“I’ll not be much help to us,” he alerted Rose, playing a four of diamonds.
“And I have nothing but honors,” Rose replied airily, laying down the queen of hearts when it was her turn, taking the trick for them. Cards landed on the felt, circling the table like a clock. Peter. Leana. Rose. Jamie. Suits were matched, trump cards were played, worthless cards discarded, and still little was said beyond the occasional, “Oh.”
When all thirteen tricks were played, Rose reached for her scoring sheet. “So … shall we play short or long whist?”
Three voices answered in unison, “Short.”
Jamie stretched out in the box bed with a weary groan. “Whatever were you thinking, Rose?”
She rolled onto her side to face him, her unbound hair falling round her shoulders. “Peter Drummond needs a wife,” she said firmly, “and Leana needs a husband.”
“And you need to leave such decisions to your father.”
“My father?” Rose sat up, tossing aside the sheet, clearly unhappy with him. “Do you think Lachlan McBride cares one whit about my sister’s happiness?”
“Nae,” he admitted. “But he does care what his neighbors think of him.” Through the open window the churr of a nightjar rose and fell, filling the weighty silence. “Mr. Drummond of Glensone is not about to marry his only son and heir to … a woman like Leana.”
Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he saw the spark of anger in her eyes. “To what sort of woman are you referring?”
He sat up as well, hoping to make amends. “Rose, you ken what I mean—”
“You mean a woman who loved God enough to sacrifice everything.” He heard her tears and sensed her temper rising. “A woman who spoke the truth. A woman who gave up her son. A woman whose only sin was loving you.”
“Rose!” He grabbed her wrists and gently shook her. “Beloved, keep your voice down. Your sister is in the next room.”
“So she is.” Rose sniffed, wiping her nose with her nightgown sleeve. “Alone. While I am here with you.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Does that distress you … being here with me?”
“You know better.” Her head drooped. “But it grieves me to think of Leana. When she was not here at Auchengray, when I did not have to see her suffer daily, I could convince myself she was happy in Twyneholm. Now I know the truth.” She looked up, beseeching him with her dark eyes. “Why can’t my sister marry Peter Drummond?”
“Because, much as you might wish it so, Peter will not court her.” Jamie kissed her brow, smoothing back her hair. “His father would ne’er allow it. If and when Lachlan seeks a husband for Leana, ’twill be a second or third son with no claim on his sire’s estate. Someone from another parish, not privy to Newabbey gossip.”
“A … stranger.” Her voice broke on the word.
“I’m afraid so. Were Leana still a maid, gentlemen would vie for her hand and pay handsomely for the privilege of claiming it. Instead, your father is the one who must do the wooing, offering potential suitors a sizable dowry for taking Leana off his hands.” Jamie shuddered, imagining the riffraff Lachlan might court on his daughter’s behalf. Older men with little money and limited prospects. And few moral scruples.
Rose sank against him, drying her wet cheeks on his nightshirt. “Poor Leana.”
Aye. Jamie shut his eyes, but the truth remained. He could not love her. He could not help her. And he could not look at her without regret.
Twenty-Seven
Tell her, if you will, that sorrow
Need not come in vain;
Tell her that the lesson taught her
Far outweighs the pain.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER
Huddled in her box bed, Leana tried not to listen. But words and phrases penetrated the walls of her room, seeking a willing ear.
“… gave up her son.” Rose’s voice, heated with ire. Was the lass angry with Jamie? Or disgusted with her? Ashamed of herself, Leana inched closer to the wall that joined their two bedrooms.
“… loving you.” Leana heard that phrase distinctly, and her heart sank. It seemed her efforts to conceal her feelings for Jamie had failed.
“Rose!” Jamie’s voice. Sharp, a warning. And then he spoke again. Not so sharply. “Beloved …” Leana pressed her hand to her mouth. Jamie had once honored her with that endearment in the same tender voice. Beloved. Though he still spoke kindly to her, there was no longer any mention of love.
Leana sat up, her nightgown twisted round her legs, and prayed she’d not hear another word. But a snippet of conversation still found her. “… marry Peter Drummond?”
Oh, Rose. Her sister’s naiveté was showing. Jamie would set her straight. There would be no suitors knocking on Auchengray’s door, least of all Peter Drummond. Persuaded to stay for supper and then for a game of whist, all because Rose thought he might make a suitable husband for her wayward sister. A woman no longer welcome in polite society. A woman only God could love.
Leana’s breath caught. Was that true?
She gathered the sheets round her, staring into the darkness. Jamie, the only man she’d ever loved, no longer loved her. There was no one else, could never be anyone else. No one except the Almighty.
Could he fill all the empty places where Jamie’s love once lived? Would he mend her heart, shattered when Ian was taken from her arms? Was the love of One she could not see or hear or touch … was it enough?
“Nae!” she whispered into the hollowness of her box bed, tears pooling in her eyes. She touched her lips with trembling fingers, remembering the feel of Jamie’s mouth on hers. Was he kissing Rose now, as he’d once kissed her? How unfair, how cruel to have come home to this! Could the Lord not have intervened, not have spared her? She had given up Jamie, would give up Ian a second time. Had she not sacrificed enough? Would her pain never end?
“Why, Lord?” The words were squeezed from her heart. “Why must I be alone?”
No answer came.
Even the nightjar ceased its churring.
Leana sank onto her pillow, ashamed of her questions. How dare she speak of sacrifice to One who had sacrificed his life? Or complain of suffering to One who had suffered on her behalf? Forgive me. Lord.
Seeking comfort where she might find it, Leana rested her hands over the roundness of her belly. In a few weeks she would feel the first flutter of movement. A tangible reminder that God’s blessing on her life remained. She was far from alone.
“This child will always be mine, Lord.” Leana gazed at the moonlit window. “And always be yours.”
“Leana, I don’t know when I’ve seen you look so …” Jessie Newall narrowed her bright blue eyes, assessing her across the kitchen parlor table. “So bien, my mother would say. Comfortable. As if you’d just finished eating a dish of fresh strawberries and cream.”
“That’s odd.” Leana looked down at her empty plate, the food reduced to crumbs. “I thought it was shortbread.”
Jessie laughed and ran a hand through her marmalade-colored curls. “You’ve not lost your sense of humor, I see.” She draped her son over her shoulder, rubbing his back to help his milk settle. “Is there some blithe news you’d care to report, lass? A suitor in Twyneholm, perhaps …”
Leana ducked her head, feeling her cheeks warm. “You know there isn’t a suitor in Twyneholm or anywhere else.” Jessie Newall was as plain speaking as any woman in the parish. And the most perceptive. Care needed to be taken, or Jessie would winkle out the truth.
Leana had taken advantage of the fine weather that Saturday morning, bringing Ian along for a neighborly visit. With Midsummer approaching, warmer days were ahead, but this one was breezy and pleasant, perfect for a stroll up Troston Hill. The sky was washed in blue, the sparse clouds the color of newly shorn fleece. Atop the hill sat a one-story farmhouse surrounded by a tidy steading and a small flock of blackface sheep.
Jessie had greeted her with a broad smile and shortbread fresh from the oven. In her kitchen
parlor, a small nook separate from the cooking area, the two of them had swapped stories from the last several months, stitching together their friendship with tautly woven threads. When the time came to share her secret, Jessie Newall would be one of the first to hear it. But not today.
Leana stood, Ian still wrapped round her. “Shall we take the children out of doors?”
“First we’ll have to talk my daughter out of her game.” The redheaded child sat nearby on the floor, surrounded by several horn cups that were easily stacked, then knocked over, making a cheerful clatter. “Annie, if you’ll put them on the table, you can play with them again later.”
Leana admired the kind, straightforward manner in which Jessie handled her children, neither berating nor spoiling them. Now that Ian was crawling, he could get into a great deal more trouble. Any advice Jessie might offer her about handling older bairns would be welcome, not only for Ian’s sake, but for the child to come.
Jessie led the way, a child on each hip, as they strolled into her garden. A profusion of vegetables awaited them with a few poppies for color. “Colin Elliot takes some of my fancier cabbages to market for me in Dumfries,” Jessie explained when Leana complimented her abundant crops. “The Dutch red, the sugarloaf, the yellow savoy. Those are the ones folk in the royal burgh seem to favor. Come sit beneath the rowan tree where the sun won’t burn us.”
A few white petals remained scattered beneath the branches full of berries, which would ripen to a bright red come August. They settled on the dry ground, spreading their skirts round them. Ian was content to sit by Leana’s side and play with the string of colored beads she’d brought for him, while Annie went off to investigate the kitchen garden, poking a stick in the soil round each plant. “ ’Tis good for drainage,” Jessie noted with a wry grin. She settled Rabbie on her lap, a thin blanket across him. “He’ll be asleep before Annie finds her first worm.”
Leana smiled at the boy, remembering when Ian was that small. “How are you faring with two bairns?” she asked, being careful not to seem too curious. Though Ian would depart well before her new child arrived, she would always be the mother of two.
“They’re a handful.” Jessie adjusted her son’s blanket. “Each one verra different. With Rabbie I felt as if I started all over again as a mother, spleet-new. Was it like that for you with Ian after a few months away?”
Leana confessed the truth. “I did not realize until I arrived that Ian was still at Auchengray.” As Leana described her homecoming and its many entanglements, Jessie listened without comment, her eyes filled with sympathy.
“I am glad Rose is so generous,” Jessie finally said, “allowing you to spend time with your son.”
Knowing Jessie would speak honestly, Leana voiced a question that weighed on her. “Have you seen Rose … with Ian? Does she … manage well?”
Jessie did not respond at once, pursing her lips as she gazed up into the rowan tree’s sturdy branches. “I have only seen your sister with Ian at kirk or in the village. Alan and I …” A faint blush stole across her face. “We’ve not called at Auchengray in some time.”
“Hardly anyone has,” Leana was quick to say. “ ’Tis … difficult for people. Though Peter Drummond came Thursday and stayed for supper and whist.”
“Did he?” Jessie gazed toward the lane that led downhill to Glensone. “Fine neighbors, the Drummonds.”
“You’ve not answered my question,” Leana reminded her. “About Rose. And Ian.”
Amid the freckles dotting her face, wisdom shone in Jessie’s blue eyes. “Rose is not you,” she said simply. “Your sister handles Ian with a certain confidence now, and ’tis obvious she cherishes the boy. Still … she is not his mother, however fondly she may dote on him. But when you are with him, Leana …” Jessie’s eyes grew moist. “I have ne’er seen a mother love a child the way you love Ian McKie.”
Neither spoke for a bit. A small heath butterfly, its orange wings decorated with two dark brown dots, flitted nearby.
“I do love Ian to distraction,” Leana said at last, combing her fingers through his hair. “A blessing since I cannot love his father.”
“I ken ’tis true, Leana.” Jessie’s voice was low, comforting. “Yet it grieves me to hear you say it.”
Leana gathered Ian onto her lap, kissing his cheek in passing. “ ’Tis harder than I e’er dreamed it might be. To see Jamie with Rose. To realize the love we once had is no more. I truly would despair if not for the certainty of God’s love and his blessing on my womb.”
Jessie gave her a baffled look. “What blessing might that be?”
Leana froze. “Th-this one.” She held on to Ian, her heart racing. “My son, Ian.”
“Oh!” Jessie laid her hand over her heart. “I thought you meant you were expecting another bairn. Wouldn’t that be something? You and your sister both carrying children sired by the same man.”
“It would be … something,” Leana agreed, pressing her warm cheek to Ian’s head, praying Jessie didn’t notice. Perhaps if she changed the subject at once, her face might cool, and Jessie would be none the wiser. “Is Alan bound for Keltonhill Fair on Tuesday?”
“He is.” Jessie flicked a rowan leaf off her sleeve. “Most of the parish men will be there and some of the women as well.”
Not this one. Leana could not imagine a less comfortable place for an expectant mother or a less hospitable one for a gentlewoman.
She considered getting up from the ground, for her legs were beginning to ache, then thought better of it. Jessie would surely notice her protruding stomach as she stood and jalouse the rest. Instead, she shifted her weight and eased Ian back onto the grass. “Jamie and Duncan are riding to Keltonhill together, intent on purchasing a horse.”
“ ’Tis the largest horse fair in the south of Scotland. If e’er a man wanted to buy a mount, he’d find one at Keltonhill.” Jessie winked. “That is, if his silver isn’t stolen.”
Twenty-Eight
Tig! for the morn’s the Fair Day.
TRADITIONAL SCOTTISH RHYME
Keep yer purse oot o’ sight,” Duncan warned as he and Jamie neared yet another boisterous company of travelers, “and gather yer wits aboot ye.”
Jamie adjusted his seat, his backside sore from riding. At least the skies were clear and the roads dry. The freshening air from the Solway bore no hint of rain as it ruffled the yellow blooms of St. John’s wort growing by the hedgerows. Jamie tipped his head toward the wildflowers. “Shall I pick one and hide it under my vest?”
Duncan made a face. “An auld wives’ tale. Oniewise, ye’re tae pick it on St. John’s Eve if ye mean tae ward awa evil.”
“ ’Tis not what the plant keeps away but what it draws near that interests me: peace in the house and prosperity in the sheepfolds.” Jamie eyed the tall stems in passing, remembering what his mother had taught him. I will pluck thee with my right hand, I will preserve thee with my left hand. “Suppose I choose a bloom on the way home to wear beneath my arm. Naught but one day early. St. John will not object.”
“Suit yerself,” Duncan said, “though ’twill be late.”
“Aye, but still light.” Tradition dictated that Keltonhill Fair fell on the first Tuesday after the seventeenth of June, coinciding with Midsummer, the longest day of the year. In Galloway the sun rose not long after four o’ the clock on the solstice, lighting the sky until nearly ten the same night—ideal for a one-day fair, though it made for a lengthy outing.
After a hasty breakfast at dawn, the two men had departed Auchengray. Leana watched from the garden, lifting her hand in farewell. Astride Walloch, Jamie had waved in return, gazing at her longer than propriety allowed. She seemed more peaceful of late. Less wary in his presence. He was grateful, since it eased the tension between them. Yet he could not deny the pain that gripped him each time he thought of taking her son and bidding her farewell. There was nothing to be done, no other option afforded him, but his chest ached nonetheless. He could never beg Leana’s forgiveness
enough.
Duncan, riding close beside him, caught his eye. “Rather than wearin’ St. John’s wort tae scare awa the de’il, ye’d be better off lettin’ Leana make ye an infusion.” He paused, as if letting Jamie figure it out for himself. “Tae cure yer melancholy.”
“When I have my own mount, you’ll see my spirits lift.”
“Och, is that what’s been eatin’ at ye a’ month? Not havin’ yer ain horse?”
Jamie shrugged, knowing Duncan saw through his ruse. “Lachlan made it clear I would not be taking Walloch with me to Glentrool. Though we’ll not find his equal today, there’ll be horseflesh enough to choose from.” He touched a hand to the purse concealed inside his vest. “We’ll need coins for food and ale. The rest will buy my mount.”
Duncan guided his horse round a deep gouge in the gravel. “Hard-earned silver it is.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, still angered by Lachlan’s stiff-necked response to his request for a loan. “If it’s silver you’re needing, Jamie, sell a few lambs. There’s a flesher in Dumfries who’ll be happy to fill your purse if you’ll fill his meat hooks.” When Jamie had protested, having already lost five score to the reivers, Lachlan showed no mercy. “You were the one who chose sheep over silver, lad. If you want money for a horse, turn to your lambs, not to me.” And so Jamie had herded a small flock to Dumfries yestermorn, much as it grieved him. The cold silver in his palm felt like a betrayal. His lambs were meant to graze the hills of Glentrool, not feed hungry stomachs in Dumfriesshire.
Jamie scanned the crowded highway for familiar faces. Folk from his home parish of Monnigaff flocked to Keltonhill along with the Irish, the English, and every Lowlander in between, it seemed. Elegant carriages vied with peasants on foot for a share of the road. Families in wheeled carts, gentlemen on horseback, barefoot servants, Gypsies in colorful clothes and tattered caravans—all were headed one direction: southwest to Keltonhill. As the morning warmed, the smell of unwashed bodies and fermenting fruit in saddlebags mingled with the more pleasant scents of freshly cut grass and heath, creating an aromatic cloud that traveled with them.
Whence Came a Prince Page 18
