Whence Came a Prince

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  One by one, heads turned in her direction. The loud chatter diminished.

  “Tell us, Miss McBride.” Another stranger spoke up. “Why are you here and not with your family in Newabbey?”

  “In trowth, do tell,” Janet Guthrie echoed, her speech thick with Scots. “Mony fowk have wunnered that verra thing.”

  Leana clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. She’d answered similar questions during her visit but never so many at once. “I am here because … that is, my aunt …”

  Meg came to her rescue. “I insisted Leana visit me this spring. Burnside Cottage gets lanelie with only the dogs for company.” Round the room, heads nodded and expressions softened. “Besides, my niece is a fine gardener. You’re invited to stop by on your way home and see for yourself.”

  Leana smiled at her, grateful for the reprieve. Meg had not insisted she come to Burnside, of course; Leana had pleaded for refuge. Nor was the gregarious Meg ever lonely.

  “Come, ladies.” Lydia Scott stepped to the center of the room, catching everyone’s attention. “We’ve gathered to pray. Jeanie will collect your plates and cups. Kindly find a seat while I locate my husband.”

  The chairs were finely crafted oak—from Glasgow, if rumors could be trusted—not creepies made of pine like Meg had round her hearth, low to the floor, without backs or arms. Leana chose a roomy seat, and her aunt sat next to her, inching her chair closer. “Hold your chin up, lass,” Meg said in a low voice, “for some of these glib-gabbit women are not easily convinced. I’ve been looking after beehives long enough to know that bees with honey in their mouths have stings in their tails.”

  Before Leana could respond, the Reverend Dr. John Scott strode into the room amid a flurry of greetings. Well educated and pious, he shepherded his flock with a firm but loving hand. In the pulpit and on broadsheets he bemoaned the rise in smuggling along the Solway coast, aware that most of his parishioners were involved in “free trading” to one degree or another. Aunt Meg was not above hiding smuggled salt in her cupboard to help one of her free-trading neighbors, especially when it meant receiving a pocketful of the precious commodity for her efforts.

  Reverend Scott stretched out his arms, holding them over the assembly like the branches of a stalwart oak. “O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come.” A long time of intercession followed, with the minister speaking and the women listening. Every parishioner’s need was laid before the Almighty—every need except Leana’s unspoken one.

  When the minister’s prayer finally ended, he disappeared up the stair with his wife not far behind, requesting a moment of his time. As the women resumed their conversations, Leana sensed more than one curious glance directed toward her. Her aunt noticed it too.

  “ ’Tis because you are an outsider,” Meg said softly. “Fremmit. A stranger, still new to the parish.” She patted Leana’s hand. “Think no more of it. You’ve brought something to stitch upon, aye?”

  Leana held up her sewing bag. “My cotton stockings.”

  Meg looked round her for a moment before her face broke into a wide smile. “Aren’t I the sully one? I left home in such a hurry I forgot my needlework.” She rose, eying the door. “ ’Tis but a short walk from the manse to Burnside Cottage. I’ll be back before you finish the first seam.”

  “Meg …” Leana curled a hand round her aunt’s elbow. “Would you do me a great favor? Might you … bring my claret gown with you?” Leana had only now thought of the possibility, seeing all the women together with none of the gentlemen about. “I’ll explain when you return. Can you manage it by yourself?”

  “Of course.” A swish of her skirts and Aunt Meg was gone.

  Leana pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her pulse beating hard against her fingers. Could she do so bold a thing? Hold up her gown at a parish gathering and offer it for sale? She feared it might otherwise take days, even weeks, to find a buyer. Yet she could not remain in Twyneholm a moment longer. If her many secrets were discovered, no good woman would want her company, let alone her claret gown.

  Today, then—this very morning—she would sacrifice her dearest possession and pray it might pave the way to Auchengray.

  Resolved, she fished her spectacles out of the hanging pocket worn round her waist, then put them on with care lest she bend the fragile silver frames. Her weak eyesight made them a necessity for sewing, reading, or reckoning long columns of numbers. With the spectacles in place, her surroundings came into sharper focus. So did the curious gazes of the women. Did they know more than she realized? Might offering her gown for sale only confirm their suspicions? Perhaps she’d acted too rashly in asking Meg to bring the dress with her.

  Chagrined, Leana looked down at her sewing bag and was comforted by the familiar sight. Made of finely woven wool plaid with handles carved from ox horn, the sturdy bag was seldom far from her side. Rose had purchased it from a traveling packman selling his wares one spring day, then presented it to Leana for her birthday.

  Years ago. A lifetime ago. When Rose still loved her.

  Why haven’t you written me, dearie? She knew why. Jamie and Rose were busy getting settled at Glentrool with no time or interest in sending letters. Blinking hard, Leana fumbled in her sewing bag for the cotton stockings she’d started working on yestreen. When her fingers touched the soft fabric, she pulled it out of the plaid bag and laid it across her lap, then angled her head to brush away her tears before they fell and stained her green dress.

  When she turned back to her work, Leana discovered Barbara Wilkinson, the miller’s wife, eying her lapful of cotton. “What’s that you’re making, lass? A gown for a bairn?”

  Leana stared at the fabric in shock. Instead of her stockings, she had pulled out Ian’s nightgown! The little sleeves, neatly embroidered, were splayed across her skirts for all to view.

  “Such fine handwork.” Mistress Wilkinson claimed the nightgown and held it up so the others might see. “Aren’t these thistles a clever touch?” Round the room heads lifted and eyebrows as well, as the women regarded the small gown. The miller’s wife turned back to Leana, her eyes bright with expectation. “This child must be very special indeed for you to stitch such a gown for him. Whose bairn is it?”

  Ten

  Truth does not blush.

  TERTULLIAN

  Leana hesitated, desperate to think of a proper answer. She could not lie. She could not. Nor could she tell the truth, not completely. “ ’Tis my … sister’s child,” she confessed. “Ian McKie of Glentrool.” Truth enough, before God and man.

  “Your sister’s boy, you say?” Catherine Rain gave her a withering look. “My relatives in Newabbey tell me otherwise.”

  A low murmur swept through the room like an ill wind from the north, chilling Leana’s heart.

  Catherine’s gaze narrowed. “Mary McCheyne is my cousin. Her name is familiar, I’m sure.”

  Leana well recalled the sharp words Mary McCheyne had cast at her like stones one dark Sabbath morning. Ye’re a filthy limmer! A hizzie o’ the worst sort, stealin’ yer sister’s husband. “I know your cousin,” Leana admitted, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I saw Mary every Sunday at Newabbey kirk.”

  “On three particular Sundays, she saw you as well.” Mistress Rain bared her teeth. “Climbing onto the stool of repentance …”

  Nae!

  “… for the sin of hochmagandy.”

  The women of Twyneholm gasped as one.

  Leana pressed the cotton nightgown to her heart. A single word and she was on the dreaded stool once more. Put on disgraceful display where all might mock her. Rough sackcloth chafing her back. Bare feet against a cold stone floor.

  Yet had she not confessed her sins and been forgiven?

  Catherine Rain was standing now, bearing down on her. “ ’Tis time you told this parish the truth, Leana McBride: The child your sister is raising is your own son. Conceived in sin, born in shame. A bystart.”

  “Nae.” Leana stood as well, supported
by a power she knew was not her own. The LORD is on my side; I will not fear. “Ian McKie is none of those things.” Her knees stopped wobbling. So did her voice. “Though Ian is the son of my womb, he is also the rightful son and heir of James McKie. Neither sin nor dishonor clouds their names.”

  Her adversary was quick to retort, “What of your name, Miss McBride?”

  Looking directly at Catherine Rain, Leana spoke from her heart. “My reputation is of little consequence. Only that of my family matters. Ian McKie was conceived and born within the sanctity of marriage. His father, James McKie, was my husband, by habit and repute.” Whispered asides swirled round each statement as every eye remained fixed on her.

  Leana paused but only for a moment. Better to confess the whole of it rather than hear false rumors flying hither and yonder. “As to the charge of hochmagandy, I willingly served as a proxy bride for my sister’s wedding, then presented myself to Mr. McKie in his darkened bedchamber.” She did not flinch at their horrified faces. “I thought he loved me. And he thought I was my sister, Rose. Both of us were … mistaken.”

  Catherine’s smug look of satisfaction implied she’d heard the story before. “Then you were never his true wife.”

  “For a time I thought I was. My father appeared before the kirk session to have the records amended, striking out my sister’s name and replacing it with mine. Alas, the notation was not properly recorded, a sad truth which we did not learn for more than a year, months after Ian was born.” There was more she could say but no point in saying it; her hearers were already dumbfounded. Hands limp, jaws slack. “James McKie is now married to my sister, Rose—as, by law, he always was—and they have custody of my dear son. I have reason to believe they’ve returned to his family estate in Monnigaff parish.”

  “Where do you intend to live?” Barbara Wilkinson’s words were threaded with condemnation. “Not in Twyneholm …”

  Leana held up her hand, deflecting the woman’s scorn. “I came to your parish for a brief season. When I wrote to my aunt, explaining my unfortunate situation, she opened Burnside Cottage to me.” Leana glanced at the door, relieved that Meg had not witnessed her unforeseen confession. “I pray you will not think poorly of Margaret Halliday for such hospitality.”

  “We will not, Miss McBride.” Lydia Scott stood at the foot of the stair. “You have already compeared before your own parish. We’ve no right to punish you here in Twyneholm.”

  Leana lowered her gaze, unaccustomed to such mercy. “You are … most kind.”

  “ ’Tis God who is kind to us all.” The minister’s wife began to circle the room, weaving effortlessly round the jumble of chairs and sewing baskets. “When Miss McBride arrived in March, my husband was shown a sealed testimonial letter from Reverend Gordon. No one is ushered across parish boundaries without such a testimonial in hand.” She turned toward Leana, her voice filled with gentle authority. “That letter confirmed Miss McBride’s unwed state and moral repute.”

  When Catherine cleared her throat in protest, Lydia pinned her with a sharp look. “If John Gordon commended her to our parish, we need no other opinion.” Defeated, Catherine sank back onto her chair as the minister’s wife surveyed the room. Each woman’s face bore a different emotion. Pity. Dismay. Remorse. Lydia’s gaze seemed to fall on them all, one by one, pausing to look at Leana in particular. Mercy shone in the woman’s brown eyes. “Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven,” Lydia said simply. “ ’Tis more than a fine text for a sermon. ’Tis the truth.”

  A sharp knock sounded at the door. Heads craned as Margaret Halliday was ushered back into the fold. Her sewing pouch was tied to her waist, and her silvery hair was the color of the mist. In her arms she carried the claret gown. On her face she bore a hopeful smile, which soon faded. “Have I … missed something?”

  “Indeed you have.” Lydia Scott nodded toward Leana. “While you were gone, we learned a great deal more about your niece. And her child.”

  “You … did?” The bit of color in Meg’s wrinkled face quickly drained.

  “I’m afraid so, dearie.” Leana collected the damp gown and draped it over the chair behind her, then turned to face the stunned assembly. “My past indiscretions have followed me to Twyneholm.”

  “Oh, my poor niece.” Meg smoothed her hands over Leana’s hair, as if to calm her, though she was the nervous one. “This child of yours—”

  “ ’Tis her sister’s child now,” Catherine Rain corrected her with a haughty sniff.

  “Indeed not.” Her aunt stiffened. “ ’Twill be Leana’s bairn to raise, not her sister’s. Come winter when the child is born—”

  “Meg!” Leana cried, but it was too late.

  Agitated comments flew round the room like a trapped bird trying to escape. “Another bairn?” “It canna be.” “Who’s the faither?” “Mebbe she doesna ken.”

  When their flapping died down, the women merely gawked at her, clutching their forgotten needlework. The air grew thick with their silence.

  Leana looked heavenward, summoning the courage to speak. “My aunt has told you the truth: I carry a second child by Mr. McKie. Conceived when we thought we were rightly wed.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her; with the fear of discovery gone, so was her shame. “The child will be born in my own parish. I hope to leave on Friday for Newabbey.”

  Aunt Meg gripped her arm. “But, Leana—”

  “Nae, Auntie.” She wrapped her in a brief embrace. “ ’Tis time. The good women of Twyneholm have weathered enough this morning.” Leana turned toward the minister’s wife. “I beg your pardon, Mistress Scott, for disrupting what should have been a peaceful hour of sewing.”

  “On the contrary, Miss McBride.” Her voice, her gaze, bespoke uncommon grace. “You’ve demonstrated remarkable courage. ’Tis a more vital lesson than improving our needlework. All of us have learned something by your honest confession. Haven’t we, ladies?”

  Though no one spoke, their penitent expressions said enough.

  Mistress Scott glanced down at the various sewing baskets strewn round the carpet, then shifted her gaze to Leana’s chair. “I see your aunt brought along your pretty gown. Had you planned to mend it?”

  “Nae.” Leana swallowed the last of her fears. “I planned to sell it.”

  “Sell it?” Aunt Meg gaped at her. “Your best gown? Whatever for?”

  “To raise the silver required to hire a chaise.” Leana gathered up her gown, fragrant with the scent of lavender, and spread it before them. “While hardly new, it is clean and pressed, without spot or wrinkle. ’Twas my bridal gown. Made by Joseph Armstrong, a tailor in Newabbey village.” She paused, uncomfortable at having to mention money. “Though it cost a good bit more, I need only fifteen shillings for my journey home. Even that may be asking too much—”

  “Nae!” A chorus of voices responded at once.

  “I’ll gladly pay fifteen shillings for it.” Grace Burnie leaned forward to touch the fine embroidery. “I’ve admired your gown every Sabbath since you arrived. Though I’m not so slender as you, I could easily have it altered.”

  “You could,” Leana managed to say, bewildered to find them so interested.

  “But ’twould fit me just as it is.” Ann Palmer, one of the younger women present, pulled the gown toward her waist to prove it. “Mother, we could offer Miss McBride sixteen shillings for her gown, could we not?”

  “If you think it suits you—”

  “Well, it suits me better,” Sarah McCulloch insisted with a toss of her auburn hair. “I have coins for Friday’s market in my reticule and am prepared to pay eighteen shillings. Perhaps Miss McBride could use a bit of extra silver. For the bairn.”

  “Ye’ll none o’ ye tak it!” Janet Guthrie cried with glee. “Me dochter needs sae fine a goun. Twenty shullins, Miss McBride.”

  Leana stood transfixed, watching as one woman, then another, tugged at her gown, arguing over who might own it and for how many shillings.

  “Miss McBride?” A f
amiliar male voice carried across the room, silencing all the others. Reverend Scott appeared at the bottom of the stair. “From here, that gown looks quite new. Does it appear so to you, Mistress Scott?”

  The older woman smiled, inspecting the gown more closely. “Not a mark or a blemish. Worthy of a bride, I’d say.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He moved across the sea of women, who parted to make way for him. “Our granddaughter will be married in the kirk next month. ’Twould please Mistress Scott and me to see her so adorned.”

  Worthy of a bride. Leana held out the gown with steady hands. “ ’Tis yours, then, for fifteen shillings.”

  “I said it looked new,” he reminded her, laying the gown aside. “And I believe Mistress Guthrie offered you twenty. What, pray tell, did the gown cost your father?”

  Dare she confess it? “Two pounds sterling,” she said at last, appalled at the exorbitant figure. Indeed, she heard more than one stifled gasp.

  The minister pulled a leather purse from his waistcoat pocket and shook the contents into his wife’s open palm. “Pay the young woman her due.”

  Leana watched in disbelief as Lydia Scott pressed a fistful of silver into her empty hands. “Sufficient to see you safely home.” Lydia smiled and closed Leana’s fingers round the coins.

  Stunned, Leana could only look at the two of them. The gracious wife. The generous minister. “Wh-why?” she finally asked. “Why would you do so charitable a deed after all I’ve admitted this morning?”

  Reverend Scott took his time answering. “John Gordon wrote me soon after you arrived. The details of his letter were just as you confessed them here.” He gestured toward the stair. “Pardon an old minister for eavesdropping.”

  Leana could not hide her confusion. “If you knew … then …”

  “This is what I know.” His tone brooked no argument. “Only a woman whose soul has been cleansed by the Almighty could speak so boldly of her past, certain of his mercy.”

  The minister drew his wife to his side. “The fruit of your womb is God’s blessing on your life. The silver in your hands is ours.”