Whence Came a Prince (21 page)

When her basket was filled with tatties, Leana stood, being careful not to lose her balance. Like potatoes hiding in the ground, her unborn child continued to expand. She’d slipped into Rose’s bedroom one morning when all were out of doors and looked at her profile in the looking glass over the dressing table, dismayed at the image she saw. A
thickening in her waist, a rounding of her belly, a slight widening of her hips. She used the warm weather as an excuse to wear her stays more loosely—not uncommon in the country—but surely Eliza would notice soon. Could she trust her maid to keep so great a secret?

She’d written Aunt Meg a letter last Monday describing her homecoming, pleading with Meg to make no mention of the child in her letters to Auchengray. Would that she might make a similar request of all the women in Twyneholm. ’Twas too late for that. The two dozen miles separating them would be her only protection.

In truth, Leana longed to tell the world her good news. No matter the situation, a bairn was always a blessing from God. She gazed up at the rows of casement windows that looked down on her like unseeing eyes. The window in Ian’s room was slightly open. He would not awake for another two hours or more. She found every possible excuse to be with him. Bathing, playing, feeding, dressing, reading. Rose did not seem to mind in the least. For that kindness alone Leana would ever be in her sister’s debt.

“To work, to work,” she reminded herself, turning back to the task at hand. She pulled a paring knife from her apron pocket and headed for the asparagus patch—“sparrowgrass” her mother had called it—growing in a well-shaded corner of the garden. Another week and asparagus season would end. She cut each stem, none thicker than her ring finger, at a sharp diagonal and placed the stems with care in a smaller basket. Neda would blanch them and serve them in a few hours. Tatties would keep in the cellar; asparagus was meant to be eaten the day it was harvested.

Leana carried both baskets into the kitchen and left them on the pine dressing table. Scrubbed clean a dozen times a day, the wood still bore faint red stains from Tuesday’s fresh-picked strawberries. She paused, noting the sounds of life coming from the third floor. The servants, whose beds were tucked beneath the eaves, would slip down the back stairwell before Lachlan, Rose, or Jamie pushed back their bed curtains. Leana intended to remain in the garden emptying her seed packets until late forenoon, when the sun grew too bright for her sensitive eyes and skin.

Returning out of doors, she surveyed the kitchen garden. At least
Eliza had found time to prepare the soil, hoeing it thoroughly. Leana’s pockets were brimming with seeds wrapped in paper squares, purchased from a packman who came round each April. Neda had remembered to buy all her favorites: French beans and colewort, radishes and celery, spinach and cauliflower, and the crinkle-leaved cabbages known as savoys. Poking the tiny seeds in the dirt the proper distance apart was a slow process and hard on her back. By the Lammas harvest, the McKies would be gone and her condition common knowledge. Surely the household would help her then. For now, she dared not complain of her back hurting.

Leana eyed the weeds that had sprouted overnight, flourishing in the well-fertilized beds of her physic garden. She’d pull what she could and snip a few culinary herbs for Neda in passing. Bright green sprigs of coriander leaves might be tasty in a salad. So would purslane—Neda called it
purpie
—with its darker green leaves and purplish stems. At the far end stood tall stems of valerian, with pale pink flowers and potent roots often used to heal a barren woman. Rose’s words from late March came to mind.
Will you prepare the valerian for me?
Leana had done so, but it was God who had blessed Rose’s womb, not the garden plant.

The last of the early mist disappeared as Leana finished a long row of weeding. She rose as the back door swung open and Eliza emerged, her arms full of Ian, who was sporting her frilly white cap. “My, don’t you make a charming serving lass?” Leana called out. Never mind the demands of soil and seed: A child’s needs came first. She wiped her hands clean on her apron, then held them out, wiggling her fingers in anticipation. “Have you had your breakfast yet, Ian?”

“Not yet.” Eliza handed him over, then stole back her cap and put it on her head backward so the strings hung over her face. Ian whooped with laughter and tugged it off again. “That’s enough, laddie,” Eliza cautioned him. “You’ll drop me bonnet in the dirt.” With her cap back in its proper place, the sandy-haired maid grinned broadly and produced two floury baps from her apron pocket. She handed one roll to Ian, who immediately stuffed it in his mouth. “Warm from the oven, they are.”

“Ah,” Leana breathed, plucking the other one out of Eliza’s hand and inhaling the yeasty scent. “Shall we have our breakfast in the gar
den, Ian?” She eased him down onto the grass, then joined him there, sitting across from him and folding her skirts about her.

“I’ll collect him for his bath in a bit, mem.” Eliza bobbed her head and hastened back to the kitchen.

Ian, meanwhile, had covered himself in flour from forehead to chin. “I see you are enjoying your bap,” Leana teased him, then took a bite of her own and sent a spray of flour across her green gown. She’d worn the old dress on purpose, knowing it would absorb the grass stains from her gardening. But the flour showed up perfectly against the dark fabric, like a dusting of snow on the lawn. “Doesn’t Mother look a sight?”

A few minutes later, their breakfast rolls eaten, Leana pulled Ian onto her lap, being careful to point his energetic legs away from her stomach. “And speaking of food, have you learned this song yet? Your stepmother loved it when she was a girl.” Holding out his arms as if together they might reach the sky, Leana tipped her head back and sang with abandon, louder than the birds in the yew tree.

Ian’s squeals were sweeter than music, his sticky hands more precious to the touch than silk. She kissed his hair, then bent round to press their cheeks together. “Eliza will be along any minute to claim you. Suppose you and I take a walk to Lochend this afternoon. Before your nap, aye? A loch is like your tub but a great deal larger. The water is cool, with moorhens gliding across the surface and pike swimming below. But they’ll not bother us, I promise.” Leana pretended Ian’s vigorous repertoire of sounds meant “aye” and that his flapping arms meant he could hardly wait. “We’ll leave at two o’ the clock, then.”

The back door banged open, and Eliza hurried toward them. “Bath time,” the maid sang out. She scooped up Ian and was gone in an instant, leaving Leana’s arms empty and her heart nearly so as she imagined the day when he would be stolen from her embrace forever.

Too weary to stand again, she turned onto her knees to study her ornamental garden. At least the perennials had bloomed without assistance. The scarlet Flower of Bristol, old as the Crusades, stood proudly
on thick stems, clusters of bright red flowerets held high. Absorbed in her flowers, Leana did not notice she had company in the garden until a faint shadow fell across the ground before her.

“Good morning, Leana.” Jamie’s voice was still rough, as though he’d only just awakened.

“Good morning,” she murmured, still facing her flower beds. Perhaps if she did not look at him, he would not stay. Though she wanted him to very much.

After a moment’s silence, he said, “I recall another morning when I came looking for you in the garden.”

She nodded slowly, remembering. Praying he would not speak aloud the words he’d said to her the day she left Auchengray. The day of his wedding to Rose.
I will always love you. God forgive me for speaking the truth.
It was the truth then. It was not the truth now.

His hand touched her shoulder. “Leana, will you not look at me?”

I cannot.
She pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.

Jamie crouched beside her, elbows on his thighs, his fingers laced together. Though he did not brush against her, she felt the heat of him, warmer than any peat fire. Her body responded instinctively, turning toward him.

“Leana.” A note of persuasion in his voice. “Please do not be afraid.”

She looked up and met his gaze. “I am … not afraid.” But there was no use pretending. She was very much afraid.

His beard stubble was dark, drawing a bold line across his cheek. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised. Had he not slept well either? His mouth was set in a firm line, as though he had much he wanted to say. Jamie had not chanced upon her in the garden, then; he’d come looking for her.

“Leana, we must speak.” Taking her hands in his, he slowly stood, pulling her up with him. Though he released her the moment she was steady, he did not step back.

She folded her hands in front of her, concealing the child he did not know existed. “Jamie, I am sorry that I came home—”

“I am not.” He said it so quickly, it surprised them both. “I am not sorry,” he said again, more deliberately. “There was too much left un
spoken between us. After you departed for Twyneholm …” He looked away, rubbing a hand across his face. When he turned toward her again, the sheen in his eyes was unmistakable. “We did not have a chance to … We could not
finish
, Leana. I was not ready to … let go of you.”

“But you’re ready to do so now?” she asked softly. “To … let go?”

Though he did not answer, she saw the truth in his eyes.
Aye.
Resignation and relief flooded her soul, mingled with a deep sadness. “I understand. I do.”

Still he did not speak. “Jamie, what is it?”

“I need …” He looked away. “I need to know I’m … forgiven.” His ragged voice tore at her heart “For loving your sister. For loving Rose.”

Oh, Jamie.
“ ’Tis exactly what I would have you do,” she assured him, needing to hear the words as well. “There is nothing to forgive. Not for doing what is right and good.”

“But I made a vow …”

“A vow to God. Just as I have.” She longed to touch his cheek, if only to comfort him, but she kept her hands clasped tight. “I know that you loved me once, Jamie.” He lifted his head, an acknowledgment. “Just as I know that you love Rose now.”

“I do,” he admitted, “very much.” His face, his eyes shone with sincerity. “Yet when I see you, Leana …”

She fell back a step. “Then do not see me. Not … like that.” She begged the Almighty for a strength she did not possess and sensed it filling her like wind fills a sail. “I am your cousin. Rose’s sister. And Ian’s mother. ’Tis enough for me.”

His gaze probed hers. “You are certain?”

“Aye,” she whispered, praying he would believe her.

After a moment he bowed and clasped her hand, fervently kissing the back of it. “I truly am glad you came home, Leana.”

I should never have come home.
But she had.

And because of Ian, because of her dear son, she could say with a clear conscience, “I am happy to be here as well, Jamie.”

When he released her, when the warm touch of his lips on her skin cooled, she did not watch him leave but stood her ground in her beloved garden and turned to the One who remained.

R
ose had no patience for embroidery.

The afternoon light in the front parlor was more than sufficient to guide her stitches, yet they strayed across the fabric as if in search of a pattern. She’d sharpened her needle on a whetstone, but that was no help at all, for when she pricked her finger, it bled all the more profusely on the linen. Her mother’s silver thimble was too big for her thumb and fell off several times, finally rolling under her chair just out of reach.

“ ’Tis hopeless!” Rose cried, throwing her embroidery hoop across the room, the fabric trailing after it like the tail of a kite. The hoop landed safely on the half-tester bed, just missing Annabel as she entered the room balancing a cup on a tray.

The maidservant did not even glance at the banished embroidery. “Might a
tassie
o’ punch be a walcome treat for ye, mistress?”

Embarrassed, Rose snatched her silk fan off the table and fluttered it in front of her heated cheeks. “Indeed it would on a Thursday as warm as this one.”

Annabel set the tassie and a plate of honey cakes on a table within easy reach, curtsied, and quietly left the room. Ever since Jamie had informed the maidservant she would be coming with them to Glentrool, Annabel had gone out of her way to please her.

Rose sipped the cold concoction, licking her lips at the tart, sugary taste. The punch was one of Neda’s specialties, made with imported lemons, freshly drawn well water, sugar from the loaf in the pantry, and mint leaves from Leana’s garden. All was stirred in a great bowl and served in a cup with a slice of lime rubbed round the edge, then floated on top.

“Heaven,” Rose said on a sigh, her embroidery forgotten. She would
start anew some other day when her patience wasn’t worn thin by the heat. Her bairn would not arrive for many months; the little nightgown could wait. In any case, it was Leana’s fault: Yestreen she’d presented Ian with the most darling cotton nightgown trimmed in purple and green thistles. Rose could not stand the thought of her own son or daughter sleeping in plain white cotton when something finer could be had if she simply plied her needle.

With Leana’s help, she’d cut the fabric and stitched the seams. But the tiny black-and-white magpies she’d chosen to embroider for the hem had proven beyond her limited skills. Rose looked down and spread her fingers across her child’s hiding place. “I’ll try again, wee one. But not today.”

“Mistress?” Annabel at the parlor door again. “A visitor tae see Mr. McKie or Mr. McBride.
Naither
o’ them is hame at present. Will ye kindly come and greet him?”

“Of course.” Rose was on her feet at once, touching a hand to her hair. Rather than braiding it that morning, Annabel had swept Rose’s dark locks on top of her head, leaving several plump curls dangling in the back, tickling her neck. Jamie had complimented her at breakfast. Did it indeed make her look more sophisticated? As there was no looking glass in the parlor, she could only hope her coiffure was still in place as she hastened to greet their guest.