But when Father returned on Tuesday…
Rose shuddered, thinking of the stone fire, remembering too late the words that were meant to be spoken. Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursed shalt thou be when thou goest out. Her father would indeed consider himself cursed when he discovered his money box missing.
The wagon was parked at the far end of the steading, from which a row of flagstones led to the cottage. If she could find the first stone with her foot, following the rest might keep her skirts out of the muck. She did not intend to begin her seventeenth year sitting in the parish kirk reeking of the midden.
There. The first stone. A rough-cut square. Then the next. Soon she was able to anticipate each one, arriving at her destination without mishap. Using the sides of the wagon as her guide, Rose made her way round it until she reached the cradle, which Willie had fitted snugly between two baskets of linens. Poor Willie. The thought of involving so loyal a servant made her stomach clench. Willie was utterly innocent. And she was utterly at fault.
Heartsick, Rose reached over the side and plunged her hand inside the cradle, groping beneath the blankets until she struck gold. Grabbing a fistful of coins, she lifted them out, even as she used her left hand to smooth the blanket back in place. When she clutched the money to her chest, the coldness of the metal quickly penetrated her thin cotton gown, making her shiver.
A male voice floated across the dark lawn. “I have a pistol and no qualms about using it.”
She froze. “Jamie?”
“Rose?” Footfalls muted by the damp grass. “Heavens, lass! Whatever are you doing out of doors at this hour?”
In a panic, she leaned forward and slid the icy coins inside her corset, praying they would move no farther than the cleft between her breasts. Turning round ever so slowly, she watched Jamie emerge from the mist with his pistol at his side, his clothes loosened from sleeping on the braes, his unbound hair brushing his shoulders. He had never looked more handsome. Nor more dangerous.
She glanced at his weapon and tried to sound nonchalant. “I thought you weren’t going to shoot that.”
“I’m not.” He gave her a sleepy grin, shoving the barrel into the waist of his breeches. “Nor is it loaded. But a common thief wouldn’t ken that, aye?”
“Is that what I am?” She jerked her chin at him to mask her nervousness. “A common thief?”
His grin broadened as he drew closer. “Oh, there’s nothing common about you, Rose McKie.”
The coins had settled at the swell of her child. Yet if Jamie touched her waist, he would feel them. He would know. Forgive me, Jamie. She lifted his rough hands to her cheeks, then feared he’d feel the heat of her shame. “Might I have a birthday kiss?”
Jamie responded at once. Tears stung her eyes as his mouth moved over hers, his hands cradling her face. When he leaned closer, the butt of his pistol pressed the stolen coins against her skin.
Jamie, Jamie. Could he not taste the guilt in her kiss?
A sudden realization of the truth made her clasp his shirt lest she faint: Lachlan would accuse him of thievery! The very thing Jamie had vowed would not happen. Would her father summon the sheriff? Send a party of blackguards to hunt him down?
“Nae!” Rose pulled away from his embrace. “Jamie, I …”
“Pardon me, lass.” He quickly stepped back, a guilty look about him. “ ’Tis neither the time nor place—”
“Wheesht!” she cried softly, touching her fingers to his lips. “Do not apologize. ’Tis your forgiveness I need.” Could she tell him? Simply confess it? Oh, but Jamie would be furious with her. What if he insisted on taking the broken thrifite back? And facing her father? Nae, nae. She could not bear it.
He pressed a tender kiss to her palm. “Tell me what’s bothering you, Rose.”
“I did not … sleep well,” she told him truthfully. “If my head nods during the morning service, will you nudge me awake?”
“If you will do the same for me.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders as he looked toward the eastern horizon, tinged with gold.
Buittle kirk, built of rubble in varying shades of gray, sat in the midst of the kirkyard, surrounded by headstones. The broad door hung open, daring Rose to proceed. She clutched her flowered reticule with the handful of silver and gold coins hidden inside, wrapped in a plain linen handkerchief. Her plan was simple: Deposit the morning’s stolen bounty in the collection box at the door when no one was paying attention, Jamie in particular. However grateful the parish poor might be to receive her anonymous offering, Rose would be happier still to leave behind a portion of her guilt in Buittle.
She and the others from Newabbey approached the kirk, as tidy in their appearance as the farm cottage washstand allowed. Their unfamiliar faces drew curious stares from the parish folk. Jamie led the way, head held high, every inch the heir of Glentrool. His surroundings were suitably regal; Buittle kirk had welcomed ancient princes and kings. And now, James McKie. Emboldened by his strength, Rose lifted her chin. Aye, she could do this.
They all paused at the door to admire the single-light windows in the chancel. “Look, Ian,” Leana whispered. “See how tall they are? And they face east, which means the morning sun chases away the darkness inside.” Ian stretched his arms, as if he might reach the top of the arched windows, drawing everyone’s attention upward, including Jamie’s.
Rose saw her chance and ducked through the door unnoticed. Spying the wooden collection box attended by an elder, she nodded politely at him even as she slipped one hand inside her reticule. If he might look away just for a moment…
The bundle of coins landed in the box, barely making a sound. She spun round in time to capture Jamie’s arm, pulling him forward as if she were eager for worship to begin. Instead, her trembling knees were about to give way. Though her purse was lighter by a few sovereigns, her heart was not. So much gold remained. None of it hers.
When the service ended at one, the travelers found a shady spot on the edge of the kirkyard, intending to dine before resuming their journey. No sooner were they settled onto the worn plaid, surrounded by baskets of food, than Leana produced two gifts, one folded inside a sheet of paper, the other wrapped with fabric and a pink silk ribbon. “Many happy returns of the day, dearie.”
Rose reached for the plain one first.
“From Father,” Leana said. “He left your present with me a few days ago.”
A single gold sovereign caught the sunlight, winking up at Rose.
Jamie grimaced. “Now the man is generous.”
“ ’Tis yours.” Rose pressed the coin into Jamie’s hands, feeling ill. “For our lodging.”
She slipped off the pink ribbon and opened Leana’s gift: a much-loved pair of silk gloves. Agness McBride had worn them on her wedding day. So had Leana. Delicately stitched in pure white, the gloves were presented to Leana as the oldest daughter. Except for very special occasions, they remained wrapped in linen and tucked away for safekeeping. Until now.
“Leana, I cannot …” Rose barely touched the gloves, as if they held some unseen magic. “These were … Mother’s.”
Leana leaned forward to lay her hand on top of Rose’s, like one conferring a blessing. “On the anniversary of our mother’s death and your joyous birth, I cannot think of anyone who deserves this gift more than you do.”
Rose pinched her lips shut, and still they trembled. “I deserve … nothing. Yet you are …” She looked up, praying the gratitude showed in her eyes. “You are always so good to me, Leana. So … kind.”
Leana touched her cheek. “I am more penniless than kind. Since I have no silver of my own, I chose something of great value to me, hoping it might please you.”
“Please me?” Rose sniffed. “ ’Tis the dearest gift you could have given me.” She carefully pulled on the gloves and held them up for all to see, smiling at Leana through a sheen of tears. In years past she’d borrowed them from her sister’s glove drawer. Now they were hers to wear forever.
After removing her gloves so she could open the slender drawstring, Rose shook out the contents and gasped with delight. Cupped in her bare palm, a sterling brooch featuring a pair of ravens gleamed in the midday light. “The McKie crest! Wherever did you …”
“Dumfries. From the same silversmith who made your father’s wedding quaich.” Jamie tugged at her braid. “Like your sister, my resources were limited. I wish it were made of gold, Rose.”
“I’m not particularly … fond of gold.” She pricked her finger pinning the brooch to her gown. “I much prefer silver.”
“And I meikle prefer food,” Rab Murray announced, laughing as he opened Neda’s well-stocked basket of provisions.
Rose was glad for the distraction, however temporary. The problem of her father’s gold would not vanish on its own. And Tuesday grew closer by the hour.
When their stomachs were satisfied and the crumbs brushed away, the men doffed their coats and helped the women load the wagon in preparation for the day’s journey. “Just five miles or so,” Jamie said, “since we’re getting a late start. We’ll stop at Rhonehouse for the night. Our lasses will be lodging at the Crown. The lads and I will be sleeping on Keltonhill, watching the Lammas bonfire.”
Rose stared at him, an idea taking shape in her mind. Keltonhill. Kelton parish. “Will we be riding past … Kelton kirk?”
“I imagine you will.” Curiosity lit his eyes. “Did you want to see the place, Rose?”
“Aye,” she breathed. Kelton kirk would have a collection box by the door, and so would every parish kirk they passed. She’d dispose of all the stolen gold before they reached Glentrool! And could not the shattered thrifite be fed into the Lammas bonfire a piece at a time? Without any evidence, Jamie could hardly be arrested for theft.
Rose put on her brightest birthday smile. “Jamie, how many parishes will we travel through?”
He splayed both hands, counting. “Buittle, Kelton, Tongland, Twyneholm, Girthon, Anwoth, Kirkmabreck, Monnigaff. Eight in all,” he finished. “Ten, if you count Newabbey and Urr.”
Nae, I’ll not count those. That night while the others slept she would tear up one of her cotton shifts to make pouches, divide the coins evenly, and be prepared to bless the poor in every parish between here and her new home. ’Twas her only hope, the only possible solution: Give the gold to the Almighty and let him do with it as he pleased.
Then forgive me, Lord. Please, forgive me.
Fifty-Six
Being myself no stranger to suffering,
I have learned to relieve the sufferings of others.
VIRGIL
Her sister was in pain. Leana saw it on her face and in her posture, in the way her hands shook for no reason and her eyes shimmered with tears while she stared at the passing countryside.
Nor was she eating well. Sunday evening at the Crown their supper had been potted hough shaped in a fancy mold. Rose had only poked at the well-seasoned meat and barely touched her apple tart.
An hour later at sunset, when the Lammas bonfire was lit—an enormous mound of dried bracken and heather, broken furniture and fallen timber—Rose had insisted on helping the neighborhood shepherds add more kindling, an anxious look about her as she tossed splintery fragments of pine onto the roaring fire.
Most telling of all, en route to Rhonehouse, Rose had begged the others to let her visit the parish kirk in Kelton.
“But no one is here, dearie,” Leana had told her, drawing the horses to a stop as she’d eyed the empty kirk and its sagging collection of headstones. “The afternoon service must have ended hours ago.”
“ ’Tis … better that way,” Rose had said, disembarking from the wagon, a plaid draped round her shoulders even though the weather was quite warm. “I’ll not be a minute.”
Leana had bent down to catch her hand. “Did you mean to pray, Rose?”
“Oo aye.” Her sister’s sober expression had brightened a little. “Indeed I shall.”
Rose had ducked in the kirk door and stayed less than a minute before she came bounding out, her step lighter and her mood improved, however briefly. Jamie would not be pleased to hear she’d climbed in and out of the wagon without his aid. But he’d been a half mile west tending his lambs. And Rose had seemed adamant about her mission.
Leana could hardly have refused her so minor a request. Stop and pray? Aye, they could do that. Especially if it might ease her sister’s mind or heal her body. She would also give Rose a few drops of tincture of St. John’s wort before bed and add some damask rose oil to her washbowl in the morning to calm her nerves.
After yestreen’s winding route through Kelton parish, this day found them heading southwest, following the path of the Dee through hilly farmlands. Hedgerows, rather than dry stane dykes, lined the roads and divided the dairy farms. Though the women could not see the river, the lambs and lads remained well in sight beneath a hopeful sky of blue gray clouds with a shimmering edge of yellow.
Leana invited Rose to sit beside her so they might keep each other company while the maids cared for Ian in the wagon bed. Eliza entertained the child with endless games and rhymes. Neiveie-Nick-Nack was his favorite, with Eliza hiding a button in one hand and chanting, “Neiveie Neiveie nick nack, what one will ye tak?” Annabel practiced reading from a volume of poetry Rose had produced from her pocket that morning. Stolen from their father’s library, Leana feared. Would Lachlan write them at Glentrool, demanding the book be sent back?
They maintained a slow but steady pace until early afternoon when the party stopped for dinner. Gathered round the wagon, they shared a cold meal prepared by the Crown’s able cook and swapped opinions of the countryside, edged with hills that framed the rugged, uncultivated ground.
“Our view niver changes,” Rab confessed. “Davie and I have been leukin’ at lambs’ tails since Dalbeaty.”
Jamie grinned. “The view from astride my horse is markedly better. I can see their heads and their tails.”
“Ah,” Rose said, rising to their challenge, “but we see their woolly legs.”
“And ours as well?” Rab teased her, making all the women turn pink. While Jamie was dressed as a gentleman, the lads were barelegged with shepherds’ plaids kilted round them. Jamie scolded Rab for his impropriety, but Leana was grateful to see some color in Rose’s cheek for any reason.
At meal’s end Jamie mounted Hastings, nodding at the lads as they headed toward his flocks and the collies tending them. “We’ll do a bit of salmon fishing in the Dee before we cross the bridge at Tongland—”
“Tongland?” Rose pounced on the word as if it were a wood mouse and she a hungry cat. “Might we stop at the kirk while you fish?”
“I suspect Leana will be eager to carry on to Twyneholm and your Aunt Meg’s, but of course, you may visit the kirk.” Jamie barely hid his amusement. “If you have any secrets, be warned: They say tongues wag in Tongland.”
Rose gaped at him in astonishment. “Is that where the name comes from?”
“Do not let your husband tease you so.” Leana admonished Jamie with her eyes. “The parish is shaped like one. Hence, the name.”
Rose responded by sticking out her tongue.
Jamie trotted off, laughing. “Get thee to a kirk, lassie, and mend your ill-mannered ways.”
“Haud yer wheesht!” Rose called after him, though her laugh equaled his.
“Sleep well, fair wife.” He lifted his hand in parting. “We’ll see you in the morn at your aunt’s cottage.”
Leana signaled the horses, sending the wagon forward. Such lively banter! Notably different than her own conversations with Jamie. With her, he was more serious. Thoughtful. Vulnerable. With Rose, Jamie matched his clever wit against her spirited nature. No wonder Jamie had chosen her sister from the first. Now that they were free to love each other without impediment,
it was obvious that they did. Very much.
“Stop, Leana!”
Startled, she jerked the reins, bringing the horses to a ragged halt.
“There it is!” Rose pointed toward a cluster of buildings on the far side of the river. “Tongland kirk.”
They continued past the signpost for Culdoach Farm, then turned sharply and began their steep descent to the river. Leana paused short of the bridge, listening to see if they had the old stone bridge to themselves, for the arch did not allow her to see the road beyond it. Gamely urging the horses across, she drove them into Tongland parish, then followed the road to a wooded glade, where the preaching house stood above the rushing waters of the Dee.
Rose climbed down before Leana could insist she wait for one of the maids to help her, then she yanked the tattered plaid round her shoulders.
Leana moved toward the edge of the driver’s seat. “Would you like me to pray with you?”
“Nae!” Her sister’s face went white. “You may pray here, of course.” She hastened toward the old kirk. “I shan’t be long.”
Leana watched her sister tug open the wooden door. Poor Rose. Expectant mothers did many a strange thing to ensure a safe delivery. Leana dutifully bowed her head and prayed for her sister’s health.
When Rose did not return at once, Leana bided her time studying the older building with its rectangular windows in the gable, topped with a birdcage belfry. The wall facing her was surrounded by well-worn rubble, as though it had been there much longer than the rest. Not uncommon in Galloway, where new kirks were built from the remains of previous ones—sometimes in the very same spot, sometimes a stone’s throw away. The ruins were left standing before God and man, roofless and abandoned, surrounded by gravestones long worn smooth by the elements.
The door swung open, and Rose appeared, led from the kirk by a crooked-back man full of years. The beadle, Leana guessed. He was chattering away like a magpie, while Rose slowed her steps to match his. Leana could see her sister was agitated, with her hands clutching her plaid and her eyes wide.
Whence Came a Prince Page 35
