Kissingate Magic #8
“At least it keeps my back warm. Come closer and warm my … front.”
That set her spine. “I will not marry you, Gabriel Macgregor. Not to save you from the Prouts. Damn you for suggesting it.”
He hung her clothes over the branch, to hide his disappointment.
“Hello the wagon? Anybody inside?”
“Hello,” Jacey shouted. “The door’s jammed. Can you get us out?” Her voice wobbled, as if she might cry as she stepped into her wet crinolines.
Twenty-one
More than a day after they left, they returned to Kirk Cottage.
From the hall, they saw Bridget, on her stomach, on the settee, chin in hands, speaking to Hedgehog, peeking over the arm of the settee.
Hedgehog stroked her hair. “Tell me what you remember about your mother.”
“She used to sing, but not as often as Myjacey. Once, Papa looked sad, and Mama said she knew he missed Myjacey when she sang.”
“Hedgehog, this makes me sad to remember.”
“You’ll feel better, if you tell me what’s bothering you.”
Bridget sighed. “Mama said she wouldn’t rest in heaven if Papa didn’t go get Myjacey. He held her and said he was sorry. He and Mama cried. Me too.” Bridget swallowed. “They didn’t know I saw.”
She wiped her eyes. “I know Papa likes me, but I wish he liked Mama enough to keep her and not send her to heaven.”
Jacey took Gabriel’s arm, in support and comfort, and it was a measure of his shock that he let her.
“Yesterday Papa took Myjacey, and they didn’t come home, and I’m afraid he sent her to heaven.”
“Your Mama was very sick,” Hedgehog said.
“God would have let Papa keep Mama, if he asked. Mama said God listens to Papa, ’cause he talks Sundays and everybody hardly falls asleep. Why didn’t Papa like Mama enough to keep her?”
“Cricket, Mama stopped hurting when God took her home.”
“After Mama went away for hours, Papa said God took her to heaven. Now Myjacey’s been gone that long, and I’m afraid she’s with God. If she is, I’ll never forgive Papa, Hedgehog!”
“Cricket,” Jacey said.
Bridget launched herself into Jacey’s arms.
Gabriel looked rooted in horror, because in his daughter’s eyes, he’d failed at the single most important task of his life. He’d failed to rescue her mother from the clutches of death.
“You’re wrong, sweetheart,” Jacey said. “Papa prayed hard to keep her. Your Mama wrote and told me so.”
Like Gabriel, Bridget looked at her. “She did?”
Jacey nodded. “That’s why Papa cried holding Mama, because he knew God said no, and your mama was going to heaven. That’s why he was sorry.”
“Did you, Papa, pray hard to keep Mama?” Bridget asked.
“So hard,” Gabriel said, hugging Bridget.
A few hours after the reunion, and after she and Gabe had bathed and eaten, they all met the gravedigger at her daughter’s grave. “Angus,” Jacey said. “When you buried my baby, were graveside prayers said over her wee casket?”
“I din bury no baby, m’Lady. I put the stone here, like your Ma said, which she paid me not to say.” He shrugged. “I don’t s’pose it matters now she’s dead.”
Jacey covered her mouth with a hand. Mac wept into her apron. Bridget traced the numbers on the gravestone.
“Dig her up,” Jace said, and Mac wailed. “Don’t, thank you, Angus.” She turned towards the house. “Bridget, get your Mama’s book. Mac, I’ll have that trunk of baby clothes, please.”
Mac shook her head.
“Mackenzie,” Gabriel said.
Clara’s bible noted Baby Lockhart’s date of birth and death. A week later, Bridget Lockhart Spencer’s birth was recorded.
Jace stared until the words blurred. She opened the trunk. “This is probably a waste of time. When I heard there was no funeral, I thought …”
She found the yellow embroidered sacque to match the bonnet and held it up, her heart racing. “Clara in Scotland, me here, and we make the same gown?” She trembled with hope as she snipped the stitches at the back hem.
When she opened it, she sobbed.
“Jace, you’re upsetting Bridget. Mackenzie,” Gabriel added. “Take Bridget to the kitchen.”
Twenty-two
Gabe carried Jace to the settee. She laughed while she cried.
“Are we going a wee bit daft, love?”
“Gabriel, my baby didn’t die. Mother lied. She sent her to Clara. Probably to legitimize her.”
“You don’t mean … Bridget is yours?”
“Dearest, you may never forgive me, but she’s more than my daughter—”
Gabe groaned. “Right; she’s Nick’s.”
“Remember how I counted on Nick to get me out of trouble. Think about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jace kissed him with all her love, and though he was confused, he put love into his kiss.
“Gabriel,” Jace said, “Bridget is more than my daughter, she’s our daughter.” She showed him the sacque. “I embroidered ‘Baby Macgregor’ inside. I wanted the truth somewhere.”
He stroked the embroidery: “I fathered your child? Not Nick?”
“My mother couldn’t make his life hell in America, so I waited for him to leave, then I named him, with his permission.”
“Jace. That about killed me. If I wasn’t so happy, I’d …”
“I didn’t want you defrocked. You’d just taken holy orders. Your father’s parish was yours, you had your family name to mend. How could I destroy your dreams?”
“I wanted our babe,” he said. “And you, you were more my dream than anything. Didn’t you know?”
The resultant kiss lasted longer, meant more, because they’d added honesty and forgiveness. “I love you Gabriel.”
“I love you, Jace, and our daughter. Bridget is ours. Jace, you bore my child and the stigma of sin to protect me.” He cupped her face. “Marry me, please. I’ll try to be worthy.”
Jace kissed his palm. “With our passion; we’ll have six more.”
“At least,” he said, hearing a whispered “shush”. “Hear that, Mackenzie?” he called. “You’ll have a job here forever.”
“We hear,” Bridget said, throwing open the door and climbing into their laps. “Nanny Mac says you’re my real Mama and Papa. She brought me to my first mama to keep me till ‘you two came to your senses’.”
“Did she now?” Gabe eyed Mackenzie.
“I have to go tell Suttie and Hedgehog,” Bridget said.
“Suttie’s gone,” Mac said, “though I didn’t hear the wagon. She left a note: ‘My work is done. Fairy kisses and long happy lives. Suttie.’”
“We’ll do just fine right here, won’t we, darling? You’re right about Papa. Lots of growl but no bite.”