“You’ve done a fine job shearing, which is more than enough.” Jamie extended his hand to each man, noting the sympathy in their eyes. “ ’Til Lammas, then.” The lads were paid and sent on to Troston Hill Farm, where Alan Newall was expecting them.
Duncan stood beside him, watching them climb over the braes. “After dinner we’ll move yer lambs closer tae the mains. Awa from the pastures by the road and weel up onto the hills.” He threw his arm round Jamie’s shoulders. “Fifteen score is still a fine flock.”
Jamie’s head slumped forward. “ ’Tis my fault.” They were his lambs, his responsibility. How could he have been so careless? “I fear I’ve been … distracted of late. Too much on my mind.”
“Too mony lasses, ye mean.” Duncan released his hold on him with a slight shake. “ ’Tis hard havin’ yer old luve and yer new wife under the same roof.”
The last thing he wanted to discuss was Leana. Not when he couldn’t sort out his feelings enough to name them. Turning on his heel, he started toward the house. “We’d best tell my uncle. You ken he’ll not be pleased.”
Duncan caught up with him, matching his lanky stride to Jamie’s. “ ’Tis not yer fault. Dinna let the man tell ye itherwise.”
They found Lachlan in the spence reading Bunyan’s Holy War. He put aside his book and waved them toward the chairs. “You’ve finished with the shearing, then?”
“We have.” Jamie was too agitated to sit and grasped the high back of a chair instead. “We also did a count of my lambs. Five score are missing, Uncle. Stolen.”
Lachlan reached for his dram of whisky. “Are you certain of this? ’Tis a serious charge.”
“Thar’s nae dout, sir.” Duncan shifted his stance. “Five score and twa o’ the dogs.”
Lachlan said nothing for a moment, his mouth hidden behind the small glass as he emptied its contents. “I’ve been to Arbigland this week for a meeting of the society. Considering what’s happened here, you might jalouse one of the topics of conversation.”
Duncan’s shoulders slumped. “Reivers.”
“Aye, just that.” Like other improvement-minded landowners in the parish, Lachlan had joined the Society for the Encouragement of Agriculture, which met at William Craik’s vast estate on the Solway. “There’s been talk of men with sheepdogs roaming the countryside in the gloaming, gathering a small flock here, a few strays there. How many of my own lambs are gone?”
“A’ o’ yer lambs are accounted for,” Duncan told him. “Only Jamie’s were taken.”
Lachlan looked genuinely distressed at the news. “Then ’tis only right you claim some of mine, Jamie. Fifty lambs, to even our flocks.”
“Nae, ’twould not be fair,” Jamie said quickly. Too quickly. His uncle seldom made so generous an offer. “This is not your doing. ‘The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away.’ ”
“ ‘Blessed be the name of the LORD,’ aye?” Lachlan nodded. “Wise is the man who kens such a truth.”
Jamie stepped back from the chair, only now noticing his greasy clothes reeking of sheep. Since little else could be done, he would wash the filth off his body and the stench of deceit from his nostrils. Whoever had managed this dark deed would not come through the parish again. His lambs were already butchered and the tender meat sold to English cooks.
Discouraged, Jamie started for the door. “I shall see you at dinner, Uncle. Though I’ll not have much appetite.”
“Pity.” Lachlan reached for his decanter of whisky. “Neda has prepared one of your favorite dishes. Roast lamb.”
Twenty-Four
Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
Leana knelt at the foot of the kitchen garden, her knees sinking into the ground wet with morning dew. After a week at Auchengray she still was not sleeping well. The moment the first light of day illuminated the edges of her curtains, Leana sat up on her heather mattress, any hope of sleep vanished. Whether the babe inside was the reason or the approach of Midsummer Eve lengthening the days, she could not say. Perhaps ’twas the emptiness of her box bed. And the nearness of Jamie.
“Nae,” she cried softly, plunging her garden spade into the earth. She would not think of Jamie.
Better to think of the potatoes she’d diligently planted in March. Leana dug out one after another, brushed off the dirt, and dropped them into the wicker basket beside her. Some of them were enormous, twice the size of her fist, others badly misshapen. By the time Neda boiled and mashed them for potato scones, it hardly mattered.
A wispy mist clung to the earth, muting the sounds from the steading and curling Leana’s hair round her face. From the bramble bushes came the sweet, flowing song of a shy garden warbler, a plain bird that spent the summer at Auchengray before disappearing on September’s first chilly morning. A tiny brown wood mouse scurried across the upturned soil, bound for some sleeping spot for the day. Their quiet company soothed her as she worked, reminding her of the One who made them all.
When her basket was filled with tatties, Leana stood, being careful not to lose her balance. Like potatoes hiding in the ground, her unborn child continued to expand. She’d slipped into Rose’s bedroom one morning when all were out of doors and looked at her profile in the looking glass over the dressing table, dismayed at the image she saw. A thickening in her waist, a rounding of her belly, a slight widening of her hips. She used the warm weather as an excuse to wear her stays more loosely—not uncommon in the country—but surely Eliza would notice soon. Could she trust her maid to keep so great a secret?
She’d written Aunt Meg a letter last Monday describing her homecoming, pleading with Meg to make no mention of the child in her letters to Auchengray. Would that she might make a similar request of all the women in Twyneholm. ’Twas too late for that. The two dozen miles separating them would be her only protection.
In truth, Leana longed to tell the world her good news. No matter the situation, a bairn was always a blessing from God. She gazed up at the rows of casement windows that looked down on her like unseeing eyes. The window in Ian’s room was slightly open. He would not awake for another two hours or more. She found every possible excuse to be with him. Bathing, playing, feeding, dressing, reading. Rose did not seem to mind in the least. For that kindness alone Leana would ever be in her sister’s debt.
“To work, to work,” she reminded herself, turning back to the task at hand. She pulled a paring knife from her apron pocket and headed for the asparagus patch—“sparrowgrass” her mother had called it—growing in a well-shaded corner of the garden. Another week and asparagus season would end. She cut each stem, none thicker than her ring finger, at a sharp diagonal and placed the stems with care in a smaller basket. Neda would blanch them and serve them in a few hours. Tatties would keep in the cellar; asparagus was meant to be eaten the day it was harvested.
Leana carried both baskets into the kitchen and left them on the pine dressing table. Scrubbed clean a dozen times a day, the wood still bore faint red stains from Tuesday’s fresh-picked strawberries. She paused, noting the sounds of life coming from the third floor. The servants, whose beds were tucked beneath the eaves, would slip down the back stairwell before Lachlan, Rose, or Jamie pushed back their bed curtains. Leana intended to remain in the garden emptying her seed packets until late forenoon, when the sun grew too bright for her sensitive eyes and skin.
Returning out of doors, she surveyed the kitchen garden. At least Eliza had found time to prepare the soil, hoeing it thoroughly. Leana’s pockets were brimming with seeds wrapped in paper squares, purchased from a packman who came round each April. Neda had remembered to buy all her favorites: French beans and colewort, radishes and celery, spinach and cauliflower, and the crinkle-leaved cabbages known as savoys. Poking the tiny seeds in the dirt the proper distance apart was a slow process and hard on her back. By the Lammas harvest, the McKies would be gone and her condition common knowledge. Surely t
he household would help her then. For now, she dared not complain of her back hurting.
Leana eyed the weeds that had sprouted overnight, flourishing in the well-fertilized beds of her physic garden. She’d pull what she could and snip a few culinary herbs for Neda in passing. Bright green sprigs of coriander leaves might be tasty in a salad. So would purslane—Neda called it purpie—with its darker green leaves and purplish stems. At the far end stood tall stems of valerian, with pale pink flowers and potent roots often used to heal a barren woman. Rose’s words from late March came to mind. Will you prepare the valerian for me? Leana had done so, but it was God who had blessed Rose’s womb, not the garden plant.
The last of the early mist disappeared as Leana finished a long row of weeding. She rose as the back door swung open and Eliza emerged, her arms full of Ian, who was sporting her frilly white cap. “My, don’t you make a charming serving lass?” Leana called out. Never mind the demands of soil and seed: A child’s needs came first. She wiped her hands clean on her apron, then held them out, wiggling her fingers in anticipation. “Have you had your breakfast yet, Ian?”
“Not yet.” Eliza handed him over, then stole back her cap and put it on her head backward so the strings hung over her face. Ian whooped with laughter and tugged it off again. “That’s enough, laddie,” Eliza cautioned him. “You’ll drop me bonnet in the dirt.” With her cap back in its proper place, the sandy-haired maid grinned broadly and produced two floury baps from her apron pocket. She handed one roll to Ian, who immediately stuffed it in his mouth. “Warm from the oven, they are.”
“Ah,” Leana breathed, plucking the other one out of Eliza’s hand and inhaling the yeasty scent. “Shall we have our breakfast in the garden, Ian?” She eased him down onto the grass, then joined him there, sitting across from him and folding her skirts about her.
“I’ll collect him for his bath in a bit, mem.” Eliza bobbed her head and hastened back to the kitchen.
Ian, meanwhile, had covered himself in flour from forehead to chin. “I see you are enjoying your bap,” Leana teased him, then took a bite of her own and sent a spray of flour across her green gown. She’d worn the old dress on purpose, knowing it would absorb the grass stains from her gardening. But the flour showed up perfectly against the dark fabric, like a dusting of snow on the lawn. “Doesn’t Mother look a sight?”
A few minutes later, their breakfast rolls eaten, Leana pulled Ian onto her lap, being careful to point his energetic legs away from her stomach. “And speaking of food, have you learned this song yet? Your stepmother loved it when she was a girl.” Holding out his arms as if together they might reach the sky, Leana tipped her head back and sang with abandon, louder than the birds in the yew tree.
Cats like milk and dogs like broo
Lads like lasses and lasses lads, too!
Ian’s squeals were sweeter than music, his sticky hands more precious to the touch than silk. She kissed his hair, then bent round to press their cheeks together. “Eliza will be along any minute to claim you. Suppose you and I take a walk to Lochend this afternoon. Before your nap, aye? A loch is like your tub but a great deal larger. The water is cool, with moorhens gliding across the surface and pike swimming below. But they’ll not bother us, I promise.” Leana pretended Ian’s vigorous repertoire of sounds meant “aye” and that his flapping arms meant he could hardly wait. “We’ll leave at two o’ the clock, then.”
The back door banged open, and Eliza hurried toward them. “Bath time,” the maid sang out. She scooped up Ian and was gone in an instant, leaving Leana’s arms empty and her heart nearly so as she imagined the day when he would be stolen from her embrace forever.
Too weary to stand again, she turned onto her knees to study her ornamental garden. At least the perennials had bloomed without assistance. The scarlet Flower of Bristol, old as the Crusades, stood proudly on thick stems, clusters of bright red flowerets held high. Absorbed in her flowers, Leana did not notice she had company in the garden until a faint shadow fell across the ground before her.
“Good morning, Leana.” Jamie’s voice was still rough, as though he’d only just awakened.
“Good morning,” she murmured, still facing her flower beds. Perhaps if she did not look at him, he would not stay. Though she wanted him to very much.
After a moment’s silence, he said, “I recall another morning when I came looking for you in the garden.”
She nodded slowly, remembering. Praying he would not speak aloud the words he’d said to her the day she left Auchengray. The day of his wedding to Rose. I will always love you. God forgive me for speaking the truth. It was the truth then. It was not the truth now.
His hand touched her shoulder. “Leana, will you not look at me?”
I cannot. She pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.
Jamie crouched beside her, elbows on his thighs, his fingers laced together. Though he did not brush against her, she felt the heat of him, warmer than any peat fire. Her body responded instinctively, turning toward him.
“Leana.” A note of persuasion in his voice. “Please do not be afraid.”
She looked up and met his gaze. “I am … not afraid.” But there was no use pretending. She was very much afraid.
His beard stubble was dark, drawing a bold line across his cheek. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised. Had he not slept well either? His mouth was set in a firm line, as though he had much he wanted to say. Jamie had not chanced upon her in the garden, then; he’d come looking for her.
“Leana, we must speak.” Taking her hands in his, he slowly stood, pulling her up with him. Though he released her the moment she was steady, he did not step back.
She folded her hands in front of her, concealing the child he did not know existed. “Jamie, I am sorry that I came home—”
“I am not.” He said it so quickly, it surprised them both. “I am not sorry,” he said again, more deliberately. “There was too much left unspoken between us. After you departed for Twyneholm …” He looked away, rubbing a hand across his face. When he turned toward her again, the sheen in his eyes was unmistakable. “We did not have a chance to … We could not finish, Leana. I was not ready to … let go of you.”
“But you’re ready to do so now?” she asked softly. “To … let go?”
Though he did not answer, she saw the truth in his eyes. Aye. Resignation and relief flooded her soul, mingled with a deep sadness. “I understand. I do.”
Still he did not speak. “Jamie, what is it?”
“I need …” He looked away. “I need to know I’m … forgiven.” His ragged voice tore at her heart “For loving your sister. For loving Rose.”
Oh, Jamie. “ ’Tis exactly what I would have you do,” she assured him, needing to hear the words as well. “There is nothing to forgive. Not for doing what is right and good.”
“But I made a vow …”
“A vow to God. Just as I have.” She longed to touch his cheek, if only to comfort him, but she kept her hands clasped tight. “I know that you loved me once, Jamie.” He lifted his head, an acknowledgment. “Just as I know that you love Rose now.”
“I do,” he admitted, “very much.” His face, his eyes shone with sincerity. “Yet when I see you, Leana …”
She fell back a step. “Then do not see me. Not … like that.” She begged the Almighty for a strength she did not possess and sensed it filling her like wind fills a sail. “I am your cousin. Rose’s sister. And Ian’s mother. ’Tis enough for me.”
His gaze probed hers. “You are certain?”
“Aye,” she whispered, praying he would believe her.
After a moment he bowed and clasped her hand, fervently kissing the back of it. “I truly am glad you came home, Leana.”
I should never have come home. But she had.
And because of Ian, because of her dear son, she could say with a clear conscience, “I am happy to be here as well, Jamie.”
When he released her, when the warm touc
h of his lips on her skin cooled, she did not watch him leave but stood her ground in her beloved garden and turned to the One who remained.
Twenty-Five
The blooming daughter throws her needle by.
CHARLES SPRAGUE
Rose had no patience for embroidery.
The afternoon light in the front parlor was more than sufficient to guide her stitches, yet they strayed across the fabric as if in search of a pattern. She’d sharpened her needle on a whetstone, but that was no help at all, for when she pricked her finger, it bled all the more profusely on the linen. Her mother’s silver thimble was too big for her thumb and fell off several times, finally rolling under her chair just out of reach.
“ ’Tis hopeless!” Rose cried, throwing her embroidery hoop across the room, the fabric trailing after it like the tail of a kite. The hoop landed safely on the half-tester bed, just missing Annabel as she entered the room balancing a cup on a tray.
The maidservant did not even glance at the banished embroidery. “Might a tassie o’ punch be a walcome treat for ye, mistress?”
Embarrassed, Rose snatched her silk fan off the table and fluttered it in front of her heated cheeks. “Indeed it would on a Thursday as warm as this one.”
Annabel set the tassie and a plate of honey cakes on a table within easy reach, curtsied, and quietly left the room. Ever since Jamie had informed the maidservant she would be coming with them to Glentrool, Annabel had gone out of her way to please her.
Rose sipped the cold concoction, licking her lips at the tart, sugary taste. The punch was one of Neda’s specialties, made with imported lemons, freshly drawn well water, sugar from the loaf in the pantry, and mint leaves from Leana’s garden. All was stirred in a great bowl and served in a cup with a slice of lime rubbed round the edge, then floated on top.
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