Free Whence Came a Prince by Liz Curtis Higgs Page B

brought Ann with you.” Leana pretended not to notice the dusting of sugar beneath Grace Burnie’s nose as the matron reached for another biscuit. Helen McGill, who’d dressed for a different season altogether, wore a faint sheen of perspiration across her brow. As for Catherine Rain, her mouth was drawn as tight as a closed purse, and her pointed gaze—aimed straight at Leana—was sharper than the sewing needles pinned to her bodice for safekeeping.
    Leana averted her eyes, then turned her body as well. Did Mistress Rain suspect something? Moving to a different corner of the room, Leana found her place among a group of more amiable souls, women she’d spoken to before and knew a little. Though Leana had attended two such prayer meetings and never missed a Sabbath at kirk, there were many women in the large, rural parish she had yet to meet. She hoped her smile would suffice for manners, wishing only to be invisible for her last few days in Twyneholm.
    “Miss McBride.” An older woman elbowed her way closer, her voice like the bray of a donkey. “You are the very image of your mother, God rest her soul. Whatever has brought you to Twyneholm?”
    One by one, heads turned in her direction. The loud chatter diminished.
    “Tell us, Miss McBride.” Another stranger spoke up. “Why are you here and not with your family in Newabbey?”
    “
In trowth
, do tell,” Janet Guthrie echoed, her speech thick with Scots. “Mony
fowk
have
wunnered
that verra thing.”
    Leana clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. She’d answered similar questions during her visit but never so many at once. “I am here because … that is, my aunt …”
    Meg came to her rescue. “I insisted Leana visit me this spring.Burnside Cottage gets
lanelie
with only the dogs for company.” Round the room, heads nodded and expressions softened. “Besides, my niece is a fine gardener. You’re invited to stop by on your way home and see for yourself.”
    Leana smiled at her, grateful for the reprieve. Meg had not insisted she come to Burnside, of course; Leana had pleaded for refuge. Nor was the gregarious Meg ever lonely.
    “Come, ladies.” Lydia Scott stepped to the center of the room, catching everyone’s attention. “We’ve gathered to pray. Jeanie will collect your plates and cups. Kindly find a seat while I locate my husband.”
    The chairs were finely crafted oak—from Glasgow, if rumors could be trusted—not
creepies
made of pine like Meg had round her hearth, low to the floor, without backs or arms. Leana chose a roomy seat, and her aunt sat next to her, inching her chair closer. “Hold your chin up, lass,” Meg said in a low voice, “for some of these
glib-gabbit
women are not easily convinced. I’ve been looking after beehives long enough to know that bees with honey in their mouths have stings in their tails.”
    Before Leana could respond, the Reverend Dr. John Scott strode into the room amid a flurry of greetings. Well educated and pious, he shepherded his flock with a firm but loving hand. In the pulpit and on broadsheets he bemoaned the rise in smuggling along the Solway coast, aware that most of his parishioners were involved in “free trading” to one degree or another. Aunt Meg was not above hiding smuggled salt in her cupboard to help one of her free-trading neighbors, especially when it meant receiving a pocketful of the precious commodity for her efforts.
    Reverend Scott stretched out his arms, holding them over the assembly like the branches of a stalwart oak. “O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come.” A long time of intercession followed, with the minister speaking and the women listening. Every parishioner’s need was laid before the Almighty—every need except Leana’s unspoken one.
    When the minister’s prayer finally ended, he disappeared up the stair with his wife not far behind, requesting a moment of his time. As the women resumed their conversations, Leana sensed more than