Her aunt reclaimed her seat and clasped Leana’s hands in hers. “Remember this, dearie: No child is a surprise to the Almighty.”
The knot inside her eased. “How right you are, Meg.” Her child would have a heavenly Father if not an earthly one. When the child was born at Auchengray, she would send news to Jamie at Glentrool and see if he might willingly give the child his name.
Not his fortune nor his heirship. Only the name McKie.
Five
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father.
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
Come, little one. Let me mark you as mine.”
Jamie wrapped his arm firmly round the lamb and dabbed its neck with paint. Thinned with linseed oil, the scarlet keel mark would eventually wash out, leaving the wool white once more. Although the meat of the blackface, rather than the coarse wool, made the animals valuable, he would see their lightweight fleece put to good use as well. The blood-colored mark identifying the smaller lambs as his needed to last only until he herded his flock to Glentrool. “Two months from today,” he promised, nudging the bleating animal toward its mother.
He stood and stretched his cramped legs. The blackface breed flourished in cool, damp conditions; a shepherd’s joints and muscles did not. Last night while he’d slept, the month of June had made a showery entrance, drenching the countryside in a fine rain that had lasted all morning. Good for the gardens, especially the rose bed, but not the best weather for rounding up skittish lambs. Still, choosing which ones to mark was a task he dared not entrust to others, especially not the new shepherds who’d worked at Auchengray but a few days.
He’d arrived at the Whitsun feeing fair in Dumfries last Monday afternoon only to learn the most experienced herds of the parish had already been hired for the next term. When he’d happened upon Duncan near the Midsteeple shaking hands with a black-haired plowman to seal their agreement, Jamie pulled the overseer aside and told him of his bargain with Lachlan.
“Weel done,” Duncan had said, a smile decorating his weathered face. “Ye’ll be sairlie missed at Auchengray, but ye deserve tae have yer ain flocks and live in yer ain hoose.” He’d tipped his head and eyed Jamie with obvious amusement. “Is thar anither reason why ye’re anxious tae flit tae Glentrool? Mebbe a certain wife wha carries yer bairn?”
Few circumstances in life slipped by Duncan Hastings.
Jamie was standing there in the forenoon rain, still chuckling at the memory, when that same gruff voice came floating o’er the braes. “Will ye leuk at the ill-faured spots ye’re puttin’ on yer puir lambs this wet Tuesday?”
“My keel marks are not ugly,” Jamie protested, grinning all the while. “And my lambs will make me wealthy someday, not poor.”
Duncan made his way down the hillock. “ ’Tis a blissin yer uncle will let ye take that mony lambs tae Glentrool.” He surveyed the flocks, slowly nodding as he did. “I’ll see ye have the help ye need come August, Jamie. Rab Murray and Davie Tait will be pleased tae join ye on yer raik west, and ithers as weel. A fortnight later they’ll a’ be hame again, nae warse for wear. Ye’ll be generous wi’ them, aye?”
“You ken I will.” Jamie would make certain Alec McKie pressed a fair amount of silver into the itinerant shepherds’ hands before they were sent east again. Fifteen shillings each would be a fair stipend. “You’re bound for Kingsgrange, I’m told.”
“Aye, tae visit me youngest dochter, Mary. Anither bairn has come tae her hoose. I promised tae finish buildin’ her a cradle.” Duncan shrugged. “Her man could do it just as weel, but she wants her faither tae make it, she says.” After another long pause he added, “I’ll be hame in the morn should ye need me.”
Jamie dropped his paintbrush into the pail at his feet, determined to hear whatever Duncan seemed reluctant to say. “What brings you out on the hills looking for me when you should be riding to Urr parish?”
Duncan shifted his gaze to the watering trough. “ ’Tis yer uncle, Jamie. He’s been studyin’ his ledgers mair than usual, makin’ marks I canna follow. Sendin’ posts tae Embrough and Edingham Farm as weel.”
“He’s marrying a widow with a sizable estate come July,” Jamie reminded him. “Correspondence with the courts in Edinburgh is to be expected. And letters to his future bride too.”
“A’ I’m sayin’ is, be mindful, Jamie. Yer uncle is not above a bit o’ swickerie. I willna stand by and see ye lose a’ ye’ve worked for.” With a tip of his checked wool bonnet, Duncan bid him farewell, then trotted down the hill toward Bess, a seasoned mare waiting patiently for her rider.
Jamie watched him go with misgivings. Duncan seldom spoke so candidly about his master. Was the man seeing deception where there was none? Or were Duncan’s fears well grounded?
The bleating ewes drew his thoughts back to the task at hand. Two months old now, the lambs were ready to be weaned from their mothers, a slow process of increasing the oats for the lambs and decreasing it for the ewes. The mothers bleated pitifully when their lambs no longer needed them. Despite the ewes’ obvious discomfort, nothing could be done but wait until their milk was gone.
Watching one ewe nudging her lamb, encouraging it to nurse, Jamie felt his throat tighten. A forgotten image returned to haunt him: Leana nursing Ian in the garden, bent over their son, weeping. Jamie closed his eyes, praying he might dislodge the painful recollection. Instead, it grew more vivid. Her hair, the color of ripened wheat, falling in soft waves round her shoulders. Her voice strained to the breaking point as she sang a lullaby, bidding their son farewell.
With a groan, he jammed his mud-covered boot into the soft ground, his frustration mounting anew. Could he not have done something? He found it nigh to impossible to forgive the elders of the kirk for their heartless decision. Asking a woman to give up her child was unconscionable. Asking Leana, the kindest woman he had ever known, to wean her son and place him in the arms of her sister, who…
“Och!” Jamie stamped across the waterlogged pasture, the ewes darting out of his way, taking their lambs with them. The scene before him was no longer green hills and blackface sheep but firelight throwing shadows against the walls of the Newabbey manse as Leana slipped off her wedding ring and placed it before Rose. Had he ever known a more terrible hour in his life? He’d begged the elders for mercy, but instead they demanded justice.
Justice was theirs. And Rose was his. A lovely lass, aye, and charming. But not the dear woman who’d run away from him, leaving behind a single request: Love my sister.
He did care for Rose; in truth, he had doted on her once, as any lad with eyes in his head might have done. Her dark eyes and hair, her creamy skin, and her sweet mouth had stolen his senses from the hour they met. Now that she was his lawful wife and the mother of his unborn child, duty prevailed. He would treat her fairly, provide for her needs, and fill her arms with the children she seemed anxious to have. But could he do as Leana asked? Could he truly love Rose? And tell her so?
“Jamieee!”
Startled, he spun about, nearly losing his footing in the wet grass. His wife’s voice carried through the damp air like a high, clear bell. The heartbreaking images faded away as the grassy hillocks came into focus once more. Rose appeared a moment later at the top of the rise, bouncing Ian on her hip. As if chased away by the boy’s cheerful babbling, the soft rain ceased, and the gray skies seemed to lighten.
“There’s your father,” she sang out, pointing in Jamie’s direction. “See how he’s painting the lambs?” She slowly worked her way toward Jamie, her skirts dragging in the mud since she could not spare a hand to lift them. “Someday, lad, you’ll have your own flocks to tend. Won’t that be grand?”
At eight months, Ian was already an armful. With long limbs and a wavy mass of dark hair, he no longer bore the look of a babe but a man-child. He’d already begun trying to crawl, rocking back and forth on his knees. Forward motion would not be long in coming. Ian had also
learned to point, which he was proving admirably just now, his arm outstretched. Rose held Ian tightly against her and bent her head to press her cheek against his. “Who is that, Ian? Is that your father?”
When the child waved his arms about, showing off his new front teeth with an exuberant smile, Jamie’s heart swelled. “There’s my good lad.” He grasped one of Ian’s tiny fists in his, making the child squeal with joy. “Your stepmother will not be pleased if I cover you with paint, will she?” Jamie gazed into the boy’s blue gray eyes, so like Leana’s, and was astounded to find his mood quite improved. How could a small child make so great a difference?
Leana’s words stirred inside him. Ian needs you, Jamie. Even more than I do. Only now was he beginning to understand how much he needed Ian.
Rose shifted the lad to her other hip, sweeping her braid out of Ian’s reach. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’ve come looking for you?” Before Jamie could respond, she spilled out her news like oats from a pail. “We’ve company arriving for dinner within the hour. Widow Douglas of Edingham Farm and her three braw sons. Father insists you dress properly for table.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “I suppose he’s chosen my waistcoat for me as well as the words I should speak.”
“Certainly not!” She laughed, turning toward the mains and inclining her head in invitation. “Away to the house, sir. I’m eager to meet the woman who has captured my father’s eye.”
“Instead, I fear his eye has captured her thrifite.” Jamie plucked Ian from her grasp and started east with the child tucked in the crook of his arm, enjoying the warmth of the small body pressed against his drugget coat. The child’s brown hair matched his own perfectly, as if a weaver with a practiced eye had chosen the strands. Jamie addressed Rose over Ian’s bobbing head. “As to the widow’s sons, they are neither handsome nor canny. Your flindrikin ways will be wasted on them.”
“Jamie,” she scolded, though her tone was playful, “I’m a married woman, not a flirt.” She lifted her skirts clear of the wet grass and lengthened her stride to keep up with him. “You’ll wear your embroidered blue waistcoat, won’t you? And be civil to them?”
Jamie held his tongue but could not quell his thoughts. Her father’s daughter: ‘My will be done.’ Leana’s temperament was quite the opposite; she’d neither prodded nor pulled, yet Jamie had delighted in doing her bidding.
As he tramped across the rough pastureland holding their son, he imagined Leana standing on the threshold of her aunt’s house, looking wistfully toward Auchengray, her arms empty. “Rose, I’ve been meaning to ask: Have you written Leana? Told her we are expecting a child? And that we’re staying here through Lammas?”
She colored slightly, turning her face to the side. “I’ve started a letter to my sister. Many letters, really. I cannot seem to find the words. I fear the truth may break her heart.” Rose glanced up at him as though testing the waters. “Perhaps it would be better to wait. At least ’til I’m three months—”
“Nae.” He stopped at the edge of the farm steading, one forearm blocking Ian’s flailing arms before they connected with his chin. “You cannot wait until July. What if Leana should come home to attend Lachlan’s wedding and find you blooming with child?” Seeing her expression, Jamie softened his tone but not his words. “ ’Tis unkind to keep this from her. Leana deserves to know.”
“You write her, then.” Rose turned away, her shoulders sagging.
Hadn’t he written Leana dozens of times, if only in his mind? Yet he dared not put his thoughts to paper, let alone post them. When he was certain his voice would not give him away, he admitted, “ ’Twould be cruel for me to write your sister, and you ken it well. She has suffered enough.”
“I, too, have suffered. For I, too, love Leana.” Rose slowly turned round. Tears shone in her eyes. “When I can find the strength to write her, I will do so. I promise.”
Chastened, Jamie lightly touched her cheek. “I believe you, lass.”
Six
Unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Come, Rose.” Jamie nodded toward the mains. “We must darken the door before our guests do.”
He led her round the U-shaped farm steading, watching where his boots landed. Though it had stopped raining altogether, a gray mist still hovered near the ground. Sounds came at them from every direction. Doves cooed in the doocot, clucking arose from the henhouse, and the lowing of cows rumbled in the byre. Ian crowed along with the farmyard chorus, turning this way and that to get a glimpse of his noisy surroundings.
“Easy, lad, or you’ll land in the midden.” Jamie tightened his grip and swung away from the odoriferous dunghill in the center of the steading. “Though it might be worth a soiled shirt just to agitate your stepmother, aye?” Jamie hoped Rose was listening, for he meant to lift her spirits. Instead she walked on without comment.
He should not have been so insistent about her writing Leana. The envious Rose he’d once known would have written her sister at once, boasting of her good fortune. The pensive Rose now beside him was not the same girl he’d met two years past. Had a woman’s tender heart bloomed inside her while he was busy tending his lambs?
Eliza stood on the broad stone step outside the back door, motioning them toward her. “Mr. McBride is pacin’ aboot the hoose, waitin’ for ye tae join him. Says the Douglases are expected onie minute.”
Jamie held out his son. “See that Ian is scrubbed clean and dressed. Are Hugh and Annabel in our room?”
Eliza deftly lifted Ian from Jamie’s arms, her white cap bobbing up and down. “They’re awaitin’ yer arrival, sir, wi’ hot water and the like.”
Jamie deposited his muddy boots inside the door, while Rose lifted her skirts to spare the freshly scrubbed floors and hurried up the stair. He followed close on her heels, observing the busy kitchen staff in passing. Dinner smelled promising. Horseradish tinged the air, mingled with milder scents. Leeks. Cloves. And the unmistakable aroma of bacon frying. Neda could be counted on to serve her best fare—fish, flesh, fowl, and a fine pudding—to impress their guests and appease her master.
Jamie had no doubt Neda Hastings would do Auchengray proud. Now it was his turn to do the same. Four months ago the sons of Morna Douglas had escorted him round Edingham with blatant conceit. Once he’d shown them the pastures and gardens of Auchengray, the healthy flocks and neatly planted fields, their arrogance might come down a peg or two.
The gray-haired valet Jamie shared with Lachlan stood at the ready in his bedroom. Hugh shaved Jamie’s chin, then dressed him in a neatly ironed shirt and clean breeches. At university, Jamie had worn the powdered periwig of a gentleman. Among the kintra folk of Galloway, such pretensions were unnecessary. Hugh smoothed Jamie’s hair into a sleek tail and tied it snugly at the nape of his neck. “Guid as new, Mr. McKie.” He brushed the sleeves of Jamie’s jacket once more for good measure. “Ye’re both wanted in the parlor.”
Jamie and Rose hastened down the stair, headed for the front room of the house. Square in design, the parlor faced west, inviting the afternoon light through its two tall windows. The room contained a half-tester bedstead, a sideboard, and a mismatched assortment of basket chairs and small tables—a cluttered place for entertaining their infrequent guests. Jamie and Rose arrived with no time to spare and were greeted by a grim-faced Lachlan and the sound of carriage wheels rolling up the drive.
Lachlan glowered at them. “Finally.” He was well turned out for the occasion; his silvery gray coat and scarlet waistcoat were the best in his clothes press. “Jamie, I’ll count on you to make her sons feel at home. Rose, a reminder that you serve as mistress of Auchengray now.”
Her posture stiffened. “What would you have me do, Father?”
“Listen at all times, speak only when necessary, and see that the servants keep our plates filled with food. Your husband and I will manage the dinner conversation.” His gruff instructions delivered, La
chlan marched from the room as though headed for battle, head thrown back, chin leading the way.
Jamie resisted the urge to salute his departing back and instead offered Rose his arm and escorted her to a spot by the hearth where they might stand together and welcome their guests. They did not wait long. Lachlan returned shortly with Morna Douglas in tow and steered her in their direction. Jamie had met her twice before at Edingham and so greeted her as warmly as he could. She was perhaps forty, a good deal shorter than Lachlan, and a good bit rounder. Her face was the color of hindberries, as if she remained perpetually embarrassed, and her movements hinted at a fidgety discomfort.
“Good to see you again, James.” Her voice was high, birdlike. Morna fawned over Rose, pronouncing her “fair as any flower in the garden.” At last the widow allowed Lachlan to guide her to a nearby chair before he turned to introduce her sons, who hovered just inside the door.
Lachlan cupped Rose’s elbow, sweeping his free hand in the direction of the newcomers. “Mistress McKie, kindly meet your future stepbrothers: Malcolm Douglas, Gavin Douglas, and Ronald Douglas.”
Three strapping lads—nigh identical in appearance and close in age—bowed as one while Rose offered them a low curtsy. Their muscular backs were hidden beneath English broadcloth coats; their hands, no doubt roughened from working their late father’s land, remained clasped behind their backs. Clay-colored hair had been combed back, revealing ruddy complexions freckled by the sun and only the faintest of beards. To a man, their appreciative gazes were focused on the bonny lass before them.
“Mistress?” Gavin, the middle son, breathed the word on a tenor note. “Since you are to be our sister, might we call you Rose?”
Jamie noted the smile that played about her mouth and the way her lashes fluttered across her faintly pink cheeks. “When I am truly your sister, you may call me whatever you please.”
Whence Came a Prince Page 4
