“Heaven,” Rose said on a sigh, her embroidery forgotten. She would start anew some other day when her patience wasn’t worn thin by the heat. Her bairn would not arrive for many months; the little nightgown could wait. In any case, it was Leana’s fault: Yestreen she’d presented Ian with the most darling cotton nightgown trimmed in purple and green thistles. Rose could not stand the thought of her own son or daughter sleeping in plain white cotton when something finer could be had if she simply plied her needle.
With Leana’s help, she’d cut the fabric and stitched the seams. But the tiny black-and-white magpies she’d chosen to embroider for the hem had proven beyond her limited skills. Rose looked down and spread her fingers across her child’s hiding place. “I’ll try again, wee one. But not today.”
“Mistress?” Annabel at the parlor door again. “A visitor tae see Mr. McKie or Mr. McBride. Naither o’ them is hame at present. Will ye kindly come and greet him?”
“Of course.” Rose was on her feet at once, touching a hand to her hair. Rather than braiding it that morning, Annabel had swept Rose’s dark locks on top of her head, leaving several plump curls dangling in the back, tickling her neck. Jamie had complimented her at breakfast. Did it indeed make her look more sophisticated? As there was no looking glass in the parlor, she could only hope her coiffure was still in place as she hastened to greet their guest.
A well-dressed young man stood in the entrance hall examining the pewter bowl on the hall table. “Peter Drummond!” Rose stretched out both hands to welcome their neighbor from Glensone Farm, then, remembering her manners, grasped her gown and curtsied instead. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He bowed, his face more ruddy than usual. “Good … good to see you as well, Rose … eh, Mistress McKie.”
Poor Peter. He was even more flustered than she. Not many months ago he’d inquired about courting her and was firmly turned away. Her affections lay elsewhere then as now. Still, he was an amiable fellow and a good friend of the family. She would do all she could to make amends.
“Won’t you join me in the parlor? Annabel, do bring Mr. Drummond a tassie of punch.” Rose slid her hand inside the crook of his elbow, barely touching his sleeve as she guided him into the parlor, artfully blocking his view of her abandoned embroidery.
They sat on either side of a small mahogany table—Rose first, with a toss of her curls, then Peter, flipping his coattails aside. How odd to play mistress of the house with a friend she’d known since they both were bairns.
“We haven’t had many visitors of late,” she confessed, then wished she had not. One hardly needed to mention the scandal that darkened the sky over Auchengray like carrion crows, visible for miles. An irregular marriage? A sister on the cutty stool? No wonder the McBrides and McKies had not been invited to any social gatherings that spring. The last invitation was in February when Jamie and Leana had attended a dinner party at Glensone. As husband and wife.
Hoping to improve their social prospects, Rose offered her brightest smile. “What brings you to Auchengray, Mr. Drummond?”
“Peter,” he corrected her, smiling as he said it. His curly hair, thick as a hedgerow, was a rather ordinary light brown. It did match his eyes, though, which regarded her with a certain earnestness. “I’ve been away to Glasgow for a fortnight and only today learned of your father’s distressing loss. The … eh, hundred lambs?”
“My husband’s lambs, you mean. Aye, very bad news, that.” She paused as Annabel served more lemon punch, then continued. “I am sure my father would be willing to discuss the particulars with you. At present he is in Dalbeaty on family business, and Mr. McKie has gone to the village.” Jamie was arranging the necessary provisions for their journey to Glentrool and being fitted for a new riding habit, putting his mother’s guineas to good use. Never a patient man, he seemed especially anxious for them to be on their way.
Peter bit his lip. “Perhaps I might call another time—”
“Oh, do stay!” Judging by his look of alarm, she’d spoken too forcefully. “That is, I do hope you’ve not had a similar tragedy at Glensone with your own lambs.”
“Nae. But I have some information that may be useful either to your father or to your … your husband.” Now he was blushing and shifting in his seat as well.
“I expect Mr. McKie at any moment. Please enjoy your punch while we wait for him.” Rose cast about, hoping to find some clever topic of discussion, and was relieved when her sister appeared and solved everything.
“Mr. Drummond.” Leana glided into the room, curtsied with the grace of a courtier, then folded her hands at her waist. “How nice to find you in our parlor.” Her sister was eating better, Rose decided, for Leana’s too-slender form was beginning to fill out.
Peter was on his feet and bowing even before Leana spoke. At age twenty-one he was a twelvemonth younger than Leana and quite the same height, which was to say not very tall for a gentleman. Unlike Jamie, whose chin easily rested on top of Rose’s head.
“Miss … McBride,” Peter said haltingly, resuming his chair after she sat. “Mother said she … saw you at kirk the last two Sabbaths but regretted that you … that the two of you did not have a chance to … chat.”
“I am happy to be home.” Leana smiled as though there were nothing unusual about her hasty departure or her return to the parish. “And even happier to have you here. Now then, how are your parents?”
Put at ease by Leana’s gentle manner, Peter shared the latest news from Glensone. His father had organized a day of salmon fishing on the Urr. His mother had finished a patchwork quilt. The sheep at Glensone were duly sheared. Mundane matters, yet Rose was eager to hear any report of her neighbors’ lives.
Peter was pleasant company and a true gentleman. As the Drummond heir, he would inherit the whole of Glensone someday. No wonder her father had been furious when she refused his suit. Jamie had a great deal more to offer, of course, but Peter would make some Galloway lass a fine match. Leana, for example, seemed quite comfortable with him, and he with her. Peter was attentive, well mannered, and generous with his praise. He admired the flavor of the punch, the furnishings in the room, even the lacework on Leana’s pink gown—one of Mother’s castoffs rescued from a dusty trunk.
It was only when Annabel brought a fresh glass of punch for Leana that a brilliant notion came to mind. Might Peter Drummond make a fitting husband for her sister? He was younger, aye, and shorter than one might hope. But wasn’t his smile engaging with those fine, straight teeth? And though his eyebrows reminded her of a brown hare hopping up and down as he spoke, at least his expressions were lively and his discourse amusing. With her past indiscretions, Leana could not afford to be choosy, yet their neighbor from Glensone would be a very good choice, wouldn’t he?
Observing them together, Rose hid behind her fan more than once, grinning at the possibilities.
“Rose?” Jamie called from the entrance hall and strode into the parlor a moment later. “Here you are. And with a welcome guest. Good to see you, sir.”
Peter stood and the two men bowed, then clasped hands in a more familiar manner. “Mr. McKie, I have been duly entertained by your fair cousins. But it is you I have come to see. Shall we speak here? Or might there be …”
Rose exchanged glances with Leana, and they both were on their feet in an instant. “Feel free to discuss your business here in the parlor, gentlemen.” Rose took Leana’s arm. “My sister and I will tend to Ian.” The women headed directly for the second floor, only to find the lad still sleeping.
“Suppose we wait in your room,” Rose said softly, closing the nursery door. “Show me the gowns you’re altering. The one you’re wearing today is quite becoming.” The color suited her sister’s complexion, though the style was woefully dated.
Leana’s bedroom looked like a dressmaker’s shop, with gowns of every hue hanging from hooks and draped over chairs. Some gowns were satin and brocade; others were simple linen or printed cotton. Not one of them was fashiona
ble. The sack dresses featured entirely too much fabric, and a polonese was not to be found anywhere. Since Father had confiscated her sister’s silver, Rose dared not suggest a new gown. Whatever was to be done? She turned in a slow circle, taking them all in, making certain her disappointment did not show. “Which one are you working on now?”
Leana gathered up a blue satin closed gown. “I think this one has promise if I add some lace to the sleeves since they end above the elbows. And a bit of lace is needed at the neckline as well.”
“It would help,” Rose agreed. She’d never seen a plainer gown. “Does it fit? Try it on for me. I’ll be your lady’s maid.”
“Nae!”
Her sister’s response was so swift, Rose thought she misunderstood. “You don’t wish me to help you?”
“I don’t wish to try on any gowns just now.” Leana sat down on the bed—or rather, dropped onto it as if in a faint.
Rose hastened to her side. “Are you ill, Leana?”
Her sister’s face flooded with color. “I fear the tart punch did not agree with my stomach. Might I … lie here for a few moments? Until Ian awakens?”
“Wheesht,” Rose said softly. “You let me care for Ian.” She ran about the room yanking the curtains closed, darkening the room. The air felt cooler at once.
When she returned to slip off Leana’s leather shoes, Rose was taken aback. “I’ve ne’er seen your feet so swollen.” Leana really did not look well. Was it merely the punch? “Rest, dearie. Do join us later for supper if you feel you can manage. If not, I’ll have Neda send up a tray.”
Rose pressed a kiss to her forehead, relieved to find no fever, then tiptoed out the door and down the hall. Leana had been home for two long weeks; this was not some malady contracted in Twyneholm. Whatever ailed her, Rose intended to pay close attention to her sister through supper and make certain the lass retired early.
It seemed her clever plan involving Peter might have to wait until a more opportune time—though waiting had never been one of her virtues. “Leana Drummond,” Rose said under her breath, enjoying the sound of it. Perhaps Jamie might be of some assistance with Peter. Surely her husband would be glad to see his cousin happily wed.
Rose ducked inside her room to consult the looking glass. Aye, her hair was still in place and her dress not too wrinkled for supper. If her sister did not come to table, she would have Jamie’s undivided attention. Rose smiled in the glass, imagining the look on his face when she told him what she had in mind for their neighbor.
Twenty-Six
But patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards!
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Do I understand you correctly?”
“You do, sir.” Peter Drummond, several years his junior, was a bright young man and trustworthy as they came. If he appeared nervous at the moment, it was not because he was hiding something. “I believe they were your lambs, Mr. McKie, though I did not realize it at the time.”
“Tell me everything,” Jamie urged, leaning forward in his chair. “From the beginning.”
“ ’Twas late in the evening a fortnight ago.” Peter’s animated face also conveyed his story, as did his many hand gestures. “I was walking the dogs on the hills round Glensone and saw a flock of lambs being herded past our property, headed west.”
Jamie’s indignation climbed another notch. “How many lambs?”
“Hard to say, sir. Several dozen. The gloaming had almost faded into night, so I could not spot any keel marks on the fleece, nor did I recognize the men. Three or four at most. Might they’ve been the new herds you fee’d on Whitsun Monday?”
When Jamie described the men they’d hired for the term, Peter shook his head. “I don’t remember a black-haired man among them nor a fair-headed one. The collies looked familiar, though.”
Jamie groaned. “We lost two of our best dogs.”
“And here I thought they were simply moving the flock to another of your pastures.” Peter dragged his hand over his chin, his expression troubled. “Mr. McKie, I owe you a sincere apology. I should have hailed the men, taken a closer look at the lambs, asked round the neighboring farms, done something. Instead, I left the next morning in such haste that I did not think of it ’til I returned home. When I heard the sad news … and then realized …”
Jamie held up his hand, stemming his apology. “ ’Tis not your fault, Peter. I am grateful for the information. At least I ken the direction those blackguards were headed. And the hour.”
“And the day,” Peter reminded him. “The first of June.”
Too long ago to matter now.
A light knock, then Neda curtsied at the doorway. “Mr. McKie, supper is ready whanever ye wish it tae be served.”
His mood shifted a bit. The lambs could not be saved, but the evening could. “My uncle is away, which means we may eat at once if we like.” Jamie stood, extending his hand. “Come, neighbor. ’Tis only the three of us at table tonight. Tarry and make it four.”
Peter, well versed in the rules of Lowland hospitality, hesitated. “I fear ’twould be an imposition.” Jamie pressed him to stay, as every good host was expected to do, and Peter accepted, as any wise visitor would.
They’d no sooner entered the hall than Rose swept down the stair, the heathery scent of her gown arriving one step ahead of her. “Peter, I am delighted to find you still here. Won’t you stay for supper?”
“He has already accepted my invitation,” Jamie told her. “Might you see if Leana is ready?”
Before Rose could respond, her sister’s voice floated down from the top of the stair. “I am here.” And a moment later she was, wearing a deep pink gown trimmed in ivory, the very color of her skin. If he’d seen the dress before today, Jamie did not recall it.
“A new gown?” he asked politely.
“A very old one,” Leana said just as politely.
Since the day they’d spoken in the garden, all their exchanges had been thus. Formal. Cautious. And brief. The strain was taking its toll on both of them. Leana could never be simply his cousin, though she played the part well. For his part, he could not look at her without remembering all she’d meant to him.
Rose smiled warmly at her sister. “Leana, I am so pleased to see you feeling better. Peter will enjoy your company, I am sure.” She took Jamie’s arm. “Come, gentlemen. Baked salmon and a pottage of chopped herbs await.”
They were soon seated in the dining room—Rose next to him on one side of the table, Leana and Peter across from them. Jamie held up his glass of claret in the direction of Lachlan’s vacant chair. “Here’s to you, sir, as we partake of your meat.”
Without Lachlan’s unsmiling presence, the conversation at Auchengray’s table grew livelier with each course. Peter’s fortnight in Glasgow, relayed in enthusiastic detail, made a fine accompaniment to Neda’s thick soup. Over salmon Jamie shared several anecdotes from his days at university in Edinburgh. Rose, free from her father’s censure, told a delightful tale from their childhood when Peter was but eight. And Leana offered a colorful description of Twyneholm while carrot pudding was served.
“I cannot recall a more entertaining meal,” Peter declared after tipping his head back to drain the last of his wine. “Had I known Neda Hastings was such a fine cook, we would have claimed her for our kitchen at Glensone years ago.”
“That would ne’er do,” Rose said solemnly, “for we all know how Neda adores working for Father.” Once their laughter subsided, she clapped her hands together as though inspired. “What say you to a game of whist? Oh, let’s do!”
Peter’s eyebrows arched. “Does Mr. McBride approve of card playing?”
“As long as we keep our silver in our purses and only tally points, he will have no cause for complaint.” Rose looked round the room, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “But you won’t mention our playing to him, will you?”
Peter chuckled. “No, Mistress McKie. ’Twill be our secret.”
Rose cast he
r smile, bright as starlight, on Leana. “Dearie, you must play. We need four.”
Jamie saw her hesitate before answering, “Whatever you say, Rose.”
He followed the others into the parlor, where Hugh had already set up a square table with four hard-backed chairs. Not a spontaneous notion, then; Rose had something up her sleeve, and it was not a playing card. She seemed intent on presenting Peter Drummond—eligible bachelor that he was—in the most flattering light. For whose benefit? Surely not Leana’s.
“Round games are better suited for parties,” Rose declared, locating the cards in the sideboard, “but whist is the perfect game for partners. Shall we find our seats?” She took her place facing the door, as any hostess would, then nodded at the seat opposite her. “Would you be good enough to sit there, Mr. McKie? I believe Mr. Drummond and my sister make a fine pair, don’t you?”
Peter coughed. “I beg your pardon, but …” He fiddled with his cravat, as if his neckcloth had grown too tight since supper. “Husbands and wives are not usually permitted to partner for whist. ’Tis considered an unfair advantage. At least, those are the rules at Glensone.”
“Are they really?” Rose looked crestfallen. “Would that mean you are … my partner?”
“Aye.” Peter sat down across from her, his discomfort obvious. “And your husband … eh, Mr. McKie must partner with … Miss McBride.”
Leana took her seat, the rustle of her silk gown the only sound in the room. Jamie pulled out his chair as quietly as he could and sat facing her, gazing at her bowed head across the felt-topped table. Whatever foolishness Rose planned was not working.
True to form, his wife’s zeal did not flag. “Jamie, you shall be our first dealer.”
He shuffled the cards. Anything to move the evening forward and bring it to a swift end, if only for Leana’s sake. Rose cut the deck, as was customary, then he distributed all the cards evenly, turning over the last one from his own hand to show the others the trump card. Hearts.
While Jamie eyed her over his handful of spades and clubs, Leana rearranged the thirteen cards in her keeping, her slender fingers moving them from here to there with studious intent. The others did the same, then Peter began the first trick of the game.
Whence Came a Prince Page 17
