Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  When Jamie spoke at last, he stepped back only enough to see her face. “We will follow not far behind you. Duncan and Neda and me.”

  “And Rose?”

  His jaw tightened. “I care not how or when she arrives at the kirk.”

  Rose. Her sister had barely spoken to her all week, yet she’d studied Ian with eager curiosity. ’Twas unthinkable, Rose caring for her son, though Leana knew her sister loved him. Leana told herself it was Jamie who would raise him, Jamie who would see to his son’s welfare. Beginning this morning. Beginning now.

  Leana looked down at their son. “You will … care for Ian?”

  “You ken that I will, lass.”

  She eased the slumbering child into Jamie’s arms, kissing his downy head as she did, then stepped back and smoothed the wrinkles from her sackcloth gown. Her hands were shaking again. “Jamie, I must leave at once, or I fear I’ll not have the strength to leave at all.”

  He did not speak, only planted a fervent kiss on her forehead, then drew Ian tighter against his chest so Leana could slip past them. She could not tarry. She could not look back. Easing down the stair with careful steps, she prayed no one would see her slipping out the door at that early hour. She would face them all soon enough. Though she heard voices in the kitchen, not a soul was in the hall when she opened the heavy door and walked out into the Sabbath morning.

  A thick mist enveloped her, curling her hair in wisps about her face. How strange it felt to wear no bonnet and stranger still, no shoes. The ground was cold beneath her feet and the grass wet. By the time she passed the orchard, the hem of her harn goun was drenched. Yet when she took to the gravel path, its sharp stones pierced her skin and slowed her steps. No matter the pain, she must arrive by the first bell. Must, must.

  When she reached the road that led to Newabbey, Leana looked neither left nor right but fixed her gaze on the hard-packed dirt and started toward the village, avoiding the rocks strewn across her path. Even the rounded ones, polished by water and wear, bruised the tender soles of her feet. Unlike shepherds and farm laborers, who went barefoot year round, Leana seldom ventured out of doors without shoes or boots. Cringing with each step, she forced one foot in front of the other, pleading for the strength to go on. I am thine. Save me.

  The rolling landscape remained shrouded in fog, rendering boulders and trees into gray, shapeless mounds. Gone were familiar landmarks to guide her steps or mark her progress. Criffell? The snuff mill? Nowhere in sight. Marriage? Motherhood? Nae longer in view. Naught stretched before her but a bleak and colorless future. Three Sabbaths on the repentance stool, then nothing.

  Nae, Leana. ’Twas not true. On the very Sabbath that Ian was born, she’d discovered a truth, oft neglected in the happy days that followed: God’s love was enough. His faithfulness was sufficient. I will never leave you. Aye, the Almighty had said that to Jamie in a dream. And she sensed him repeating it now, a silent whisper in the recesses of her heart. I will never leave you.

  “Please don’t,” she said softly.

  Leana had just crossed the village bridge when a voice called out from the mist.

  “If it isna Miss McBride, come tae warm the cutty stool.”

  The miller. She spun toward the sound, wincing as a stone gouged her foot. “Sir?”

  Brodie Selkirk swaggered toward her, his arms folded across his chest. “I niver thocht tae see the day! Lachlan’s guid dochter brought doon tae shame.” His narrow eyes were filled with reproach. “Make haste, for the kirk bell’s about tae clang, and the line o’ folk gatherin’ tae walcome ye grows lang.”

  Leana shuddered, picturing the scene that awaited her. The neighborhood gossips, like osprey with freshly caught fish in their talons, would feast upon her disgrace. She bowed her bare head toward Mr. Selkirk and pressed on, grimacing with each painful step. When the kirk came into view, her heart sank. The miller had not exaggerated. Three dozen or more villagers were crowded round the kirk door, Reverend Gordon among them.

  “Come, Miss McBride,” he called out, waving her forward. “ ’Tis time.”

  She did not meet their curious stares, yet could not avoid hearing their remarks as she walked past. “A braisant lass.” “Och! Sae michtie, that Leana.” “Ill-deedie, like her faither.” “And she, the halie one!”

  Not all spoke unkindly nor looked at her askance. Maggie Hamilton nodded as she passed. So did Jock Bell’s wife, dipping her black bonnet in sympathy. “Puir lass,” Leana heard another say. “ ’Tis her sister wha’s tae blame.”

  Nae. Rose was the innocent one. Even their father had said so.

  Above her the kirk bell rang the first of three times that morning. “You will stand here, Leana.” Reverend Gordon stepped aside, revealing a flat, raised stone by the doorway.

  She’d paid little attention to the spot before, even less to the jougs protruding from the wall. Now Leana stared at the iron collar, horrified. “Am I to … that is …”

  “Nae, Leana. We’ve no need to clap the jougs round your neck. Stand here, please.” The minister guided her into place. “A question from the Buik now.” Though his voice was gruff, his wrinkled face reflected a compassion he seldom revealed. “Can thine heart endure?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, answering him in kind. “What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.”

  “Well said, Miss McBride.” He stepped back to give her room, motioning for the others to do the same. “You must remain here ’til the third bell and face your neighbors. Though you’ve damaged their trust, you’ve not hurt their property. There’s no call for them to strike you.” He glared at the assembly. “If any do, they’ll explain themselves to the session.”

  His warning delivered, Reverend Gordon marched into the kirk, leaving her to weather whate’er might come. Leana took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders, and prepared herself for the scorn and ridicule sure to follow.

  She did not have long to wait.

  Thomas Clacharty spat at her, marking her harn goun with a dark circle of saliva.

  Nicholas Boyle gave her a wide berth as he stepped through the doorway into the kirk, muttering insults as he passed.

  David McMiken shook the Buik in her direction as he stamped by, refusing to look at her.

  Mary McCheyne pulled her children behind her skirts, then thrust words at Leana’s heart, as sharp as any sword. “Ye’re a filthy limmer!” she hissed. “A hizzie o’ the worst sort, stealin’ yer sister’s husband.”

  Lydia Taggart brandished verses instead: “The works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness.” Lydia seemed to delight in pronouncing each sin, her green eyes blazing.

  Leana denied none of her accusations, letting the truth of them cleanse her. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity.

  Others hurried past without acknowledging her at all, as though ashamed on her behalf. Many looked but did not comment. Leana forced herself to gaze at each one of them, letting them see the truth that burned inside her. Aye, she was a sinner. But her confession had set her free. Though her neighbors might sully her gown, they could not besmirch her soul, for it was washed clean, white as snow, pure as lamb’s wool. She was not innocent, but she was forgiven.

  A chaise pulled to a stop not far from the door. Rose. And Father. Leana did not know where to look or what to say as they approached her. If only she might run and hide among the abbey ruins! Her father did not look at her as he swept past, though his expression said enough: He was ashamed to claim her as his daughter. Rose hung behind, clearly wanting to speak, but the words would not come. At last she, too, disappeared into the kirk.

  Reeling from their silent rebuke, Leana pressed a hand to her stomach, fearing she might be ill, though she’d eaten nothing for a day or more. When she looked up moments later she noticed a small circle of parishioners inching toward her, as if they’d waited for the crowd to dwindle.

  From among them stepped Alexander
Lindsay, an auld man bent with years. “Yer mither would be proud, seein’ ye tak what others gie ye wi’oot turnin’ awa.”

  Mother. Leana swallowed hard, picturing Agness McBride standing before her now. Would her mother truly be proud? “Thank you,” she murmured as Mr. Lindsay tottered into the kirk.

  Isabella Callender grasped Leana’s hand, squeezing it. “Ye’re a fine girl with a guid heart. Whate’er betides ye, may this day be the worst.”

  “Aye,” Leana agreed, as tears began to well in her eyes. One by one, Janet Sloan, then Maggie Hamilton, then James Glover offered her words of comfort. It wasn’t until after Peter Drummond passed by that Leana noticed the red-haired lass standing a few paces away, her arms outstretched.

  “Jessie!” Leana cried. The two fell together in a fierce embrace. “Dear friend, I am so grateful you came.”

  “And where else would I be on the Sabbath?” Jessie Newall teased her, stepping back to dab at her eyes. After they spoke for a moment, Jessie said, “You’ve others waiting their turn.” She motioned toward the arched gateway to the kirkyard, where a knot of people stood in silent support. Jamie, holding Ian. Neda. Duncan. Eliza. Annabel. “Many folk love you, Leana. Remember that as you mount the stool. You are not alone.”

  “Nae, I am not.” She took a deep breath for the first time that morning and gazed toward the gateway, blinking away tears. “The LORD is the strength of my life.” And you, Jamie, are the only man I will ever love.

  Forty-Seven

  For my heart

  Is true as steel.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  He loved her. Could he tell her so, standing in that terrible place of judgment? He could and he would, for she deserved to hear it. And he needed to say the words aloud, even knowing ’twould not ease the guilt that twisted his gut.

  “Jamie, ye maun go first.” Duncan nudged him. “ ’Tis yer comfort the lass needs most, not ours.”

  “Then she shall have it.” Holding Ian against his chest, Jamie walked resolutely toward Leana. Her gaze had not left his from the moment she saw him. As the kirk bell rang a second time, muted by the misty air, the boy in his arms patted Jamie’s cheeks—jubilant, it seemed, to have his father all to himself. “Da-da-da-da!”

  “Aye, lad.” He brushed a kiss across the child’s hair, all the while looking at the woman he loved. “I am indeed your father. And there is your brave mother.”

  Leana stood alone now, for the second bell had summoned the parishioners to worship. Tuneless voices floated through the open kirk door. The precentor chanted each verse of the psalm, then the congregation sang it back to him, in run-line fashion. “O LORD my God, in thee do I put my trust.” Jamie had never been so thankful for a lengthy gathering psalm as he was this day.

  “Jamie.” When Leana spoke his name, it sounded like music. “Bless you for being here,” she whispered, ducking her head to hide her tears.

  He did not lower his voice, as she had, but spoke boldly, drowning out the singing. “I love you, Leana. I will always love you.”

  When she looked up, her face infused with hope, Ian could wait no longer. He dove for his mother, landing in her arms.

  “Och, lad!” She held him close, covering his face with kisses. “You know not where we are.”

  “Ian does not care where you’re standing.” Jamie brushed back the damp tendrils from her face. “Nor do I.”

  Leana’s response was a balm to his soul. “Whate’er would I do without my two braw lads?”

  He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, even as he reached for a phrase that might encourage her. “Please God, that time will ne’er come.”

  “But will you not leave for Glentrool after the lambing?” Leana draped Ian over her shoulder, as if to shield him from the awful truth. “With your … with … Rose?”

  Jamie did not hesitate to answer, for he’d given the situation a great deal of thought. “Nae,” he answered. “We will not move to Glentrool. Not unless you come with us.”

  Her pale eyes widened. “Jamie, I could never do such a thing!”

  “Then we’ll remain at Auchengray.” For her sake, he would do anything. Give up his claim to Glentrool. Live under Lachlan McBride’s roof. Anything. “I will not see my son separated from his mother. Nor will I leave the woman I love in the hands of so hatesome a father.”

  “But Rose …” The clang of the bell cut her short with a gasp. “Jamie, you must go inside at once! Quickly, before the beadle comes for me.”

  He did not argue but disengaged Ian from his mother’s arms, despite the lad’s protests, and ducked inside the kirk as the bell rang above. Jamie felt like a coward, abandoning her at the kirk door. Yet it had to be done, or she might be assigned another Sabbath on the stool for speaking to him after the start of services. A dozen curious gazes followed him as he made his way forward with Duncan and the others close on his heels. Jamie prayed the servants had said a brief word to Leana as well, for she would need their warm sentiments to carry her through this most difficult morning.

  Nae, not difficult. Impossible. Unimaginable.

  Reverend Gordon reached the pulpit as the bell grew silent. He bowed to the Stewarts seated in the laird’s loft, who rose in turn to bow, as was customary for the heritors of the parish. The minister then signaled to the precentor to cease his singing by leaning forward and tapping the man on the head with his psalm book. Jamie, meanwhile, slipped into his uncle’s narrow pew, sitting as far away from Rose and her father as he could without inviting their censure. The congregants had enough gossip on their palates without adding another savory tidbit.

  “Before our first prayer of the morning, I would call forth Mr. Millar for the crying of the banns.”

  Jamie’s heart stopped cold. Consumed with Leana’s ordeal, he had forgotten the other matter on the kirk session’s docket: the banns. Mine. And Rose’s. ’Twas ill luck to be present for the reading of one’s own banns. Jamie did not care. Neither, it seemed, did Rose, who leaned forward as though to hear better, no doubt relishing the moment. He turned to see if Leana had already been ushered through the door. Bethankit! She had not. The morning carried enough heartache for her without adding this one.

  Mr. Millar, the session clerk, rose from his pew near the pulpit, then faced the parishioners, who held their breaths in avid expectation. “I hereby proclaim the names of those seeking to have their marriage recognized in Newabbey parish. James McKie of Auchengray will publicly acknowledge Rose McBride McKie as his lawful wife on 27 March. Are there any present who claim some impediment to this union, which stands in the kirk session records as of 31 December 1788?”

  The crowd gasped as one.

  Jamie stared down at the floor to keep from losing his breakfast. Few present were hearing this news for the first time; little else had been discussed in the parish since Monday. But to hear it spoken by the clerk during services gave the sordid story the ring of authority. When he looked up, prepared to confront his neighbors, Jamie discovered they were staring not at him, but at Rose.

  She was smiling, a hopeful expression on her face, as though seeking their approval. Not many smiled back. Some appeared cross and others appalled. Might the parish’s sympathies lie with Leana rather than Rose? He would find out soon enough. Only the first prayer of the morning stood between Leana and the dreaded stool.

  Reverend Gordon lifted his hands, and the congregation rose to their feet, the men pulling off their hats as they stood. Jamie left his tricorne on the pew so he might have both hands free to attend to Ian, who often fussed when it was least appropriate. As the prayer began, Rose edged closer to him, her gaze directed toward the lad, as if offering to help. Jamie shook his head ever so slightly, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention, yet determined to stop Rose from reaching for his son. As if she had the right. As if he would ever let so selfish a creature as Rose care for Leana’s child.

  A handful of words—More than surprised, sir. I was shock
ed.—and Rose had ruined his life. More so, Leana’s. How could he hope to love a woman he could not forgive?

  The answer came too quickly. For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But this was more than a trespass; it was a travesty.

  Jamie was relieved when the minister’s prayer, usually long winded, was blessedly short, since every minute Leana spent waiting out of doors would no doubt be torturous for her. At Reverend Gordon’s thunderous “So be it,” Jamie sat with the congregation, yet turned at an angle so he might watch her enter.

  “And now, if Mr. Hunter would bring forth Leana McBride to compear before this congregation on the repentance stool. For as the Buik commands us, ‘them that sin rebuke before all, that others also may fear.’ ”

  Jamie’s heart was in his throat as the beadle shuffled toward the door while the worshipers seated round him blethered none too quietly. “I heard she swicked him at his ain wedding!” “Aye, and clecked her babe that verra nicht!” There was no point glaring at them; ’twould only make things worse for Leana.

  William Hunter, an older man with a sideways gait and more gums than teeth, served as beadle to the kirk, performing whatever menial tasks the elders required. This morning ’Twas his duty to bring forth the penitent for all to see and for many to mock. The beadle escorted her to the center of the kirk as the talk in the pews rose to an ugly pitch.

  Leana approached the repentance stool, conspicuously placed in front of the pulpit. The wooden stool had not been occupied for many months, the kirk session handling minor offenses without the need for public rebuke. But marriage vows were not lightly put aside, not in any parish. There were two rectangular seats on the six-legged stool—one lower, one much higher. Small offenses warranted the lower seat. Leana would climb onto the higher one, where all might see her without straining their necks.

  Jamie held his breath as she stepped onto the lower stool, for ’Twas not a graceful thing to mount and likely to tip over unless she had a steady hand to help her and a ferlie sense of balance. It seemed she had both. In a moment Leana was seated more than one Scots ell above the flagstone floor, her sackcloth modestly tucked about her. She tipped her head toward Reverend Gordon in obeisance, then sat with her hands folded before her, as befitted a gentlewoman. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved.