Fair Is the Rose (28 page)

Rose stared at the cup of strained fruit and her sister, horn spoon in hand. Had it come to this, being fed like an infant? Mortified, she faced toward the wall.

“Please, Rose. You’ll need your strength if you’re to recover.”

She closed her eyes and waited for her sister to grow weary of persuading her. It was some time before Leana put aside her things and tiptoed out of the room. Rose tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. She tried to sit up, but her body would not cooperate. When she stretched out a badly shaking hand toward the abandoned applesauce, she misjudged the distance and knocked it off the tray. The pottery cup shattered, spilling its contents across the painted wood floor.

Leana returned at once. “Poor dearie. You were hungry after all.” There was no judgment in her expression, no scolding in her voice. “Let me clean this up, then we’ll see about a fresh cupful.”

Rose had no choice but to let herself be fed.

“I did this when you were a babe,” Leana confided, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “Neda helped me tie you into a high-backed chair with one of my sashes. I spooned porridge into your sweet mouth until your cheeks looked like a squirrel’s.”

Rose waved away the rest. It was too humiliating. And it hurt to swallow.

Leana did not argue but instead wiped Rose’s face clean, then found a brush and began pulling it through her sister’s hair in long strokes, humming as she did.

Rose did not have the strength to resist her, nor after a time did she want to. With her scalp tingling, she sank deeper into the heather mattress. Her eyelids felt sewn shut. Many minutes passed before voices on the stair caught her ear.

Leana bent closer. “ ’Tis the family, home at last. I’ll insist they not tarry. Will that suit you, Rose?”

She cared little who visited her bedside or how long they stayed, only that she might sleep. And sleep she did.

When she woke, even the gray shadows in the room were gone, and it was well night. Not a candle was lit, though she heard someone breathing in the chilly darkness. She mustered her strength, straining her voice to speak. “Leana?”

“ ’Tis I, Rose.”

Jamie
. Her heart thudded in her chest. “Oh,” was all she managed to say.

“Since you were well asleep, I thought it safe to take my turn by your bedside.” She heard the slight smile in his voice. “Leana is quite adamant: one visitor at a time.” A scrape of a chair and he drew nearer. “Shall I light a taper?”

“Nae.” She swallowed with some difficulty. Surely she must look as horrid as she felt. “Who … else?”

“Neda spent the first hour with you, then Duncan, then Annabel.” His voice was low, soothing. “Leana will come knocking any moment if she hears you are awake. You’ve slept the Sabbath away.”

To have Jamie so near, all to herself, and not be able to speak to him was torture. She dragged her hand across the bedcovers, hoping he might clasp it in his. Instead it slid off the edge of the box bed and dangled above the floor.

Jamie lifted her hand back in place, barely touching her. “Poor Rose. You truly are in a bad way.” He eyed her with compassion, nothing more. “Were others at your school ill? Before you left, I mean?”

“Jane … Grierson.” Every word was an effort. At least she would not have to explain that her sickness came from breathing the foul air of the wutch’s cottage. From swallowing her
eldritch
herbs. From riding
through a winter rainstorm. Rose counted it a miracle she was not already dead. And what of her dear friend? Had she recovered or grown worse? Rose managed two more words—“Write Jane”—before she sank into a feverish slumber.

When she stirred again, gray sunlight filled the room. Annabel was dusting her dressing table, lifting each item with care, putting it back in precisely the same place: the silver-edged hand mirror, the stiff-bristled brush and ox-horn comb, the wooden box of hairpins, the round tin of face powder, the elegant bottle that once belonged to her mother, now filled with fresh rose water. Rose watched the maid’s efficient movements, remembering when the girl had first come to them from Aberdeenshire, timid and clumsy. Since then Neda had taught her to read, to clean properly, to help in the kitchen. Her skills as a lady’s maid were less adept, but Rose would see her trained soon enough.

When she said the girl’s name in a gravelly whisper, the servant whirled about, her dusting cloth waving like a flag. “Miss Rose! Ye’re awake then. I’ll find Mistress Leana.”

“Nae.” Rose coughed, a terrible barking sound. When she’d recovered enough to breathe, ragged as it sounded, she aimed her gaze at the breakfast tray beside her bed. “Drink.”

Annabel complied at once, lifting a tepid cup of tea to her lips. “Steady as she goes.” Despite the maid’s efforts, the tea dribbled down Rose’s chin, staining her linen nightgown. “Och! I’m sae sorry, miss.”

The door swung open. “What have we here? Is Rose awake, and you’ve not called me?” Leana’s face appeared above Annabel’s shoulder, her expression more haggard than usual. “We’ve not slept a wink worrying about you, dearie. Come, Annabel, let me care for my sister while you finish dusting the room. We’re sure to have more visitors, for Rose was missed at services yestermorn.”

Rose shook her head, though it made her dizzy, and forced one word past her aching throat. “Nae.”

“Nae visitors?” Leana laid the back of her hand along the curve of Rose’s neck. “Perhaps ’tis best, for your fever has not passed.” She brushed a cool cloth across each cheek and round her chin, dabbing at
the spilled tea as well. “Naturally we’ll welcome Reverend Gordon. As to the others, suppose I have Neda fill them up with cakes and shortbread, then send them on their way.”

Rose was relieved to hear it. ’Twas customary in the Lowlands to visit the ill, to crowd the sickroom until a patient could barely catch her breath. She’d made many such visits herself; in the future she might reconsider. For the moment one matter weighed heavy on her heart, and that was Jane. She must write her at once, inquire after her health, and beg for her forgiveness. To think of Jane feeling this poorly because she’d dragged her off to find a wutch on a winter’s day!

She’d mentioned sending a letter yestreen, but Jamie had not understood. Rose spoke more firmly this time. “Write Jane.”

“Your friend from Carlyle School? You’d like me to send her a letter?” Leana deposited the cloth into a bowl of water, then dried her hands on her apron. “If you’ll tell me what’s to be done, I’ll gladly scribe it for you.” Leana returned a few minutes later with her writing desk, which she perched on her lap. “Now, say only what is necessary. I’ll flesh out the rest of it.”

For every phrase Rose forced between her parched lips—“Sick too.” “Very sorry.” “Please write.”—Leana penned a full paragraph, reading each one aloud, waiting for Rose’s approval. They’d no sooner finished the brief letter when Leana took out a fresh sheet of paper. “Dearie, I’ve discussed this with Neda …” Her voice trailed off as her earnest gaze studied Rose’s face. “We think it prudent you not resume your schooling for a bit. Suppose I write and tell them so, and we’ll post both letters at once.”

Even nodding her head required more strength than she possessed. Rose lifted her hand briefly, then let it fall. “Candlemas,” she whispered.

“Aye, we can enclose your offering for Mistress Carlyle to spend on candles for the school.” Leana’s pen moved across the paper in graceful sweeps. “Your friend Jane will no doubt be hailed the Candlemas Queen come the morn’s morn.”

Rose closed her eyes, praying that Jane would travel to Carlyle School on schedule, that after breakfast on the second of February, Jane
would present the schoolmistress with the largest donation of silver—the Candlemas
Bleeze
—and earn her paper crown.
Please God, let it be so. Let Jane be well
.

Leana glanced at the window, repeating the oft-told rhyme.

If Candlemas day be dry and fair,
The half o’ winter’s to come and mair;
If Candlemas day be wet and foul,
The half o’ winter’s gone at Yule.

“We’ll pray for wet and foul then, shall we? I’ve had enough of winter, and I ken you have as well. Father thinks it was your ride home in the chaise that brought on this unco cough of yours.”

Let them think what they liked. Rose would hardly dispute it, not if it spared them from knowing the truth. She alone was responsible for the sickness that crawled through her body like a serpent, wrapping itself round her throat until she could barely draw breath.

Thirty-One

I am not the rose,
but I have lived near the rose.

H
ENRI
B
ENJAMIN
, C
ONSTANT DE
R
EBECQUE

H
ow does Rose fare?” “Whan will she be weel?” “Is yer sister sae fauchie we canna see her?”

A shower of questions greeted Leana each time she stepped outside Rose’s room. Household servants, worried neighbors, farm workers—all loitered about the house, getting underfoot and pleading for news. Neda served shortbread and tea, but the well-meaning folk would not be moved, so great was their curiosity aroused by the strange malady come to Auchengray.

Murmuring her thanks, Leana slipped through the motley assembly in the dining room and knocked on the spence door, hoping she might find her father within.

“Enter!” His voice sounded more gruff than usual. She would tread with care.

Latching the door, Leana joined him by the small hearth. He sat in his favorite upholstered chair, its dimensions thronelike, nursing his morning dram. “Father, I’ve come about Rose.”

“Och!” He banged his pewter cup on a thin-legged table, making it dance to his disagreeable tune. “Is nothing else worthy of discourse in this house?”

“You’re right, ’Tis wearying. But my sister
is
dreadfully ill.” Leana folded her hands to keep them from shaking. He’d always affected her thus. She thought nothing of it, for didn’t all fathers strike a note of fear in their daughters’ hearts? “Neda and I wondered if Rose might remain home this week rather than return to Carlyle School.”

He shifted in his chair, the silver threads in his hair catching the hearth light. “But I’ve paid for the full term. Through Whitsuntide.”

“ ’twill be a week, perhaps two, and she will be ready to resume her studies. Rose is doing quite well, with her French especially.”

Lachlan McBride snorted. “
Sans valeur
. Worthless. Unless your sister imagines herself an aide to the Comte de Mirabeau.” He sipped his whisky in silence, though she noted the smile playing about his lips. “ ’Tis amusing to think of your sister in Paris, fending off the mobs, going without meat or bread, when she cannot manage a day without sweets.”

Leana tipped her head in acknowledgment. She knew about the revolution in France, of course—’twas the favored topic of discussion from kirkyard to drawing room—but caring for Ian had taken precedence over foreign politics. Perhaps when she and Jamie reached Glentrool, she might have more time for keeping up with such news. “What say you, Father? May we care for Rose under our roof until she is truly well?”

“Aye, if you must. Though I’ll expect some reduction in her tuition if she misses more than a few days.”

Leana looked down at the letters in her hands, wondering how to proceed. At Rose’s request, she’d added a postscript to the one for Mistress Carlyle:
Enclosed you will find your Candlemas Bleeze, with our family’s compliments
. Now she must make good that promise. Few things in life were more daunting than asking Lachlan McBride to part with silver. “Father, since the morn is Candlemas, ’tis appropriate that we send a … a small donation for Mistress Carlyle. Tradition, you ken.”

He abruptly stood. “My own daughter,” he growled, “telling me what’s to be done on a festival day.” Yanking his thrifite from the broad shelf above his desk, he unlocked the wooden lid and threw it back on its hinges with a thud.

From where Leana sat, the box looked quite full. Colorful Scottish guinea notes and coins in all sizes—copper and silver—nearly spilled over the edge. Stretched across her father’s fortune lay a thick, gold cord tied with knots. Had it always been there?

“Send the woman this.” He drew out two shillings and tossed them into her lap, closing his money box as quickly as he’d opened it.

“Very well, Father.” Leana held the coins in her palm, warming them. A shamefully small gift. She was glad Rose did not have to present
it to her schoolmistress in person. “I’ll ask Willie to deliver it for us with a letter.” She would not mention that it was already written, lest her father accuse her of scheming behind his back.

Lachlan motioned toward the door, the corners of his mouth turned down. “See if Willie cannot take some of those wastrels with him, before they demand to join us at our dinner table.”

She kept her tone even and her voice soft. “Father, they’re our neighbors, our parish friends. They’ll think well of Auchengray and of you if you simply bid them welcome. Thank them for their concern. Urge them to visit another day perhaps, when Rose is better. ’Twould only take a bittie of your time.”

He flung open the door without comment and strode into the dining room, waving his arms expansively and greeting their visitors with such a lairdly air that all felt they were standing, not in the mains of Auchengray, but in the gilded rooms of Maxwell Park itself. His smooth words masked the fork in his tongue that prodded them out the door. Within minutes they’d all departed, congratulating themselves for having such a fine neighbor.

Leana, watching from the spence door, was nigh to speechless at his performance. “Father, you amaze me.”

He brushed past her, a self-satisfied expression on his face. “ ’Tis a matter of giving folk what they want. Recognition. Some acknowledgment of their existence. A nod to their sense of importance, however poorly deserved.” He busied himself at his desk, straightening papers that were already neatly in place. “People are made happy by the smallest things, Leana. Take you, for example.”

“Me?” She touched her hand to her heart. “What small things make me happy, Father?”