He would wake tomorrow, and Rose would not be there. Nor the next day. Nor all the days of his life.
Leana touched his sleeve. “Jamie, I hope you will not feel I’ve overstepped my bounds.
“You could never do so.”
“I found …” She lowered her head, showing him her swirl of wheat-colored braids. “A wooden box … a small box for your … for.
My sons. He turned away, holding back the sob that welled in his chest.
She said nothing for a moment. “Jamie, there is no shame in grieving.”
Her tender words, like a key, opened the pain locked inside him. A sound came forth, the low lament of a wounded animal, trapped and in agony. My sons, my own sons. He had never held them, had never blessed them.
When Leana presented him with the tiny coffin, he wrapped his hands round the wood. May Almighty God bless you, my sons. The words of his father, of Alec McKie. Spoken too late.
She said softly, “The joiner will come in the morn, aye?”
Jamie gripped the wooden box. “Early, the minister said.”
“When he does, we will put this box beneath Rose’s head, like a pillow. For you and I both know that children who’ve not been baptized are buried beneath the wall of the kirkyard.”
Jamie only now remembered that unkind practice. “In the gloaming.”
“Worse, they could be buried on the north side of the kirkyard. ‘Amang the goats,’ as Neda used to say.” She let out a lengthy sigh. “Rose would ne’er want that. I thought it best if we simply buried her precious bairns with her.”
“Well done, Leana.” He gave her back the small coffin, afraid in his grief it might slip from his hands. “As always, you have thought of everything.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I did not think of how to save Rose.”
“Och, lass.” He cupped her elbows. “You did all that you could. Her death weighs on my shoulders, not on yours.” When she did not protest at once, his greatest fear was confirmed. Leana blames me as well.
Seventy-Seven
Words that weep and tears that speak.
ABRAHAM COWLEY
Leana sat in tear-filled silence, surrounded by candlelight, wrapped in memories: Rose running across the garden, her braid dancing in her wake; Rose bravely standing up to their father, then marching up the stair and hugging her tight; Rose holding a length of cotton next to her eyes and declaring the fabric a perfect match.
Come back to me, Rose. But she could not.
The hour was late; the candles were steadily burning down to stubs. Realizing the family did not have the customary lighting—remnants of Yule candles from the year past—the innkeeper had generously donated a dozen tapers from their kitchen stock. Since midafternoon the small group had maintained a lykewake, a vigil meant to guard a loved one’s body until it was duly buried. The maids had long since retired to their beds; only she and Jamie remained, seated on low stools a foot apart.
Her sister’s face almost looked animated, a cruel trick of the flickering candlelight. Bathing her, dressing her had been unspeakably hard. Leana had wept from first to last. And yet each moment had been sacred. To think that, while she held her sister’s body, her spirit was in the hands of the Almighty was more than she could comprehend or imagine. And comforting beyond measure: Her dear Rose was not alone.
The gloves were the most difficult of all. Mother. Rose. Running her hands over the seams, remembering the special times she had worn them, Leana offered a prayer of thanks that she had given them to her sister while she still could.
You are always so good to me.
Leana knew better. But she took solace in knowing her last gift to Rose was her best.
“Leana?”
Deep in thought, she started at the sound of her name.
Jamie’s voice was low, hoarse. “Will you inform your father? Or shall I?”
“It might be best if I wrote to him.” When Jamie did not respond, she added, “Unless you would rather—”
“Nae, lass.” He angled toward her, candlelight gilding the planes of his face. “The news will be painful enough without also being in my hand.”
“I shall put pen to paper at dawn.” She’d write Neda at Kingsgrange as well, then post both letters before they left for Glentrool. As concerned as Jamie was about his parents, they’d not tarry long in the village after the morning funeral. “Might you send a messenger ahead to Glentrool?”
“ ’Tis not necessary. We’ll be home by midafternoon. And my mother will much prefer hearing the news in person.” He stood, stretching his long legs. They had spoken little since midnight. Both of them were exhausted from lack of sleep and bleary-eyed from weeping.
“Jamie, why not rest an hour or two in your room? I will be fine here alone. Rose will be in good hands.”
He looked down at her. “No finer hands have cared for Rose than yours.” With that, he leaned down and brushed a kiss across her fingers, a gentleman’s gesture of respect.
She folded them in her lap, suddenly self-conscious. “A bit of sleep will do you good.”
He stepped lightly toward the door, aware of the hour and the inn’s sleeping patrons. “Only if you will promise to do the same when I awaken, for I’ll not be long.”
Jamie honored his promise, returning while the sky beyond the window was still the color of ink. Leana had no fear of being alone with Rose’s body, but she was glad to change places with him, if only to allow him time alone with his wife.
When she stretched out on his bed, Leana found it no more generous in size than hers had been. The sheets were still warm from his body, though, and bore his scent: a stray whiff of thyme from his bath, lavender on his pillow from the wound she had dressed, some plain soap the inn had provided. Most of all, the bedding smelled like Jamie, a masculine scent she had never quite forgotten.
Leana turned her head away, taking a deep breath of unscented air, clearing her mind. She was there for one purpose—a restful hour—so she might have enough strength for the trying day ahead. Closing her eyes, her hands wrapped round her growing child, she sank into the thin mattress and sought the blessed release of sleep.
“Leana.” A knock at the door startled her awake. “The joiner is here.”
She was on her feet in an instant, brushing the wrinkles from her gown, touching her hair. Was it truly morning? Naught could be done but a quick splash of cool water from the washstand. She’d see to a proper toilet as time permitted.
Jamie stood in the hall, waiting to guide her back to the room she’d shared with Rose.
Leana followed him in silence, preparing herself for the shock of seeing her sister’s body in the bright light of morning. So pale, so still. Leana turned away until the room stopped tilting.
“Leana, this is Mr. Gammel. He’s brought … ah, what we require.” Jamie stood back as the man wrestled a pine coffin through the door and placed it next to the bed where the stools had rested through the night.
Mr. Gammel eyed them both. “You ken what they say, aye? If a dead body lies unburied over a Sabbath, there’ll be another death in the parish within the week.” Not waiting for a reply, he leaned over the coffin lid, which was loosely attached with nails. He pried it open with his bare hands. The hammer in his belt would drive the nails home for good.
“Mind the sharp points,” he warned Leana, laying the lid aside. From inside his shirt he pulled a burial shroud of Scottish linen, as the law required. “I thought you’d be needing this since you may not have one in your plenishing.”
When the joiner handed the fabric to Leana, she put aside the dish of salt and earth, then enlisted Jamie’s assistance in carefully wrapping her sister’s body in the thin shroud. Her arms and her heart both ached by the time she finished. While Mr. Gammel was looking elsewhere, Leana positioned the precious box with her nephews’ remains, then stood back as the men eased Rose’s linen-swathed form into the coffin.
The joiner washed his hands at once—more from superstition t
han necessity—then nailed the lid in place. Every swing of his hammer made Leana cringe, every solid bang on the wood felt like a nail driven into her soul.
Two lads appeared at the door, bonnets in hand. “These are my apprentices, pressed into service as pallbearers when circumstances warrant. We’ll put the mort-cloth on when we get down the stair. I see you’ve a bad leg, Mr. McKie. Can you help us or nae?”
Leana knew how he would respond: Jamie was not about to let someone else carry his wife on his behalf. They worked their way down the stair one step at a time, Jamie at the last. He led with his left leg, no doubt letting it take the brunt of the weight, but still he grimaced with each step.
Standing at the top of the stair, Leana watched as they made the sharp turn at the landing. Eliza and Annabel were waiting below with Ian, concern on their faces. When the men reached the floor with grunts of satisfaction, Leana hurried down the stair behind them, relieved they had managed thus far. She was proud of Jamie, standing upright, his shoulders square beneath the coffin’s edge.
Mr. Lamont, the beadle for the parish, was waiting for them, bearing the deid bell in one hand, the mort-cloth in the other. “O’ course, thar’s usually a fee for usin’ the mort-cloth, paid tae the kirk session,” he explained, draping the black fabric over the coffin. “But seein’ as ye’re comin’ from anither parish, the reverend thocht it only richt not tae charge ye oniething.” He lowered his voice, muting the noisy bell clapper with his hand. “Forby, we found a meikle purse o’ goud in the puir box yestermorn. Yer shullin isna needed.”
Jamie and Leana glanced at each other, and for one small moment on a mournful day, they exchanged the slightest of smiles; Rose would be pleased that her gold was being put to good use.
Mr. Lamont started down the street first, taking his duties seriously, ringing the deid bell in a steady rhythm. At one time, the noise was meant to chase away evil spirits. Now the bell served as a signal to the village that a funeral was under way. Some would attend out of curiosity. Not to support, but to stare.
The four pallbearers followed the beadle, with Leana, holding Ian, and then Eliza and Annabel forming the smallest of funeral processions. Fresh tears covered their faces. Ian patted his mother’s cheeks and seemed unhappy to find his hands wet.
At her mother’s funeral, Leana had been but five years old, clinging to the hand of their housekeeper. Oh, Neda. Would that you were here! Hers would be the hardest letter of all to write. Leana had meant to do so this morning, but instead Jamie had let her sleep. Soon, Neda, I will write and tell you the saddest of stories.
When the funeral party reached the kirkyard, a number of village folk trailed behind, gathering in a knot near the kirk door. Reverend Moodie stood before a yawning grave, dressed in his black robe. His expression was somber, his manner reserved, yet his brown eyes shone with compassion as he welcomed the small assembly and began the brief service.
They stood quietly in the morning stillness, the clear skies brightly lit by the sun. Birdsong filled the silences, which were many; whispered conversation was frowned upon at funerals. Eliza and Annabel were together on one side of Leana, their tears in plain sight, while Jamie stood on her other side, hands folded behind him, his face a portrait of grief.
Leana pressed Ian to her heart, so full of pain she did not know where to look or what to do. My dearest Rose, my only sister! How can you be gone forever?
As the pine box was lowered into the grave, the minister stretched forth his hands, his words ringing with conviction, offering Leana the hope she desperately needed. “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you.”
Incorruptible. Jamie’s earthly inheritance, vast and prosperous as it might be, could not possibly measure up to the heavenly inheritance reserved for Rose. And for Jamie. And for me. And for all that love Christ’s appearing. What was property in light of eternity? What was youthful charm compared to the unfading beauty of Christ?
The truth comforted Leana on that bright, sorrowful morning and slowly dried her tears. Rose had said it best. I am not afraid.
’Twas not the end, but the beginning.
Seventy-Eight
I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aften whiles,
For the longed-for hame-bringing an’ my Father’s welcome smiles.
ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH
Home beckoned like a beacon. Now Jamie had to choose the best means to get there.
If he lagged behind, guiding the wagon north at its slow, rolling pace, then he’d be of no help to his family in Glentrool until later in the day. Something dire had happened to his father to keep him from kirk on the Sabbath. And Rab and Davie were surely getting anxious, unaware of the tragedy at Cree Inn.
Yet if he galloped ahead to offer his assistance and share the sad tidings about Rose, then he’d be leaving three defenseless women and his heir traveling on a lonely road through the wilds of Monnigaff parish with nothing to protect them but a useless pistol.
In the end, his injured leg made the decision for him.
Jamie had not ridden Hastings since before his misadventure at Moneypool Burn. Trying it now, he discovered the pain in his leg was torturous. Sitting astride the horse strained the very muscles he had wrenched in the stream. A swift ride to Glentrool was out of the question; he could not ride Hastings at all. With a sigh of resignation, he tied the horse to the back of the wagon and climbed onto its rough wooden seat.
“It seems I’ll he driving,” he told Leana, who’d moved to make room for him.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Shall I climb into the wagon bed with the maids, then?”
Please stay. That was what he wanted to say. Do not leave me here alone. After the most heartbreaking morning of his life, he longed for someone beside him who shared his grief. But he dared not impose upon her; perhaps she preferred to be alone with her thoughts. “Do what suits you, lass.”
Leana stayed.
At his command, the horses started off, crossing the Penkill bridge before turning north at Knockman Wood, leaving Monnigaff kirk behind. After the ceremony, Jamie had received halfhearted condolences from the few villagers who’d witnessed the burial. He’d paid the minister, the beadle, and the joiner their due and ordered a headstone from the village mason. Though penned in haste, he prayed Rose’s epitaph suited her. He’d not written one before and hoped he would not be pressed to do so again for a very long time.
Funerals in Galloway were usually lengthy affairs, allowing several days for the lykewake, with ongoing provisions of food and drink for every neighbor for miles. Jamie had neither the silver nor the heart for such a public display. He had lost his wife. He had lost two unborn sons. Only those who loved Rose as he did were invited to mourn with him.
It was noon before they’d quit the Cree Inn, having bathed, eaten a light meal, then packed their belongings for the last time. Leana had sent a hasty post to Neda and to her father and kindly wrote one to Evan for him as well. Lord willing, Jamie would not have another letter to write when he reached Glentrool. Brother, I am sorry to inform you that our father, Alec McKie…
The thought made Jamie shudder.
“Would a plaid help?” Leana started to reach behind him for a blanket. “The air has cooled since we left the village.”
He stayed her hand. “ ’Tis because we’re gradually climbing as we go.” He pointed out the ruins of Castle Stewart in the lea of Penninghame Farm. They’d veered east from the Cree for a bit, but soon the road would hug the river’s banks all the way to House o’ the Hill Inn.
Aromatic woods gave way to waterside meadows along the ill-named Loch Cree, little more than a broadening of the river. Half a dozen shallow burns tumbled across their route; all were troublesome to ford. Jamie walked the horses and empty wagon across the
rocky streams, then helped the women cross on foot and climb back in. He thought again of how swift his journey would have been on horseback—no more than two hours—and reminded himself that his first duty now was to his son and to those who cared for him.
“ ’Tis a fine prospect, Mr. McKie,” Eliza called out.
The moorland and mountains did have a rugged, uncultivated beauty about them. Enormous gray boulders, as tall as their wagon, perched on the gorse-covered hillsides overlooking the road. Where old trees had toppled over in the boggy lowland, the exposed roots formed fantastic shapes, grotesque and marvelous at once.
As the wagon skirted the Wood of Cree, the most ancient forest in Galloway, Jamie thought of Evan and the years his brother had spent hunting for roe deer among the oak and ash and fishing for salmon in the river. Had their reunion in Monnigaff truly taken place? It seemed a distant memory now; so did everything else, good or ill, that had crossed his path on the long trip home.
Only thoughts of Rose remained. Her face, her voice, her touch were carved into his mind and heart as surely as the stonemason of Monnigaff would use chisel and hammer to cut her name into her granite headstone.
Rose McBride McKie. Beloved Wife and Mother.
Jamie’s head fell forward, brushing the reins. Tears, unexpected and unwelcome, dropped onto the floorboards beneath him. When a pair of graceful hands slipped the reins from his loosened grasp, he captured them both and held on tight until the wave of grief passed.
“I’m … sorry, Leana.” He lifted his head, then turned to meet her gaze. “Sorry for being …”
“Do not say ‘weak,’ Jamie McKie.” Despite the sheen in her eyes, Leana had a confident look about her. “You are the strongest man I have ever known. You stood up to my father, yet bowed down to your brother. You buried your wife and sons this morning and must face the father you wronged this evening.”
“Please God, I will face my father.” Jamie could agree with that much. Leana had a way of phrasing things that made him sound virtuous, yet he knew he fell far from the mark. “As for my darling Rose …’tis my fault, Leana.” When she started to protest, he lifted his hand. “Do not pretend otherwise. Had I not insisted we leave Auchengray …”
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