Fair Is the Rose (61 page)

“What say you, Dr. Gilchrist?” Rose prompted him after several more minutes. “Will I heal?”

“You shall, in good time.” He straightened, yanking on his cuffs. “As to that … that other matter from my last visit, we shall soon have our answer, won’t we? Now that you are married.”

Rose thought of the slight stain on her nightgown yestermorn. “I’m afraid I already have the answer.” Surely he would grasp her meaning and not ask for embarrassing details. But he was a doctor, he reminded her, to whom such details mattered. Her face heating, she described the dreary onset of her monthly courses. It was only then that she realized a curious fact: Neither her gown nor her sheets bore such evidence this morning.

When she told him so, he arched his brows. “Is that right?” He touched her neck, where her heart beat against his fingertips. “Other than your mishap on the hill, how have you been feeling the last few days, Mistress McKie? Lightheaded? A wee nauseous? Any tenderness?”

“Aye,” she said cautiously, not giving hope any room to grow inside her. “A bittie of all those things.” The notion of breakfast
had
drawn her stomach into a knot. And when Annabel had tied her stays that morning, hadn’t she noticed some discomfort and assumed it was naught but her bruises?

“Well then.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “The situation bears watching, I’d say. Wait a week or two and see if you notice additional changes. Sleepiness, for one. Changes in your appetite.”

Rose could barely form the words. “Doctor, are you saying …”

He held up a cautionary finger. “I’m only saying wait and see, Mistress McKie. It could be nothing more than the trauma of your fall.” He stepped back, glancing at the door as Neda appeared with a tea tray, then turned to give her a solemn wink. “Though I’d be pleased to see my original prognosis proven wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” Neda asked the minute the doctor took his leave. “Is it yer knee that’s worryin’ the man? Or that gash in yer bonny neck?”

“Nae, my knee will mend. So will my neck.” Rose looked away, lest her jubilant thoughts be written across her face.
A week or two?!
Was Dr. Gilchrist daft? She’d be hard pressed to wait two days.

But wait she did, two verra long weeks. Her courses did not return, nor did her morning appetite.
It could be the tumble I took
, she told herself, then realized her knee was nearly healed.
Maybe ’tis the last vestige of the croup
, she decided, even as she winced when she held Ian tightly against her breasts.
Or it could be
 … 
it could be
 … She could not bring herself even to
think
of such a possibility. Instead she hid her smile behind her napkin at table and dried her tears at odd hours of the day, praying fervently to the One who held sway o’er her womb.
Please. Please
.

The morning came when she could not lift her bleary head from her pillow, certain that her skin was the color of dried thistle and her stomach full of haggis. ’Twas the happiest day of her life. “ ’Tis
true!
” she whispered to the ceiling over her box bed and the heavens beyond, tears soaking her pillow. “I shall be a mother! A
mother!
”

’Twas a gift, this child in her womb. Not from Jamie, and certainly not from Lillias Brown. Nae, ’Twas from God alone.
Bethankit!

Neda was the first to suspect the truth. “Ye’re lookin’ a bit fauchie,” she said as they stood in the kitchen that forenoon. She grasped Rose’s chin and eyed her closely. “Take ye a turn in the garden afore dinner, lass. Get a bit o’ color in yer cheeks.” Neda’s gaze narrowed. “Or is there some guid purpose tae yer wan face?”

“Purpose?” Rose echoed, blinking innocently. “None that I ken.”

Jamie was not so easily put off when they went walking in the orchard later that afternoon. Sunshine poured through the white apple blossoms, dappling his face with patches of light. “You’re keeping a saicret from me, Rose,” he insisted, though his tone was not unkind. “As your husband, I trust you will inform me of anything of consequence.”

She stopped to look up at him, gauging his mood. Would he welcome her news or think only of Leana in distant Twyneholm? Might it spur him toward love or drive him away forever?
Och!
’Twas enough to carry his son in her arms and his seed in her womb without bearing the weight of fear as well. She would throw caution to the Galloway winds and tell him.

“Jamie, I
do
have a saicret.” Rose slid her hands inside his, reveling in their rough strength. “A canny lad like you has nae doubt jaloused
what I’m about to tell you.” Though he did not pull her closer, she had his complete attention. “You’ll remember Dr. Gilchrist came in February and gave me some terrible news.”

Sympathy shone in his eyes. “About your being barren?”

“Aye.” She took a steadying breath, watching his face. “He was … wrong.”

Jamie gripped her hands. “Meaning you’re …”

Rose nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Did the hope in his voice match her own?

He planted a fervent kiss on her forehead. “Rose, that is … wonderful news.”

“Aye, ’Tis.” She could barely see him through a shimmer of tears. “Oh, Jamie, I hoped you might be … glad.”

“
Glad?
” He pulled her into his arms. “I am more than that, lass. Whether son or daughter, ’Tis a blessing from God.”

She sank into his embrace, knowing he would not mind if her tears dampened his shirt. “ ’Twill be another week or two before we may know for certain,” she cautioned him, though her heart was as sure as if she already held the babe in her arms.
A son
. She was convinced of that as well.
Jamie’s. And mine
.

Jamie leaned back to gaze down at her. “Shall we keep this our saicret then?” When she nodded, he said nothing for a moment, though his brow creased. “Your father must be the first to know,” he finally said. “I’ll not inform him until after we’ve made our arrangements to leave for Glentrool. Then we’ll tell Neda, Duncan, and the others.” He held up a finger in mock warning. “Not a word until I say so.”

“Agreed.” Rose bit her tongue before she asked, “But what of Leana? When shall I tell her?” There would be time enough to write before they left Auchengray. Rose imagined Leana unfolding such a letter, standing by Burnside’s meager firelight to read it. Would her sister be happy for her? Or devastated at the news?
Leana, forgive me
. That’s how she would begin the letter.
‘Tis God’s faithfulness, not my own. I will cherish this child as I cherish your Ian. For I love him dearly, my sister. As I love you
.

From behind them came the snap of a twig. “Ye’ll forgive an auld
woman for visitin’ whaur she’s not invited.” They both turned to find Neda moving between the flowering trees, a fretful Ian in her arms and a look of chagrin on her face. “None of the lasses could make the boy happy. He’s wantin’ his mither and faither, is all.”

Jamie stepped back and winked at Rose, well out of Neda’s sight. “Here’s the mother of the hour.”

Her throat tightened.
My sweet Ian
. Was she truly his mother now? Ever since they’d tumbled down the hill, he seemed hesitant around her, and no wonder. Rose reached out her hands to him and her heart as well. “Will you trust me, Ian?” she said softly, brushing away the last of her tears. “Will you let me hold you if I promise never to let go?”

Please, God. Let him come to me. Let him forgive me
.

Ian blinked at her with Leana’s blue gray eyes. Bright and clear. His dear mouth, so like Jamie’s, smiled at her.
Smiled!
And when she stretched out her arms, Ian stretched out his. “Ma-ma-ma-ma!” he squealed and fell into her embrace.

Author Notes

Give me but one hour of Scotland,
Let me see it ere I die.

W
ILLIAM
E
DMONDSTOUNE
A
YTOUN

An hour, a day, a week, a year—one can never get enough of Scotland. From Glasgow to Edinburgh, Skye to Aberdeen, Inverness to Dumfries, I have traversed my adopted country in every season, taken copious notes, and snapped endless photos, endeavoring to make Scotland come alive for my readers.

Alas, what I could
not
manage was a visit to the eighteenth century, so I depended on antiquarian books for my inspiration. A growing resource library of six hundred titles, including Andrew Edgar’s
Old Church Life in Scotland
(1885) and John Watson’s
The Scot of the Eighteenth Century
(1907), served as a valuable passport for traveling through time and place.

No matter which book I turned to, one truth resounded: From the Reformation to the early nineteenth century, the kirk held sway in Scottish society. No law was higher, and no voice spoke with more authority. The kirk sessions did indeed require the reading of
banns
to announce a pending marriage and the subscribing of
bands
to hold a sinner to his or her promise never to commit certain offenses again. I adapted Leana’s band from one recorded in Mauchline parish in 1749 by a shoemaker who had insulted the minister and cursed his mother—grave offenses in his day. His pledge was signed simply
A.B
.

The Scottish
Paraphrases
is a collection of the earliest hymns of the Church of Scotland, though many congregations would have insisted on singing only the metrical psalms. Two hymns featured in
Fair Is the Rose
are from the 1745 edition. According to Douglas Maclagan’s
The Scottish Paraphrases
(1889), the author of the hymn in
chapter 7
is unknown, and the hymn in
chapter 48
was written by the beloved hymnist Isaac Watts (1674–1748).

The descriptions of Lillias Brown and her eerie cottage were based on several accounts in J. Maxwell Wood’s
Witchcraft and Superstitious Record in the South-Western Districts of Scotland
(1911). Despite their healthy fear of witches, rural Scottish folk celebrated Hallowmas Eve with wild abandon. Robert Burns’s poem “Halloween,” featured in
Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect
(1786), details various customs of that unholy night, including some of the divination rites that Rose puts to use.

Sweetheart Abbey, where Neil and Rose meet for their autumn tryst, still dominates the landscape of modern New Abbey, even as its ruins grace the back cover of this novel. Founded in 1273 by Lady Devorgilla in memory of her late husband, John Balliol, the Cistercian monastery was wholly devoted to the worship of God. The Reformation of the sixteenth century brought about the demise of Dulce Cor. In 1779 the roofless abbey was acquired by a group of local gentlemen who made certain Sweetheart would no longer be treated as a stone quarry.

The farms, towns, and geographic features in
Fair Is the Rose
appear on detailed maps of Galloway from the last two centuries. The spellings used here are based on Sir John Sinclair’s
The Statistical Account of Scotland
(1799). Seldom did I write a page without turning to the volumes for Kirkcudbrightshire and Dumfriesshire. Truly an amazing resource.

Carlyle School for Young Ladies was patterned after similar establishments in Dumfries. Reverend William Burnside’s 1792 entry in the
Statistical Account
notes that “two or three boarding schools for the education of young ladies” existed during Rose’s time. As to the sort of instruction one might have expected from Mistress Carlyle, J. Burton’s
Lectures on Female Education and Manners
(1799) and
The Mirror of Graces
(1811), penned by “a Lady of Distinction,” were both useful and highly entertaining.

The
Dumfries Weekly Journal
, which Rose found so fascinating, was initially published in 1777 as the town’s first political broadsheet. Conservative, provincial, and always in good taste, the
Journal
remained in print until 1833. Though Queensberry School is fictitious, Queensberry Square is indeed real. Laid out in 1770 as a public marketplace, the square later served as a ceremonial parade ground for the Royal Dumfries Volunteers during the French Revolutionary Wars.

The “auld alliance” between Scotland and France, to which Jamie alludes, dates to the 1295 treaty between John Balliol and Philip IV. Over the centuries the loosely defined alliance waxed and waned amid a steady exchange of soldiers, brides, bottles of claret, and culinary arts. The French language traveled north as well; many a Scot would have been conversant in the language of diplomacy.

The names chosen for the characters in
Fair Is the Rose
should ring true to residents of Galloway. First and last names collected from tombstones and census records of the time period were combined to create our fictional folk. In
chapter 23
, however, a well-known historical figure makes an appearance: Robert Burns (1759–1796) was very much a part of Dumfriesshire in 1790. Living as a tenant farmer at Ellisland Farm in Dunscore parish north of Dumfries, Burns was a ploughman, a poet, and an exciseman. The Globe Inn was his favorite
howff
, or public house, and the snuggery his usual haunt. In the brief scene included here, Burns is celebrating a birthday—his own—since the date in our story is 25 January. Rabbie Burns would have been thirty-one the night he met a nervous Rose McBride at the Globe, which was indeed owned by a Mr. William Hyslop of Lochend in Newabbey parish.

Sir Robert Grierson of Lag (1655–1733), Steward of Kirkcudbright, was dead and buried long before Rose met Jane Grierson in Dumfries. John Mactaggart, in his
Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia
(1824), declares Sir Robert “one of the most infernal villains Scotland ever gave birth to.” A persecutor of the Covenanters, Grierson presided over the trial and execution of the Wigtown martyrs, was excommunicated as an adulterer, and later imprisoned as a Jacobite.