His father ate slowly, leaning over his plate at such an angle Jamie feared he might dip his forehead in the soup. Of all his senses, Alec’s taste for highly seasoned foods remained intact. But the hand holding the spoon trembled, and his aim was not always true, sending the spoonful of soup onto the table or, worse, his lap. Linens helped, but Alec still needed his valet, an Englishman named Gilbert, to set him to rights after each meal.
Jamie honored his father’s wishes: No special provisions were made at mealtime. Accidents were ignored and swiftly amended without a fuss. Soups and sauces were a challenge, but they were also what his father most enjoyed; hence, they were served.
In Jamie’s youth—which he now realized had continued well through his ordeal at Auchengray—he’d disregarded Alec McKie as weak, ineffective, useless. An embarrassment to the family. Now he knew differently. Spending time in his library, Jamie had discovered all that his father had accomplished in his earlier years. Seeing Alec separate from Rowena, standing in his own light rather than in her formidable shadow, had given Jamie a new appreciation of his father’s steady temperament. And compared to Lachlan McBride, the man was a saint.
Jamie finally understood the truth: His father was the wisest man he’d ever had the privilege of knowing. And the most merciful, for he had loved his prodigal son through it all. However many months or years appointed to him, Alec McKie deserved Jamie’s highest regard, and he would have it. A wise son maketh a glad father. Gladness was long overdue at Glentrool.
Jamie raised his voice slightly. “How have you spent the morning, Father?”
He pointed his empty soupspoon across the table. “Watching this fair lass dig her garden.”
I ken the appeal, Father. Jamie turned to Leana, whose wispy hair and wind-chapped cheeks gave away her morning activities. “Plying the soil again, eh?”
“Robert and I are creating a physic garden. I hope you do not mind.”
“Mind?” Alec was the one who answered. “We’re fortunate to have a woman skilled in the use of herbs beneath our roof. You’ll find many such plants in the Buik, you ken. Coriander and rue, anise and hyssop.”
“I cannot grow those in Scotland, Mr. McKie. But I’ll have agrimony and speedwell, meadowsweet and valerian. And chickweed to help you sleep.”
“That’ll do.” Alec continued with his soup, nodding to himself.
Jamie tried to sound nonchalant. “Has Robert been … helpful to you?” Respectful was what he meant but did not say. Thirty and unmarried, Robert was reputed to have an eye for the lasses. You’ll not look at this one.
“He’s a gifted gardener.” Leana’s response was more enthusiastic than Jamie had hoped. “His handbarrow is full of interesting tools I’ve not used before. Caterpillar shears, straw bells, and a clever transplanter with a long handle. I’ve managed all these years with a spade, a trowel, a pruning knife, and a garden fork.”
“And done quite well,” Jamie reminded her, alerting the maids to serve the next course. It was the first of September; Jamie had instructed the gamekeeper to provide woodcock for the dinner table since the bird was now in season. “Let Robert do all the strenuous work, Leana. I’ll not have you tiring yourself.” Or risking our child’s life. Or yours.
When she looked at him, it was clear she grasped his meaning. “I promise to do nothing but point. And let Robert plant.”
“Well said, lass.” Jamie trusted her implicitly. But he would watch Robert Muir. “Bring on the grilled woodcock, then, for my father’s appetite is far from sated.”
Leana was more talkative than usual through the meal. Though her dress was somber, her air was light as she shared Ian’s latest accomplishment. “He distinctly said the word shoe.”
Jamie pretended to look shocked. “Is our son old enough to wear shoes?”
She smiled, shaking her head. “The child has only just learned to stand on his own two feet, and then not for long. He’ll not need shoes until he is truly walking and doing so out of doors.”
“Is that so?” For a woman who’d grown up without a mother, Leana’s maternal instincts were impressive. “What a store of knowledge you have. Where did you learn such things?”
Her shrug did not hide her pleasure. “By asking Neda questions. By watching Jessie Newall with her bairns. A woman prepares all her life to be a mother.”
So I see, lass.
Leana was a living portrait of motherhood, her body round with their growing child, her face lit with expectant joy. Even in her mourning gown, even in her sorrow, her delight in mothering could not be contained. Nor would he ever want it to be.
After pudding, Jamie returned to his father’s desk—it would be some time before he could think of it as his—and tackled the basket of correspondence that had accumulated after his mother’s death. Since his father could no longer hold a pen steady enough to write, the task fell to his heir.
Notes of sympathy were intermingled with bills that would require his immediate attention. He’d nearly sorted through the lot of them when Ian crawled through the door of the library and headed his direction, as if exploring Glentrool unaccompanied.
“Who is this coming to see his father?” Jamie abandoned his letters and leaned down, holding out his hands. “Can this fine-looking boy be mine?”
“He cannot possibly be anyone else’s.” Leana stood in the doorway, gazing at them both. “Look at those dark eyebrows of his, and tell me they are not your own.”
Jamie held Ian up and scowled at him fiercely, which the child promptly imitated. “The lad is mine,” Jamie agreed, smiling broadly so Ian would too. “I hope our second child favors you, Leana.”
She started across the room. “Pale, you mean?”
“Not pale. Fair.” He looked up to make certain she was listening. “Fashioned in gold and blue, the colors of the sky.”
“Ah,” was all she said, though her cheeks were far from wan.
The hour crept past midnight, the house fell silent, and still he could not sleep. Jamie tried various positions, always ending up on his right side, staring at the door to the adjoining bedroom where Leana lay softly weeping. However light one’s spirits were by day, in the quiet darkness, grief demanded its due.
For once his eyes were dry; he did not share her tears this night. Instead, Jamie longed to go to Leana, to comfort her. To listen, as she so often had listened. To console her with tender words.
Comfort? Listen? Console? Are you certain, Jamie?
He was not at all certain.
About his work at Glentrool, aye. About his feelings toward Leana, nae.
When Rose was alive, his path had been abundantly clear: His love for Leana had been pruned to the ground and the roots left to wither, while his love for Rose had grown and blossomed. She was his wife. She was his love. She was his life.
But now his beloved Rose was gone. And though his love for her remained steadfast and his memories fresh, it was her sister who sat at his table. The mistress of his household. The mother of his children. The woman he had once promised, “I will always love you.”
And so I have, Leana. And yet, have not.
With a groan, Jamie shifted to his left side, turning his back to her door and his face toward the rising quarter moon.
Eighty-Two
For God’s rose-thought, that blooms in thee,
Will bloom forevermore.
GEORGE MACDONALD
Oh, Rose. You would love this.” Leana held up her gift for Jamie, then buried her smile in the fabric before someone heard her and discovered her secret.
“Ian, you won’t tell a soul, will you?” She leaned down to kiss his round head before he took off across the nursery floor on hands and knees.
When the laird of Glentrool turned twenty-six next Monday—the twentieth of September—his unique birthday present would be ready.
Leana was having trouble keeping her stitches small enough, now that her fingers were starting to tingle. The same numbness, followed by a burning sensatio
n, had afflicted her when she carried Ian. She had to put aside her sewing needle more often than she liked. And at bedtime she resisted slipping her hands underneath her pillow, or the pressure made the pain worse in the morning.
At least she was finally resting at night. After weeks of crying herself to sleep, Leana had come to a place of peace. The Sovereign One held Jamie and Rose close to his heart. She could trust him and let go. Return unto thy rest, O my soul.
Contentment had begun to seep into her life. And with it, a desire to create a peaceful home for Ian and for the child wildly kicking inside her. A woman’s seventh month was the most active one for her bairn, midwives said; the gymnastic display beneath her loose-fitting gown was proof.
Leana slowly stood, then took a turn about the nursery, following Ian’s progress. She thought it the nicest corner of Glentrool, though it had no corners at all. Completely round, the first floor of the turret served as an office for Thomas and Ivy Findlay, with a door leading out to the garden. The nursery on the second floor had remained vacant since the day Evan and Jamie had outgrown their nursery maid. Not an enormous room, like the others at Glentrool, it was perfect for a little boy stretching his legs. There was one window—slender but almost as tall as the room—made of-heavy glass with swirls in the center of each pane that caught the sun. As the window faced west, light poured in all afternoon, brightening the room considerably. A blue velvet drape easily dropped into place when it was time to sleep.
Rowena had done a fine job of designing a nursery. Thick carpet covered most of the floor, and the wall sconces were mounted far above the reach of little hands. A sturdy set of chairs marched round a diminutive wooden table, the edges of which were rounded and smooth. Rowena would have been a mother to be reckoned with, a woman who knew exactly what her sons required.
Behind a door neatly fitted into the curved wall, a spiral stair led down to the first floor of the turret. Dark, steep, and narrow, the steps were not meant for a child learning to walk nor for an expectant mother. Someday Leana would fly up and down them with candle in hand, but for now the door to the stair stayed closed.
She watched Ian pull himself up using the table, then release his hands for a moment. Ah, the look of achievement! He sat back down almost at once, but the freedom shining in his eyes gave her pause. Once Jamie McKie’s son could walk, he would run.
Since she could no longer safely lift Ian from the floor, Leana eased down beside him and invited him into her embrace. He came willingly, though he did not stay long, his curiosity outstripping his need to be held. Colored blocks and bright cups and animals on wheels were much more interesting than Mother. When he was ready for his nap, though, he’d crawl into her lap and sigh with the satisfaction of coming home.
While she waited for her son to wind down like his toys, Leana examined her sewing project and smiled again, picturing Jamie’s face Saturday next. An unusual present—he could neither open it nor use it. She still felt certain the sight of it would please him.
The idea had come to her when she’d finished altering all of Jamie’s sarks and begun digging through his mother’s old sewing kist, looking for remnants that might be put to good use. Beneath layers of linen, cotton, wool, and silk, she’d unearthed a treasure: an ell of heavy satin in dark green, woven with a claret design. The very same fabric used to make Jamie’s best coat.
Now the future heir of Glentrool had a coat just like his father’s, alike to the last detail. Making a pattern required borrowing the coat from Jamie’s clothes press while he was off to the village on an important errand and shooing Annabel out of the nursery for several hours. Fitting her wriggling son had presented a much greater challenge, but Leana had made a game out of it—“What is hiding in this sleeve, Ian? Can you poke your hand inside and find out?”—and soon had the coat styled to her satisfaction.
Ian would protest when she tried to dress him in anything so stiff, and he’d outgrow her creation in a matter of months. But the effort would be worth it to see Jamie’s face. Especially if it made him laugh. How she missed that sound! Rich, warm, masculine laughter, rolling from deep inside him. It made her toes curl to remember it.
Will you laugh for me, Jamie? Only then could she be certain that he, too, was starting to heal. There were hopeful signs. His appetite had returned, and he seemed happy to join his family at table or welcome visitors to their door. The family worship he led each evening after supper was well prepared and his comments sincere. He’d taken a bold step and invited the servants to join them. Not perched on rough benches along the periphery of the room, nor standing in shadowy corners, but seated at the long dining table in comfortable chairs. “We are all members of God’s family and equal in his sight,” Jamie had announced to their collective astonishment.
Each day he also found time to walk among the flocks, to visit with his father, to spend a playful moment with Ian. But he had yet to look completely relaxed. Instead, a stoic grief had etched new lines on Jamie’s handsome face. If Leana could, she would smooth them away with one of her potions. Egg whites mixed with alum and rose water, perhaps. She could not pretend her touch alone would banish the evidence of his pain. Or erase the memories of Rose that brought a sheen to his eyes in quiet moments.
Leana would not rush Jamie nor impinge on his mourning. The first moment each day when she thought of Rose, her heart broke afresh, realizing she would never see her dear sister again. Yet the cracks were growing smaller, and they healed a bit more quickly. Not because she did not love Rose or cherish her memory, but because she did love her sister and knew how she’d want to be remembered. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning
Voices on the spiral stair made Leana scramble to her feet, using the little table for support, just as Ian had. She would not miss feeling so ungainly come December. By the time Annabel and Eliza eased the door open, peeking round the edge to check Ian’s whereabouts, Leana had stuffed Jamie’s gift beneath her apron, folding her arms over the suspicious-looking lump.
“ ’Tis time yer lad went doon for his nap.” Annabel swept Ian off the floor and into his crib with the ease of youth and a trim waistline.
Eliza eyed her mistress’s apron but said nothing. “And ye, mem, have a surprise waitin’ for ye in the gairden. Let me walk ye doon the stair.”
The door to the hall opened directly across from the bedroom that Leana shared with Eliza, as was the custom for a lady’s maid. Leana had a roomy curtained bed with neatly carved posts, and Eliza slept in a box bed tucked in the wall behind a folding door. Yet the room was so large they hardly heard each other turn over on their mattresses.
“A moment while I discard my apron.” Leana ducked into their bedroom to wrap the linen apron round the little coat. Moments later she emerged into the hall where sandy-haired Eliza stood, looking round as if she’d hardly noticed her mistress’s strange behavior.
“You say someone has a surprise for me?” Leana took Eliza’s arm with one hand, the railing with the other, as they walked side by side down the wide oak staircase that divided the great house down the center.
“ ’Tis not sic a surprise, syne ye ken ’tis comin—”
“My rose!” Leana released her and hurried down the last few steps.
“Aye,” Eliza called after her. “Mr. Muir’s waitin’ for ye.”
The lanky gardener was standing near her new physic garden, one elbow propped on his long-handled spade, a bare-looking shrub at his feet. “If ye’ll point, Miss McBride, I’ll plant.”
“Well done, Robert.” He’d remembered their promise to Jamie.
When the two had worked together on her herb garden, Leana had expressed her love for roses—one bright pink variety in particular. Robert in turn had boasted about the hothouse roses at Bargaly House, an estate built in the foothills of Cairnsmuir. “Bargaly’s gardener is a freen o’ mine. Whan next I visit the man, I’ll see if he has yer favorite.”
Robert Muir was a man of his word. He’d brought h
er an Apothecary’s Rose.
“We need a spot with full sun,” Leana explained, eying the rocky hills dotted with sheep. “Yet it must be protected from the wind.”
“In the glen?” He shook his head. “Sunshine we have, but ye’ll not easily hide from the wind. The east side o’ the hoose might be best.” He picked up the small shrub and followed her round the corner. “I’ve soaked the roots for an hour. ’Tis ready.”
Leana chose a spot below the dining room window, then had Robert cut the roots short and straight. When the rose was duly planted and pruned and the soil well watered, the gardener ambled off, giving her a bit of privacy.
Leana knelt and carefully placed her hands near the plant’s bare shoots, then sat for a moment. The September sun felt warm on her shoulders. Westerly winds passed her by, sheltered by the house that was meant to shelter Rose.
“My dearest sister.” She smoothed her hands across the soil, her eyes wet with tears. “Welcome home.”
Eighty-Three
How can I tell the signals and the signs
By which one heart another heart divines?
HENRY WADSORTH LONGFELLOW
He could tell Leana had something on her mind. Her hands fiddled with the silverware, yet she’d not tasted her breakfast. Not even Aubert’s freshly baked baps, warm from the oven and fragrant with yeast. Was she worried about not having a gift waiting for him at his plate? Birthday presents were not expected when a household was in mourning.
Before he could tell her so, Leana abandoned her place at table.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” She stood, a hint of a smile crossing her features. “I shan’t be a moment.” With a slight bob of her head, she disappeared into the hall. Her footsteps faded up the stair.
Alec looked up from his porridge, blinking in confusion. “Is your wife … eh, is Leana … ill?”
Your wife. Jamie forgave his father’s blunder, considering how easily she had stepped into the role of Glentrool’s mistress. Such confusion about Leana’s role was understandable.
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