Thorn in My Heart (17 page)

“I pray you are right.” Leana moved closer to her sister, one hand nervously tugging at her dress bodice, pulling it toward her chin. “Mr. McDougal is also joining us for dinner. Whatever will we talk about?” she murmured, watching the man draw near. “He's almost as old as Father.”

“Not
that
old, though past forty, I'd say.” Rose, swinging her feet like a child at play, smiled mischievously. “Could be if you'd mention his age…oh, every few minutes or so, he'll see what a terrible mistake he's making.”

“But they've struck a bargain, the two of them,” Leana fretted, keeping her voice low as Mary, the laundry maid from Newabbey village, strode past Mr. McDougal and through the gate, headed for the house. “Good day to you, Mary,” Leana called after her. No need to consult a watch; Mary arrived every Wednesday morning at precisely ten o'clock, no matter the weather. “Father has spoken to Mr. McDougal,” Leana hissed as he drew near. “It's been decided.”

Rose turned her back toward the approaching farmer, then cupped her hands around her mouth to guard her words. “Fear not, Leana. All is not lost.” Her sister jumped down, landing right in front of her. “Not until you say, ‘I do.’ ”

“If you say so.” Leana hugged her sister and motioned her off toward the grazing pastures.
Dear, contrary, adorable Rose.
Filling her with envy one moment, plying her with encouragement the next. Leana smiled a litde and swung open the gate. “Mr. McDougal.” She sketched him a brief curtsy. “You've come for our walk, I see.”

“That I have, lass. Quit my cart and horse at the corn mill in Newabbey.” He glanced in that direction, yanking on his snug waistcoat as he did. “The cart was so heavy with grain I'd be bouncing all over this rutted road of yours.”

The road to Kirkbean is no better
, she wanted to say but held her tongue. “You were wise to walk those miles then. Shall you stop and refresh yourself before we—”

“Aye. Believe I shall.” He strode toward the house while she hurried to keep up with him. Despite his girth, he kept a good pace, though he seemed winded by the time they reached the door. Neda greeted them and led them to the spence, her
eyes
regarding Leana with something uncomfortably close to pity.

Her father waited in his customary chair, standing only long enough to greet his guest and order Neda to bring libations before resuming his seat. “So then, McDougal, what news from Mr. Craik? Have you been to see him at Arbigland since we last met?”

“I have not, though I'm told the society will be meeting in a fortnight. You'll be joining us, of course?”

Leana listened halfheartedly as they sipped their drams and discussed her father's favorite subject: increasing the value of Auchengray's fields and flocks. The renowned Mr. Craik was president of the Society for the Encouragement of Agriculture, a group of landowners dedicated to improving their holdings. Arbigland, the Craik estate on the Solway coast, was a monument to his beliefs: Four hundred acres of water-clogged clay had been transformed into fertile farmland. Fergus
McDougal's house of worship in Kirkbean had also been designed by the elderly Mr. Craik, a man much admired and respected by all of Galloway.

His daughter, Helen, was renowned for a different reason entirely.

Leana had not met Helen Craik, but she knew the tragic story. The cherished daughter of a wealthy man, Helen had thrown convention aside and fallen in love with a young groom at Arbigland named Dunn. Those who knew him declared the lad a brave and braw young man. Dunns lifeless body was found near the gates of the estate, felled by a single shot. By his own hand, insisted Mr. Craik, and the sheriff agreed. By Helens hot-tempered brother, the servants said, and the neighbors agreed.

Helen Craik had departed for England immediately, never to return. Her beloveds spirit still remained at the crossroads, or so the gossips reported. Leana shuddered at the thought of the poor young mans wraith wandering the parish roads very near the farm of Fergus McDougal.

“Is it my company that chills you, lass?”

Startled from her reverie, Leana clasped her hands in her lap to keep from shivering again, so real in her mind was the apparition. “Nae, not at all.” She abrupdy stood, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Perhaps if we took our walk now, the sun might warm me.”

McDougal rose with a grunt, and her father quickly did the same, stepping from the room to summon Willie to serve as escort. The laird of Nethercarse waited until her father's voice faded down the hallway before angling his head toward hers. He reached for her elbow and tugged her closer, brushing his parched lips against her ear. “By Hogmanay, I'll be the one to warm you.” His breath was hot, his whisper thick with her fathers best whisky. “Sooner, if you like.”

“Let me find my wrap,” Leana stammered, bolting from the room, tears stinging her eyes. Like a bird trapped in a cage, she flew from one room to the next, frantically looking for Neda, for Rose, for someone to set her free and release her from such a thankless duty.

Neda appeared moments later bearing the woolen wrap and a grim
expression. “Mr. McDougal is waiting for you in the garden and none too patiendy. I thought you might be needing this.” She tucked the wool around Leana's shoulders, smoothing her hair as she did. “Show him your mothers roses, why dont you?” Neda added softly. “ ‘Twill help the man forget you fled from his touch.”

Leana gasped. “How did—”

“Come, lass.” Neda chuckled, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her down the hall. “ ‘Tis the only reason a proper young lady runs from a suitor.” Her voice softened. “He's not the man I would have chosen for you, Leana, but he is the man your father has chosen. You must honor them both with all your heart and honor God in the bargain. Remember what I taught you? Submit yerself unto yer ain husband, as unto the Lord. ‘Tis your Christian duty as a wife and a daughter. Aye, Leana?”

“Aye.” She stood at the threshold of the back door, watching Fergus McDougal bend down to bury his bulbous nose in her white Damask roses.
‘Tis.

To what happy accident is it
that we owe so unexpected a visit?

O
LIVER
G
OLDSMITH

R
ose fairly flew across Auchengrays pastures, aiming for the hills, the sheep, Lochend—anywhere but home. She'd never felt such a need to run, to put as much distance as she could between her sisters misery and her own joy.

Poor Leana! Doomed
to marry such a
hatesome
man. Rose felt miserable, truly she did. It was unfair and unjust that her older sister must marry, while she, five years younger, had all the time in the world to find a suitably rich husband. Not that she was in any hurry to do so. By no means.

Rose picked up her skirts and leaped over the dry stane dyke, built only high enough to keep the sheep from wandering off to another pasture. Without Duncan to direct them, they might not move at all until the forage plants were gone and the grass turned to mud. While the shepherd was busy elsewhere this morning, she would inspect several of the flocks and see to the collies as well.

She reached the summit of Auchengray Hill and drank in the fresh southwesterly winds that lifted the tendrils of hair around her face, tickling her skin. The distant trees, dressed in a faint autumn haze, looked like a watercolor landscape with milk spilled over the canvas, muting the colors. Fine farms stretched in all directions—Troston to the north, Glensone to the west—and Lowtis Hill seemed close enough to touch, though it was two miles away. Leana and Fergus would be climbing in her direction soon. My, but her sister was kitdie this morning! Marriage might be the best thing for Leana. Give her some confidence, ease her sensitive nature. Mr. McDougal, however, was
not the
man to manage it.

Rose attended to her duties, counting the sheep in each pasture— only so many per hilly Scots acre—examining their legs for lameness, their sides for bloat. Duncan handled the less pleasant tasks of shepherding when diseases appeared among the flocks. Now that it was October, Duncan had purchased Auchengray's tups for the season and would herd the rams home from Jock Bells farm later that day. A week, two at most, and the rams would be about their business, introduced to the willing ewes, one by one. Rose cherished the lambs that came during Eastertide but found the breeding process unpleasant. She kept her distance during those weeks and pitied the ewes who had no choice in the matter.

All at once she thought of Leana, and her heart skipped a beat. Leana also had no choice. Would
she
have one when the time came?

Rose put such melancholy thoughts aside and finished with all but her last pasture for the day, calling a farewell to the dogs, which guarded the flocks as well as any shepherd. Her work done for the moment, she took off, gamboling over Glensone Hill like a four-day-old lamb.

“Ro-sieeee!” A male voice carried across the hilltops, borne by the wind. “Rosie McBride!”

She shook her head in exasperation and headed for the road below. No need to guess who that might be, shouting her name so boldly. Rab Murray was the only lad in the parish who called her
Rosie
, knowing how she hated the childish nickname.

“Robert Murray,” she scolded him, catching sight of his red hair and checked plaid. “I'll call you
Rabbie
and see how you like it.”

The shepherd, a year older than she, merely grinned as she approached, elbowing the two lads with him. “Ye may call me whate'er you like, Miss McBride, if ye'll call me yer ain dear laddie.”

“I'll do no such thing!” she said, rolling her eyes. She was not being
flindrikin
, not at all. Merely taunting him. “Why are you not with your flocks?” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Are the three of you up to no good?”

“No good whatsoever.” Rab gave her a broad wink. “Care to join
us, lass? We're headed to Lochend for a bit o’ fishin. Fresh pike makes a fine supper when its stuffed and baked in a savory sauce.”

“It does,” she agreed, gazing up at the sun to gauge the time. “I might come in a bit. Just to keep you lads company, you ken.” Fishing was hardly a lady's pastime. She gazed down the road toward Lochbank Farm and Maxwell Park beyond it. She could not risk her ladyship seeing her in such a disheveled state—muddy old shoes, drugget dress, her hair barely tamed by an unruly braid. Still, Lady Maxwell seldom ventured across the open park grounds, preferring instead her walled garden. Rose would hardly be likely to meet anyone of quality by the loch.

“Go on with you, lads.” She sent the shepherds off with a broad wink. “I'll join you soon enough.” As they disappeared over the hill, she made her way to Auchengray's last holding, approaching the flock as Duncan had taught her. It was no good hurrying around sheep or raising her voice. A gende word, a familiar scent, and the sheep remained calm, allowing her to run her hands along their woolly coats, grown thick again after the June shearing.

She was dismayed to discover the cumbersome water trough on its side. It would take several strong backs to turn it upright before she could fill it with fresh water from the loch. Perhaps the shepherds would help. “I'll see to it you have something to drink before the day is over,” she promised the sheep, moving among them with ease, taking note of the brightness of their eyes, the healthy color of their gums when she pulled back their lips. Rose sang to them as she worked, watching their ears twitch with amusement. “I'm not the songbird my sister is,” she confessed to a gap-toothed ewe. “But I sing a bonnier tune than
you
do, old girl.”

Rose finished at last and hurried down to the road, shaking the tendrils of wool from her skirt. She would go to the loch as promised and see what sort offish the lads had caught. Within minutes she spied Rab and the other two shepherds standing by the roadside, hands on their hips, looking straight at her. Even from a distance it was clear they boasted smiles from ear to ear. Suddenly they shifted their attention to
the loch—not to the water, she realized, but to a person. Someone else was with them. Someone they found very amusing indeed. Their low-pitched laughter floated toward her, arousing her curiosity, drawing her closer, quickening her steps to a full run.

“Have the three of you gone daft?” she called, nearly out of breath by the time she reached them. “Come now, that can't be a pike you're talking to, lads.”

“Tis a big fish, all right.” A grinning Rab stepped forward as though to block her view, and the others quickly flanked him. “Bigger than any pike I've seen in Galloway.” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at her. From behind the three of them came the sounds of pine boughs thrashing and a male voice, deeper than theirs, grumbling rather loudly. Rab hastened to explain, “Our catch is…not suitably dressed for…ah, a proper lady's eyes just now. Mebbe if ye—”

“Suitably dressed? A
fish?
Rab Murray!” She stepped closer, and they tightened ranks. “Fish do not talk, nor do they blush.”

He laughed softly. “This one might.”

“Hoot!” Rose struggled to see over their shoulders, then stamped her foot. “I've had quite enough of your foolishness—”

“Begging your pardon, Miss McBride.”

The shepherds parted, bowing to the unseen visitor who'd spoken.

The dark-haired stranger stepped forward. “You'll find I am neither fish nor fowl,” he said, his mouth on the verge of a smile. “Though I'm wet from head to toe, and my wardrobe is most foul.”

Rose tried not to stare. “Indeed, sir.” His clever speech marked him as someone of quality; his appearance did not. Though fashionably cut, the man's clothes were a disgrace—stained with mud and covered with damp spots. His feet were unshod—a gendeman, barefoot! Fine for country lasses and male servants but not for the gentry. And his
hair.
Soaking wet and clinging about his shoulders. When she realized her mouth was hanging open, she snapped it shut.

He inclined his head toward the shepherds. “I believe you lads have some flocks that need tending.”