Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Aye.” He tossed the letter and then his waistcoat atop a leather trunk. Hugh would put his clothes aright in the morn’s morn. For now, Jamie wanted naught but the solace of his bed. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light of a single candle, and took a deep breath of the clean, heather-scented air, a welcome change from the closeness of the spence. He shook out the tails of his shirt as he confessed to Leana, “ ’Twas worse than I expected. Your father thinks we should stay ’til spring.”

  She gasped. “Spring?”

  Her response so echoed his own, he almost smiled. “If ’twere your father’s opinion alone on the matter, I would brook his displeasure and leave before Yule.” He yanked off his boots and dropped them on the floor, then retrieved the letter and held it aloft. “Alas, my mother has made the same request.”

  Leana slipped to the edge of the box bed and drew the candle closer. “Come, read me her words.” Her bare feet shone pale against the wooden floor. The lace-edged hem of her nightgown was whiter still. ’Twould be good to have her sharing his bed again. Next to the hearth slept Ian in his cradle, mere steps from his mother. Odd to have their infant son so near. Might he wake them at all hours? Would they never have a moment to themselves again?

  When Jamie sat down beside her, the bed boards groaned. “You’ll be missing the Gordon’s fine mattress.”

  “Nae, I will not.” She slid her hand inside the crook of his elbow and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Her hair fell round her face in waves of gold. “ ’Tis my husband I’ve been missing.”

  Husband. Jamie swallowed his shame. Before Ian’s birth, he’d been anything but an attentive husband. “Suppose we save the letter for the morn.” Dropping the papers on the bedside table, he slid his arms round Leana, pulling her closer until her head nestled below his chin. She released a small sigh as he kissed the crown of her hair, then tipped her head back so he might kiss her brow as well. When he did so, the forgotten sweetness of her skin overwhelmed him. Leana. Memories of their first week as husband and wife returned unbidden, awakening a desire long neglected.

  “Jamie.” She straightened, brushing the hair from her eyes, though she did not look up to meet his gaze. “You ken that I cannot …”

  Of course he knew. Did she think him so base? “Speak no more of it, Leana.” He stood long enough to perch the candle on top of the tall dresser. Its feeble flame would not disturb their slumber yet would light the way if Ian awoke needing attention. Sliding beneath the covers, Jamie watched his wife settle into a comfortable position and resisted the impulse to touch her hair, the soft curve of her shoulder, the hollow of her neck.

  “Sleep well,” she whispered, her words already slurring.

  He lay still in the darkness, wide awake yet exhausted, his hands jammed behind his head. This business of being husband to Leana and father to Ian required a patience he did not know if he possessed. “ ’Tis like handling a ewe and her newborn lamb,” Duncan had explained earlier in the week. “Dinna be roarie or hasty wi’ yer movements. Make certain the twa have a chance tae get weel acquainted. Niver mind the time o’ day; if they’re tired, let them baith sleep.”

  He listened as Leana’s breathing sank into a deep, slow rhythm. Sleep then, my wife.

  Jamie woke to a pale, gray dawn filtering through the curtains. Leana had been up and down all night but now slept peacefully by his side with Ian cradled next to her. Watching them, a sense of purpose rose inside him: While Leana saw to their son’s needs, he would care for the ewes, see them well fed and well bred. Duty alone would keep him tied to Auchengray until spring—not his uncle’s tricks, nor his mother’s concerns. He would remind himself of that duty each morning as he rose before dawn to join Duncan in the pastures.

  The blue gray days of October came and went, each shorter than the last. Jamie labored in the sheepfolds, returning home at suppertime, his clothes soiled, his muscles aching from hard work and the damp, chilly air. Leana made certain hot water and a clean shirt were waiting for him, though dark circles beneath her eyes and a tremor in her hands hinted at the strain of mothering a babe who’d grown colicky.

  “I’ll sleep through the night when Ian does,” she promised one evening, her tired gaze again drawn to the hearthside cradle. “His colic will not last forever. No more than two or three months, Neda says.” She patted Jamie’s rough cheek. “Perhaps ’Tis best we cannot leave for Glentrool ’til spring.”

  He nodded but said nothing, distracted by an uneasiness that crawled up his spine like bindweed climbing a garden wall. Leave now. That was the gist of it. A sense of urgency growing inside him. Leave now. Flee to Glentrool. Of course it was not possible, not practical, a ridiculous notion. His place was here at Auchengray helping Duncan. Supporting his wife. And avoiding Rose, who blethered on about Neil Elliot, even as she batted her eyes in his direction whenever Leana was too busy with Ian to notice.

  Jamie tried to ignore Rose, though she seemed to grow bonnier with each passing day. Duncan said Jamie had chosen the better path. Or had it been chosen for him? By his mother, by his uncle, by Leana, by the babe? Nae. Such thoughts were fruitless. Hard work was his only hope, and duty his only salvation. He would toil as a common shepherd, counting the hours and days until spring returned to Galloway and set him free—free from Auchengray and its endless labors, free from the constant distraction of loosome young Rose, free to love his wife without a shadow of regret.

  Ten

  If I speak to thee in friendship’s name,

  Thou think’st I speak too coldly;

  If I mention love’s devoted flame,

  Thou say’st I speak too boldly.

  THOMAS MOORE

  Rose waited until her father’s attention was fixed on Reverend Gordon expounding from the pulpit before she unfolded the note, then bent closer to read it. Meet me at the abbey. Friday afternoon at two. Though Susanne had pressed the folded paper into her hand at the kirk door, the words were written in her brother’s hurried scrawl.

  Neil Elliot was pursuing Rose in earnest; of that there could be no more doubt. Since the Sabbath morning of Ian’s kirkin, Neil had called for her at Auchengray on a half-dozen occasions. Even Susanne had hinted at the two girls becoming sisters someday. “By marriage and by law!” her friend had said, eyes bright with happy tears. Dear Susanne. Rose neither encouraged nor discouraged her, so uncertain were her feelings toward Susanne’s older brother.

  Rose looked up to find Neil staring at her across the pews. His eyebrows lifted in a silent query, easily discerned: Did you read the note? Will you come to the abbey? Pretending not to notice, she glanced down and busied herself arranging her skirts round her ankles, while a growing sense of guilt gnawed at her soul. The poor lad was quite besotted. And she was not. Though Neil was handsome in his own way, his smile paled next to Jamie’s broad grin. Neil was polite, yet his kintra ways could not match Jamie’s manners, polished in Edinburgh. When Neil clasped her hand, it felt warm in hers but did not build a fire inside her the way Jamie’s touch did.

  She knew it wasn’t fair to compare them. Jamie was her first love; any man would seem a paltry choice after him. But surely she should feel something for Neil by now.

  All round her, voices rang in tuneless praise with the first psalm of the morning. Rose moved her lips by rote, but her thoughts traveled a few steps north to Sweetheart Abbey. Should she meet Neil there and confess her uncertainty? It seemed the honest thing to do. They were friends, were they not? Friday afternoon then. She looked up and found Neil still gazing at her. Waiting for an answer. She nodded slightly. Aye. Friday.

  The sun hung low in the sky, skimming the treetops, bathing Newabbey in slanted bars of pale gold. Rose, with her insides wound as tightly as a spring, crossed the bridge on foot, then waved at the miller, Brodie Selkirk, sweeping his doorstep. She’d told Neda she was off to buy hazelnuts for the morrow, Hallowmas Eve. Neda, distracted with festive preparations, had let her go without a quarrel since
Auchengray’s small harvest of nuts had already been plucked and put to use a month earlier.

  On the grassy rise behind the corn mill the lads of the parish were busy stacking fuel for the bonfire to be kindled at dusk the next evening. The mound of broken timbers and barrels, peat and heather, whin and dried ferns had grown to the size of a haystack. A trio of children skipped past, their heads and feet bared to the cool air, their dirty faces bright with glee as they sang the familiar rhyme of the day.

  Hallowe’en, the nicht at e’en,

  The fairies will be ridin’.

  Fairies, aye, and witches, too. On Saturday night, hilltops all over Scotland would be ablaze with fires meant to chase away the powers of darkness. Rose intended to be safe inside the walls of Auchengray, far from the reach of Lillias Brown and her ilk.

  The door hung open to the grocer’s shop. “Mr. Elliot!” Rose sang out as she stepped inside. She could hear the grocer in the back room, whistling as he went about his business. He’d come to the front soon enough. At her feet wooden crates filled with root vegetables were displayed in neat rows, while legs of cured mutton swung from the beams above her head, the meat wrapped in muslin. The pungent aroma of spices permeated the small shop: the rich note of cinnamon, the musky scent of sage, the sweet smell of rosemary. Rose leaned over a shelf to catch a whiff of nutmeg just as Mr. Elliot appeared, his round middle swathed in a white apron stained with the evidence of his trade.

  “Miss McBride,” he greeted her. “What a surprise to find you in the village.”

  Rose pretended not to see his broad wink. Had Neil told his father about their tryst? “I’m on an errand for Neda Hastings.” She looked about, then asked, “Have you any hazelnuts left?”

  “Och!” He waved a meaty hand at her. “I sold the last of my filberts an hour ago.”

  “Never mind, then. I’ll think of something.” Rose pursed her lips, picturing the woodlands north of Auchengray, replete with hazels. Might there be some nuts left among the wild shrubs there? An eerie place, to be sure, the most untamed corner of the parish. Yet the hint of danger only added to its appeal. If the weather held, she would slip out the back door in the morn’s morn and see if she might find a few stray hazelnuts still nestled in the branches. At the moment she had another matter to attend to; the grocer’s son was waiting for her.

  “I’m off to the abbey for a stroll.” She swept out the door and into the street, calling her farewell to Mr. Elliot. Her eye trained on the abbey’s tall central tower, she hurried toward it, holding her skirts above the muck, greeting many a familiar face as she passed by. “Miss Taggart,” she said, nodding. “Mr. Clacharty.”

  At the end of the street, north of the manse, loomed the red sandstone ruins of Dulce Cor—“sweet heart,” as the monks of old had named their abbey. Heaven served as its roof now, and sod its floor. The graceful arches of the transepts and nave had held their ground for five centuries, even though many of the abbey’s stones had been carted off to build cottages or dry stane dykes. She was but six when a society of gentlemen subscribers had pooled their resources to save the abbey from further decline. Her father, of course, had refused to contribute. Too generous an act for so glaumshach a man.

  Rose slipped behind one of the stout pillars and peeked across the broad expanse of the abbey. Despite the autumn sunlight, the stone was cold beneath her hands. When she spotted Neil Elliot standing by the high altar with his back to her, she took a deep breath, then stepped out from her hiding place and glided toward him. “There you are,” she said, keeping her tone light.

  Neil turned at once and held out his hands to greet her. “My dear Rose.” His face shone like one of his father’s polished apples, and his gaze enveloped her from her boots to her braid. “Bonny and fair and all that a man could want.”

  “Neil!” She looked away, embarrassed by his frank appraisal. “You must not say such things.”

  His laugh, deeper than she remembered, echoed off the abbey walls. “And why not say them, when they are true?”

  Her cheeks grew warmer still. “But we have no understanding.” She kept her head down, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. “That is, you haven’t spoken to my father.”

  “Easily done, lass.”

  Och! She’d said the wrong thing altogether. “Neil, I’m afraid we … that is …”

  “I brought something for you.” He stepped back, his words rushed, as if he sensed what she intended to say. Digging for something in his coat pocket, he explained, “Mother borrowed the recipe from a cousin in Edinburgh, who bakes these every Hallowmas Fair.” He produced a lump of cloth, then unwrapped it to reveal a generous square of gingerbread. “Even with two cups of treacle, ’Tis not as sweet as you, my Rose.”

  Her mouth watered at the sight of it. Neda seldom baked gingerbread. “I suppose she made it with fresh cream and green ginger.”

  Neil pinched off a corner and held it to her lips. “See for yourself.”

  She ate the bite of cake from his fingers, savoring the flavor. “Mmm, delicious.”

  “Aye.” He smiled down at her. “Delicious.” He fed her another piece, then folded the cloth and pressed it into her hands. “When you enjoy the rest, remember the one who gave it to you.”

  “I will,” she said, already regretting her enthusiasm. “Neil, we must talk.”

  “But first, we must walk.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm. “Winter will be here soon enough. Golden days like this one should not go to waste.” Leading the way at an unhurried pace, he steered them toward the grassy field that wrapped itself round the abbey. They strolled for several minutes, speaking of little beyond the fading colors of autumn that surrounded them. The air was crisp yet clear, fragrant with the scent of burning leaves. Sheep bleated in a nearby pasture as Neil guided her along the crumbling dyke that edged the property.

  Passing beneath one of the stone archways that led to the cloister, Rose slowed her steps, even as her heart quickened its pace. She could keep the truth to herself no longer. “Neil,” she began, moistening her dry lips, “it was good of you to invite me here.”

  “ ’Twas good of you to come.” He stopped and turned toward her, his earnest expression cutting her to the quick. “You ken how I care for you, Rose.”

  “I do,” she admitted, meeting his gaze, difficult as that was. His brown eyes shone with a love she feared she could never match. “I think of you as the kindest of friends.”

  “Friends?” he protested, sliding his hands along her arms. “Susanne is your friend. I thought I was rather more than that.”

  “Aye … well …,” she stammered, watching in disbelief as he bent his head toward hers, his mouth nuzzling her ear. Whenever had Neil become so bold?

  “I wonder if you ken the auld tune that’s running through my head,” he murmured. His breath warmed her skin as he sang.

  Some say that kissing’s a sin,

  But I say that will not stand.

  He chuckled. “Now you sing the rest of it, lass.”

  Rose could not move her head, so tightly did he press his cheek against hers. She whispered the last two lines of the verse, her voice trembling.

  It is a most innocent thing,

  And allowed by the laws of the land.

  “Just so.” He kissed her. Softly at first, then with more conviction, circling his arms round her waist, pulling her closer before she could stop him, before she could think.

  A male voice floated across the cloister. “Congratulations.”

  Jamie.

  Rose yanked herself free and spun about. “Cousin! I didn’t expect … I’m surprised to … see you.”

  “Obviously.” He strode toward them, scowling at them both.

  She took another step away from Neil. “Wh-whatever brings you to the abbey?”

  “You didn’t arrive home soon enough to suit your father, so he sent me with the chaise. When I looked for you at the grocer’s, he suggested
I might find you here. And so I have.” His scowl grew more pronounced. “I trust the marriage banns are to be read on the Sabbath morn.”

  Before Neil could respond, Rose blurted out, “Nae! Things are not at all what they appear.”

  “On the contrary,” Neil countered, “they are quite as they appear.” He pressed his hand firmly in the small of her back. “You can be sure I will speak to Mr. McBride when the time is right.”

  Jamie’s eyes narrowed, assessing him. “And when would that time be, Mr. Elliot?”

  “Is Monday soon enough, sir?”

  Eleven

  What will not woman, gentle woman, dare

  When strong affection stirs her spirit up?

  ROBERT SOUTHEY

  When Jamie shifted his gaze in her direction, something flickered across his face. “What do you have to say for yourself, Rose?”

  “Jamie, we need to—”

  “Leave at once. I quite agree.” Jamie thrust out his elbow, an invitation she dared not ignore. “Mr. Elliot, my uncle will expect you for dinner on Monday at Auchengray. One o’ the clock. You will either explain your behavior to his satisfaction, or you will make an offer of marriage. Is that understood?”

  Neil squared his shoulders, a look of determination in his eye. “Monday it is, sir.”

  “Monday,” Rose repeated, too numb to say more.

  The men offered each other polite but curt farewells, then Jamie led her across the abbey grounds to the chaise, his stride long and his temper short. “I see you wasted little time finding a suitor, Rose.” He sent Bess forward with a click of his tongue. “Would that you had chosen someone with more … discretion.”

  “I was not the one who did the choosing.” She stared at the grocer’s shop as they passed, imagining herself as a grocer’s wife. “Neil chose me.”

  “He also chose to kiss you beneath the wide October sky, where anyone might see you.”

  “You were the only one who saw us, Jamie.”

  “ ’Tis a good thing I arrived when I did, for the man seemed most intent about his business.”