Fair Is the Rose (6 page)

Leana tried to pay attention, though like the minister’s sermons on the Sabbath, his words were long on affliction and short on mercy. The younger Gordons, despite many pointed looks from their fathers, fidgeted throughout the hour until at last their grandfather put aside the Buik and folded his hands to dismiss them with a final prayer. The assembly rose at the conclusion of the blessing, the visiting family members drifting toward the front door, collecting coats for the short walk home.

Jamie and Leana tarried in the darkened hall, waiting for the minister to join them for the private baptism. Without a word Jamie moved closer to her. Leana’s heart quickened as elbow brushed against elbow. By accident or intent, their hands met among the folds of her gown. Leana held her breath. Jamie’s fingers laced through hers. Hidden by the fabric, a thousand unspoken words were shared in a single clasp.

Jamie, I love you
. That was what she would say if she could.
I will always love you
.

Though the hall was faintly lit, she could still distinguish the lines of his handsome face. Strong nose. Tapered jaw. Bold brow. Some new emotion decorated his features this night. Tenderness perhaps. A willingness to be loved by her. For the moment it was more than enough.

Six

The rose is sweetest wash’d with morning dew.

S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT

H
ush,” Rose whispered, “or Father will hear you!”

Four tiny kittens, mere weeks old, tumbled about inside her sagging apron. Rose clutched them to her waist as she darted back into her bedroom and nudged the door closed with her shoulder. Most of the household was still asleep, though dawn would soon sweep aside the curtain of night and usher in the Sabbath. Her plan was simple: Bear the kittens safely to the village, then seek out her friend Susanne Elliot. Surely the grocer’s daughter wouldn’t refuse so dear a gift.

“A newborn babe and a litter of kittens will not both thrive under the same roof,” her father had announced yestreen, a sour look on his face. “I’ll see that Duncan drowns them in the burn before nightfall.” Rose had cornered Duncan in the kitchen minutes later and begged him not to do Lachlan’s bidding.

“Yer faither is right,” Duncan had cautioned her. “Wi’ yer nephew comin’ home after services in the morn, there’s nae place for
kittlins
at Auchengray. ’Tis ill luck, and ye ken it weel, lass.”

Aye, she knew the superstition but could not bear the cruel sentence. “I’ll find a home for them, Duncan,” she’d vowed. Now holding the corners of her apron in one hand, she grasped Leana’s willow basket, pilfered from the stillroom, and placed it on the seat of her sister’s reading chair. A small stack of unread volumes—Richardson, Burney, Haywood—stood in a neglected pile by the window. Leana would have little time for books now that she had Ian to care for. And Jamie.

I cannot love you, Rose
. His words still bruised her heart. How was it that her sister had a husband and a babe to call her own, and all she had was a lap full of kittens?

With a petulant sigh, Rose released the contents of her apron into the cloth-lined basket. The furry bundles, no bigger than Jamie’s fist, rolled on top of one another, tiny claws unsheathed. Two of the kittens were painted with gray stripes, one was as orange as a harvest moon, and the last, her favorite, had coal black fur with white-tipped paws. Watch them drowned? Nae, she would not. Rose tossed aside her empty apron, hastily bathed her face, then braided her hair as the faint light of day appeared in the casement window.

Jamie would think her rescue efforts childish. “Then I shan’t mention it to him,” she announced to the mewling kittens, her spirits sagging. Jamie had loved her once and now insisted he did not. She had not loved him at first, and when love finally came, it came too late. “So unfair,” she murmured, covering the basket with a loose cloth to muffle the sound. It was hard to imagine life without Jamie at the center of it. Nae, it was impossible.

She’d told him that if there was to be another man, she would choose him.
Nae. Let the man choose me
. She would not let her heart be broken again, pining after someone she could not claim. For a twelvemonth she had ignored the other lads in the parish. Much as it pained her to confess it, perhaps the time had come to let them have a look at her.

Susanne Elliot was the perfect person to advise her, a dear friend since they were eight years of age, when they’d giggled incessantly behind the
dominie
’s back at the village school. They’d confided their secrets to each other and poured their dreams into each other’s hearts. Aye, Susanne would be just the one to point out an eligible man in the parish. Someone to take her mind off Jamie. Someone to mend her heart.

Rose sneaked out the front door, the borrowed basket in one hand, her skirts gathered in the other to spare them being dampened by the dew. The slate-colored sky hung low with clouds, and the air smelled of wet leaves and pungent peat smoke. Sheepdogs barked in the distance, unaware of breaking the Sabbath silence. She pulled her wool cloak tighter and shot a wary glance over her shoulder. Might someone be watching from the windows? Rose fairly ran toward the end of the lane, where Willie, the
orraman
of Auchengray, waited with the two-wheeled
chaise. Driving her to the village whenever she required it was among the odd jobs that landed on Willie’s aging shoulders. So did keeping secrets from the laird, though all the servants had mastered that skill.

Willie guided Rose into the small carriage, then eased down beside her, nudging old Bess forward with a familiar command. The mare took off with a jolt, sending them rocking back and forth on the springs until at last Bess found her gait. Rose pulled the basket closer while Willie loosened his grip on the reins and settled against the cushioned seat. “Have ye warned the Elliots tae expect ye sae early in the morn?”

She dismissed his concerns with a blithe toss of her braid. “ ’twill not be so early by the time we arrive. Eight o’ the clock, I’d say.”

Willie grunted, surveying the willow basket that danced on her lap. The short ride east to Newabbey passed without incident, despite the threatening clouds that shrouded the countryside. The village consisted of one long, meandering street with a row of houses tucked along either side, perhaps fifty in all, each one with a name by the door. Bridgeview. Abbeyside. Millburn.

Bess clip-clopped up to the Elliots’ cottage—Ingleneuk—whinnying as she did, shaking the mist from her dun-colored mane. Round the door grew an old yew, tended by loving hands that had coaxed the evergreen branches to bend and twist. Bright red berries stood in stark contrast to the dense green foliage, where a blackbird perched, stabbing at the berries with his bright yellow beak, ignoring the newcomers. Willie tugged on the reins and brought the mare to a gentle stop, then turned to fix his rheumy eyes on Rose. “Whan yer faither asks why ye’ve left for the kirk lang afore the rest, what’ll I say tae the man?”

“Tell him I wanted to help my sister prepare for the kirkin of the babe.” Rose handed Willie her basket while she jumped down from the carriage unassisted. “I am, by Leana’s choice, Ian’s godmother. The duty falls to me to see him presented today, aye?”

Willie nodded. “ ’Tis a meikle task, being the
kimmer
. Ye’d best keep those kittlins far
awa
from the babe.”

“That’s why you brought me here first, Willie. Tell Neda I’ll be waiting for her at the manse.” She waved him off, then tapped on the
grocer’s front door, donning her most persuasive smile. It
was
rather early in the day to pay a visit.

Mistress Elliot swung the door wide. Her mouth stood agape as well. “R-Rose?” The middle-aged woman’s gaze followed the departing chaise, then shifted to the basket and its noisy contents. “Whatever have you brought us, lass?”

Rose flicked aside the cloth. “Kittens! Aren’t they dear?”

Susanne’s mother eyed the basket askance as she motioned Rose into the low-beamed cottage. All was as tidy as a widow’s cupboard, the rooms scrubbed for the Sabbath, the hearth swept clean. The aroma of a cooked breakfast—bacon, porridge, and bannocks—hung in the air. Mistress Elliot, as slender as her husband was round, shook her head. “You’ll have a time of it, Rose, if you mean to leave those kittens here. Mr. Elliot won’t allow the beasts anywhere near the shop.”

Rose smiled. Unlike her own father, Colin Elliot had a soft heart where his daughter was concerned. “Might I speak with Susanne?”

“She’s about to have her breakfast. Come bide a wee while. You look as though a saucer of tea would do you good.”

Rose followed the woman into the dining room, where the table was laid. Stout candles like beeswax soldiers marched down the center of the table, and pewter plates shone like silvery moons. Her mouth watered at the fresh bannocks and jars of gooseberry jam displayed on the sideboard. “If it’s not too much trouble …”

“Och!” The woman waved her toward a chair. “What’s another mouth to feed? Susaaaanne!” Mistress Elliot disappeared into the kitchen while Rose found a hiding place for her basket. The kittens would need feeding as well.

Susanne hurried into the room, a wooden
spurtle
in her hand, her face more flushed than usual from stirring the hot porridge. The girl’s brown eyes shone at the sight of her. “Rose! You’ve come to Ingleneuk to break your fast with us, have you?”

“So it seems. I’ve also brought you a present.” Amid much squealing the litter was introduced and a scheme duly hatched for their safe upbringing. Susanne and Rose tucked them in a dry corner of the
byre
amid the lowing cows, where they left the kittens circled about a bowl of fresh milk. The lasses returned to the table moments before Susanne’s brothers bounded into the room, shoving one another into their seats before they realized they had an unexpected guest.

“Miss McBride!” breathed Neil Elliot, his expression torn between dismay and wonder at finding her there. Neil was two years older and two hands taller than Rose, an awkward though earnest young man, who’d fancied her from childhood. February last they’d drawn each other’s names in the Valentines Dealing, from a bonnet full of names passed about a circle of friends. Each lad and lass pulled out the name of someone to be his or her sweetheart, claiming them for a year. Rose had brushed aside the sentimental custom, since her heart had Jamie’s name written on it at the time. Things were different now. Seated at the Elliots’ table, she could at least be polite to Neil.

“Mr. Elliot,” Rose said demurely, lowering her lashes. She remembered describing Neil once to Jamie—“crooked teeth and more hair than one of our collies”—and how it’d pleased her to see Jamie’s look of relief. As if Jamie could ever have lost her to poor, bumbling Neil! Though he surely was an amiable fellow. And he did seem more than a little taken with her.

“Miss McBride,” Neil said again, sketching a slight bow. “I’m glad … that is, we’re
all
delighted … to have you join us.”

“Sit you down, lad.” His father, presiding at the head of the long table, waved his butter knife toward an empty chair. “No need to stand on ceremony with a neighbor you’ve kenned all your life.” The grocer turned his large, cabbage-shaped head toward her and smiled affably. “Have a rasher of bacon, Rose. Sold most of what I had on Friday at the Dumfries market, though I kept some back for our Sabbath breakfast. Right good it is.”

Rose dutifully ate, taking small bites and minding her manners, aware that Neil Elliot was watching her every move. She could not help but notice that his suit of clothes fit him rather smartly. His teeth weren’t as crooked as she’d remembered, and his thick auburn hair was tamed into a handsome tail at the nape of his neck. Not that he could hold a candle to Jamie, she reminded herself, stealing another glance
across the table. But a girl could do worse than the eldest son of Colin Elliot, a prosperous grocer with farmland outside the village.

Listening to the family’s good-natured banter, Rose noted the affection Neil had for all of them and they for him. How different breakfast was at Ingleneuk compared to the austerity of Auchengray! Though not as boisterous as his younger brothers, Neil held his own, watching her all the while, as if seeking her approval. Susanne didn’t seem to notice, but her father did, grinning behind his jam-covered bannocks.

When the meal came to a close, Rose dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, then folded her hands in her lap and smiled in Neil’s direction. “Mr. Elliot, I—”

“Neil,” he corrected her. “My father is right. Formalities are hardly needed between old friends.”

“Neil, then.” Her cheeks warmed beneath his steady gaze. Och, how strange it felt to have another man look at her so! “I am bound to serve as my nephew’s kimmer this morn and so must take my leave.”

Neil bolted to his feet. “Might I walk you to the manse, Rose?”

“You might.” Rose pretended not to see the blush of pleasure that colored his neck or the look of astonishment on Susanne’s face. Though the arm he offered shook, his step was sure as he guided her toward the door.

Rose bade the family farewell, then followed Neil into the street. Despite the gloomy skies above, the day was off to a promising start. Four kittens had been spared a gruesome fate, and her own gloved hand rested on a manly forearm.

Tentative with each other at first, they spoke briefly of the weather and of the kirkin to come. “He’s a healthy lad, I hear,” Neil said, then colored slightly, as if discussing such things might not be proper for someone outside the family.

“Verra healthy,” she assured him, trying to put him at ease. Did Neil want children of his own someday? Might she test the waters without stirring too deep? She smiled up at him as they walked toward the manse. “Now that you’re eighteen, will you be joining your father in the grocery business? Or do you have other plans for your future?”

“Plans?” His mouth fell open, then just as quickly shut. “Aye, my
plans are to settle in Newabbey. To … to marry. Start a family.” Neil looked straight ahead as he spoke. His flat tone of voice gave away nothing.