Thorn in My Heart (10 page)

Too many earthly possessions turned the mind toward temporal desires and away from eternal truths, or so the Reverend John Gordon said. That explained why the collection box sat on a table inside the kirk door rather than being thrust in front of the parishioners during the worship service by an elder bearing a long pole, as in bygone days. Better not to speak of money and God in the same breath, the minister cautioned. “Since Im off to a worship service,” Leana murmured, straightening the brim, “
serviceable
will have to do.”

“What a dreary thought!” Rose appeared in the doorway, her hands folded around a flowered reticule, her rosy mouth in a petulant pout. “That old gown of Mothers again?”

Leana looked down at the faded blue linen and shrugged. “It was this or the gray serge.”

Och! That horrible thing? I thought Neda cut that up for rags.” Rose swept into the room, still shaking her head. The scent of heather, which Leana stitched into her sisters hems and cuffs, wafted around her. “We simply must ask Father for something from the household account. You help Duncan keep Auchengray's books in order, Leana. Isn't there a
bittie
to spare for new Sunday gowns and hats for both of us?”

“That would require Father to unlock his wooden thrifite. A most
unlikely event.” The key to the revered money box hung round his neck for safekeeping. According to Duncan, Lachlan wanted the key close to his heart: “Ye ken what the Buik says, Leana: For
whauryzi
treasure lies,
tharyer
heart
wullbe.
Yer faithers heart is naught but cold silver, lass.” Duncan understood his masters miserly ways, and so did she. Lachlan was not about to spend an extra guinea dressing his two daughters.

Leana shrugged. “Not this month, Im afraid, dearie.”

“Ah, well. No harm asking.” Rose giggled, her good humor already returned. “Guess what Susanne Elliot told me Sunday last?” Rose made certain to arrive at kirk early and linger late. The weekly exchange of neighborhood news in the kirkyard was the highlight of her week. “Susanne said a woman in Dumfries on the High Street makes the loveliest hats. One has an enormous brim…” Rose put aside her drawstring purse to create an imaginary hat with her hands. “It circles round the head, sticking out especially far front and back. The crown is flat— all the fashion now in London, Susanne says—and it's wrapped in silk ribbons that trail down the back. You tie it under your chin with a ribbon as well, a nice wide one in a big, pretty bow. Doesn't it sound heavenly?”

“Heavenly,” Leana agreed. “And expensive. Father would never allow it.”

“Hoot!” Rose snatched up her reticule with a noisy huff. “All the man thinks about is how much things cost.”

“A cruel necessity of life, Rose. We're rich in land but poor in silver. Remember when you were nine and we had such a terrible harvest?”

“Terrible.” Rose sighed dramatically. “No meal, no flour.”

“Aye, and no bannocks, no bread, no oats, and no barley for our broth.”

Rose leaned forward and added in a conspirators whisper, “Lady Maxwell confessed to me she had pies on her table that winter that weren't meant to be cut. They were only to keep up appearances.”

“Because they were made of clay.” Leana nodded soberly. Even the gentry of Galloway struggled to put food on the table that season, including their wealthy neighbors, the Maxwells. “It was a dreadful year.
People nigh starved to death. Our father doesn't easily forget such things. That's why he's prudent. Another famine could come without warning.” When her sister's eyes widened, Leana quickly added, “Oh, Rose, don't fret. We're prepared, truly we are. Neda has enough pickled mutton and smoked herring in the cellar to feed us for a whole year.” She stood and lighdy hugged her sister, tipping her head to the side to avoid knocking both their sorry bonnets on the floor. “What we don't have is silver for luxuries like pretty clothes and fancy hats.”

Rose wiggled out of her grasp. “And I won't let you earn that money by marrying that decrepit old farmer. Promise you'll say no. Promise?”

“I promise I'll try.” Whether or not Father would listen was another matter completely.

Appeased, her sister gathered up her gloves and reticule. “I'm going down the stair to steal one of your apples and see if I can't think of a much better suitor for you than Fergus the Haggis.”

“Rase!”

“Well he
does
have a paunch that would do a sheep proud.” Rose floated out the door, waving her hand over her shoulder, a bemused expression on her face.

Leana watched her sister descend the stone staircase that angled through the center of the house, her footsteps light, her spirits blithe as ever. Rose deserved a good scolding for her impertinent words, but Leana knew she'd never be the one to punish her. From childhood, Rose had held sway over everyone she met. Over Neda and Duncan Hastings, who should have known better. Over Lady Maxwell of late. And over her, the older sister who adored her. Only their father put the fear of God into Rose, and then only for an hour of family worship each evening. Every other hour Rose bloomed with an ardess charm few could resist.

“Leeeannaaahhh!”

“Coming.” She pressed a handkerchief to her damp forehead and cheeks, then tucked it in her sleeve and hurried down the stair. A day at kirk would be the very thing to put aside her worries about Fergus McDougal. He would be miles away, worshiping in his own parish of
Kirkbean. Tomorrow would bring troubles enough; this day belonged to God. Leana reached the bottom step and discovered the usual morning bustle under way as the servants gathered for the long hours ahead. The table had already been laid for that night's supper, the food having been prepared the day before and the house made spodess. Sabbath was reserved for worship, not for work. Half a dozen domestic servants stood in a solemn row for their employers inspection, their best clothes pressed, their faces washed.

Leaving her father to his duties, Leana ventured out into the blue-sky morning to find Rose waiting for her at the edge of the road, tapping her foot, arms akimbo. Leana lifted the brim of her hat to meet her sister's gaze. “The others may be a while, and Father will follow in the chaise. Suppose we go on ahead of them.”

Rose took off at a brisk walk, her full skirt swinging with each step, her petticoats rusding beneath them. Hoops were not permitted in the McBride household—“vain contraptions,” their father called them—so the sisters and Neda did the best they could with layers of starched fabric. Leana didn't mind, but Rose did.

“I'll be wilted by noon,” Rose fussed as they hurried along the road heading east. “Look how my skirts are already drooping!”

“But, dearie, you'll take up less room in the pew,” Leana murmured, keeping her sensitive eyes to the ground and away from the sun. It took less than an hour to reach the parish kirk. Longer if Rose stopped to chat with neighbors along the way. At the moment they were alone on the country road, still a bit muddy from Saturday nights storm. Both sisters held their skirts above the worst of it and left Auchengray and its orchards behind, heading downhill past meadowlands studded with rocks and verdant pastures dotted with sheep. Leana never wearied of the journey to Newabbey, for the view changed with the seasons: wild-flowers in spring, yellow whin in summer, scarlet rowan trees in autumn, holly berries in winter. Scotch pines, green all year, appeared on both sides of the road now—a few trees at first, then a whole forest, dark and cool, with a lush bed of brown pine needles blanketing the ground beneath their branches.

Leana pointed to the piney carpet. “Remember playing leapfrog there?”

“Aye.” Rose slowed long enough to survey the familiar spot before continuing her breathless pace. “And I remember picking needles out of my hair for two days.”

Leana tugged on her sisters braid when it bounced within reach. “Your memory fails you, little sister. I was the one who plucked those pine needles out while Neda lectured us on proper games for young lassies.”

“Lectured
you
is more like it,” Rose tossed over her shoulder. “I was the innocent party.”

Leana heard the smile in her sister's voice. Rose
was
innocent in so many ways. The dear girl marveled at London fashions she'd not seen, paid no mind to the village lads who gazed at her with lovesick glances, and thought Lady Maxwell considered her a peer. In truth, naive Rose merely amused the gendewoman. Leana fretted each time her sister visited the red sandstone elegance of Maxwell Park, knowing she'd come home dreaming of riches that stretched far beyond Auchengray's dry stane dykes.

“Nearly there,” Rose sang out.

Leana put aside her concerns to feast her eyes on the lush green meadow beside them. Newabbey Pow, with her sparkling clear waters, meandered through the sunlit expanse, shadowed by the hills that gathered around Criffell's feet. The grimy walls of a snuff mill appeared— the scourge of the neighborhood, by their fathers measure—then another sparse forest of evergreens enveloped the sisters in a piney bower again. When at last they reached the village, both sisters were flushed and thirsty. Guarding their skirts, they crouched by the meandering
burn
to drink their fill.

Leana had just scooped up another handful of the cool water and brought it to her lips when a male voice behind her so startled her that she splashed it down the front of her dress instead.

“Miss McBride?”

She stood in haste, nearly losing her balance, then spun around to
discover Fergus McDougal seated on a horse-drawn cart. She was grateful their kirk was so near, or the bonnet laird might have insisted they both join him on the narrow seat. Neither the horse nor the cart had much to recommend it. As to the farmer in his Sunday attire, she noticed only his wide brown eyes focused intendy on her. “Mr…. McDougal I believe?”

“Aye.” When he smiled, she saw that his teeth matched his eyes. 1 he verra one.

“Wh-what a surprise to find you in Newabbey this Sabbath morning.” She brushed her hand across her dress as though the spilled water might sweep off like birch leaves. Or cornmeal. Or pine needles. Where
was
Rose?

“Mr. McDougal,” her sister chimed in, stepping close beside her, “hadn't you best be getting on to Kirkbean? To your own parish?”

His smile broadened.
“Mebbe
‘twill be your sister's parish before long.” He tipped his hat, ignoring Rose altogether. “I've always favored a woman with fair hair and a strong back.”

Leana stared at his blond mare and nodded. “I see.”

He leaned across his knee with some effort and winked, as though such a gesture might bring her into his confidence. “I've an appointment with your father in the morning, Miss McBride. I'd be obliged if you made that discussion a matter of prayer at kirk this morning.”

“Oh, aye,” Leana assured him, her mouth dry as oats. “I'll pray most fervendy.”

“So will I, lass.” He straightened, nodding confidendy, then shook the reins. The cart jerked forward. “So will I.”

Does the road wind up-hill all die way?
Yes, to the very end.

C
HRISTINA
R
OSSETTI

J
amie stood along the banks of Black Burn, shaking the cold water off his unshaven face. He missed his valet this morning and, in particular, the man's way with a razor. Drying his hands on the plaid, he pulled on his hat and started up the steep slope toward House o’ the Hill stables, where he knew his horse waited for him. Did his brother wait as well, dirk in hand? Nothing would surprise him, not after the strangest of dreams and a most rude awakening. The sly-tongued Gypsy tinkler had continued south, leaving the future heir of Glentrool to face the day without money or map. Jamie had regained his wits though and intended to use them.

The pungent smell of peat smoke tinged the chilly air as the inn came in sight, its stock fences sheltered by an old stand of sycamores, protecting the beasts from the elements. He felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of young George. Last night he'd promised the stable lad a second coin for brushing down Walloch's filthy coat. He'd paid a fair wage, yet he'd promised more, a promise he could no longer keep. Jamie paused long enough to shake out the borrowed plaid with a vigorous snap, then folded it carefully to conceal the berry stains.

Judging by the sun, still low in the eastern sky, and by his growling stomach, it was nearing eight o'clock. A quick glance at the watch in his pocket confirmed it. The lingtowmen and their packhorses, laden with contraband, had no doubt departed the inn hours earlier under cover of darkness, eager to get their smuggled goods safely over the moors before the Sabbath dawn—or an overzealous exciseman—put a stop to their activities. Even the righteous Alec McKie availed himself of their goods
when the price was favorable, which it always was. Salt and tea for the larder, candles and linens to store in the spence, printed silks to please Rowena—all found their way through the doors of Glentrool, courtesy of Thomas Findlay's shrewd bargaining.

Home.
Jamie trudged up the hill, chagrined to realize how much he already missed Glentrool and its odd assortment of characters. Ivy Findlay, with her pinched features and tighdy drawn brown hair, ruled the household staff with a piercing gaze. Ivy's husband, Thomas, factor to the McKies, had taught Jamie all there was to know of balancing ledgers. Aubert Billaud, of the high forehead and long nose, called Marseilles his true home and Glentrools kitchen his domain. Jamie imagined them pressed and dressed by now, prepared for the long journey south to the kirk at Monnigaff. Six horses carrying six riders: Alec and Rowena, Evan and Judith, Thomas and Ivy.

In agreeable weather the rest of the household walked to the kirk with Henry Stewart, Glentrools head shepherd, leading the way. When winters worst kept everyone home, Alec led them in worship around the hearth. Jamie, seated at the elder McKies feet, sometimes caught a glimmer of his father's zeal for God. His grasp on it vanished the next moment, but he couldn't deny what he saw and felt during those Sabbath hours at home.