A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Why? I’d given him no reason to show kindness. This left only one possibility for his generosity. He must sense— as did I— that my partially completed painting was in some way significant. I had done what I could with it to this point, but the additional colors and brushes might make it possible to complete.

  Though his gift only added to the guilt I felt for my horrible behavior, there was clearly nothing to be done but use the brushes and paint.

  My evening meal remained untouched as I unfolded the sheet, anchored it between various pieces of furniture, and began filling in the detail I’d been unable to before. Evening turned to night. I lit several candles, noting that more had been added to my stack. Light spilled onto my makeshift canvas as warmth flooded a corner of my barren heart.

  I will thank Ian. I will somehow fix everything I’ve done and make it up to him. I forged on, filling the sheet with color as though my life depended upon it.

  Nine days later I returned from a day of spinning and found the completed painting had been hung on the wall. Ian again. I noted with disappointment that he was not in the room. Guilt and a sort of desperation propelled me toward the bed, which I flopped across in acute melancholy.

  My fingers strayed to my lips, as they had so many times the past two weeks. If I closed my eyes I could relive the moment of our kiss, every torturous, wonderful second. The last I would likely ever enjoy.

  To distract myself from absolute despair, I pulled a chair up before the painting and studied it from a new perspective. Aside from the stately tree, the scene now had other details, the brittle grass beneath and the headstones pressed therein. The rickety fence that surrounded the kirkyard, the kirk itself in the distance. And closer up, the initials on the tree, engraved by Collin so long ago.

  KCM + CIM

  1747

  The scene was still missing something. I closed my eyes, seeing the kirkyard in my mind, then opened them once more and stared at the painting. What is it? I repeated the process, this time focusing on the tree, as that had been my starting point. Brann’s name floated before my eyes, then settled on a rounded grey stone to the left of the rowan.

  His gravestone.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Katie, wake up.”

  The candle on my night table flickered to life as I opened my eyes to Ian’s face hovering above me.

  “What is it?” I sat up quickly, pushing myself back into the pillows, away from him.

  Ian’s smile tinged with sadness. “I’ve brought you a bairn. She’s a bonny little lass.” He held a bundle out to me.

  As I had in my dream I reached out, taking the child and staring down into the tiny, precious face of a newborn infant.

  “You’ll be a fine mother to her,” Ian said as I looked around the room in confusion and then down at the baby. Faint lashes lay serenely against pale cheeks. A dainty nose, rosy lips, and perfectly rounded chin confirmed his words. She was bonny. She also wasn’t mine. Relief swept through me. I didn’t bear Ian’s child.

  “Whose is she? Where did you get her?” I pulled my gaze from her face long enough to glance at Ian and catch the gentle curve of his mouth and the tender gaze in his eye. A new thought struck me. “Is she yours?”

  Ian’s head came back as if I’d slapped him, reminding me not of the time that I had, but of Collin’s reaction the morning at the carriage when I had all but accused him of planning to leave me to be with Mhairi.

  “I see your opinion of me has not improved.” The tenderness was gone, replaced with a scowl. “Her mother died in childbirth but, in the moments before, asked that the babe be given to you.”

  “And the child’s father?” I didn’t believe a stranger would simply give his child to me. To us. Ian was the laird. Perhaps the parents had been thinking of that when they’d made such a decision.

  “He’ll be along shortly to see the lass. He’s with his wife now, paying his last respects.”

  My heart throbbed, a swift, anguishing pain. Over the past months Collin’s death had faded to the dull, constant ache of loss, but imagining this child’s father at his wife’s side, holding her limp hand and brushing a kiss across her still forehead, hurtled my own grief to the surface.

  At least he has the opportunity to say goodbye. I doubted that lessened the pain of his loss.

  “Surely he won’t be all right with this arrangement.” My arms tightened possessively around the infant even as I argued against keeping her.

  “Brian has four bairns already, the oldest but five and the youngest not yet two.” Ian sighed as if imagining such a burden. “He cannot take on the care of a newborn in addition, not on his own.”

  Silently I agreed and felt a swell of compassion for the other, now motherless, children. “Isn’t that for him to say?”

  “Aye,” Ian said. “And what will he?”

  “That the child belongs with me— with us.” I looked up at him. In accepting her as ours, I would be accepting Ian as well, long past our year and a day. “I saw this night— the moment you handed me the child— in a dream weeks ago. Only I believed—”

  “You thought it would be our child.”

  “Yes.” Using the back of my finger, I traced the baby’s soft cheek, almost wishing she really was mine. Mine and Collin’s. It was startling, this pull I felt toward her.

  “What else have you seen?” Ian settled on the edge of the bed beside me.

  “Brann, twice. Near the tree in the painting. And just last week, his stone. Look there.” I raised a hand, pointing at the grave marker I had painted to the side of the tree. “The headstone on the left, the plain one, is Brann’s.”

  “You’ve seen his death?” Ian turned his head sideways, facing me instead of the painting.

  “Not exactly.” The babe stirred, and I wondered that our conversation had so quickly gone from her miraculous presence and the tragedy that preceded it, to Brann. “I saw that stone with his name on it, near the rowan in the kirkyard. I don’t think the stone is there— yet. But the tree is real.”

  Ian nodded. “I remember it from the day of the burial. You sat beneath it.”

  Not a pleasant memory. “It was also the place Collin and I played as children. Brann was frightened of the spirits in the kirkyard, so we felt safe there.” I smiled, vaguely recalling the days of Collin and me chasing around the stones. “It was also the place we were found by my father when he came to take me to England.”

  “Would that I knew where Brann was to be found,” Ian muttered. “I’ll set men out to hide and keep an eye for him near the kirk.”

  “I can’t imagine why he would come there.” I brushed a finger along the fine hairs sprinkled across the baby’s head. “Not when he knows this land well— better than you and the other MacDonalds who have only just come to it. There must be plenty of places to hide.”

  “Brann doesn’t want to hide. He wants to take back what he sees as his.”

  “But we have the castle.” I smiled at Ian, truly smiled at him, for once feeling no animosity between us. Whether it was because of the late hour and my half-awake state, or the wonder of the child he’d placed in my arms, or simply that somewhere between allowing myself to recognize all the good he had done here— and that perhaps it was starting to outweigh his former wrongs— I had decided to earnestly try letting go of my fear, doubt, and animosity.

  I’d had ample time to think these past evenings alone, and I realized that more than being afraid of Ian or even mistrustful of him, I’d been angry— because he had returned instead of Collin.

  “Little good this pile of stone will do us come spring when we’ve crops to plant in the fields and have men and women and livestock about on the land.” He leaned forward, head in his hands. “At present we are doing little more than biding time.”

  Hesitantly I placed my hand on the back of his head, drawing my fingers gently down his soft, dark hair. It had come in rich and thick as it used to be. Not yet long again, but covering much of his scar nicely. “
You plan to be here, come spring? You would not wish us to go elsewhere?”

  He turned sideways to look at me. “If you are here, this is where I will be.”

  My heart squeezed with the dual emotions of both relief and anticipation. As horrid as I had been, he was not going to leave me or my people.

  “Ian.” My hand slid from his hair to rest lightly on his arm. “I am sorry for what I said the last time we spoke. I was angry. I didn’t mean any of it.”

  “I think you did.” He looked away, as if afraid to confirm that. “You have every right to be angry, to hate me as well.”

  “I don’t.” I pushed the inkling of unease caused by his words to the back of my mind. What has he done now, that I don’t know of yet? Just for once, for tonight, I didn’t want to worry. The tension of months of arguing and constant fear had worn on me.

  The baby stirred again, one tiny hand freeing itself from the swaddling. I placed my finger beneath the outstretched palm, as I recalled doing with Timothy when he was a newborn, and the tiny fist curled inward, grasping onto me.

  “She’s so perfect,” I said, feeling an overwhelming sense of awe and responsibility at the same time. I looked at Ian, certain my expression reflected the panic I felt. “I don’t know the first thing about caring for a baby.”

  “I imagine you’ll learn quickly enough,” he said. “If you want her, that is.”

  If you want me? he was also asking.

  “I do.” I nodded, still utterly astonished at the immediacy and strength of my feelings. Would I have felt so strongly for this child had I not seen her before in my dreams?

  “There’s a wet nurse arranged already,” Ian said. “Another MacDonald woman with a bairn and milk to spare. Though she’s asked you only bring the child when she needs to eat. She’s not up to caring for another, beyond feeding that is.”

  He’s given me a MacDonald baby.

  I eased back against the headboard. “Will you stay with us a while?” I felt almost shy asking, when we had seen each other so infrequently the past weeks and had parted on such poor terms. Whether he had been staying away as part of my punishment, or simply to avoid another outburst like my last one, it had resulted in my wishing for his company.

  He hesitated, indecision written in the lines creasing his forehead.

  “Please,” I added softly. I really am sorry.

  “For a while,” he conceded. “I could do with some sleep.”

  Ian leaned forward to remove his boots, and I studied his profile. Dark circles rimmed his eye— he really was tired. Where had he been sleeping during his absence? His jaw was rigid, set in that stubborn MacDonald way, and there was a sorrow there that seemed to have developed since our last encounter.

  Little wonder. My words had been so cruel. I really had hurt him. The tenuous peace we’d established since our handfast had been shattered. We would have to return to the very beginning and start over if there was to be any hope of accord between us.

  Ian lay back, keeping on top of the quilts, then rolled on his side facing us. He touched the top of the baby’s hand where it curled around mine. “I don’t know much about bairns either, seeing as it was just my brother and I.”

  There was the tiniest catch as he mentioned Collin, but to me it seemed as if a curtain had been drawn back, revealing a stage showcasing Ian’s grief. In his still expression I read yearning for the mother he had not known. Guilt, still after all these years, that his father had sacrificed his life for him. Self-loathing that easily matched and even surpassed my own, as he held himself responsible for his brother’s death. There was loneliness too, and a feeling that all was lost and the future bleak indeed.

  My chest ached with the depth of his sorrows. I had not known, would never have guessed that he had been suffering so.

  I extracted my finger from the baby’s fist and placed my hand over Ian’s on the bed. “You’re not alone. You have me.”

  “Do I?” He gave a derisive snort meant to mask the hurt I’d glimpsed, and the metaphoric curtain closed swiftly. He pulled his hand from beneath mine. “I think not, Katherine. It is Collin whom you loved, whom you will always care for.”

  Denial formed on my lips but did no more. Ian was right. Anything I said to the contrary he would realize as a lie.

  He sat abruptly and collected his boots from the floor.

  “Ian—” I held a hand out to him. “Because I continue to care for Collin does not

  mean—”

  “It is not your fault,” he said. “But mine. I should have realized before I came here. Should have thought it through better, more thoroughly. If there had only been time. If I hadn’t felt your life hung in the balance.”

  “What could you have done differently?” My pulse fluttered, guessing, dreading, half-knowing already that he was headed toward some kind of confession. If he really did kill Collin... How could I ever care for my husband’s murderer? If Ian deserved all the guilt and self-incrimination I had glimpsed within him, what was I to do?

  “Many things might have been different.” Ian lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Which would have impacted many lives. I thought this was best, I truly believed... I swear I was thinking of your safety.” He reached the door and leaned his head against it.

  “Tell me,” I said, raising up on my knees in the bed, the baby still clutched to my breast. “Tell me what you were going to the night Niall came to our room. I want to know everything about Collin’s death.”

  A tiny wail followed my demand. My escalating voice had woken the child.

  “I’m sorry,” I soothed, looking down at the bundle in my arms. “Shh. All is well.”

  It was a far cry from it, and both Ian and I knew that.

  “Tell me,” I said, softer this time. “Not knowing is perhaps worse.”

  He turned from the door to face me. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “No,” I whispered. I was already fearing the worst, and the fierce look in Ian’s eye told me he was going to confirm it.

  “It doesn’t matter how my brother died. Remember Collin as you do. It is better I leave you with that at least.”

  Part Three

  Were it not for hope the heart would break.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Down there is where the horses are kept.” I angled Lydia toward the stables, just visible from our room. Standing at the window to ease her fussing was one of many tricks I’d learned over the past month. I bounced lightly and continued speaking to her in a soothing voice. “Your father has a fine horse. When you are older, we will have to ask him to teach you to ride.” The image of Ian as I had first known him in England came to mind. I remembered him in my yard, seated upon his stallion, the black mane matching his own sleek locks. Both animal and rider tall and proud.

  “You won’t need to ask.”

  I turned to find Ian in the doorway, his expression tender as he looked on us. “May I come in? The door was open.”

  I beckoned him. “Bridget has gone for more nappies and water to bathe Lydia, since she insists on soaking through her clothing at least three times a day.”

  “I believe most bairns are wont to do that.” Ian crossed the room. I met him halfway and handed Lydia to him.

  “There now,” he hushed her crying before it could begin. “Da’s here.” He settled in the rocker that had been added to the room since her arrival. I began removing her clothes from the line strung before the fireplace, stepping carefully around the cradle Ian had finished just last week. Behind me, his soft crooning began, soothing Lydia as nothing else seemed to during these evening hours.

  Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree,

  Thoul't aye be dear to me.

  Entwin'd thou art wi' mony ties,

  O' hame and infancy.

  Thy leaves were aye the first o spring,

  Thy flowr's the simmer's pride:

  There was na sic a bonnie tree,

  In all the country side.

  O
h rowan tree.

  How fair wert thou in simmer time,

  Wi' all thy clusters white.

  How rich and gay thy autumn dress,

  Wi' berries red and bright.

  Oh thy fair stem were mony names

  Which now nae mair I see,

  But there engraven on my heart,

  Forgot they ne'er can be.

  Oh rowan tree.

  It was my favorite of the melodies Ian sang, and I looked to the painting on the wall, the rowan beneath which Collin and I had played as children and upon which our love had been engraved. I wondered suddenly if the song had meaning to Ian too.

  “How old are you, Ian?” I asked, turning from the painting to watch him cooing over Lydia. Though he was Collin’s twin, I realized I’d never learned when their birthday was.

  “Twenty-nine. Thirty come May. Why?”

  “Was there ever a woman you fancied? Have you never been in love or thought of marriage or children?” His adoration for Lydia was apparent. Not a day had gone by since he’d brought her to me that he had not come to see her— to hold her and sing to her. I’d spent more time with Ian in the past month than I had in the three previous, simply because he wanted to be with the bairn. It occurred to me that I had no idea what his life had been like before I met him. What if he’d had a home and family? What losses had he suffered that I was unaware of?

  “There was someone— once.” A wistful smile curved his mouth.

  “What happened? Why are you not with her?” I felt a nudge of jealousy as I posed the question. Absurd. My feelings for Ian were not of a romantic nature. Still, we were handfast, and now we had a child to care for. We’d reached a state of cooperation and peace, notwithstanding our continued wariness of one another.