“I want your pledge that you will treat my daughters well.”
“You may depend on it, Uncle.” Far better than you have treated them.
Lachlan’s brow darkened. “Nor will I allow you to put my daughter aside to marry another.”
“I will have no wife but your daughter,” Jamie assured him.
Lachlan smacked his fist on the stone bridge that spanned the Fleet. “When you cross this bridge heading west tomorrow, do not turn back, thinking to harm me. Nor will we cross it in pursuit of you.”
Jamie almost smiled. ’Twas precisely the assurance Rose wanted. “With the God of my father as witness, we will go our separate ways in the morn’s morn.”
Lachlan would not shake his hand, but he did meet his gaze. Jamie saw the flicker of fear there. Whatever Lachlan had heard or seen in his dream, the Almighty had left his mark on the man’s soul.
“Come,” Jamie said, extending his arm toward the inn. “You’ve traveled all day with nothing but a glass of ale to slake your thirst. Let me arrange for a hearty dinner and suitable rooms for the night. At my expense.” When Lachlan cast a suspicious eye on him, Jamie explained, “ ’Tis my father’s silver that will pay for your repast. Not your own.”
Jamie led the way toward the Murray Arms, knowing what he must do: lock his door and guard his purse until the four men disappeared from view in the morn.
Sixty-Three
The Morn! she is the source of all sighs,
The very face to make us sad.
THOMAS HOOD
When Leana heard the gentle tapping at her door, she turned the key, disregarding Jamie’s last words yestreen: “Unlock your door to no one.” This tentative knock could only belong to her sister. And they had much to discuss.
Rose stood in the corridor, already dressed for the day. Dark circles beneath her eyes hinted at a poor night’s sleep. “Leana, might you join me for breakfast? I realize ’tis naught but six …”
Leana pressed her forefinger against her lips, eying the sleeping maids behind her and Ian dozing soundly in his crib. “Let us away, for they’ll not miss me for another hour.”
The kitchen staff greeted their first guests of the day with fresh scones, still warm from the inn’s brick ovens, and pots of honey, creamy and thick. Leana helped herself to sliced fruit from the sideboard and served Rose as well, while steaming cups of tea were delivered by a bleary-eyed waiter.
“Leana, I’ve news that cannot keep.” Rose leaned forward, ignoring her breakfast, her gaze darting about the empty room. “Yestreen … when I could not rise from my chair … when I …”
Leana waited for her to continue, certain of what would come next.
“I could not stand because …” Rose’s eyes began to mist. “Because I was afraid that my … that something was wrong with … my bairns.”
Leana blinked at her for a moment. “You mean it had nothing to do with father’s gold?”
“Nae, nae!” Rose’s voice was stretched taut as a fiddle string. “I was … in pain. And then when I changed my cotton chemise this morning, I found …”
“Oh, Rose!” The gold forgotten, Leana reached across the small table to catch the tear on her sister’s cheek, praying her instincts were wrong. “Was it … blood?”
Rose gave a little sob, then nodded her head.
Heaven help us! Leana scooted her chair closer, then rested her hand on Rose’s arm. “Listen to me, dearie. Jostling about in a wagon and climbing inn staircases are not proper activities for an expectant mother. No wonder you’ve had a bit of bleeding.”
Rose looked up, hope dawning in her eyes. “You’ve had this problem too?”
Leana would do anything to comfort her sister, but she could not lie. “I did not. Yet ’tis not uncommon, Rose. And there are measures that may be taken to keep your bairns safe. Let me speak with the cook.”
Moments later Leana returned to the table bearing a bitter-scented cup of tea. “Just as I’d hoped. The cook fancies herbs, as I do, and keeps dried nettle in her stillroom. ’Tis the best cure to ease a woman’s bleeding.”
Rose wrinkled her nose. “The same nettle they use for fishing nets and tablecloths?”
“And nettle soup. A most useful plant.” Leana took her seat, trying to sound calm, while her beating heart was sounding an alarm. “Drink some, Rose. I believe it might help.”
Rose downed it quickly, then requested another while Leana offered what advice she could. “Elevate your feet when you ride in the wagon. Let Jamie lift you in and out, rather than managing on your own. Place your bairns’ health above all other concerns.” Leana made sure Rose was listening when she asked, “Have you told Jamie?”
“Oh, I dare not.” Rose pushed away her empty teacup. “He has too much on his mind already. But I will do everything you’ve asked me to do, Leana. And it was only a tiny bit of blood. And only once.” Her voice grew softer and more persuasive. “Promise you won’t tell him?”
Leana finally agreed, with serious misgivings. If it happened again, she would insist Rose tell Jamie, or she would tell him herself.
Their breakfast was nigh ended when Ian appeared, babbling like a burn in spate as he sailed through the door in his father’s arms.
“What a lucky boy you are,” Jamie told Ian, strolling over to their table. “You have two women who love you dearly.” He claimed a seat, smiling at them both. “I promised the maids I’d have scones sent to their room if they’d let me bring my son to breakfast.” He leaned round to catch Ian’s eye. “Will you nibble on a scone, lad, or would you rather drag it through your hair?”
“He’d prefer to drag it through yours.” Rose brushed back a loose strand from Jamie’s brow, fond affection sketched across her face.
Leana watched her sister closely. If she was in pain, it did not show.
The sound of male voices and boot heels on the stair put an end to their lighthearted table banter. Father. And his sons. Jamie handed Ian to Rose without a word, then stood facing the door. Though he did not bear his sword, Jamie’s daunting countenance would give them pause.
Only Lachlan made an appearance. He did not presume to take the fourth chair but simply stood beside their table—his manner subdued, his voice steady, without a hint of rancor. “I have come to bid you farewell, my daughters. For we shall not see each other again.”
Dismayed to find her throat tightening, Leana looked away lest Lachlan see the moisture in her eyes and think her weak. Relieved as she was to see him go, he was still her father. She would not miss his presence. But she would mourn what might have been.
With her head turned, Leana did not realize he’d reached for her hand until Lachlan startled her with a brief kiss on her knuckles.
“Godspeed, Leana.”
She looked up to find her father dry eyed, stoic as ever. Yet in those gray depths she saw a man whose heart had been broken so thoroughly that the pieces were misplaced and the pattern lost forever.
“I am sorry, Father,” Leana said. And she was.
Lachlan briefly kissed Rose’s hand as well, then spread his fingers across Ian’s head and murmured the oft-spoken words, “The LORD bless thee.” With that, Lachlan McBride turned toward the door and was gone.
Jamie sat once more, rather stiffly. Lachlan had not said a single word to him, neither greeting nor farewell. “At least I am blessed of the Almighty,” Jamie said evenly. “And I do not envy my uncle the days ahead. Facing his new wife without silver or gold. Perhaps when he returns home, he’ll find his thrifite buried in the lawn.”
Rose kissed Ian’s head. “Perhaps.”
As their breakfast plates were cleared, a commotion in the entrance hall drew their attention. “ ’Tis the mail,” Jamie informed them, nodding at the clock above the hearth. “According to the innkeeper, two coaches arrive at seven each morning. One from Carlisle, the other from Portpatrick. They’ll sort out the posts, change horses, then send the coaches on their way.”
Rose arched her brows
, her interest obvious.
“Come, Rose.” He helped her to her feet. “Half the town folk congregate outside the door.”
Leana claimed Ian, sparing Rose the additional weight, then followed the couple across the hall, where a desk overflowed with cotton sacks stuffed with mail. A harried clerk squinted through his spectacles, deciphering the handwritten addresses scrawled on the sealed posts. Most letters went back inside the mailbags, destined for other parishes, but a few were put aside for local residents of Girthon and Anwoth.
Both wooden doors were propped open, allowing bystanders to watch the proceedings withindoors and out. Passengers on the mail coach stretched their legs, admiring the village beneath a clear blue sky, while fresh horses were harnessed and the carriage swept clean.
The clerk lifted his head, scanning the onlookers until his gaze lighted on Jamie. “Mr. McKie? James McKie, aye? ’Tis a fortunate thing, sir, you being here this morn.” He held up a letter written on stiff cream-colored stock and sealed with scarlet wax, then peered at the address again. “ ‘For James Lachlan McKie of Auchengray. From Glentrool.’ No sense delivering it there when you’re here. Might you be expecting this, sir?”
Leana’s own pulse was fluttering; she could not fathom how Jamie felt making his way forward to claim the post. He paid the man his threepence, then held up his prize as he headed back in their direction, his face a jumble of emotions, all of which Leana shared. Fear. Anticipation. Dread. Hope.
Rose nearly tore the post from his hands. “Please, Jamie! Do not keep us in suspense.”
He honored her wishes, unfolding the letter without delay and reading to them both.
To James Lachlan McKie
Tuesday, 3 August 1790
My dearest son,
May this letter find you well and your wife and child in good health. We are pleased to hear of another grandson or a granddaughter in the offing.
Leana and Rose exchanged smiles. One granddaughter. Twin grandsons. Please God.
Kindly excuse this tardy response to your last letter. Since you addressed it to your father, a servant delivered the letter to him directly. I’m afraid he misplaced it for a month or more.
Jamie’s exasperated groan said a great deal about life with the McKies at Glentrool.
As to your letter for Evan, I forwarded it to Wigtownshire as soon as it arrived. He has since written me to say that he has read it and will watch for you to pass by the Cree Bridge soon after Lammas.
“Watch for me?” Jamie stared at the letter. “So he might welcome me … or kill me?”
“Does it not say?” Rose pulled the paper closer, her anxiety clearly mounting as Jamie continued to read.
I cannot predict how your brother will receive you. The birth of Archibald last October tempered him a bit. Still, extending mercy to others does not come easily to Evan.
“But you stood up to Father and won,” Rose reminded him, her pride showing. “Surely you can stand up to your brother.”
Jamie shook his head. “Two entirely different matters, Rose. Your father was in the wrong, accusing me of theft. My brother has every right to accuse me, for I am guilty as charged.”
Leana heard the years of regret threaded through his words. He would have no peace until things with Evan were resolved, for ill or for good. As Jamie finished reading the last few lines of his mother’s letter, Leana heard a note of hopefulness return to his voice.
Though I cannot speak for your brother in Wigtownshire, I can speak for myself. You are more than welcome at Glentrool, my son. I await your arrival.
Jamie folded the letter, his eye already on the door.
Sixty-Four
Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Rose could not have been happier. Comfortably positioned at the far end of the wagon, she’d elevated her legs, as Leana insisted. The last three bags of her father’s gold, wrapped in old plaids, formed an ideal footrest. Just as they’d made a fine seat cushion when her father searched her room at the Murray Arms.
Lachlan McBride had not discovered her secret. Neither had Leana nor Jamie. Rose intended her record to remain spotless on that score. Three more collection boxes, and she’d be set free from his gold and her guilt forever. The witch’s knotted cord was not so easily discarded. Too evil to be placed inside a kirk, too hazardous to be left lying about, the gold cord needed to be buried in unhallowed ground. When the opportunity presented itself, Rose would see to it.
She was convinced that sitting on the coins, hard as they were, was not what had caused her spotty bleeding. “Not uncommon,” Leana had said. Rose trusted her sister completely on such matters, opposing her on one point only: She would not tell Jamie. Not until they reached Glentrool and all his concerns about Evan were resolved. Besides, she’d not noticed a single spot of blood since early that morning and might never see another. Why trouble her husband and embarrass herself needlessly?
At peace with her decision, Rose leaned back, basking in the Galloway sunshine. The skies were utterly clear, the air freshened by the winds off Fleet Bay. Rising high above the hills, the Castle of Cardoness dominated the scenery with its stark stone walls. Brief glimpses of the water came and went as they rolled along the shore—one minute rocky, the next boggy and full of dangerous channels that changed with the tides.
Annabel kept a watchful eye on Ian, lest he crawl too near the edge of the wagon. The maids amused him with cradlesongs and hearthside tales, using hands and fingers to act out a favorite old rhyme.
This is the lady’s knife and fork,
And this is the lady’s table;
This is the lady’s looking glass,
And this is the baby’s cradle.
At the word “cradle,” they pointed to Ian’s old oaken bed—no longer a repository for stolen goods—and he shook his head.
Rose laughed. “That cradle is too small for you, isn’t it, dear boy? Don’t grow up too soon, or your twin brothers won’t be able to keep up with you.” Before Annabel or Eliza caught her slip of the tongue, Rose pointed to the bay, hoping to distract them. “Look, there are Mr. Murray’s islands!” She squinted across the broad expanse of water. “They say on a clear day you can see the Isle of Man.” What she really longed to see was Jamie, who was trailing far behind them, with nowhere else to drive his sheep except along the road. The wagon had not passed many vehicles that day or any herds at all. With the Lammas fairs over and the crops harvested, Galloway was at rest, enjoying the August sunshine before the days grew short and the green hills faded to brown.
Just past the ruins of Barholm Castle, Leana guided the wagon to the side of the road, then turned round to check on her passengers. “Jamie thought we’d spend the night on the high ground near Kirkdale, where the lambs might graze.”
“A kirk?” Rose shifted her feet, thinking of the gold.
“We’ll be sleeping beneath the stars, for there are no decent inns to be found between here and Monnigaff. And any farmhouses in this neighborhood would require more clambering over the braes than is prudent.” Leana’s gaze landed on Rose, her meaning clear. “Hang on to your bonnets, lasses, for the horses have a steep hill to mount on our behalf.”
Rose took Leana at her word, holding her hat by the brim as the wagon tipped back to a precipitous angle. Their horses, after a two-day rest in Gatehouse, easily pulled them up the hill. Blackface sheep bleated on one side of the narrow, winding road, while far below them a burn snaked its way through the wooded glen. Rose stared in amazement at the octagonal steading in passing, but her hopes were dashed when she saw the abandoned estate kirk. She’d find no collection box within its decrepit walls.
Ferrytown of Cree would have a preaching house, though, followed by Jamie’s kirk at Monnigaff. She would find a home for her last fistful of gold before the round turret of Glentrool came into view.
Leana eased the wagon to a stop on a bare, almost desolate rise surrounded by
a thickly wooded glen. Behind them were two chambered cairns. A row of standing stones guarded one of the ancient tombs, the gray slabs of rock stark against the blue sky. Far below them, the early evening sun gilded the bay, transforming it into a glistening pool of silver and orange.
Since both sisters had promised Jamie they would not climb down on their own, they sat on the wagon bed and entertained Ian. Annabel and Eliza spread out a blanket on a grassy expanse not far from the wagon and unpacked their cold supper, provided by the Murray Arms.
Within the hour, bleating lambs signaled the lads’ arrival. Rose stood with care, balancing herself against one of the taller trunks. “There’s Rab!” she cried, waving at him. She noticed Eliza had stood as well, shading her eyes against the setting sun to watch the young shepherd approach. Might the maid have second thoughts about moving to Glentrool if it meant never seeing red-haired Rab Murray again?
Davie Tait ambled toward them as well, and Jamie brought up the rear astride Hastings. They’d traveled six miles since morning; a short distance for wagons and horses, a long one for lambs. At Jamie’s command, the dogs herded the flock toward the burn and the lush grass along its banks. The men washed their hands and faces, carried Rose and Leana safely to the ground, then threw themselves on the outstretched blanket, eying the food with obvious interest.
“Beef bridies,” Rab said, reaching for the meat-filled pastry. “Haddock smokies. Och, sic a feast!”
Supper was consumed at leisure, served up with the herds’ stories of their adventures thus far. Rab was gregarious and Davie shy, but both lads could tell a good tale, encouraged by the rapt attention Annabel and Eliza afforded them and the eerie setting the cairns provided. Leana, meanwhile, had her hands full with Ian, while Rose leaned against Jamie and tried not to notice the ache low in her back.
With a cloudless sky above, the gloaming seemed to last for hours, suspending time in a perpetual twilight of purplish blue. As the light finally began to fade, Davie surprised them with a ballad. They promised to sing along, but no one did, letting Davie’s tenor float through the still evening air.
Whence Came a Prince Page 40
