Authors: Liz Curtis Higgs
“Aye, lass.” Jamie took her left hand in his, studying her fingers, rubbing his thumb over her silver wedding band. He was quiet for so long she wondered if she might need to find some other way to broach the subject. Then he spoke, and the pain in his voice was unmistakable.
“It has to do with the night of our wedding, Leana. And the kirk session record. Reverend Gordon says there is a discrepancy.”
Thirty-Five
Love can hope
where Reason would despair.
L
ORD
G
EORGE
L
YTTELTON
A
discrepancy?
” Leana did not like the sound of that. “What does the kirk session record show?”
Jamie said nothing at first. He seemed absorbed with her hands, taking his time, pressing his lips against her ring. Turning her hand over. Kissing her palm more tenderly still. When at last he looked up to meet her gaze, she knew the news was very bad indeed.
“The kirk record shows that on 31 December I married Rose McBride.”
The light in the room changed, as though all the candles flared at once. Leana was certain she had misunderstood, for to accept Jamie’s statement as truth was unthinkable. “The minister is mistaken. That entry was changed. My father assured us that he’d taken care of everything.”
“So he did.” Tension stretched between each word. “But the change was not recorded as promised. Nor does your father’s testimony appear in the session minutes.” Jamie carefully explained why. Told her the whole, dreadful story about a man named Cummack. An auld man, dead and buried, who’d taken the truth to his grave.
She listened but could not speak as her peaceful life began to crumble around her.
Please, Lord. It cannot be. It cannot!
Jamie’s expression was grim. “And so it comes to this, Leana: By law, I am married to your sister. To Rose.”
“Nae!” She clutched her skirts. “Then you and I are—”
He touched his fingers to her lips, as if stopping the word from being spoken might keep it from being true. “We are husband and wife by habit and repute. That is good Scottish law, Leana.”
“Yes, but if the law—”
“Everyone in the parish kens you are my wife.
You
, Leana. Not Rose.”
“Aye, but, Jamie—”
“All of Newabbey watched you bloom with Ian month by month.” He placed his hand low against her body, as though laying claim to her womb. “No one seeing the son you bore could doubt for a moment that he is mine. As you are. You are mine, Leana.”
“But the kirk …” She gasped for air, her throat thick with fear. “Oh, Jamie, tell me they can do something. Tell me this isn’t the end!”
“Nae, lass.” His voice grew ragged, the words breaking down as he did. “You are … my wife. You are … my love.” He pulled her into his arms, crushing her so tightly against him she could not move. “I will not let them take you away from me. I will not, I
will not.
”
She clung to him, needing his strength, desperate for his assurance. They stood there for many minutes; the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire on the hearth and her anguished sobs muffled against his chest. “What’s to become of us, Jamie?” she whispered at last.
He released her long enough to look in her eyes, then told her what must be done to appease the kirk session. “My concern lies not with the elders but with Rose. And with Lachlan. Who kens what either of them might say?”
Leana steadied herself, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and took a shaky breath. “If we speak the truth in love, Jamie, we cannot fail.”
“But if Rose speaks the truth—that she alone was meant to be my bride on Hogmanay—all is lost.”
Leana shook her head. “The truth is, she did not love you at first and encouraged you to love me instead. Remember?”
“Aye,” he groaned. “Would that I’d listened to her.”
“Never mind that now.” Leana smoothed a hand across his cheek, a sense of peace falling over her.
O my God, I trust in thee
. “The elders are good men, Jamie. Righteous. And just. They will want what is best for Ian. And for our family, and the kirk, and the glory of the Almighty. We will speak the truth, all of us.” She brushed her lips against his in a brief kiss. “Honesty will prevail. It always does.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Lass, you amaze me. Ever hopeful when there is no cause for hope.”
“There is always cause for hope, beloved.” Leana stepped back and began to pull the pins from her hair, shaking out the waves as they fell past her shoulders. “Even the grave is not the end.”
Brave words, and she meant them. But deep inside, in a well-shaded corner of her heart’s garden, a dark seed of fear landed on fertile ground. Once her sister heard the news, she might turn it to her advantage.
What if Rose steals Jamie from me, as I stole Jamie from her?
There was naught to be done but wait for Rose to heal. And then, when her sister was strong enough, tell her the truth. And beg her to be merciful and to do what must be done, for Ian’s sake.
And for mine. Please, Rose
.
Rose was markedly improved the next day. Limited to weak tea and lukewarm soup, she nonetheless swallowed all that was offered and nodded for more. “Sic a guid patient I have!” Neda crowed, tucking a bib round Rose’s neck and feeding her by spoonfuls.
“Jane,” Rose managed to say after her dinner, a bit more clearly this time.
Leana informed her they’d received no news from Dumfries. “But Peter Drummond stopped by this morning to inquire how you are doing. Might you like to see him when he comes again?” Leana was surprised when Rose shook her head no. Her sister had no other prospects, and Peter was an amiable young man of sufficient breeding and income to please their
pernickitie
father. Odd that Rose would refuse his suit, as though she had another in mind. Had she been introduced to a gentleman in Dumfries? Or did she still think she might claim Jamie’s heart? The kirk session had opened the door to that terrible possibility. If Rose continued to mend, she would need to be told sooner rather than later. Until then, Leana would shower her with affection and pray their sisterly bond would hold fast.
On Friday morning Rose was able to sit by the side of the bed without support and then, with Leana’s help, stand to her feet and walk a few steps. “Bath,” she croaked, and so the wooden tub was carried to
her room and filled with hot water by a household staff eager to see their mistress healed.
Leana herded all but Annabel out of the room so Rose might have some privacy. While the maid tended to Rose’s skin, grown nearly transparent from her illness, Leana washed her sister’s hair. She whisked the whites of half a dozen fresh eggs into a froth and poured it over Rose’s head. After letting it dry, Leana rinsed her hair with rum and rose water in equal measure and rubbed the strands dry with a towel, draping her hair across her shoulders. “See how it shines! Like a silk cape.”
Rose touched her hair and smiled. “Like Jane’s.” Sitting by the hearth in her old reading chair, she was swathed in blankets, for the February day was predictably cold and damp.
Leana produced a letter from her pocket, hoping it might bear good news. “Look what Willie brought from the village. A surprise, posted from Dumfries.”
“Please … read,” Rose labored to say, sinking deeper into the cushions. Her sister was far from well; the frailty in her movements and the sparseness of her words pointed to her discomfort.
Leana broke the wax seal—stamped with an elegant
C
for Carlyle—and unfolded the paper, recognizing the schoolmistress’s bold penmanship. “What a fine hand she has.” She placed the stool from the dressing table next to Rose’s chair and sat, arranging her skirts to keep them clear of the hearth. “Now let me read to you.”
To Miss Rose McBride
Wednesday, 3 February 1790
Dear Miss McBride:
We were all most distressed to hear of your sudden illness and pray this letter finds your health improving. Though we will miss your lively manner, we agree it is wise you remain at Auchengray until you are completely well. Do let us know when we may expect you.
Nous ne t’avons pas oublée
. We have not forgotten you.
Leana paused to glance at her sister, who looked anything but lively. She’d told their father Rose might be home for a week or two. Looking at her now, Leana realized two months would be closer to the mark.
Your letter to Miss Jane Grierson has been forwarded to her home in Dunscore parish. She, too, was not well enough to return on Monday, for she suffers from a persistent fever and vexing cough.
“Oh!” Rose pressed her fingertips against her mouth.
Leana put the letter down long enough to lean forward and touch her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dearie. It seems you were right to be concerned about Jane’s well-being.”
We have begun our study of Allan Ramsay’s
The Gentle Shepherd
. If your father has a copy on his bookshelf, perhaps you can join us in reading the happy trials of Patie and his bonny Peggy.
Neda had read the pastoral play to Leana as a child; years later Leana had read it to Rose. “Remember, dearie? ‘Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair, some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care.’ ” The words sank into Leana’s heart and took root. Did not her own marriage hover on the brink of despair? Every night in their box bed she soaked Jamie’s nightshirt with her tears, their passion tinged with sorrow. Rose must heal and quickly, for they could not keep the news to themselves much longer.
Please God, may some happy turn come soon
.
Thirty-Six
Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.
P
HILIP
J
AMES
B
AILEY
’T
was not the weather that had made her ill. ’Twas the stable lad with his dreadful cough. Rose knew that now. Leana and the others would soon know too if they put the pieces together. She vaguely remembered Dr. Gilchrist mentioning it, delirious as she was. Would that she had been unconscious. Would that she could not recall his visit at all. But she could, in frightening detail.
Rose shut her eyes for a moment, assailed with memories. The terror of being pressed back against the chair. The revulsion of the doctor’s strong fingers probing her mouth. The agony of his terrible blade touching her throat.
God, help me. God, help me
. She swallowed again, feeling queasy.
“I would see you well, dear sister.” Leana stood, assessing her with a practiced eye. “You need more warm liquids, salty ones especially, to heal that raw throat of yours. A tasty beef broth for your supper should do nicely. I’ve enough feverfew to keep the air round you fragrant for several more days. And I have what I need in my stillroom to make a mint salve for your chapped lips.”
Such devotion deserved more, but Rose only managed to say, “Thank you.”
Leana was busy looking about, frowning as she did. “ ’Tis too cold in here. I’ll have Willie double the peat allotted for this room.”
Rose raised a brief word of protest. “Father.”
“Aye,” Leana agreed, smiling. “Father will not approve of such extravagance. I will remind him that I have a renowned physician to answer to as well, for Dr. Gilchrist expects to find a healthier patient when he appears on Wednesday.”
Rose felt a sudden chill, though not from the drafty windows. “Again?”
“No need to fret, dearie.” Leana tugged the blankets closer round her neck. “I will see that he keeps his surgical instruments in his coat pocket, where they belong. I imagine the doctor will only need to peek down your throat long enough to check his handiwork.”
Rose stared at the hard-backed chair, empty and menacing, as if it were waiting for her.
Leana followed her gaze and guessed her thoughts. “I will ask him to examine you here, in this comfortable chair. Not in that wooden one. Better still, we’ll relegate it to the ground floor.” She waved at the oak chair, as though dismissing it from the room like a naughty child. “Annabel, please place that uncomfortable thing in the hall, and see that one of the men finds a home for it in the front room.”
Annabel swatted the chair with her dusting cloth for good measure before carrying it out the door.
“You see?” Leana bent to kiss her sister’s head. “Have no fear, sweet Rose. Dr. Gilchrist saved your life when I could not. He brought healing to this house. And he will again.”
Rose did not pay heed to the days that followed, for they blurred together without a Sabbath visit to the kirk to mark the end of one week and the start of another. Annabel stayed home with her this time. Her reading skills only allowed a few familiar psalms, but they were a comfort nonetheless.
Lord, be merciful unto me: heal my soul
.
Rose dutifully partook of salt-laden broths and honey-drenched teas, all served at the same warm temperature that soothed without hurting. Leana rubbed her skin with a cream that smelled of melon seeds—“ ’Tis not meant to heal your throat but to put the moisture back in your skin”—and her bedclothes reeked of feverfew, so often was the steaming concoction brought afresh to her room.
With each day Rose felt a bit better. She could take a deep breath without coughing. She could swallow without cringing. And she could
circle the room without losing her balance. Was Jane also healing, she wondered? Perhaps by now her friend had returned to Carlyle School healthy as ever, with her bright gowns and her bold laugh and her dark, mischievous eyes.
When Wednesday came, Rose woke early, restless, with no appetite. Leana knocked on her door at noontide and ushered in a broad-shouldered man with a silvery periwig fitted to his head.
Dr. Gilchrist
. A busy man, judging by the quickness of his steps and the sharpness of his movements. She was grateful he did not reach for his instruments. Instead he drew near, beckoning Leana to hold two candles aloft. “Open wide, Miss McBride. I will not hurt you. Not this time.”