Aubert had left a pot of fresh porridge warming on the stove and mutton pies for their dinner. Leana did not mind a quiet day at Glentrool with Ian all to herself. She fed, bathed, and dressed the lad, then sat with him on the nursery floor, telling him stories from the Buik, praying with him nestled in her lap, reciting a psalm she would teach him someday. Only six verses to learn and well suited for a son who had James McKie for a father. The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.
As the day unfolded, Leana’s thoughts kept turning to Monnigaff, counting each hour, guessing what Jamie might be doing, pleading for mercy. He would not arrive home until late in the afternoon—before dark, she prayed, for ’twas an eerie eve, Hallowmas. Though she had no fear of ghosts and witches, there would be tricksters abroad using the night as an excuse to cause trouble for their neighbors.
Leana and Ian ate their mutton pies and took an afternoon nap. Still the Sabbath travelers had not returned home. She thought of Neda’s saying—“Fear has lang legs”—even as she sensed her own fear running down the road to Monnigaff. Would Jamie’s plea find a sympathetic ear, or would Reverend Moodie chastise him for even considering marriage to a woman with a dubious past? And so close on the heels of his wife’s death? Rose, our dear Rose.
By the time the household returned, the sun was lost behind a layer of thick clouds, and the air smelled like rain. At the sound of their hoof-beats, Leana hurried outside in time to watch Thomas ride up first, a grim expression on his face. Then Ivy, riding sidesaddle, with Alec McKie not far behind her on the mare, both of them looking spent.
Jamie was nowhere to be seen.
“Mem.” Thomas dismounted, then bowed politely. “I’ve a letter for ye from Mr. McKie. Said tae gie it tae ye straight off.”
Dread, like a nimble-legged spider, crawled up her spine. Jamie, whatever has happened?
Thomas pressed the letter in her hand. “I’m sorry, mem. He bade ye read it as suin as ye could. He was … most vexed whan he wrote it.”
Leana stared at the folded paper. Sealed in haste, by the look of it, with a thumbprint in the wax. She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, recognizing Jamie’s bold hand at once. Did the minister say aye or nae? Marry now or marry never?
Though Jamie had written very few words, they struck more fear in her heart than any Hallowmas Eve cantrip.
My dearest Leana,
All did not go well. I must present our case to the kirk session. Since they meet in the morn, I remain in the village. Please God, I will prevail. Then I shall ride home like the wind.
Yours always,
Jamie
Eighty-Eight
Madame, bear in mind
That princes govern all things—save the wind.
VICTOR HUGO
He had no choice but to spend the night at the Cree Inn, the only public lodging in the village. The innkeeper, meaning to be helpful, had given Jamie a room on the first floor. Not on the second, where he’d stayed in August.
But it made no difference. The rustic walls and bare floors of the cramped rooms were all the same. Painful memories of Rose assailed him from every corner. One look at the steep stair, and he felt Rose’s coffin on his shoulder. The empty bowl on the washstand seemed to permeate his room with the astringent smell of lady’s mantle. From down the narrow hall came Leana’s whispered words over and over. She is gone, Jamie.
Jamie tried to sleep but could not. He prayed but found no peace. Tears did not lessen his agony. When morning dawned on Hallowmas, he settled his bill and quit the place at once. He cherished his memories of Rose … but not these. Not the final hours when he could not save her.
At half past eight he emerged from the inn and found the entire village painted in November gray. A light rain hung in the air, so fine it did not fall so much as rise, like mist. Smirr, Duncan called it. Overnight the temperature had dropped, leaving a numbing chill that seeped into his bones. The few villagers out of doors tipped their bonnets to Jamie as they hastened past. Being the laird of Glentrool brought him a modicum of respect. The family’s vast property would carry little weight with the kirk session, however. On moral and spiritual matters, all were equally guilty in the sight of the kirk.
Hidden inside his waistcoat pocket was a hefty purse of silver. If fined for his transgressions, Jamie was prepared to add to the parish’s funds for the poor. He carried a greater sacrifice in his heart: a desire to speak the truth, whatever it might cost him. In the dark hours of the night he’d written his thoughts on paper, now tucked in his pocket. Though he could not know what questions the kirk session would pose, Jamie knew what he’d come to tell them.
Headed for the manse, he passed the oak where he’d buried the gold cord from Lachlan’s thrifite and the marketplace where he’d knelt in the dust and surrendered his sword to Evan. A village brimming with recollections, Monnigaff. All of them overshadowed by the one that drew him to the kirkyard along a familiar path: beyond the yew tree, not far from the red sandstone monument raised by the Chesneys, in sight of the Penkill Burn.
He knelt in the damp sod and ran his gloved hand over the carved roses, recalling Leana’s fingers tracing the mason’s sketch. His throat tightened anew. “We both miss you, beloved.” Brushing a few stray leaves from the headstone, he read the words again. Wife of James Lachlan McKie. Though he could not see it, a silver wedding band circled her gloved finger and would for all eternity. My wife.
He gripped the granite headstone. “Rose … dear Rose, I will always love you. Nothing will ever change that.” It felt good to confess the truth aloud, if only to the yew and the graves and the burn. “You ken I loved your sister once as well, and our love has been rekindled. I have asked Leana to be my wife. I pray that would please you, Rose. She loves you so.”
Jamie waited in the stillness. Not for a sign nor a voice from above but simply for peace to enter his heart. And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.
“Mr. McKie?” Reverend Moodie stood not far from him, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a somber expression. “The men are gathering round the table. If you are ready …”
“I am.” Jamie rose and shook the debris from his greatcoat, then followed the minister the short distance to the manse, his resolve growing with each step. I will go in the strength of the Lord GOD. His own strength would not serve him here. Neither his wealth nor his sword arm would suffice. Only the truth.
Mistress Moodie relieved Jamie of his damp coat, then seated him in the parlor with a cup of tea, compassion in her brown eyes. “My husband will call you in shortly.”
Jamie drank his tea without tasting it, his mind fixed on the task before him. He cared nothing about what the parish leaders thought of him, but he cared very much what they thought of the woman he loved. And intended to marry. Soon.
Reverend Moodie stepped outside the dining room and summoned Jamie with a nod. Though slight in stature, the young minister did not shrink from Jamie’s superior height as he passed him entering the room. Clearly, Stephen Moodie was certain of his calling, a workman worthy of his meat.
Coal burned brightly on the grate, warming the low-ceilinged room so thoroughly that the windows were covered with steam. Chairs lined the periphery, many more than would fit around the oblong table. Jamie took the seat offered him, nodding at each of the men present. He knew them, knew their families. Samuel McTaggart was as old as Alec McKie, though spryer. His piercing gaze bore no hint of cloudiness as he assessed Jamie. Richard Galbraith, the session clerk and dominie of the parish school, had stick-straight hair as black as the coal in the minister’s grate. Jamie thought the young man’s bony features might be due to a sparse diet; schoolmasters were paid a pittance. Richard’s intelligent eyes regarded Jamie closely, his pen poised over the session record book. The third elder was Duncan’s age. A quiet, thoughtful man, ever smoothing his full beard and adjusting his spectacles, David McFadgen would say little, yet miss nothing.
They were all seated now, with Jamie on one side of t
he table, the four men on the other—more like a trial than a meeting. Let it be a trial of his faith, then. A test of his loyalty to the Almighty and to the woman he loved. Jamie withdrew his notes from his pocket and laid the paper in front of him, folding his hands over the words, as if the ink itself might bolster his courage.
Reverend Moodie had papers of his own in hand. Letters, judging by the remnants of wax seals along the edges. “Mr. McKie, we are ready to begin.” The minister’s smile caught Jamie off guard. Seldom was any levity involved when the kirk session met. “You represent our first order of business for this month’s session meeting, which should be duly noted in the records.”
Across the table, Richard Galbraith’s pen scratched across the unlined page.
The minister continued. “Yestermorn you requested that the kirk witness your marriage vows, to be spoken by you and Leana McBride, formerly of Newabbey parish. And the date you intended for this wedding was …?”
Jamie cleared his throat, wishing he still had his tea. “The earliest possible date, sir.”
“And what is the reason for your haste?”
He did not flinch. “Leana is expecting our second child in early December.”
Samuel McTaggart’s eyes bored into him. “Obviously this child was conceived outside the bonds of wedlock.”
“Nae, sir. We were married at the time by habit and repute. And, by your mercy, we will be married again before the child is delivered.”
Richard Galbraith did not bother to hide his consternation. “Then who is the young woman buried in our kirkyard with your name on her headstone?”
Speak every man truth with his neighbour. Jamie said in an even voice, “She was my wife as well.”
“You had two wives at once?” Samuel McTaggart banged the table with his fist. “Mr. McKie, you are no gentleman but a bigamist!”
“I did not have two wives at once, Mr. McTaggart. For more than a year I believed I was married to Leana McBride. But the kirk session records stated I was married to her younger sister, Rose, and they held me to that vow.”
McTaggart persisted, “But which woman did you choose for your wife?”
Jamie knew his answer would not please them, but it would be truthful. “I chose them both. Rose first. And now Leana.”
“Are you suggesting you are without fault in this sordid situation?”
Jamie heard the incredulity in Richard Galbraith’s voice and did not blame him. A stranger tale of matrimony did not exist in all Christendom. He unfolded his hands and pulled his paper into view. The elders had given him the perfect opening; it was time to walk through it.
“Gentlemen, I am completely at fault. I have in various ways failed both the women I have loved. As to the exact details of my marriages, I would refer you to the Newabbey parish records. I am certain Reverend John Gordon would be willing to provide a copy.”
The minister patted his stack of papers. “He already has. I’ve shared the contents with the elders. Continue, Mr. McKie.”
They knew the whole of it, then.
Jamie looked down at his paper. Two lists made in the dark of the night. He began with the harder of the two.
“I have before me a brief list of my transgressions. Were I to tally them all, there would not be paper enough to hold them.” Though his heart was pounding, his voice remained calm. “I deceived my father. And I robbed my brother of his inheritance.” No one seemed surprised or asked for details. All of Monnigaff had heard the story. “To their eternal credit, both men have forgiven me.”
McTaggart flapped his hand. “Go on, Mr. McKie.”
The list did not get easier. “I shirked my responsibilities as husband to Leana by continuing to behave like a suitor with her younger sister, Rose, even though Leana was carrying my heir.” They had not heard that. Shame heated his neck and crawled up his face. “When Leana was sentenced to three Sabbaths on the cutty stool for hochmagandy, I supported her, but I did not do what I should have done.”
“And what was that, Mr. McKie?”
“I should have taken her place.”
The room fell silent.
Looking down at his scribbling, Jamie could only see how many sins he’d omitted from his list.
“The Newabbey parish records confirm all that Mr. McKie has confessed.” Reverend Moodie consulted his notes, then pushed the stack of papers aside. “I also have two letters. One from Reverend John Gordon dated the twenty-third of August, and one from Reverend Dr. John Scott of Twyneholm, dated the first of July. The second letter was actually written to John Gordon, but he forwarded it to me upon my recent inquiry concerning Miss McBride.” He looked up. “When a woman arrives in my parish with child but without a husband, I have a right to ask questions. Both these letters address the moral standing of Leana McBride.”
“No woman stands higher.” Jamie looked the four of them in the eye. “The Buik says, ‘a gracious woman retaineth honour.’ These, then, are the graces of Leana McBride.” He stood without thinking, the scrape of his chair echoing in the quiet room.
Jamie gripped the second list in his hand.
“She loves unconditionally.” His throat began to squeeze shut. You loved me, Leana, even when I did not love you.
“She extends mercy.” You do, beloved. Always. The list started to swim.
“She binds the wounds of the hurting. She comforts the afflicted.” You cared for our Rose. And for me.
“She is the finest of mothers and the kindest of wives.” And far more than I deserve. He folded his list with care, then placed it inside his waistcoat.
Jamie met each man’s startled gaze without apology. “Kindly permit me to marry this gracie woman without delay. For I am confident that the letters you hold attest to all I have said.”
Reverend Moodie smiled. More broadly this time. “You are correct, sir. Both these men, who are highly esteemed ministers of the gospel, state emphatically that Leana McBride is a woman after God’s own heart. Imperfect, as we all are. Forgiven, as we all must be. We are fortunate to have her in our parish.”
As abruptly as he’d stood, Jamie resumed his seat, taking his first full breath in several minutes. “Are you saying that … we may marry? Without impediment?”
David McFadgen finally spoke, addressing the other elders. “What of his hurry to wed while he is still in mourning for his first … ah, his other … wife? Should we allow it, gentlemen?”
Reverend Moodie pursed his lips for a moment. “Mr. McKie’s fond regard and respect for his late wife is obvious. So are his responsibilities to Leana McBride and the impending birth of their child. ’Tis a hasty wedding, aye, and there are social implications. But nothing that falls under the authority of the kirk.” The minister almost smiled. “You will be gossiped about, Mr. McKie, but I suspect you’ve grown accustomed to that.”
Jamie restated his question, still in disbelief. “Then Leana and I will be permitted to marry at once?”
The minister nodded toward the session clerk. “Provided you have the cryin siller for Mr. Galbraith, required for the reading of your banns …”
Jamie was already pulling his purse from beneath his waistcoat. Beloved, they have agreed. They have agreed!
Richard Galbraith laid down his pen in the seam of his record book to receive Jamie’s silver. “If it suits you, I will read the banns on the first three Sundays in November with the expectation that you will marry shortly thereafter.” He slipped the coins in a small collection box and noted the payment in his records, watched carefully by Jamie. There would be no clerical errors made concerning this wedding. “You’ll pardon me for saying so, Mr. McKie, but why would so virtuous a woman want you for a husband?”
Jamie laughed, blinking away the last vestige of tears. “That, sir, is a question you will have to ask her.” He put away his purse. It was lighter now, his heart more so. “I do have a question for you, Reverend. If you had these letters in your possession and knew all the facts before I arrived—”
�
��Then why did I invite you here? I had two outcomes in mind, Mr. McKie. As a leading figure in our parish, you deserved an honest hearing. Rumors cannot put down roots where truth has first been planted.” The elders grunted in agreement. “And to be quite frank”—the minister’s brown eyes twinkled—“I wanted to see what kind of man you are. A test of your mettle, if you will.”
Jamie, half standing, hesitated. “And?”
“You passed, sir. With rather high marks for honesty. And humility.” Reverend Moodie walked round the table and offered Jamie his hand. His attentive wife stood at the door, Jamie’s greatcoat in her arms. “I am certain Miss McBride is waiting to hear of our decision. Are you homeward bound?”
“Aye, sir.” Jamie smiled as he reached for his coat. “Like the wind.”
Eighty-Nine
Blaw yer pipes and beat yer drum,
The best o’ life is yet to come.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
A capricious wind blew across the loch as Leana paced up and down the pier, her cloak wrapped snugly round her shoulders and neck, the hem brushing the damp stones at her feet. Her steps were slow and cadenced, like a woman walking a baby. Or like a bride dancing. Please, may it be so! If the kirk session allowed it. If the Almighty answered her prayers. On thee do I wait all the day.
’Twas noon. The smirr had dissipated, leaving the air chilly, breezy, and moist. Jamie would be vexed with her for waiting out of doors. But the pier was the best vantage point for watching his approach. If she waited in the drawing room, she would not know until he walked through the door what their future might hold. This way, she would know by his very riding posture what the kirk had decided and have a moment to digest the news before they stood face to face. Hurry, my love.
As if in answer, the distant thunder of Hastings’s hooves echoed against the hills, carrying across the loch. Her heart pounded in a matching rhythm as she turned due west. Jamie was at a full gallop. Did that bode well? Or was he riding hard out of anger and frustration? Because the session had refused. Because the two of them could not marry.
Whence Came a Prince Page 54
