bit her lip instead. “And all these months I thought you loved me.”

  Och! Did the lass never tire of hearing it? “I did love you, Rose. From Martinmas to Hogmanay and every day since, I said those words and meant them.”

  Hope rose in her face like the sun. “Do you love me still?”

  He looked away, barely noticing the blackbirds picking at the discarded apples strewn at their feet. How could he respond and not hurt her? To reveal the truth—yes, despite all, he still cared for her—would confound Rose further. To insist otherwise—no, he loved her sister instead—was less than honest at the moment and would cut his dear Rose to the quick.

  One choice remained. “I cannot love you, Rose.”

  “Jamie, please—”

  “I cannot,” he said again, as much to convince himself. “Leana has honored our marriage vows from the first. ’Tis time I did the same.”

  Rose looked up at him, her face awash with tears. “Then what’s to become of me, Jamie?”

  Everything inside him wanted to embrace her, comfort her, and tell her he didn’t mean a word of it. Tell her he loved her still, would always love her and no one else. It would be the easy thing to do. But not the right thing.

  “Rose, there will be another man for you. A better man.”

  She turned her back to him. “I could never love another.”

  “Aye, you will, Rose. A man with the freedom to love you in return.” He took hold of her shoulders, if only to keep her from facing him again. “Rose, shall I talk to your father? Persuade him to find you a proper suitor?”

  “Nae!” He heard the conviction in her voice. And the disappointment. “If I’m to have a husband, he will be of my choosing. Not Father’s.”

  An unlikely event, though Jamie could not blame her for wanting it so. “Then I pray you’ll find a man worthy of you, Rose.” Soon. He stood back, releasing her. “I must go. Duncan will be waiting for me in the sheepfolds.” Without another word, he strode off toward Auchengray Hill, sensing her gaze glued to his departing back.

  Jamie deliberately shifted his attention to the rough ground beneath his boots. One misstep and he would find himself sprawled atop a protruding root hidden under the leafy carpet. He walked with more confidence when the east-side orchards gave way to the gardens nestled against the hill behind the whitewashed stone farmhouse that served as the mains of Auchengray. The view was worth admiring as he passed by: a physic garden full of herbs; a rose bed pruned for autumn; tidy heaps of ash fertilizing the kitchen garden where turnips and cabbages would appear next summer. Surveying the neatly tended rows, he imagined Leana kneeling there with a basket of well-sharpened tools by her side. She often hummed as she worked, even sang to her roses. “As my mother did,” she’d once explained, though he hadn’t asked why.

  Jamie shook his head as he turned and started up the hill, ashamed of how little regard he’d shown his wife. Had he ever praised Leana for her gardening abilities? Her skill with a needle? Her talents in the kitchen and stillroom? Nae. He’d been too distracted by her younger sister. In truth, Leana was everything Rose was not. Leana appeared pale next to her sister’s dramatic coloring. Her demeanor was quiet compared to Rose’s lively ways. Leana sewed and spun wool and read books. Rose danced and laughed and did little in the way of work. Squinting through her spectacles to stitch a hem, Leana looked older than her years. Running through the orchard with her braid flying behind her like an ebony tail, Rose looked like a bonny lass of twelve.

  Yet it was patient Leana he’d married. Gentle Leana he’d taken to bed. Faithful Leana who’d borne him a son. She had given him everything; he had given her as little as possible. He had yet to tell her he loved her, nor would he do so until he meant it. Leana knew him too well and would see through any insincerity.

  Could he love so meek and unassuming a woman? ’Twas his earnest prayer on the day of Ian’s birth: Please, God, let me love her in return. He would pray without ceasing until the time came when he could say the words aloud and mean them.

  Four

  So rolls the changing year, and so we change;

  Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

  DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

  Laughter floated down the hillside, followed by a gruff male voice. “If it isn’t the lang lost shepherd o’ Glentrool!”

  Jamie glanced up, glad to see Duncan Hastings standing at the crest of the brae, and continued his ascent with renewed vigor. He’d fretted over the women in his life quite enough for one afternoon. “Sorry to desert you, Duncan,” he called out. Nearing the summit, he grinned at the older man. “I ken you’re eager to see my boots covered in sheep dung.”

  Duncan said nothing at first, merely bobbed his checked wool cap. He wore his bonnet planted farther back on his head so folk could see the bright blue of his eyes. Or so Duncan could see them, Jamie decided.

  Duncan cleared his throat, shifting his weight as he leaned on his shepherd’s crook. “I spied ye talkin’ tae Rose a bit ago.” There was no censure in Duncan’s tone. “Settlin’ her down, I suppose. Smoothin’ her fleece. And lockin’ the gate behind ye, if ye ken me meaning.”

  Jamie snorted. “Rose McBride is not a ewe.”

  “Mebbe not, lad, but ye handle them meikle the same.”

  “Aye? Then find the lass a tup among the gentry of Galloway.”

  “If I were Rose’s father,” Duncan said, “I’d see it done this afternoon.”

  “So would I.” Jamie drew an imaginary arc across the rolling landscape, encompassing a dozen fine properties. “There must be a gentleman of means in this corner of Scotland who’d claim Rose McBride for a wife. It’s time Lachlan did his duty by her.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Ye ken verra well why the man’s in nae hurry tae find his dochter a husband. As lang as fair Rose abides at Auchengray, so will hard workin’ Jamie McKie. Or so yer faither-in-law thinks.”

  “Let him think whatever he likes,” Jamie said with a huff, starting out for the nearest sheepfold. “The moment Leana and the babe can travel, we’re bound for Glentrool.”

  A smile bloomed on Duncan’s weathered face. “Is that a fact?” He clapped Jamie on the shoulder and squeezed hard. “Weel done, lad! Have ye told yer wife this guid news?”

  “Nae.” He’d not said a word to Leana. Or Rose. Nor had he written to his mother in far-off Glentrool. “I plan to tell Leana tonight when I join her at the manse for supper. For the moment you’ll keep it under your bonnet, eh?”

  Duncan doffed his cap. “I’ll breathe nary a wird.”

  “To the ewes then.” Jamie led the way, their work a welcome distraction. Two short weeks remained before the breeding season began in earnest. The tups were already pastured nearby, their strong scent wafting across the dry stane dyke, preparing the ewes for the mating to come. With Duncan’s blessing, Jamie had chosen the most promising rams from Jock Bell’s farm on Tuesday and herded them home to Auchengray. Now the
ewes needed a prudent shepherd’s attention. Ignoring the stiff autumn winds blowing down the hillside, Jamie tossed his coat aside, intent on the task at hand. While Duncan held each ewe in turn, Jamie clipped away the wool tags round their tails and trimmed their hooves. It was slow going, holding the knife steady, keeping the ewes calm while he worked.

  “Ye’re a good herd, lad,” Duncan said, warm regard in his voice. “Henry Stewart learned ye well.”

  Jamie released a wriggling ewe from his grasp. “I haven’t Stew’s patience, Duncan, but I’m grateful for all he taught me when I was a boy. Please God, I’ll see the man before he’s finished breeding the ewes at Glentrool.”

  They worked through one sheepfold, then the next, as the sun sank closer to the horizon. Satisfied with his labors, Jamie stood to stretch his legs and shake the tension from his arms. The air had grown cooler still. He was glad to slip into the coat he’d nigh forgotten.

  Duncan lifted his face toward the darkening sky. “The gloaming comes, the day is spent …”

  “The sun goes out of sight,” Jamie finished for him, nudging the man’s elbow. “Alexander Hume, is it?”

  “Aye,” Duncan grunted. “A man o’ the kirk, Mr. Hume. From Fife or thereabout.”

  Jamie knew better than to tease the overseer for reciting a line of poetry. Duncan, wise in the ways of shepherding, was also well read and canny as they came. Though a man of many talents, he was quick to credit the Almighty for all of them. Would that Duncan Hastings were his father-in-law instead of crafty Lachlan McBride.

  The two men headed down the hill toward the mains, hurrying their steps as the light faded to a silvery gray. “Tell the family I’m bound to Newabbey,” Jamie called over his shoulder as they neared the back door. “I’ve hardly enough time to see to my ablutions and a change of clothes.”

  “I’ll make yer apologies for ye,” Duncan promised as Jamie crossed the threshold, discarding his soiled boots by the door. Heading up the stair in his stocking feet, he called for Hugh, valet to both Jamie and his uncle when the manservant wasn’t saddled with other tasks. Appearing with comb and brush in hand, Hugh smoothed Jamie’s brown hair into a neat tail and dressed him in a clean shirt, then saw that his waistcoat and breeches were brushed. Jamie’s boots, polished to a rich luster by one of the maids, soon rested outside his bedroom door.

  “Leana will thank you for this, Hugh.” Jamie yanked on his boots, frowning when the mantel clock down the stair chimed the half-hour. He’d spent more time with the ewes than he’d intended. And entirely too much time with Rose.

  Hugh nodded toward the hall. “Willie saw tae yer mount, sir. He’s waitin’ at the back door.”

  “God bless the man for his trouble,” Jamie called out, taking the steps two at a time. “And you as well, Hugh.” Moments later he was astride his gelding, Walloch, and thundering down the rural lane that led to Newabbey. The night wind, sharp against his face, cleared his mind of all but the hours ahead. He would see his son again. Ian. Leana had chosen the name weeks ago. Could he blame her for doing so when he’d seemed to care so little? He cared plenty now and would make that plain this night. Rising in his stirrups, he called his son’s name aloud, announcing it to the countryside, shouting against the wind. “Ian James McKie!” He favored the middle name especially.

  Walloch’s hooves pounded against the hardened dirt, kicking up dust behind them. The east Galloway earth cried out for rain. Farther west, in the glen of Loch Trool, such dry spells were rare. His last letter from home, a fortnight past, described bright clumps of rowan berries turned scarlet against the changing leaves. His chest tightened at the thought of it. Home. Whether his brother Evan would welcome him or not, Jamie intended to return to Glentrool and claim his inheritance before winter.

  Not far to his right he heard the meandering waters of Newabbey Pow. The acrid smell of the snuff mill mingled with the fragrant scent from the pines that crowded the northern edge of the road. He crossed the bridge into the village, passing by Newabbey corn mill, fed by the waters of Loch Kindar flowing through a long and sinuous lade from the sheep burn. The village proper consisted mostly of single-story cottages made of whinstone or granite. On both sides of the street doors were shut tight, and chimneys exhaled peat smoke into the night sky. Even before he saw the candles in the window of the manse, Jamie fancied he could hear Ian crying for him, bleating like a newborn lamb. He leaned down to whisper in Walloch’s ear, “Hurry, man! That’s my son you’re keeping me from.”

  Less than a quarter mile and he was there, met at the door by Reverend Gordon, a man of high morals and rigid opinions. “Your wife was becoming concerned, Mr. McKie. ’Tis good you’re here at last. My grandson Edward will tend to your horse.”

  Jamie handed the reins to the shy lad who appeared at his grandfather’s beckoning, then pulled off his hat and followed the older man into the hall. The heat of a wood fire assailed him, as did the tantalizing aroma of cooked meat. To his left was the dining room with the long table already laid for supper; to his right, the door to the spence where Leana had labored. Did he not know every crack in those panels, every knot in that wood?

  Reverend Gordon turned and caught Jamie staring. “Look familiar, lad?”

  “Aye,” Jamie confessed. “I spent the better part of the Sabbath with my ear pressed against that door.”

  “No need to wait in the hall this evening.” Reverend Gordon pointed toward the spence door, then walked past it, heading toward the back of the manse, talking over his shoulder as he did. “Escort your wife into the dining room at seven, if you will. I’ll see to your son’s baptism after family worship.” Though Jamie knew the lad would be formally introduced to the community on the Sabbath at his kirkin, there was no point delaying Ian’s baptism. Not when the babe was born under the minister’s roof.

  Jamie tapped on the door, then entered at Leana’s soft greeting. The room felt warmer than the hall, though only a handful of candles lit the corners. Close by the hearth stood his wife, her pale skin lit by the glowing peat fire. She cradled Ian against her neck, nuzzling his head with her cheek, humming as she did, her expression serene.

  Jamie stood in place, touched by the gentle tableau. Had his own mother held him so tenderly? One year ago, when he’d arrived at Auchengray, he had stumbled upon Leana in the same pose, holding a neighbor’s bairn. How different she looked to him now that she was his wife and the child his son. Her fair hair was gathered into a loose swirl on top of her head. Her figure, more womanly than he remembered, strained at the seams of her blue gown. Yet it was her full mouth, stretched into a smile when she turned toward him, that transformed Leana into something else altogether.

  “Jamie!” she said. “You look as if you’ve seen—”

  “An angel.” He moved toward her slowly, almost reverently. “I’ve seen angels, you ken. In my dream at the cairn.”

  “Oh, Jamie.” She blushed as she held out Ian for him to see. “ ’Tis only your wife, grateful for clean hair and a fresh gown.”

  Touching her elbow, he stepped closer and peered at the sleeping infant, marveling at the tiny fists, the strongly drawn brows. His chest swelled until it ached. A kind wife. A fine son. More than he’d hoped for and a great deal more than he deserved. “Ian looks content,” he said, then met her clear gaze again. “And so do you.” Jamie led her away from the hearth, his fingers pressed against the small of her back. “Neda has been giving me favorable reports. I trust she’s telling me the truth.”

  “Neda could never do otherwise,” Leana reminded him as they perched side by side on the edge of the bed. She eased Ian into the crook of her arm, brushing his tiny mouth with her fingertip. “Ian and I are well cared for here, but in truth, I’m eager for home.”

  “So am I,” Jamie agreed, filled with a sudden resolve. The time had come to tell her of his plans. “Eager to go home, that is.”

  “Home?” Leana looked at him, her confusion evident. “But you only just arr
ived.”

  “Not home to Auchengray.” His tone was low but firm. “Home to Glentrool.”

  Five

  Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;

  Home-keeping hearts are happiest.

  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  Home to Glentrool. The notion steeped inside Leana like tea brewing in a pot. A new life without her father’s undue influence. A grandmother for Ian. And Jamie all to herself. Och! Was it possible?

  “As soon as both of you are strong enough—perhaps before Martinmas, long before Yule—I’ll hire a post chaise to take us west across Galloway, along the Solway coast to Creetown and Monnigaff, then north to the glen of Loch Trool.”

  Leana smiled at the picture his words drew. “Then you’ve told Father your plans?”

  “Nae, I have not.” He glanced away for a moment. “But I will soon enough.”

  Her father’s voice prodded at her conscience. There’ll be no running off to Glentrool with my grandson. To share that news with Jamie now would spoil their evening together; to wait until another day meant striking a flint to her father’s temper and to her husband’s as well.

  “Jamie …” She pulled the babe closer, as if he might provide the strength she needed. “I’m afraid Father expects us to remain at Auchengray.”

  Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “For how long?”

  “For good.”

  Jamie bolted to his feet and faced the door as though he could not bear to look at her. “Did you agree to this?”

  She rose as well, running a nervous hand over Ian’s silken hair. “I would never agree to anything on your behalf, Jamie.”

  Her husband spun round, frustration coming off him in waves. “But you agreed to tell me.”

  “Aye,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to fill. “To my shame, I did.”