A bevy of lasses strolled by, trying to catch Jamie’s eye, but he paid them no mind.
Duncan nudged him. “What did yer mither have ye do, Jamie?”
The words seeped out like blood from a wound. “My father announced he was ready to bestow his blessing on his heir, an irrevocable act. He sent Evan to hunt a roe deer for the celebration. While he was gone, Mother prepared goat meat seasoned like venison. She dressed me in my brother’s plaid and covered my hands in goatskin, for Evan is birsie.”
“Ye dinna mean ye pretended tae be yer brither?”
“I did.” Jamie hung his head, ashamed all over again.
Duncan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Surely yer faither could tell the difference atween ye?”
“Alec McKie has lived more than eighty summers, and his eyesight is failing.” Jamie stared at his hands, remembering his father’s trembling fingers unwrapping the bread. Reaching for a glass of claret. Touching his son’s head. “He believed I was Evan.” Jamie swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. “But ’twas not my father’s eyes that deceived him.”
The pain on Duncan’s face mirrored his own. “Jamie, ye didna lie tae yer ain faither?”
“I … did. Repeatedly.” He ground his teeth hard, wanting it to hurt. “After he … blessed me, I apologized for leaving so soon. But I did not truly ask his forgiveness.”
“Have ye niver done it?” Duncan’s disappointment was carefully checked, but Jamie saw it in his eyes. “Did ye not make amends afore ye left or write the man syne?”
“My mother smoothed things over before I left that night, but since then I’ve done … nothing.” He pulled his knees toward his chest, slumping over them, hiding his shame. “Nothing except beg for the Lord’s mercy seventy times seven.”
“Och.” Duncan chuckled softly. “That’s how mony times ye’re tae forgive ithers, Jamie. Not how mony times ye ask God tae forgive ye. Once will do on that score.” Duncan hung his arm round Jamie’s shoulders, a father’s embrace. “Ye’ve some work tae do whan we get hame, aye? Some letters tae write?”
Jamie straightened, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Aye.” His burden of guilt had not lifted, but it had lightened.
“Yer raik tae Glentrool will be easier if ’tis paved wi’ guid wirds, not guid intentions.” Duncan slapped his back once, then scrambled to his feet. “And if ye have a fine horse tae get ye there, that’ll help as weel. ’Tis what we came for, lad. Time we got on wi’ it.” He led the way toward the paddocks. “The sale’s aboot tae start, for the bell’s rung.”
With Jamie’s eye for horseflesh and Duncan’s skill at bargaining, they were not long in finding a mount. Horse dealers from Ireland and England trotted out roan-colored horses, chestnuts, bays, and dappled gray thoroughbreds. Jamie knew what he wanted—Walloch’s twin—and was pleased to find a black gelding from nearby Buittle that came close to the mark. Another piece of silver went to a blacksmith to shoe the horse, then Jamie led his new mount downhill toward the stables, his eye fixed on the road bound northeast.
“Weel, laddie, ye didna spot yer Gypsy nor yer brither.” Duncan slapped his back good-naturedly. “But ye’ve a fine horse tae carry ye hame at Lammas. Have ye thocht what ye’ll call the beast?”
Jamie stopped long enough to be certain the overseer was listening. “His name will be Hastings. To remind me of a good friend I’ll miss when I leave Auchengray.”
The slight sheen in Duncan’s eyes caught the sunlight. “I’ll miss ye as weel, Jamie. Aye, I’ll miss ye sairlie.”
Thirty
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal
But man cannot cover what God would reveal.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
Standing by the dining room window to make the most of the forenoon light, Leana adjusted her spectacles until the small print of the almanac came into focus. She’d waited for her father to take his morning walk before ducking into the spence and borrowing the volume from his shelf: Season on the Seasons. He’d not mind her reading it but might inquire what prompted her interest in days and dates. That was a risk she dared not take.
Leana ran a finger down the calendar pages, tallying the weeks since her last night with Jamie. Four months ago to the day. If indeed that was the hour the Lord had blessed her womb, she would soon sense the child’s presence. A slight movement, a gentle nudging. She was unprepared when Ian had first made himself known to her. But with this child, she was ready for the quickening. More than ready, little one.
She gazed out the window, picturing Jamie hard at work on the hills. Not an hour passed without her thinking of him. Missing him. Letting him go all over again. Rose was away from the house too, on an outing to the village. Leana prayed they would both find shelter if the rain arrived sooner than expected. After a sunny Sabbath, Monday had dawned on a grayer note, thick clouds promising a thorough soaking before day’s end. Indeed, the almanac predicted a wetter than usual summer.
Henry Season’s guide specialized in heavenly bodies with headings on eclipses and the moon’s southing. Answers were included for enigmas posed in the previous year’s edition, and new riddles were offered for the year at hand. One rebus caught her gardener’s eye: “My daughter’s two names will connected explore, an evergreen plant that grows just at my door.” She would have to wait another six months to discover whether the child’s names might include Laurel, Holly, or Privet. A clever ploy to assure sales of Henry Seasons’s 1791 almanac, Leana decided, closing the book.
Henry was indeed a fine name, though she’d already chosen two for her child: David, if a son, to honor the devout king, and Davina, the feminine form, if the Almighty blessed her with a daughter. Scottish mothers usually named their children after parents or grandparents. Under the circumstances, a different name seemed prudent. But would it be David McBride? Or David McKie? Only the child’s father could decide. Please, Jamie.
Leana slipped off her spectacles and tucked them inside her apron pocket, then adjusted the folds in the fabric. She’d loosened the seams of her yellow cotton gown again that morning, and still it felt snug. Could she keep her news to herself another month? Numerous times a day some remark about her babe rose to her lips and was quickly stifled. She would not diminish Rose’s joy and add to Jamie’s troubles. She would not.
Anxious to return the almanac before her father appeared, Leana hurried into the spence. The only window faced north, toward the gardens and Auchengray Hill, leaving the room in shadows on such an overcast day. She was squinting at the bookshelf, looking for the spot where the book belonged, when she heard her father’s voice across the dim room.
“What, pray tell, would compel a lady to read an almanac?” Lachlan stood in the doorway, his face still ruddy from his walk.
Leana slid the book back into place, taking care not to lift her arms too high lest he see what must not be seen. “I was consulting Mr. Season’s advice on the weather.” A thread of truth, however slender. “How did you find the morning air, Father? Will we have rain by supper?”
“We will,” he said bluntly, entering the room. “But first, we will be seated and take a bit of refreshment, you and I. Then we shall discuss your future.”
“My … future.” She did not pose it as a question, though indeed it was. “Certainly, Father. Shall I ask Neda to serve us?”
“Already done, mistress,” the housekeeper answered, crossing the threshold with her tray as the two settled into the upholstered chairs by the hearth. Neda poured tea for Leana and a dram for her father, then arranged the plate of almond biscuits and a small pitcher of milk within Leana’s reach.
Lachlan waved Neda out the door. “See that we’re not disturbed.”
Leana chose a sweet biscuit and managed one bite before putting it on her saucer. Your future. Whatever did he mean?
Ignoring her for the moment, her father sipped his dram, his gaze fixed on some distant spot beyond the window. “Leana, since your return to Auchengray, one question has
remained unanswered.”
She dabbed the crumbs from her mouth with a linen napkin, praying the tremor in her hand did not show. “What question is that, Father?”
“A simple one: why?” His gray eyes studied her more closely than she wished. “Why did you leave Twyneholm so abruptly?”
“It was not a … sudden decision.” She rested her hands in her lap, the napkin still bunched in her fingers. “I’d always planned to come home in the summer but was not certain when or by what means. Once my gown was sold, those questions were answered.”
“To your satisfaction perhaps. But not to mine.” He drained his glass, then put it down with a bang. “I’ve heard the servants blether. You were shocked to find your sister and her husband still here, isn’t that so?”
Leana lowered her gaze. “Aye.”
“Then why did you not write and see if the couple remained at Auchengray before leaving your aunt’s cottage?”
A fair question. She kept her head down and her hands busy fiddling with her napkin while she searched for an honest answer. “I was certain Jamie and Rose had already departed for Glentrool. Jamie had once assured me that we … that he would leave Auchengray come May. So when June arrived, I—”
Lachlan cut her off with a brutish grunt. “Stop dissembling, Leana.” He leaned across the table and lifted her chin none too gently. “Did you run from some scandal in Twyneholm? Is that what brought you to my door?”
“Nae!”
“Stand up.”
“Father, I—”
“Stand.” He leaned back in his chair as if to give her room. “Come, Leana. Is that so difficult a request to honor? To your feet, if you please. And take off your apron.”
As if in a trance, Leana stood and slowly untied her apron strings. She slipped the fabric over her head, then dropped it onto the chair, abandoning her hopes with it. He will see. He will know. She faced him, her hands clasped before her. Covering. Protecting. Please, God. Hide me under the shadow of thy wings.
“Not like that.” Lachlan shook his head, eyes cold as pewter. “Fold your hands behind you.”
Nae. Please. Leana laced her fingers together and pressed them against the base of her spine.
“Shoulders back, lass. That’s better.”
She sensed her belly growing beneath his gaze.
“Now turn toward the hearth.”
Numb, Leana did as she was told, afraid she might faint or worse. Help me, help me! Standing in profile, she felt utterly exposed, like a woman carved on the prow of a ship. Her altered gown could no longer alter the truth. He sees. He knows.
The tick of the mantel clock grew louder, counting each second. Lachlan finally spoke. “It appears I have been asking the wrong question.” His voice was flat and sharp-edged, like a knife. “Who is the father of this child?”
She released her hands and turned toward him. “Jamie McKie.”
“Are you certain, lass? You were in Twyneholm a good while.”
However cruel his accusation, she would not let it wound her. Not when she knew the truth. “There has never been anyone else.”
His gaze narrowed. “Will you swear to me that is so?”
“Father, I will not swear at all. Neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by the earth, for it is his footstool.”
“Hiding behind the Buik, are we?” His brow darkened, like the threatening clouds framed in the window. “Then let your communication be aye or nae, Leana. You are certain Jamie is the father?”
She took a full breath, letting her body expand as it pleased. “He is.”
“Good.” He threw down his napkin. “Then let him support his bystart, for I’ll not do so.”
“Father, Jamie’s child is—”
“An ill-gotten babe!” he growled, leaning toward her.
“That’s not true, for we did not sin.” She spread her hands before him, a gesture of innocence. “ ’Twas February, when we thought we were husband and wife.”
“You thought? Och!” He vaulted from his chair and began pacing the floor. “You never thought at all, Leana. ’Tis your heart that’s led you astray, not your head. I can guess what the kirk session will have to say about this sorry turn of events.” He spun toward her, pinning her with his gaze. “Do not fool yourself. The kirk will find sin enough to put you back on the cutty stool.”
“My transgressions have already been atoned for, Father.” She rested her hands on her unborn babe without apology. “This child was conceived within the bonds of a marriage established by habit and repute, as the kirk session will surely concede.”
“I cannot say what the elders will do,” Lachlan muttered, “only what I must do.” He moved toward her, his stance belligerent. “I insist my nephew pay for this … this …”
“I am certain he will, Father,” Leana hastened to assure him. “When the time comes.”
Lachlan regarded her with suspicion. “You have his word on this?”
Forgive me, Jamie. “I have not … told him … yet.”
“What?” His face turned an ugly purple. “You’ve kept this not only from me but from Jamie as well?”
“I have and for good reason.” She stepped closer, needing him to hear her, needing him to see her resolve. “I will not destroy my sister’s happiness. This news of mine can wait. Let them leave for Glentrool content in their joy. I will write them once they are settled—”
“What a coward you are, Leana.” The contempt on his face was apparent, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable. “You would write a letter rather than tell the man to his face. And I ken why: Jamie does not love you. ’Tis likely he never did.”
Leana knew better. “That is not true. It is also not relevant. Jamie’s love for Rose and the child they are expecting is all that matters now.” Strengthened by her conviction, Leana realized her legs no longer trembled, and her hands were warm. “Do what you will with me, Father, but spare my sister this news.”
He curled his lip. “Do you never tire of being a martyr?”
She met his gaze without flinching. “And do you never tire of being a bully?”
Lachlan stared at her, his face livid but his mouth silent. And in that quiet moment, in that hidden place inside her, Jamie’s child moved.
Her breathing stilled as Leana rested her hand where she felt a distinct flutter. Again. Faint, yet real. Not imagined. My child. Moving, kicking, alive. Thanks be to God! Of all the times and places he might have chosen, she could not be more grateful it was this time. And this place.
Leana exhaled, releasing the last of her fears. “Now that you know the truth, Father, and have seen proof with your own eyes, what will you do?”
He squared his shoulders as though trying to match her strength. “I will keep your secret, Leana, but only as long as it suits me.”
“Until Lammas. That is all I ask.” Leana retrieved her apron. “In another month I shall tell Reverend Gordon and the elders myself. And write Jamie and Rose. But for now, please tell no one.”
“And if I agree, what benefit may I expect?” His words were stern, demanding as ever. “Will I be shown the respect a father is due? Will I receive the gratitude such generosity warrants?”
“The Lord rewards us according to our righteousness.” Leana tied her apron round her waist, her calm gaze fixed on his indignant one. “I am certain you will receive exactly what you deserve.”
Thirty-One
Ay, these young things lie safe in our hearts just so long.
EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON
Leana, whatever would I do without you?” Rose held up the tiny nightgown, admiring the neatly embroidered magpies round the sleeves and hem. “My birds looked more like badgers. Black and white, aye, but no wings and no slender tails.” Leana’s eye for detail and her smooth, even stitches put her own efforts to shame. Rose laid the finished gown across her middle, uneasy at the thought of the child inside her growing to such a size. “How much longer ’til the quickening?”
“Hard to say, lass.” Leana lowered her embroidery hoop, then slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She’d been plying her needle since well before noon, after coming in from the garden to escape the blinding sunlight of early July. The dog days were upon them and would not let up until the eleventh of August, or so the stars said. After the midday meal the sisters had settled in the parlor—the coolest room in the house—while Ian napped in the nursery. Except for an occasional breeze wafting past the curtains, the air was still and the temperature uncomfortably warm.
Leana had opened her gown a bit and draped a damp cloth round her bared neck, trying to cool herself. “Now, about the quickening,” she said. “You might notice a flutter or two at the end of your fourth month. When might that be, dearie?”
Rose counted on her fingers, then groaned. “Not ’til after Lammas. Which means you won’t be with me when it happens. Not unless the quickening comes early.”
“Which it might.” Leana’s gaze shifted to Rose’s lap. “Your bairn seems intent on growing.”
Chagrined, Rose tried to pull in her stomach, to no avail. “I’m not at all certain this isn’t just me growing. I cannot go a day without eating two buttermilk scones with gooseberry jam.”
“Neda is only too happy to bake them for you.” Leana smiled a little as she said it, then put her glasses back in place and resumed her stitching. “Every woman is different, Rose. And they say each confinement varies too.”
Rose stuck out her lower lip, not caring if she looked twelve again. “You won’t be with me for that either.”
“Nae, I shall be here.” A tinge of sadness permeated her words. “You must write me, Rose.” Leana’s needle stilled. “For I will surely write you.”
“As many letters as we can,” Rose promised, thinking of how lonely she would be in the glen, at least until her bairn arrived. She would have Jamie, of course, but he would be busy with the autumn breeding. Heaven only knew what Aunt Rowena might be like—speeritie, to hear Jamie tell it. “Full of life, like you,” he’d said, patting her cheek. Her Uncle Alec, on the other hand, was full of years—hard of hearing and losing his eyesight, the poor man. According to Jamie, Evan and Judith would be moving to Wigtownshire, and none of the neighbors’ houses could be seen from Glentrool’s doorstep.
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