Thorn in My Heart (15 page)

As though reading his mind, the Gypsy produced a slender blade— Jamie had seen that before as well—and the man carved it through the
evening air. “Have ye found some new silver ye might share with a poor family of travelers?”

Jamie lifted his chin, determined to stand his ground. “I have not.”

The Gypsy pretended to search the bridge high and low, eyes wide in mock astonishment. “And where's yer
grye
, man? Have you no mount to carry ye?”

“No horse,” Jamie said, his jaw tightening. “Not since yestermorn.”

“Why then, yere one o’ us!” the Gypsy cried, throwing out his arms. The knife mysteriously disappeared and with it any threat. “Ye sleep by the road, eat what the Almighty
sees
fit to feed ye, and greet every man as an equal.” His grin revealed a misaligned mouthful of teeth. “Only yer
strods
tell the world ye re a man o’ means.”

“My what?”

“Strods.” The gypsy pointed to Jamie's feet. “Yer boots, man.”

Both men stared at the empty boots, which were precariously perched on the edge of the bridge. Jamie suddenly wished they were on his feet. The Gypsy spoke to the others in a cant all their own, gesturing as he did.

Presendy a young boy stepped forward with a carved walking stick in his hand and a gleam in his elfin eye. “Now, sir?”

“Aye, now,” the old Gypsy said.

The boy marched up to the boots and prompdy pushed one off the bridge with his stick, sending the boot splashing into the water below.

“You!” Jamie lunged for him, but the boy was too quick, darting back to his mother, who wrapped him in a blanket of arms and skirts. “How dare—
och!”
Jamie threw himself onto the bridge, leaning over from the waist, grasping in vain at the boot far below. It lodged itself among the rocks temporarily, then broke free and sailed along with the current, disappearing under the bridge. With a muttered oath, he scrambled to his feet and ran to the other side, only to see the boot emerge and continue bobbing downstream, farther beyond his reach. It would fill with water soon enough and sink to the murky bottom, useless to anyone.

“Why?”He
turned on the Gypsy, his face flaming. “Why would you
discard one boot when you could have stolen them both and sold them?”

The Gypsy's smile was warm, not sly as before. “Because then we'd be thieves, just as ye expect. Were tinklers, tradesmen, and
homers.
Not thieves.”

“But—”

“D'ye know why the world thinks ill o’ the Gypsy race?” The mans animated features grew still. “They say that a Gypsy blacksmith forged the nails for the cross. True or not, we've been condemned to wander the earth forever, a people with no home.” His shoulders sagged as he said the words. “May it ne'er be said of a Marshall that he did not honor God's chosen one.”

Jamie's heart stuttered.
Behold, I am with you.
Had God really chosen to bless him, then stripped him of everything that made him a McKie? Jamie stared at the man, at a loss for answers. None of it made sense, especially not this thieving Gypsy. With grim fascination Jamie watched the man's jaw work as though chewing over what to do with him.

At last the Gypsy spoke. “One o’ yer strods has disappeared. The other is worth nothing to ye.” He nodded at the young boy, who slipped from his mother's grasp long enough to retrieve the lone boot and place it in the Gypsy's gnarled hands. “It'd make mony a useful purse. Or shoes for a half-dozen barefoot
chauvies”
he murmured, caressing the leather, his dark eyes intent, his dry lips pursed. “So, James McKie, will ye sell me yer fine boot?”

Jamie's mouth dropped open.
“Sellit
to you?”

“Not for coin,” the old man quickly added. “We've none o’ that in our tents. But we've food enough for any Scotsman. Are ye hungry, lad? Will ye sell me yer strod for a bowl o’ Gypsy stew and a walking stick for your journey? Seems a fair bargain.”

Jamie shook his head, dazed at the turn of events, then agreed that a meal would be a fine trade. After all, a useless boot was hardly a sacrifice, and the carved stick could be of some value. Within moments one of the Gypsy women presented him with a crockery bowl brimming
with thick, fragrant stew and a carved horn spoon. Jamie scooped up the stew, bringing it to his lips, then abrupdy stopped. Might it be tainted on purpose? A simple ploy meant to do away with famished travelers and rob them of their worldly goods?

The man named Marshall eyed him evenly. “A horn spoon holds nae poison, Mr. McKie. Had I the notion to kill ye, I'd have done it on that rock in MonnigafF.”

Ashamed of himself, Jamie shoved the spoon in his mouth, gulping down the lukewarm stew with a grateful nod. Half an hour later he finished a second bowl and stood to take his leave, reveling at the sensation of a fiill stomach, when he saw the young Gypsy boy, soaking wet, come trotting up to the encampment.

On the child's face was a look of triumph. In his hands he held Jamie's other boot. Muddy and drenched, but his boot nonetheless.

“What's this?” the old Gypsy exclaimed, blinking his eyes dramatically. “A strod to match the one I just bought? Lucky day for me, I'd say.” Agile for his age, the man yanked off his shoes and pulled on the boots, struggling a bit with the wet one, but soon standing to model them for his appreciative clan. “Why, I look like a fine gendeman!”

“And I look like a fool,” Jamie fumed, stabbing his walking stick into the ground and stamping off with as much dignity as he could muster while marching in bare feet with blisters.

“Aye, but ye're a fool full o’ stew,” the Gypsy called after him. “Not so bad a trade, eh? God speed ye, lad. Yer feet will carry ye home.”

But, oh! what mighty magician can assuage
A woman's envy?

G
EORGE
G
RANVILLE,
L
ORD
L
ANSDOWNE

L
eana pressed an armful of freshly laundered linens against her face, breathing in the crisp October air captured in their folds. The clatter of cooking pots drifted in from the kitchen next door. Neda was taking her time preparing supper, stalling until Rose and Willie made their appearance. If they tarried much longer, Lachlan McBride could be counted on to raise his voice in protest. At Auchengray the evening meal was served at seven. “No visit with royalty is going to interfere with my supper,” her father had announced when Rose had left for Maxwell Park earlier that afternoon. Royalty and nobility were not one and the same, but Leana saw no need to mention it and risk his ire.

The laundry door was propped open to usher in the fading sunlight. She stood near a warm patch of it as she matched the linen corners, pressing the fabric flat between her fingers. Mary had worked so hard to scrub the tablecloths clean, the least Leana could do was fold them. After being laid out to dry on a patch of grass where the flocks wouldn't trample them, the linens would still need to be ironed, a thankless task only a seasoned laundry maid like Mary could handle. Some cold December day perhaps, when the cumbersome business of washing was out of the question.

Grateful that winter was two months away, Leana breathed in the rich scent of herbs wafting through the doorway. Basil, clovelike and peppery, tickled her nose. Aromatic thyme, useful for chasing away an occasional nightmare, tinged the evening air. Fragrant pennyroyal piqued her thirst for a steaming cup of tea.

And what of the tea being poured at Maxwell Park?

Leana released a lengthy sigh, her thirst forgotten. She was pleased for Rose and her sisters growing relationship with Lady Maxwell. Yet something tugged inside her, pulling her this way and that: pride in the gentlewoman's attentions, yet concern for her possible motives; joy in Rose's newfound confidence, yet fear of where it all might lead. “You fret too much,” Leana said, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Worry wrinkled her brow and pinched her lips into a tight, unattractive line. She forced herself to smile, then laughed at her foolishness.
Enough.

Leana quit the stuffy laundry room and escaped to the vegetable garden to dig up some neeps for dinner and bury her misgivings. The sun was low in the sky by the time her skirts were filled with firm yellow turnips. She stood, gripping the corners of her apron to keep the root vegetables from tumbling out of her
by-pit
basket, then nearly dropped the entire harvest when Willie and Rose came riding up the drive and startled her, whistling and calling her name.

“We're home, Leana. We're home!” Rose sang out, waving gaily. Willie had barely pulled the chaise to a fll stop when Rose scrambled out of it, her manners forgotten so eager was she to reach Leana's side. Once there, she eyed the dirty turnips, then wrinkled her nose, taking a step backward to avoid soiling her blue dress. “At least I'm not late for supper.”

“And a good thing you're not,” Leana scolded her gendy. “I was worried about you.”

“No need to be,” Rose insisted, looking over her shoulder at Auchengray's most diligent servant. “Willie saw to an errand while we chatted, then brought me safely home.”

Leana smiled at them both. “I see he did.” It was hard to remain cross with her sister; she'd clearly had a fine afternoon. “So, was your time with Lady Maxwell everything you expected?”

“Oo aye!”Rose
dissolved into a girlish giggle before she composed herself, her face aglow, her dark eyes sparkling. “Neda serves a cup of tea with naught but a biscuit. But at Maxwell Park, her ladyships mahogany table is covered with fruit tarts and fresh shortbread and…”

Rose went on describing the fragrant black tea, the delicately painted bone china, and the glowing tapers in silver candlesticks. Leana listened and nodded and tried her best not to be envious. She'd seen the fabled interior of Maxwell Park as a child of four, with her mother. But she'd never sat at Lady Maxwell's table.

Would an invitation to his lordships Hogmanay Ball be next for Rose? The last day of the year—Hogmanay—was a cause for celebration in every Scottish home, Maxwell Park especially. Eligible gende-men from half a dozen parishes brought their menservants and their purses to Lord Maxwell's door at December's end, dancing in the new year and shopping for a bride. Might Rose be included on the guesdist this year?

A slender vine of envy curled around Leana's heart like bindweed.

A wealthy suitor for Rose. Fergus McDougalfor me.

Appalled at her selfish thoughts, she searched in vain for a suitable comment. “I'm so happy for you, Rose.” And she was, truly she was. She would allow nothing—least of all their future marriage prospects— to drive a wedge between them. She would
not.

“Do you know what Lady Maxwell said of us?” Rose tipped her chin up, assuming the gendewoman's haughty air. “ ‘You and your sister are hardly
kintra
folk, my dear. Your father is laird of his own land, and Auchengray is a perfecdy respectable property’ That's what she said, Leana! Isn't it wonderful?”

“Aye,” she murmured, “wonderful.” Leana bit her tongue to keep from asking if Lady Maxwell noticed how the poorest among their neighbors truly lived. Huddled in rough stone cottages, their window-less walls blackened with peat smoke, their cupboards bare, the hardworking kintra folk could only dream of drinking tea at all, let alone at Maxwell Park.

Rose still held her chin aloft, an imaginary saucer in her hand. “Then her ladyship said, ‘You would do well to appreciate what your family has accomplished. It is that spirit of improvement that most impresses me about you, Miss McBride.’
Ochllsrit
that grand, Leana?”

“Grand.” Her apron was growing heavy and her heart heavier still.
“Corne, lass. Neda is waiting for these vegetables. Neeps may not be the usual fare at Maxwell Park, but they'll fill our table well enough.”

Her sister groaned and rolled her eyes as she followed Leana into the kitchen. “None for me, thank you.”

Neda stood at the hearth giving orders while two scullery maids, Annabel and Eliza, wisely obeyed. “See that ye slice those carrots thin as reeds, otherwise Mr. McBride will toss them to the dogs and ye along with them.” Neda softened her words with a broad wink. “And dont be slippin a bittie in your cheek when ye think I'm not lookin. We've no rabbits in this hoose needing to be fed. Only the quiet one in the cookin pot.”

Leana poured the turnips from her apron onto a cutting table and nodded at Rose. “Look what I found in the garden.”

Neda gave the sisters her full attention as she poked a lock of copper-colored hair beneath her plain cap. “If it isn't Miss Rose McBride, home from an afternoon with the gentrice.” A wry grin stretched across her ruddy face, the skin freckled yet unlined despite her fifty-odd years. “Will ye be having supper with your family, or is Auchengray too common for ye now?”

Rose brushed off her comments with an airy hand. “I'm quite full at the moment, though I'll surely be famished by the time supper is served.” She swept through the cluttered room, holding her skirts above the floor as though the surface were hard-packed dirt and lime instead of good, clean brick. “I'll be back to help in the kitchen as soon as I finish cleaning my shoes.”

Leana watched her sister move toward the stone stair, skirts still in hand, certain Rose would not appear again until the supper bell rang. Which she didn't.

Not a word was said about Maxwell Park that night. After their supper of stewed rabbit seasoned with onions, surrounded by Leana's freshly picked vegetables, the table was wiped clean and the family Bible placed in front of Lachlan. “Let us worship the Almighty,” he intoned, opening the thick book. His voice reminded her of Reverend Gordon, who scowled when he spoke and growled when he preached. Neda and
the other servants sat about the room on rough benches, the rushlights above them doing little to dispel the evening gloom.

“From the Seventy-eighth Psalm,” the laird of the house announced, his sharp eyes regarding his congregants closely. “Repeat each line after me. ‘Give ear, O my people, to my law: incline your ears to the words of my mouth.’ ”