Thorn in My Heart Read online

  A cry split the air first.

  “He's here! Yer son is born!” crowed Jean.

  One. Two. Three.

  Rowena sank into the bed, barely conscious as the distant chimes rang.

  Four. Five. Six.

  She could hear the babe whimpering as Jean called out, “Och! There's a second child, there is! Close on his brothers heels. Ye'll not be long deliverin this one.”

  Rowena felt the urge to push again.

  Seven. Eight. Nine.

  Jeans voice rang out, louder than the chimes. “One mair push, Mistress McKie, and ye'll have twa bairns lyin in yer arms.”

  Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

  The whole gathering held its breath until another lusty cry rang out in the crowded bedroom. The clock was silent now, but all else was in an uproar.

  “Twa sons, they are! Twins!”

  Rowena fell back on her pillow in a faint, while all around the room merry bedlam reigned. Amid the clamor Jean made short work of the cords with a sharp knife, then fed each child a wee spoonful of salt to chase away the fairies and gave them a quick dunking in cool water from the loch to make them strong and healthy. Dazed, Rowena could do nothing but watch as every precaution was taken. A candle fashioned from the root of a fir tree, cut into thin splinters and seeping with turpentine, was carried around her bed three times. Rowan twigs were tossed on the fire. Prayers were said by each woman in turn before passing a dish of oatmeal and water and supping three spoonfuls. With two fragile lives hanging in the balance, this was no time to put aside the old ways.

  Jean left the others to their business and tended to Rowena's needs, clucking and fussing as she helped her sit up. She propped a bolster behind her, then firmly pressed a shivering, squalling infant into the crook of each arm, their wet bodies tighdy wrapped in newly woven linen. “Nothin alike, yer lads,” Jean murmured, leaning closer as she pushed aside the soiled sheets. “See how the red one wears a hairy cloak, and the other has naught but a bit o’ goose down on his head?”

  Rowena could not take her eyes off their tiny faces, pinched and wrinkled, their hungry cries piercing her soul. “My sons,” she whispered, brushing a light kiss on each head, fighting tears. Afraid to speak the names she'd chosen for them until the lads were baptized, she pressed her cheek to their damp heads and in her heart lifted them to heaven in prayer: Evan Alexander McKie, the one with a full head of red hair and a lusty cry. James Lachlan McKie, his downy-capped younger brother. “May I love them both the same,” she said softly.

  “ ‘Twill be a challenge, different as they are,” Jean agreed, patting her arm. “Not even born on the same day, these twa. But both McKies, no mistakin that.”

  Rowena pulled her attention away from her sons long enough to meet the midwife's sympathetic gaze. “What do you mean they weren't born on the same day?”

  Jean glanced behind her, then crouched down until they were eye to eye. “Did ye notice the clock chimin?”

  “Aye, but…” Rowenas limbs suddenly began to shake uncontrollably. “Wh-what…”

  “Not to worry. To be expected, this chill of yours. ‘Twill pass soon enough.” Ever efficient, Jean tucked woolen blankets around Rowenas legs and shoulders, then lifted a cup of tepid tea to her lips. “Now then, about the time of birth. This red and birsie son of yers was born when Wednesday was on the wane. But this smooth one came after all twelve chimes ushered in Thursday. D'ye see how it is?”

  Rowena stared down at their damp heads. “ Wednesday's child is full of woe,'” she whispered, a rhyme spoken by every Scottish mother from time out of mind.

  Jean nodded, her jovial expression growing more serious. “Aye, so it is. And ‘Thursday's child has far tae go.’ ”

  “Oh, but not yet, wee one.” Rowena swallowed hard, horrified at the mere thought of the younger, smaller twin being taken from her side. Jamie. The look of his sweet, brown-tufted head had already stolen her heart. “Please, not yet.”

  “Have no fear. Both will live.” Jean's voice was low but firm. “The second one, born past midnight, will have the power to see the Spirit o’ God abroad in the land. He's gifted, that one. Remember what I told ye the month last? ‘The older will serve the younger.’ See that ye don't forget when the time comes.”

  “When might that be?” Rowenas shivering continued as she drew her babies closer still. “How will I know?”

  Jean shrugged, not unkindly. “We niver know when or where, Mistress McKie. Like any mither, ye must stand at the ready. Almighty God will show ye what's tae be done.” Jean squeezed her shoulder with frank affection, then gendy touched each infants head. “And now, mistress, what else may I do for ye this nicht?”

  A fresh spate of tears rolled down Rowenas face and over her trembling lips. “Tell Mr. McKie…” She choked on her words, clutching her babies tight against her swollen breasts. “Tell him his prayers have been answered. God has seen fit to make him a father.”

  One

  And all to leave what with his toil he won,

  To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son.

  JOHN DRYDEN

  Glentrool

  Autumn 1788

  Heaven help us, Jamie. Your father has… Och! I cannot bear it.” Jamie watched his mother storm about the fading gardens of Glentrool. Up and down she walked, hands waving through the air as she fretted over Alec McKies latest blunder. After two dozen years beneath her roof Jamie was well acquainted with his mothers theatrics. He simply folded his arms across his blue serge waistcoat and waited.

  The forenoon sun lit the grassy paths but did not warm them. A crisp autumn wind rusded through the pines and sent a golden pile of rowan leaves swirling about his buckskin breeches and her billowing gray skirts. Rowena, named for the hallowed tree with its bright red berries, grabbed the fabric of her dress with both hands and shook hard, sending dust and leaves flying. “It's not fair, what the man has done. Not fair at all!”

  “I'm sure you're right, Mother.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. Despite her age and agitated state, Rowena McKie still made a sonsie sight. In seasons past, reports of her coal-black hair and sparkling dark eyes had traveled from one end of Galloway to the other, from the harbor at Portpatrick to the venneh of Dumfries. Covetous men had eyed her at kirk and market alike, giving his father no end of trouble defending her honor and keeping ne'er-do-wells at bay. A bonny wife came at a steep price, Jamie realized, one he did not intend to pay unless the lass was verra bonny indeed.

  Rowena gnawed at her bottom lip, her brow furrowed. The news was bad, it seemed. Whatever had taken place since they'd shared breakfast earlier, it was clear his father had outdone himself.

  “Are you going to tell me what's happened, Mother, or must I guess?”

  “Listen to me, Jamie.” A long strand of hair, lately streaked with silver, fell to her neck. She tucked it back in place with graceful fingers, her gaze firmly locked with his. “It's about your brother.”

  Jamie grimaced. It was always about Evan.

  “Your father summoned him. Sent Thomas Findlay out at dawn, as if the man had nothing better to do than scramble his way over the Rig of Stroan looking for your wayward brother. It took Thomas all morning to find him.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “You should have seen Evan dragging himself through the door in his filthy hunting plaid. That red mane of his was a tangled mess. And his beard! I'm ashamed to call him my firstborn.”

  Jamie merely nodded while his stomach bore the brunt of the news, twisting itself into a hard, painful knot. Rowena McKie might be ashamed of her older son, but Alec McKie doted on Evan, endlessly praising his keen hunter's eye and strong bow arm. “No doubt Evan came straightaway when he heard the news,” Jamie grumbled. “He kens which side his bannock's buttered on.”

  His mother eyed him, one brow arched. “You'd be wise to do the same.”

  Jamie studied the toe of his boot, not wanting to provoke her displeasure. From nursery days he and his brother h
ad been pitted against each other by their doting mother and father, compared and contrasted, weighed and measured like livestock: “Jamie is taller, aye, but Evan is stronger.” “Jamie is clever, aye, but Evan is brave.” If such comments were meant to be helpful, the plan had failed miserably. A bitter rivalry for their parents’ favor had ensued. Aggravation turned to seething animosity as Alec and Rowena made their preferences all too apparent.

  Jamie, less than a minute younger than his twin, had no claim on his father's heart at all. His mother's heart was another matter entirely: Jamie owned the whole of it and Evan not a bit. Such had always been the case, and more so of late. His wayward brother strayed far from Glentrool's boundaries; Jamie stayed closer to home, keeping his mother company and the family ledgers neat. Evan cared litde for social discourse; Jamie's manners were impeccable. Evan had married a woman his parents loathed; Jamie had prudently heeded his mothers advice concerning marriage. On three occasions he'd brought a lass home to Glentrool for his mothers assessment, and each time Rowena had whispered, “Not this one.”

  So be it. With his father's love and attention firmly settled on Evan, Jamie dared not risk losing his mother's favor as well by choosing an ill-suited bride. He had plenty of time to find a wife. For now, the verdant hills and rich flocks of Glentrool were more than enough to satisfy him. “What sort of reception did Father give Evan?” Jamie asked, knowing the answer.

  “He ignored your brother's slovenly appearance and welcomed him with open arms. Not that your father can see well enough to notice how your brother dresses, mind you. Instead, he blethered on and on about his two favorite subjects.”

  “His old age being one of them,” Jamie offered, certain she would nod in agreement. “Did Father mention how he's fey and nigh to dying? And how his sight wanes by the hour?” Jamie regretted the glib tone of his words the minute he said them. The man was, after all, nearly blind. “So then. The other matter he discussed?” “Dinner.”

  “Aye, it would be.” Despite his failing eyesight, Alec McKie's appetite for savory meat remained sharp as ever, particularly when served with red currant jelly and roasted potatoes. Evan, skilled hunter that he was, courted their sire's approval with roe deer, hung to a high flavor, and fresh salmon pulled from the Minnoch. Jamie was too impatient for fishing, useless with firearms, worse with a bow. He could handle a sword when necessary or plant his fist in a man's gut if provoked. For the most part, words were his weapon and logic his armor. In the war to please his father, he'd been soundly beaten by Evan.

  “Your father sent him off with quiver and bow, bound for the Wood of Crée to hunt wild game. Said he had a taste for venison.”

  Jamie shrugged, not really caring. Family intrigues held no fascination for him. His mother thrived on them, so he humored her. “Tell me why Evans hunting concerns you.”

  Her eyes sparked. “Its your future that concerns me, James Lachlan McKie!” She stepped closer, hands clasped tight about her waist. Her pointed chin, as sharp as his, jutted upward. “Your fathers last words to Evan before he left were, ‘I want to give you my blissin before I die.’ ”

  “His…blessing?” Jamie's jaw tightened. Now she had his full attention. The man's blessing was a great deal more than a kind word. His father meant to give his heirship—Glentrool and all the land's riches— to Evan. Evan, his fool of a brother! Jamie could barely speak the words. “Glentrool will be…Evan's?”

  “ Wheesht! Don't even think such a thing! You alone are meant to claim it, Jamie.”

  She'd said so before, dozens of times. That he should be his father's heir. That he was the canny one, who managed the flocks and fields with a prudent eye. That it was the Almighty's will he should rule Glentrool someday. Jamie had believed her because he wanted to, because he loved Glentrool and despised the brother who would inherit property he neither labored over nor deserved.

  If his mother was right, Evan would claim Glentrool as his own. All the land, all the goats and sheep, and every room of the house.

  “Do you know what this means?” Jamie ground out the words, turning on his heel to pace the ground. “The moment Father is dead, Evan will toss me out on the moors without a single guinea or a second thought.”

  “Nae! I will not allow it.” His mother lunged after him and snatched his sleeve. “Do you hear me, Jamie? Your father did this on his own, without saying a word to me.”

  He turned to find her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Is that what irks you most, Mother? That he didn't seek your counsel?”

  “Nae!” She swung away from him, her cheeks scarlet. He'd nicked her pride too near the bone. A moment later she turned back, her features cooled but her jaw firm. “What irks me most is a father who refuses to credit both his sons equally.” Her eyes narrowed. “And a son who's forgotten all the things his mother has done for him.”

  Jamie had no choice but to nod in acknowledgment. Hadn't she made certain he slept in the largest bedroom and rode Walloch, the finest mount in the McKie stables? Wasn't she the one who surrounded him with books, as expensive as they were to come by, and intervened whenever Evan appeared to be getting the upper hand? Gratitude was the least he could offer her, though at times the weight of her favor pressed down on his chest like a gravestone.

  “You've done much for me, and I'm grateful.” He dipped his head, a gendeman's bow. “What would you have me do in return?”

  She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and led him farther away from the busy house, apart from listening ears and curious glances and windowpanes that shone down on them like the eyes of the Almighty. She inclined her head toward his and squeezed his arm affectionately. “I have a wee plan, Jamie.”

  Hearing the warm note of persuasion in her voice, he knew he was doomed to do her bidding.

  “Your father will be expecting Evan to serve him alone in the dining room, by his own hand in a week or so, will he not? A gustie haunch of venison and the best of our kitchen garden spread about Glentrool's table like gifts for the king. An evening supper to close the day and seal Evans future, aye?”

  Her vivid imagery sharpened Jamie's tongue. “What has this to do with me?”

  “Patience, lad.” She steered him along the leafy path, crushing rowan berries beneath her best shoes. “While your brother is off hunting south of Trool, you and I will be planning our own fine meal to garner an audience with your father.”

  He jerked her to a stop. “I'm no hunter, and you ken it well.”

  She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “You don't hunt for goat meat, Jamie.” Her smile creased the corners of her eyes, which shone like polished onyx. “Not with young goats aplenty on Buchan Hill.”

  “Goats?” He shook his head, uncertain of her meaning. “Do you mean to serve him goat meat instead of venison?”

  She brushed her hand through the air, as though plotting and scheming were a simple matter. “ ‘Tis nothing to season one meat to taste like another. Did I not spend a girlhood summer learning cookery in Dumfries? We'll serve your father a noontide meal a few days hence, long before Evan and his roebuck darken Glentrools kitchen door.”

  “All well and good to disguise the meat. What of my own hide, Mother?” He glared at her, hoping he might alter the reckless course she'd charted. “I can alter my voice, but have you plans to smother me in spices as well?”

  “Not spices, no. But something every bit as fragrant: your brother's plaid.” Her smile stretched farther, revealing a row of teeth grown blunt with age. “Your father will not realize what he's done, not until its too late. Until then, it will be our saicret, Jamie.” She stroked the fabric of his sleeve with a firm hand. “Yours and mine.”

  Two

  A secret at home is like rocks under tide.

  DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

  Newabbey Parish, East Galloway

  Was dinner to your liking, Father?”

  Leana McBride sat at attention across the table from her father and watched while he dragged the back of his ha
nd across his mouth, ignoring the linen napkin by his plate. His ebony hair, threaded with silver, was pulled back from his broad forehead and tied into a severe tail. The pewter buttons on his coat gleamed in the firelight.

  “It was food, and it was eaten.” With a surly grunt, he pushed his chair away from the table and yanked his gray waistcoat into place, not once looking in her direction. Instead, his gaze shifted to the window and the darkening sky beyond it. “Storm blowing in from the west. See to it that the ripest apples are picked, Leana, or we'll lose the best of them.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on with you. Im expecting a visitor shortly. See that you dont disturb us.”

  She stood and dipped a slight curtsy, then headed for the orchard, gathering up two baskets at the kitchen door before letting it shut softly behind her. When Lachlan McBride was in one of his disagreeable moods, the sooner out of his presence, the better. Twenty years of trying to placate her father had not softened his bark nor toughened her skin. If she spoke up, he called her impertinent. If she remained silent, he pronounced her dull. She had no choice on such occasions but to seek the sanctuary of her gardens, knowing he wouldn't bother to look for her. Little wonder no woman in Galloway would have her widowed father for a husband. Land and silver alone were not enough to warm a woman's heart.

  The blustery winds plucked at her neady coiled braids as Leana made her way toward the family's meager grove of apple trees east of the house, where they were protected from the prevailing southwest winds. Her fathers forecast was no exaggeration; the sun was nowhere to be seen. Heavy clouds were stacked, one behind the other, like huge boulders ready to tumble out of the sky. Against the slate-colored canvas, the round, yellow fruit shone brighter than usual, ripe and golden, begging to be picked. Leana wasted no time kilting her wool skirts around her legs and climbing the wooden ladder that stood propped against a gnarled trunk. Turning her back to the wind, she began picking all she could grasp, careful not to lose her balance. The pippin apples felt warm and smooth in her hands, the fruit still firm but not too hard for knife or tooth to penetrate. She filled one willow basket, then another, reaching and bending in quick succession, keenly aware of the wind growing colder and the sky more ominous.