Leana slipped out of the pew, squeezing Ian’s bare foot in passing, while Jamie took his rightful place next to Rose—on the far side of her sister. Wise, Jamie. Distressing for her not to be seated next to Ian, but prudent not to be next to Jamie. Leana knew she could hold Ian all she liked at Auchengray. Here, with the whole parish watching, it was best that mother and son not be seen side by side.
Before discouragement sank in, Leana remembered the son or daughter she had yet to bear and was comforted. I am still a mother. As long as no one else knew, that fact would bring joy to her heart and grief to no one else’s. Surely that was best.
Unbidden, a verse learned long ago flitted through her mind. A faithful witness will not lie. Despite the warm air round her, Leana’s hands grew cool. Was it a sin to keep her condition to herself? Or was it mercy, sparing those she loved? The psalmist of old offered words she did not want to hear: Mercy and truth are met together. But what of Rose’s newfound trust in her and Jamie’s commitment to Rose? Would they not both be shattered if she confessed the truth?
As the second bell sounded, the precentor rose to lead the assembled in a gathering psalm. Those who were already seated remained so; those who were not, hastened to their pews, singing the words after the precentor sang them first, in run-line fashion. “My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O LORD.”
Please do hear me, Lord. Leana closed her eyes, not caring what others might think. And please answer. Shall I confess the truth?
The singing droned on, slow and unmusical, though the ancient words alone were enough to stir souls to worship. For Leana, each one mirrored the desire of her heart. Make thy way straight before my face. The Almighty would show her what was to be done. If she was meant to keep her own counsel, she would do so with confidence. If telling her family the unwanted news was necessary, she would seek his strength to do so. Let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice. Leana felt the tension inside her begin to unwind. Aye, she would trust.
At the third bell, the kirk door banged shut, and Reverend Gordon appeared. He climbed the turnpike stair into the raised pulpit, where he looked down on his parishioners with a sobering countenance. The minister offered a slight nod to the resident landowners—Lachlan McBride among them—pausing only briefly when Leana’s eye caught his. She hoped they might speak between the morning and afternoon services. The two had parted amiably, but she wanted to be very certain she was welcome in her own parish. Now that Father had appropriated her remaining silver, leaving Newabbey was out of the question.
All stood for the minister’s prayer, the men slipping off their bonnets, the women pulling their children against them, an unspoken warning to remain still. Leana could hear Jamie hushing Ian, his voice low and tender. His fatherly concern for their son was almost too sacred to behold. Oh, Jamie. What woman could not love a man for that alone?
Resuming her seat after Reverend Gordon’s final “so be it,” Leana aimed her thoughts heavenward, paying close attention to all that followed: a lecture on a brief section from the book of Romans, a prayer of illumination, and then an hourlong sermon on a single verse from Proverbs. Though most ministers delivered their prepared messages without notes, Reverend Gordon oft consulted his papers, adjusting his spectacles to do so.
At one o’ the clock the congregants stood again for prayer, a subdued lot after the lengthy morning service. Their faces were long and their stomachs growling. On cold, wintry Sabbaths, people remained in their pews between services to eat the meals they’d brought, but whenever the weather allowed, all found a spot outside for the dinner hour.
Leana turned to ask Rose, “What has Neda packed for us today?”
Her sister made a horrid face. Pickled herring, then.
Reverend Gordon’s voice carried across the emptying kirk. “Whatever would compel a young lass to look so ugsome?”
While Rose ducked her head, embarrassed, Leana curtsied and extended her hand. “Reverend, how good to see you again. I can only pray you feel the same way about seeing me.”
“Naturally I do,” he answered warmly, capturing her hand. Rose and the others made their way out of doors while Leana was trapped in his strong grip. “Reverend Scott did not inform me that you would be returning, Miss McBride. I trust your months in Twyneholm were fruitful?”
“Very fruitful,” she responded, wanting to be polite even as her heart pounded against her throat, remembering the distant minister’s parting words. The fruit of your womb is God’s blessing on your life. “I am grateful for the letter you sent to Reverend Scott.” She slipped her hand free. “He was most … understanding.”
“Ah.” Reverend Gordon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Glad to hear it. Though I must confess, I am surprised to find you home so soon. Tell me what brings you back to Newabbey.”
“I was certain … that is, I expected the McKies to have left for Monnigaff parish some time ago. Instead they will depart at Lammas.”
He said nothing for a moment, nodding at others in passing, his hands clasped behind his back. “A long two months for you, lass.”
“And for them.” She glanced toward the door, wondering which direction they might have gone. “Sir, if you might pardon—”
A woman’s voice interrupted them. “Reverend Gordon!”
Leana recognized the coarse accent at once. Mary McCheyne.
“Is that Leana McBride ye’re talkin’ tae?” The slovenly woman advanced on them with a troop of small children hanging from her arms. “I thocht ye were gane tae Twyneholm for guid. Least that’s what I told me cousin, Catherine.”
Catherine Rain. Leana barely nodded. “I remember meeting her.”
Mary’s eyes had a cruel glint. “I thocht ye might. Been a month or mair syne she came tae visit. We had a guid chat back then, we did.”
“When …” Leana wet her lips. “When might you be seeing your cousin again?”
Mary shrugged, yanking her children about as she did. “Sometime this simmer. Have ye a message ye need me tae gie her?”
“N-nae … nae message.” Leana curtsied to them both. “If you’ll excuse me, my family will be wondering what’s happened to me.”
“Dinna worry,” Mary said with the slightest chuckle. “We all ken what’s happened tae ye.”
Twenty-Three
But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?
ALEXANDER POPE
I dinna ken what’s happened, Jamie.” Duncan lifted his bonnet off his head long enough to scratch at his thinning hair, then slapped it back on, his gaze scanning the horizon. The sun had shone across Galloway for hours, heating the still air, sending both cattle and sheep searching for water. “ ’Tis past noon, and nae sign o’ them. Have ye leuked in the far pasture?”
“Aye.” Jamie knocked loose a stubborn clod of dirt stuck to his boot heel. Like most herds, Rab Murray and Davie Tait had their own notion of time. “The lads will be along.”
Jamie and Duncan had spent the morning gathering the first flocks of ewes into the sheepfolds, letting the animals settle down in preparation for the shearing. The weather, if a bit warm, was ideal for the task, for the fleeces were good and dry. Damp wool could mildew and be worthless at market. Now the shears were sharpened, the sheep’s stomachs were empty, and the skies were favorable. All they needed were the seasoned herds to appear, and the yearly ritual could commence.
They heard them first, singing as they walked up the drive toward the steading, their voices joined in a ragged chorus of “My Love, She’s But a Lassie Yet.” A moment later four ruddy-faced lads ambled into view, with the slipshod strides of young men who spent their days on the hills. “Sorry we’re late, Mr. McKie.” Rab Murray doffed his cap, revealing a thicket of red hair. “Had some ewes left tae shear at Jock Bell’s place, we did. But we’re a weel rested and ready tae start.�
�� He nodded at the others. “Davie Tait ye ken. This here is Will Broadfoot, and the quote ane wi’ his bonnet in his hands is Geordie Currie.”
Jamie bid the lads welcome, then led them toward the cleared area near the sheepfolds, toting his own pair of shears. Though he was not so skilled as the men they’d fee’d for three days, Jamie had been taught a few things by Stew at Glentrool and had learned even more from Duncan.
Sandy-haired Davie Tait was the first to start, straddling a plump ewe with ease, then taking his shears to her brisket. “The trick is tae keep yer shears movin’ and not tae make a second cut.” The other herds began as well, keeping their voices low, even as they goaded one another about who would shear the greatest number that day.
Duncan brought him a mottled-faced ewe. “Yer first o’ the simmer, Jamie. Gie her a go.”
Aware of Duncan’s observing him, Jamie gamely slipped his left thumb into the sheep’s mouth and swung her toward him, lowered her to the ground, then pressed his knee against her back. “Lie still, lass. I’ll not hurt you.” He gripped the shears firmly lest they spring out of his hand and slowly worked his way round her fleece—chest, shoulder, head, neck, side, belly, flank, backbone. “Well done,” he praised her, straightening for a moment. Then he bent to start down the other side, taking care not to pull on her ear too tightly when he sheared her neck.
“Ye’ll do,” Duncan said lightly, but Jamie heard the pride in his voice.
He finished quickly, then shook out the fleece, held together only by the natural interweaving of the fibers. After clipping off the dung tags and picking out the worst of the grass and debris, Jamie turned in the sides, rolled up the fleece, then pulled and twisted the neck wool to form a rope, tying the whole of it together. The other lads had finished two in the time he’d taken to do one, but his fleece was just as neatly bundled.
Rab eyed his work. “Mebbe ye’d care tae make the rounds wi’ us, Mr. McKie. We could use anither guid hand at shearin’ time.”
Jamie laughed, knowing it was naught but jest, yet glad for the compliment. “You ken I’m not fast enough.”
Rab shrugged. “Ye’re the fastest gentrice I’ve e’er seen wi’ a pair o’ shears.”
“Aye,” the other lads chimed in as Duncan gave him a broad wink.
Smiling to himself, Jamie had begun sweeping clean his corner of the work area before tackling a second sheep when a woman’s voice carried across the steading. “Jamieee!”
He looked up, putting his broom aside, as Rose and Leana advanced toward him, clearly on some mission with Ian. Their cotton gowns swayed as they walked across the gravel-strewn grass, both women smiling at him from beneath their broad straw hats.
“Mistress McKie.” Rab grinned at his old friend, then bowed his head. “And Miss McBride, guid tae see ye hame at Auchengray.” The other herds, their hands full of fleece, could neither bow nor tip their caps but offered their greetings as politely as they could.
“We’ve brought Ian to watch his father shear,” Rose explained, holding the boy up. She nodded at Leana’s linen-covered basket. “And meat pies so you won’t refuse us.”
Jamie was none too pleased at the thought of the two women gauging his skills. “You’ll watch me once, and then you’ll go. The pies can stay.”
Rose propped Ian on top of a dry stane dyke worn smooth from years of rain, then folded her arms round him with a happy sigh, waiting for the performance to commence. Leana stood next to them, her hand resting on Rose’s shoulder, her smile enigmatic.
“I’m hardly an old hand at this,” Jamie grumbled, motioning to Duncan to bring him another ewe. When the lads all stood back to watch, he jutted his chin out at them. “There’s naught to see but a grown man wrestling a frightened sheep.”
“That sounds most entertaining,” Rose teased him, and the others laughed, vexing Jamie even more.
“If I nick this ewe, you’ll have yourselves to blame.” When Duncan released the animal and stepped back, Jamie exhaled slowly, then smoothed his hand over the sheep’s thick fleece, hoping to calm them both. “Steady now.” As with the first one, he brought her carefully to the ground, straddled her middle, then started in with his shears, ignoring all but the task before him.
When Duncan spoke, though, he heard him clearly. “Ye’re a guid shepherd, Jamie. Yer sheep ken yer voice.”
Jamie felt his shoulders relax and the shears move more surely through the fleece. He had no need to impress anyone. Only the work mattered and the careful tending of his flock.
“Not mony lairds will try their hand at shearin’,” Davie said by way of encouragement. “Though King David was a herd, was he not?”
“He was.” Jamie shifted his position, halfway done. “But he didn’t have to raise Scottish blackface.” The men laughed in agreement. Blackface were a hardy breed but curious and not easily intimidated. Jamie looked up long enough to catch Rab’s eye. “I’ll be glad to have your help come Lammas. Yours and Davie’s.”
Both young men nodded. “Mr. Hastings has arranged it,” Rab assured him. “We’ll be blithe tae see ye hame wi’ yer lambs.”
“How mony will ye be takin’?” Davie asked, eying the lambs that dotted the hills.
“Twenty score. We’ll be tallying them again this week, just to be certain.” Jamie stood, releasing the newly shorn sheep. The ewe bleated, shook herself, then found her way to a grassy spot that hadn’t been grazed since last week’s rain. Jamie took a small bow. “There you are, Ian, my good lad. A shorn sheep.”
The women clapped, and so did Ian. “Well done, master shepherd,” Rose called out, obviously pleased with him. She looked ripe as a peach, round-cheeked and sweet. Leana’s face was not so round, but he could not deny she looked bonny as well with her fair hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck.
Duncan returned and poked his shepherd’s crook in Jamie’s side. “As our Laird himself said, ‘How much then is a man better than a sheep?’ ”
“Much better.” Rose lifted Ian from his stony seat.
“Far better,” Leana agreed, extending her basket along with a diffident smile. “And you’ll not have to nibble on grass for your dinner, Jamie. Neda has sent her best pies.”
Jamie’s chest tightened. Is that why you’ve come, lass? To see me fed? He nodded at the stone dyke, then pressed his forearm to his damp brow, avoiding her gaze. “Kindly leave them there.” Please, Leana. He did not know what he wanted her to do or say. He only knew that seeing her again affected him in ways he could not fathom.
“Until this evening, Jamie,” Leana murmured, moving away from him.
When he looked up, he saw that both sisters had turned toward home, swinging Ian between them, making the boy deliriously happy. Jamie turned away, vowing to think of something other than the McBride sisters. “Come, lads. Shearing awaits.” He gestured to the herds. “Three score, and then dinner.”
Spurred on by the promise of Neda’s good food, the men worked steadily, some moving sheep, others shearing them and stacking the fleeces in neat rows as they went. The sun had hardly moved from its perch high above the horizon when they stopped to enjoy their well-earned dinner in a cool spot against the side of the barn.
While they ate, Duncan dug out a worn piece of paper and a stub of coal from his pocket. “I’ve been tallyin’ yer spotted lambs as we go, Jamie. The count seems a bit low.”
Jamie swallowed his last bite of pigeon pie with difficulty. “How low?”
Duncan grimaced. “ ’Til we’ve gathered up a’ the sheep, I canna be certain, but I’ve counted less than ten score. O’ yers, that is. Yer uncle’s lambs wi’oot the spots number nigh to fifteen score sae far.”
Jamie brushed the crumbs from his hands harder than necessary. “We’ll see how the count looks in the morn. For now, we’ve sheep to shear and no time to waste worrying.”
But he was worried. All afternoon in the sheepfolds and that evening at supper and later with Rose and over breakfast with Duncan, Jamie reviewed the vari
ous flocks in his mind. Two score in this pasture. Thirty on that hill. Another score in the glen. Though sheep were rotated from one pasture to the next, it had only been a week since he’d marked them. And while full-grown sheep were known to clamber over dykes looking for greener pastures, lambs usually stayed with the flock.
Tuesday’s numbers were even more alarming. Duncan showed Jamie his scribbled notes. “Eleven score o’ yer lambs, Jamie. Three hunder and fifty o’ yer uncle’s. And twa dogs are missin’ as weel.”
By the end of the count on Wednesday, the verdict was clear: One hundred lambs—five score—were gone, all of them spotted. All of them Jamie’s.
There was no explanation but the obvious one: His lambs had been stolen.
Rab Murray frowned as he ran his hands through his hair, shaking out bits of wool. “Sheep stealing is an ill-kindit business, Mr. McKie. I dinna ken wha would do sic a thing. ’Tis a sad day at Auchengray, tae be sure, when reivers come tae call.”
Jamie paced back and forth, absently jabbing a rag between his fingers to get rid of the wool grease. “But why my lambs and not my uncle’s?”
“Yers were the closest tae the road.” Duncan poked the tally into his pocket. “And if ye’re stealin’ a man’s sheep, ye’d want them a’ marked alike.”
“Folk will think ’tis the blackguard’s own flock,” Davie added, plainly disgusted. “A Sassenach, I’ll warrant ye, up from Carlisle or there aboot.” Grunts of agreement were exchanged. The English had a well-deserved reputation for crossing the border and running off with sheep, cattle, and, not so long ago, brides.
“They come at daybreak or at the gloamin’,” Rab said, “whan the herds are off the hills and the roads are lanelie. It doesna take but twa men wi’ dogs tae gather five score and spirit them awa.”
“Och!” Jamie threw his rag to the ground. “Can nothing be done?”
“Ye’ll want tae report it, o’ course.” Rab glanced at the others. “We can see wird gets tae the other farms. Might spare anither shepherd yer sorrow.” He spread out his hands. “I wish I could do mair for ye, Mr. McKie.”
Whence Came a Prince Page 15
