Fair Is the Rose

by Liz Curtis Higgs

“She’ll not be writing you now, I wager. Now that she has Jamie to keep her company.” My Jamie. My love.

  Her aunt asked gently, “Will Jamie be happy as well?”

  “I pray he will be.” Do you, Leana? She bowed her head, ashamed of the truth. “Perhaps if I am not there to … to interfere. To distract him.” To tempt him. And be tempted by him. “With me gone, ’twill be easier for all of them.”

  “Perhaps.” Meg leaned over her and cupped her chin. “But not easy for you, Leana. It could ne’er be easy to allow another woman to raise your son.”

  Leana fumbled in her sleeve for her handkerchief. “Leaving Ian was the worst of all. The verra worst.”

  She’d held him until the last, standing with Neda in the barn while Willie brought round the chaise. Neda’s words, though kind, had brought little comfort. “Ye’re doin’ what must be done, for the puir lad should ne’er have tae pick which mither he luves.”

  Leana had buried her sobs in Ian’s blanket, lest someone hear them and put a stop to her departure. “I can’t bear to leave,” she’d said over and over. “But I must, Neda. ’Tis best for all of them if I do.”

  “Aye, lass,” Neda had said, embracing her as the chaise drew to a stop at the barn door. “ ’Tis.”

  Ashamed of her endless crying, Leana pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “At the end … in my last minutes with Ian … I could not let go.” A sob came out before she could catch it in her throat. “Had Neda not lifted him from my arms … oh, Aunt Meg, I might be holding him still!” She pressed her forearms hard against her breasts, dismayed at their fullness, even though she’d wrapped them with linen. “But I had to … wean him. I had to … let go. I had to …”

  “I’m so sorry.” Meg’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

  “I had to …” No other words would come. Grief, heavy as her mother’s gravestone, pressed down on her, bending her over the small dining table until her cheek rested against the wood and baptized it with her tears.

  “You’re a good mother, Leana.” Meg comforted her, stroking her hair. “You did what the law and the kirk required you to do. Ian cannot understand what you’ve done for him now, but he will. Someday his father will tell him what a wonderful mother he had.”

  Leana shook her head, her voice pinched with pain. “I could have remained at Auchengray, if only for Ian.” Even saying it, she knew it wasn’t true. “When Jamie moves his family to Glentrool in May, Auntie, perhaps then I’ll return home.” To an empty house. With empty arms.

  “You did what was right, Leana. You’ve no need to doubt it.” With some difficulty her aunt crouched beside her and wrapped her bony arms round her neck. “Now you must wait for the pain to ease. Wait on the Lord, lass. Be of good courage. And he shall strengthen your heart.”

  Leana’s head sank back onto her arms. Her body felt like an open wound, leaking tears that would not stop, leaking milk meant for her son. Ian, my sweet Ian!

  Ever so slowly Aunt Meg straightened and kissed the top of Leana’s head. “There, now. Sit for a minute.” The older woman moved quietly round the room, giving Leana time to gather her strength and dry her cheeks. After a bit Aunt Meg reached for a pot swinging o’er the hearth. “Suppose I make some tea to chase away the cold and damp seeping through my thatched roof.” She eyed Leana’s writing desk, still propped on the table. “You’ll need to move that, dearie, or we’ll have no room for our saucers. ’Tis a fine writing desk though. A gift from your father?”

  “Nae.” Leana took a deep, shaky breath and ran her fingers across the polished wood. “ ’Tis from Jamie.”

  Sixty-Five

  Thou bringest … letters unto trembling hands.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  ’Tis for ye, Mr. McKie. Miss Leana bid me deliver it tae ye directly.”

  Jamie took the sealed letter from the orraman’s weathered hand, relieved that in the fading light of the gloaming the tremor in his own hand did not show. Willie had arrived at the mains an hour ago, throwing the household into a stramash, even as he presented Leana’s letter of explanation to Lachlan. Read aloud by the bonnet laird through clenched teeth, her missive was full of apology and remorse, begging her father and the others not to blame Willie or anyone else. No one but her.

  Hearing her written confession only made things worse. Oh, Leana. ’Tis my fault, not yours. I should ne’er have kissed you. I should ne’er have let you go. Even now, Twyneholm seemed within reach. He could mount Walloch and arrive before midnight.

  And then what? Run for their lives? Flee from their families, from the kirk, from the law? He’d entertained the notion for the last hour, always coming to the same bitter conclusion: And then what? He could not abandon his son or, in fairness, his new wife. Leana knew that. Is that why you chose another parish, beloved?

  He’d come to the stables for a moment’s peace. To think. And to grieve. “Would that you had brought me Miss McBride rather than this,” Jamie told Willie candidly, fingering the letter. “Still, I’m grateful for your discretion.”

  Willie could not meet his gaze. “Miss Leana said tae gie it tae ye alone, sir. ‘No one else,’ she said. She’s a fine lady, Mr. McKie. I’m … I’m sorry.”

  Jamie nodded, fearing his voice might betray him.

  The moment Willie shuffled off, Jamie pulled a lantern close and broke the seal, rubbing his thumb over it first, noticing a faint print trapped in the red wax. She touched it. Right there.

  He unfolded the stiff paper. The letter was not as long as he’d hoped. He wanted pages upon pages of her words, sentence after sentence of her voice in his head, in his heart. But he was glad for what he held in his hands, knowing it was for his eyes alone.

  Sunday, 28 March 1790

  My dearest Jamie,

  Let me begin by telling you what matters most: I love you with all my heart. And I will never stop loving you.

  I did not mean to leave in secret, for I fear I have hurt you greatly in doing so. Please, please forgive me, Jamie. If I had looked into your eyes, I would have stayed forever.

  Was it only yestermorn we spoke in the garden? It seems days ago. Weeks. Every hour apart from you is agony.

  If I were a stronger woman, I would be content to live quietly in a corner of my father’s house. To watch Ian grow and to watch you fall in love with my bonny sister a second time. But I am not as strong as you may think. I am only a woman who loves you. And who knows that your future is not with me but with Rose.

  Oh, my dear Jamie, how hard it is to write that!

  You may say that you cannot love Rose again, but with time you will. She is young and has much to learn, but at heart my sister is a dear girl. And she loves you. Never doubt that. She has waited a long time and has risked much to be your wife.

  I have come to realize, much as it grieves me, that I cannot be completely yours. Not until I hear you say, “I, James Lachlan McKie, do take this woman, Leana McBride, to be my lawfully wedded wife.” A day I know will never come. For though you have proclaimed those sacred vows twice, you did not speak my name.

  Oh, Leana. Stunned, he fell back against Walloch’s stall. I would gladly say your name, lass. Every day of my life.

  If I could think of some way to be near you but not touch you. To see you without others seeing me. To love you without needing to be loved in return. Oh, Jamie, if I had a way to do those things, I would.

  If I could hold Ian every other minute of the day. If I could share him with Rose with a glad heart and not feel that a part of me had died, I would come running back to Auchengray. But I fear I cannot share Ian any more than I can share you.

  Promise me you will be my arms for our son. And my voice. And my heart. Hold Ian close. Say the words I would say. He needs you, Jamie. Even more than I do. And I need you more than I need air to breathe.

  I will always love you. And in truth, I will never leave you, for no other man may claim what is already yours. But I do release you, Jami
e. To love my sister and to seek your future together in Glentrool.

  You will always be in my prayers and ever in my heart. Please forgive me.

  Leana

  He read it again from the beginning to be sure, to be very sure he understood what she meant yet did not fully say. It was there again, and the third time as well.

  Leana was truly gone. She would not come back to him.

  Not because she did not love him. But because she did.

  My love. My Leana. Jamie ran his thumb across her name. As if the word had texture, like the sealing wax. As if it held an image of her that he might touch. All at once her inky signature disappeared from the page, smeared by a stray tear on his thumb, now stained in black.

  “You have marked me, my love,” he whispered into the darkened stable. “I can never wholly belong to another. But I will love your son and mine. And I will honor my marriage vows because they cost me everything.”

  They cost me you.

  Sixty-Six

  There is none,

  In all this cold and hollow world, no fount

  Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within

  A mother’s heart.

  FELICIA HEMANS

  I will never be a mother.

  Rose sat in tears at her dressing table, dismayed to find her monthly courses had made an unwelcome appearance. Was it simply her body responding to the pull of the moon, like the Solway tides? Or was it the doctor’s grim prediction coming true before her eyes? You may be unable to bear children.

  This much was certain: Swallowing tincture of valerian had produced little but a horrid taste in her mouth. No wonder Jamie seemed loath to kiss her.

  Jamie, Jamie. Five days of being his wife. Five days of being Ian’s mother. And neither role felt one bit comfortable yet. She was trying hard to be cheerful and not complain, not make demands. But Leana’s absence left a gaping hole in the household, one Rose feared she might never fill.

  Thoughts of hardworking Leana, seldom seen without a needle in her hands, pricked Rose’s conscience. She’d dawdled in her bedroom for most of the morning lest she be given more tasks to do. Jamie’s sark requires mending, Rose. Might you find his cravat, Rose? Ian needs his porridge, Rose. Have you changed his linens, Rose? ’Twas endless, this business of being a wife and a mother! Leana’s letter to the family had said nothing about how long she planned to stay in Twyneholm. Would her sister return in a fortnight? In a twelvemonth? Never?

  Rose glanced at the clothes press, where a second letter from Leana had mysteriously appeared the day after Willie had come back from Twyneholm. A letter addressed to Jamie. Perhaps Leana had given him some clue to her plans. Her sister’s familiar handwriting stared back at her every time she opened the oak door to find a clean shirt or smooth the creases from his coat sleeves. She was certain Leana’s words to Jamie were vastly different than the ones written to the household. Did she dare pluck it out of the clothes press and read it? Jamie was away with her father to Edingham, calling on the Widow Douglas yet again. Since the men weren’t expected home before supper, ’twould be the perfect day. The wax seal was already broken. And she would put it back just as she’d found it.

  She eyed the bedroom door to make certain it was closed, then threaded her hand between the sleeves and hems until her fingers touched the cream-colored paper. She gingerly lifted it out, taking careful note of where it was hidden, then stepped toward the window for more light and opened Leana’s letter.

  Even before she read the first word, she noticed the signature was reduced to a smear of ink at the bottom of the page. Had Jamie tried to wipe it away, hoping to disguise the writer’s identity? Anyone at Auchengray would recognize the hand that wrote it. Leana’s salutation made it plainer still.

  My dearest Jamie …

  Rose’s fingers gripped the paper. Nae, my sister. You may claim him no longer. She read on, alarmed by Leana’s lingering affection for her husband. And when did the two of them speak in the garden? Then Leana’s comments turned in her direction, and Rose’s feathers fluttered back into place.

  Fall in love with my bonny sister …

  Rose nodded with relief. Aye, Jamie. Please do. He’d warmed to her a little. Yet whenever he gazed at her, Rose felt as though he were looking at her from a distance. Half a dozen parishes west perhaps.

  Your future is not with me but with Rose.

  She blinked and read the words again in disbelief. Could her sister mean that, loving Jamie as she did?

  My sister is a dear girl …

  The compliment heated her cheeks, though more from shame than from pleasure. How could Leana still speak so well of her?

  She loves you … and has risked much …

  Rose touched her damp brow, staring at the letter. Leana saw too much, understood too well what was going on inside her heart. For ’Twas true: Loving Jamie, insisting that he honor his vows, all the while knowing he loved her sister and not her, was indeed risky. Foolish, most folk would say.

  Except Leana would not say that. She had taken the very same risks.

  Rose’s mouth fell open. Oh, Leana. You do understand. Why had she not considered that before? Because you only think of yourself, Rose. She shuddered, knowing it was true. And hating that truth.

  She focused on Leana’s letter once more. I cannot share Ian.

  Rose swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “And I cannot raise Ian alone,” she confessed, addressing the paper as if Leana might hear her. Caring for Ian had proved to be much more difficult than she’d imagined. The child had settled down enough to nurse at Jenny’s breast. But when Rose held him, he wriggled and fussed, obviously miserable. “What am I doing wrong, Leana?” she pleaded. “Is it because I am not you?”

  The letter’s silent prodding bruised her heart. Say the words I would say.

  “I do say them!” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I tell Ian all the things a child wants to hear. That he’s dear. That he’s precious. That he’s loved.” Even saying those words aloud, Rose knew they were not what Ian needed most. “Is it because I am not the mother who bore him that he cries so?” She shook the paper, demanding an answer. “How can he miss you when he’s naught but a baby?”

  The same way you missed your mother, Rose. From the hour you were born. A fresh wave of grief swelled inside her. Undone, she collapsed on the nearest chair, the letter fluttering to the floor. Mother. The name she had never truly spoken. The name she might never hear. Please God, may it not be so.

  The knock at the door was faint but enough to stir Rose from her painful reverie. Blinking away her tears, she stood, a bit weak kneed, and called out a greeting.

  Annabel needed no further invitation, breezing into the room with a whimpering Ian in her arms. “The lad wants his noony.”

  “Nae,” Rose sighed, “the lad wants his mother. His true mother, not a poor substitute.”

  Annabel’s bright expression faded, and sympathy took its place. “Dinna fash yerself, Mistress McKie. Ian will warm tae ye in time. Bairns are hard tae please at this age. Always greetin’ for this or that.” She held the boy up. “Aren’t I richt, Ian? Yer stepmither is tryin’ her best tae see ye blithe and weel. As for ye, lad, see that ye honor yer faither and yer mither. ’Tis the wird o’ the Laird, and I dinna mean yer Granfaither McBride.”

  Rose reached for him, both hands filled with hope. “Will you come to me, Ian?”

  He did not stretch out his soft arms as he always had for Leana. But he let Rose disengage him from Annabel’s grasp without protest and rested against her velvet bodice without squirming. How good he felt in her arms!

  Annabel grinned. “There, ye see? Better already.”

  The maidservant spoke too soon. Ian suddenly howled as if stuck with a sprig of blackthorn and waved his arms toward the red-haired lass, his wishes clear. “Och! Come here then, and we’ll see ye fed and put doon for a nap.” She looked at Rose, clearly chagrined. “ ’Tis all the
child cares aboot at the moment: his noony and his nap. Ye’ll help me, aye?”

  Rose knew Annabel didn’t need her help. The canny maid was doing what she could to boost her spirits. Grateful, Rose followed maid and child into the hall, closing the door behind them, determined to spend the day making herself useful. As her mother used to do, by Neda’s account. As Leana always did.

  The hours passed quickly, if not easily. While Ian napped, Rose was given the daunting task of helping Neda make marmalade. The Seville oranges, procured at market in Dumfries, were dear in cost and easily bruised. “Grate them wi’ care, and see ye dinna lose a bittie o’ the rind,” Neda cautioned her. “After that, ye cut them crosswise and squeeze the juice through a sieve. We’ll need lemons as weel, two lemons tae every dozen oranges. And whan ye boil the rinds, change the water aften. ’twill take awa the bitter taste.”

  Rose did as she was told, wincing when she cut her finger and plunged it into the tart juice, yelping when she burned her hand clarifying the sugar. When all was finished and a fresh pot of marmalade sat cooling by the window, she hardly noticed her wounds for the praise Neda heaped on her head.

  “I’ll be proud tae serve yer marmalade wi’ the boiled ham ye’ll be havin’ for supper,” the older woman assured her. “Won’t Jamie be surprised tae learn wha made it for him?”

  The sun hung low in the sky when Rose heard Jamie and her father come through the front door. Her heart quickened at her husband’s voice, at the sound of his footsteps heading up to their room. Perhaps she might keep him company while he dressed for dinner. She’d just wiped her hands clean on her apron and stepped toward the hall when she heard Jamie calling her name from the top of the stair.

  “Rose?” His tone was less than cordial. “I would speak to you at once.”

  Apprehension slowed her steps. Had there been some mishap at Edingham? Had Jamie and her father argued on the journey home? Or was it something she’d done or not done? Exhaling to ease the tension building inside her, she climbed the stair, looking up at him waiting for her, his hands behind his back. “Jamie,” she said tentatively, “is anything the matter?”