Thorn in My Heart (36 page)

Jamie glanced at the watery sun as he walked toward the back door, guessing the time, then brushed enough soil from his clothes to keep Neda from holding her nose as she fed him his scones and cheese. “Your Uncle Lachlan has a present for Rose too,” the keeper of the house whispered,
her eyes bright with the news. “He's promised to let her open it before supper. I've a clean shirt and breeches waiting in your room, lad.” She waved him away, wrinkling her nose after all. “See that you're presentable.”

By seven that evening any remnant of Jamie's lowly labors had vanished. His face, hands, and hair were gleaming, his chin freshly scraped with a razor, his clothes carefully pressed by one of the maids who'd taken a fancy to him. Lachlan was ringing the tableside bell as Jamie hastened down the stair, the brooch tucked in a velvet pouch in his palm.

Jamie nodded to the usual assembly round the table, then placed his gift by Rose's plate, brushing her arm as he did so. She giggled and pulled away, batting her braid at him playfully. Much as he loved her, it made him uncomfortable to see her behave so. More like a schoolgirl than a young woman about to be wed. Leana, seated next to her, neither blushed nor simpered but sat gracefully in her chair, the mistress of Auchengray. Perhaps she might teach Rose how to wear the mande of marriage in a more becoming manner.

His uncle stood, quieting the room at once. “I've two announcements of interest to our future bride. Rose, I've arranged for you to spend the week before your wedding with your Aunt Margaret in Twyneholm. ‘Tis the custom, you know.”

“Aye.” Rose sighed with a hint of drama, her eyes seeking Jamie for sympathy. “I know.”

She'd warned him this might happen. Aunt Margaret Halliday— Meg to her two nieces—was her mother's older sister, a maiden who'd seen sixty summers and still lived in the two-room cottage where she and Agness were born. To hear Rose's description, the woman was an eccentric character—keeping bees, distilling spirits, and hiding smuggled salt brought to her door by the free traders of the neighborhood.

“An unco woman,” Lachlan confessed. “But with a stubborn will and a good heart to match it. ‘Twill be a most interesting week, of that you can be certain. Now, lass, you've noticed two packages by your plate, aye? Open the one from Jamie first if you like, then the larger one, before we ask the Almighty to bless our meal.”

Rose pulled open the velvet pouch and shook out the brooch with a satisfactory gasp of delight. “Jamie, how bonny!” She held it up for all to see, then pinned it to her gown with trembling fingers. “Jenny Copland has been showing off her luckenbooth brooch for months. Wont
she
be the quiet one next Sabbath morning!”

“Now, Rose.” Her father held up a pointed finger. “Mind your manners.”

She ducked her head, even as she pulled the second package toward her and carefully untied the plain linen wrapper. Both sisters stared at the folds of lace waiting inside, their eyes wide, their mouths hanging agape. “A
kell!”
Rose lifted up the fine white cambric with its pulled thread work done in an intricate design. “To wear with my gown. Oh, Father, its a treasure. Wherever did you—”

“Dresden.” Lachlan sat down, clearly pleased with himself. “It just arrived today, courtesy of…ah, Mr. Fergusson.” All at the table knew of Fletcher Fergusson, one of Galloways more renowned smugglers, who'd no doubt charged Lachlan dearly for the headdress, meant to be worn only by young, unmarried women.
Like Rose.

She stood, stepping well back from the table, and tried to drape the delicate fabric over her head without success. “Leana, help me. Somethings gone wrong in the back.” The ever-efficient Leana quickly arranged the lace over Rose's hair and along her shoulders, spreading it out so that it showed off the delicate needlework to best advantage.

“Roses,” Leana sighed at last, shaking her head. “It's covered with roses. How utterly perfect.”

Jamie gazed at the beautiful lass beneath the lacy kell, and his concerns evaporated. “Aye,” he whispered. “Perfect indeed.”

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.

J
OHN
G
REENLEAF
W
HITTIER

F
it a brides gown on a Friday?” Joseph Armstrong, the tailor from Newabbey village, shook his scissors like a scolding finger. “Whose daft idea was this, I'd like to know?”

Leana touched Rose's arm to keep her from confessing the truth. “It was mine,” Leana said coolly. “Had I looked at a calendar before I chose the twelfth of December, Mr. Armstrong, I'd have known better than to have my sister fitted on such an unlucky day.”

“Aye, well,” he grumbled. “ ‘Tis too late now, lass. The gown and I have made the hours journey to Auchengray, so dress the bride we will.” With a noisy huff, the tailor knelt to the floor once more, poked half a dozen straight pins between his teeth, and returned to his hemming. Between mouthfuls, he directed his apprentice to pin the sleeves as well. “Set up the smoothing board first, lad, and be quick about it. See that ye dont drop the goose on Miss McBride's toes, or she'll be limping at her sisters wedding.”

The small lad, so thin he appeared not to have eaten for a month, placed the heavy smoothing iron by the fire, its gooselike neck silhouetted in the glowing peat. His own neck was almost as narrow. The collarbones sticking out of his shirt begged for meat. Leana would see that he left with a bannock and some pickled mutton in his pocket. As to the tailor, he, too, bore the look of poverty. The marked hump on his back and cruel bend to his posture meant he'd had a difficult way of it from his first breath. She vowed to pay the man twice his wage and face her father's disapproval.

Leana lit another candle, knowing frugal Lachlan would object to that as well. Still, the room was too dark for the tailor to see clearly. The forenoon sun was out but hardly shining, its meager rays lighting the room's two casement windows. Leana moved the candles closer, then gave the men room to work as she circled the nervous bride, who stood on a stout wooden box in the center of the sisters’ bedroom. Praying as she walked, Leana begged the Almighty for patience with Rose and a generous spirit. She had known this day would be difficult and had prepared herself for it, or so she'd thought. Now that it was here, her words felt wooden and her heart like a stone.

Jamie, oh, Jamie.
How his eyes would light at the sight of Rose in so becoming a gown. If Leana thought it might win Jamie's affections, she would gladly pay the tailor to make a second one to match it. A foolish notion, of course. No dress, however flattering, could make such a dramatic change in Jamie's heart. He would simply say, “Don't you look fine, Leana.” But his eyes would never show what she longed to see reflected there, nor his lips say the words she ached to hear:
In you whom I bve, Leana. You ahne.

Leana shook her head, dislodging the traitorous thoughts, and forced a smile to her face. She must be happy for her sister.
Must.
If Rose were marrying another—any man but Jamie McKie—Leana would be overjoyed.
Think of that then.
What she could not dwell on were her own feelings for Jamie, which had strengthened rather than diminished. The reason was simple: The worst had already been endured. Jamie would never be hers, so she had naught to fear, and little to lose, in loving him.

True, her love was one-sided, but it was love in its purest form. Chaste. A love born of admiration and respect, not youthful lust. Whether he knew it or not, Jamie
needed
‘her love, needed a constant and steady source of support, something she feared childish Rose could never manage. Leana kept the secret of her continuing regard for Jamie well hidden. Once the wedding was past and all hope lost forever, she would bury her feelings for Jamie in the frozen soil of her garden beside the sharply pruned Maiden's Blush. For now, her love grew in silence, like the misdetoe in the crevices of her apple trees, unseen yet potent.

Comforted by her thoughts, Leana watched her sister hold her arms akimbo, struggling to accommodate the tailors wishes and not lose her balance. Roses voice trembled as she asked, “How does it look, Leana?”

She could only speak the truth. “Wonderful, dearie. The color especially.” It was far and away the most fashionable gown Rose McBride had ever worn. The damask was a pale dusky rose, the robe styled high above her waist, the seam covered with a sash of a darker hue. The petticoat beneath it matched the kell from Dresden, as creamy white as Roses flawless skin. A shoemaker in Newabbey had managed to make damask slippers to match the dress. Neda recommended the shoes be carried to the kirk for the ceremony and not worn until the last minute, and Leana had agreed. Come Hogmanay, east Galloway weather could be frightful.

Leana nodded at the tailor and his apprentice. “Thank heaven you two had a dry day for your walk from the village, or my sister's gown might have been ruined before the neighborhood ever saw her wearing it.”

Rose pressed a hand against her chest. “What a horrid thought!”

“So it is, lass.” The tailor stood to his feet, his crooked back even more pronounced. “Once I've pressed it smooth, ye're not to wear the dress again until your wedding day, nor can it be altered on the morning of your marriage, not by one stitch.” He turned to Leana. “Ye'll see to it, Miss McBride? Bad enough that our fitting took place on a Friday without yer sister handing ill luck an invitation to the wedding.”

“Och!” Roses hands flew to her cheeks, which now matched the rosy gown. “The invitations! I completely forgot.” She waved her arms up and down, pins flying. “Jamie and I planned to deliver our invitations this afternoon. Surely we've finished here.” She nearly jumped from her perch before the tailor placed his hands firmly on her waist.

“Steady, lass. I've more of the hem to mark, and the sleeves still need fixing.” He consulted his watch, shaking his head all the while. “We ve another hour of work that can't be managed without ye.”

Rose wrung her hands, imploring Leana with her eyes. “Is there nothing to be done? We were to deliver the invitations round the parish on Tuesday, but the rain was so fierce we feared we'd be soaked to the
skin. You'll remember on Wednesday, Neda had every woman in Auchengray making treacle candy. Then on Thursday a north wind blew down from Queensbury…
Och!
We must leave at once. Leana,
think
of something!”

Leana looked at the apprentice, nigh to cowering by the chimney-piece, and the tailor, whose face resembled that same north wind, cold and foreboding. “Gendemen, if I may make a suggestion. Might I… that is, would it be acceptable to you if I took my sisters place? Just for the balance of the fitting?”

The tailor threw up his hands with a lengthy groan. “Ye've no regard for tradition, Miss McBride. The wedding gown is not to be worn before the bride herself has been married in it.”

“Ill luck again, is it?”

“Ill?” The tailor shook his head, rolling his eyes as he did. “Disastrous, if ye want to know the truth.”

The sisters gazed at each other across his wagging head. Would it really be such a risk for a mere fitting?

Rose made the decision for them. “Mr. Armstrong, we re grateful for your concern. If it were anyone other than my sister, I would never risk such a foolish thing. But since it
is
my dearest Leana, and since I
must
deliver my invitations today…well, we've been wearing each others dresses for several seasons. I don't suppose it will matter just once more.”

“Whatever ye say, lass. It's yer wedding.”

The men left the room while Leana and Rose switched gowns amid much laughter and sticking of pins. Rose stood back to admire the dress. “The color suits you as well, Leana.” She knit her brows in mock annoyance. “See that you don't grow too accustomed to the feel of this dress on your bonny shoulders. The gown is mine, don't forget. And so is the bridegroom who goes with it.”

Leana stilled, swallowing a sour taste in her mouth. “How could I forget such a thing?”

“Leana.” The color drained from her sister's face. “I'm…I'm sorry. I meant it only in jest. I never…” She shrugged, dropping her chin to her chest. In a small voice she added, “Forgive me.”

“There's naught to forgive, dearie. You were only teasing.” Leana reached out and pulled her sister into a loose embrace, not wanting to prick her with a pin or tear a fragile seam. “Go on, see to your invitations. Your friends are no doubt wondering if they 11 be invited at all and will be most glad to see you appear at their gate. Mr. Armstrong and I will make certain your gown is perfect.”

Rose hugged her back and whispered a teary thank-you in Leana's ear. “My dress is the one thing that doesn't concern me. All the rest of it scares me widess.” She slipped out the door, her cheeks still pale, and sent in the tailor and his apprentice, who wasted no time getting to work.

Leana patiendy stood while they pinned and measured, relieved when Mr. Armstrong assured her, “Ye and yer sister are nigh to twins, so close are yer measurements. ‘Twas good of ye to do this for her, Miss McBride, ill luck or no. Yer sister seemed eager to take her leave.”

“Aye.” She stared out the nearest window, the gray hills in the distance as bleak as her future. Any moment the chaise would be summoned and Rose sent safely on her way with a maid to keep her company. Astride Walloch, Jamie would deliver his own invitations— precious few since he'd been in the parish less than three months—while she, the older sister, stood proxy for the missing bride.

“Come, miss.” The tailor reached for the kell. “Nothing remains but to see this hung round your head.” He shook out the long headdress with surprising grace, then stood on tiptoe to drape it over her hair. It landed softly, as pure as early December snow falling on Lowtis Hill. He tugged the folds around her face, covering her hair. “A pretty piece of needlework, to be sure. From Dresden, ye say?” He stood back, nodding his approval, then walked around her, muttering to himself. “A pity you can't see for yerself, Miss McBride. From the back, ye'd never know it wasn't yer sister.” He continued around until he stood before her once again, then gave her a sly wink. “Even the bridegroom himself might be
swicked
, aye?”