The Rose and the Thistle Read online

  Books by Laura Frantz

  The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  Courting Morrow Little

  The Colonel’s Lady

  The Mistress of Tall Acre

  A Moonbow Night

  The Lacemaker

  A Bound Heart

  An Uncommon Woman

  Tidewater Bride

  A Heart Adrift

  The Rose and the Thistle

  THE BALLANTYNE LEGACY

  Love’s Reckoning

  Love’s Awakening

  Love’s Fortune

  © 2023 by Laura Frantz

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2023

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-3971-3

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, www.booksandsuch.com.

  Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.

  Dedicated to

  Tawny Brown Ramsperger, Sarah Sleet,

  and our eighteenth-century Humes of Wedderburn Castle

  in the Scottish Borders

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Books by Laura Frantz

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Historical Note

  Map of Scotland/England

  Glossary

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  Read Chapter 1 of A Bound Heart

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Historical Note

  In 1707, the two kingdoms of Scotland and England were united, much to the ire of those who supported the Jacobite cause. The Jacobites were supporters of the deposed James II, who reigned from 1685 to 1688, and his descendants in the long-reigning Stuart dynasty. (Jacobus was derived from the Latin form of James.) His son, James Francis Edward Stuart, attempted to reclaim the throne his father had lost. This resulted in the Rising, or rebellion, in the year 1715, when George I was the reigning monarch of Great Britain.

  Glossary

  a-crow: to tell or proclaim

  auld: old

  Auld Reekie: Edinburgh, on account of its smoke and stench

  aywis at the cow’s tail: always last, behind, or lagging

  barmy: crazy

  blether: chat, gossip

  braisant: bold

  braw: handsome

  brose: soup

  bumbazed: confused

  burn: brook or stream

  canna: cannot

  close: passageway or courtyard

  collieshangie: dispute, uproar, disturbance

  clype: gossip, spread tales

  crabbit: in a bad temper, out of humor

  crankie: unsteady, undependable

  crivvens: an exclamation of astonishment or horror

  doesna: does not

  douce: sweet, pleasant, modest, agreeable

  dowie: sad, melancholy

  dreich: dreary, cheerless, bleak

  dyke: low wall made of stones

  endie: selfish, attached to one’s own interests

  faither: father

  fankle: tangle, snare

  frichtsome: fearful, terrifying

  guid: good

  haar: a cold sea fog

  haver: babble, gossip

  heidie: headstrong, rebellious

  ill-scrappit: abusive, rude, bitter

  ill-willy: bad-tempered, mean

  isna: is not

  jings: exclamation of surprise

  kelpie: a water spirit

  kirk: church

  laird: lord or landowner

  limmer: a woman of low morals

  lykewake: the watch kept over a deceased person

  Merse: a luxuriant part of the Scottish Borders

  Michaelmas: a day in May when servants were hired or terminated

  nae: no

  peely-wally: sickly or wan

  sair: sore

  sassenach: foreigner

  scourie: shabby, poor in appearance

  sculduddery: unchaste behavior

  selkie: magical creature

  shelpit: thin, puny

  slippit awa: slipped away

  smirr: a fine rain or drizzle

  sonsie: engaging or friendly in appearance or manner

  tae: to

  tapsalteerie: upside down, confused, disordered

  trittil-trattil: nonsense, foolishness

  ugsome: inspiring fear or dread

  unco: unfamiliar, strange

  unweel: unwell

  vauntie: proud, boastful

  weel: well

  wheest: exclamation of surprise or chiding

  Whitsunday: May 28, one of four Scottish quarter days when contracts could be terminated or renewed and servants could be hired or dismissed

  wynd: a narrow lane, street, or alley

  yer: your, you’re

  1

  We are persons of quality, I assure you, and women of fashion, and come to see and be seen.

  BEN JONSON

  April 1715

  Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye

  France

  Struck by sunlight, the sprawling château was a blinding, rose-hued white. It reminded Lady Blythe Hedley of home, of her family’s Northumbrian castle with its pink harled walls, a pearl in an emerald-green meadow. Tipping her straw hat slightly forward, Blythe glanced up at the royal apartments and terraces on the second floor before turning toward the River Seine and the château’s famous gardens.

  Her companions walked ahead of her. Were they finally tired of flirting with the officers of the Gardes du Corps who stood watch? Only Lady Catherine Stuart tarried, linking arms with her old friend before continuing down the gravel path, their maids following at a discreet distance.

  “How fetching you look in your pale green gown, La Belle Hedley. Akin to a stalk of celery,” Catherine teased, knowing Blythe didn’t give a fig for fashion and lamented her height, exceeding most of the court’s gallants. “And though you may roll your eyes at me for saying so, there’s no doubt you are the best-dressed woman here and have set French society afire.”

  ’Tis not my fashion sense but my mother’s reputation that has done so. “I would rather spend it all on books than silks and ribbons,” Blythe replied. But her dear father wouldn’t let her. The duke was far more matrimonially minded than she. And given she lacked any outward beauty save her garments, fashion was her one asset.

  “You are unquestionably a la mode.” Catherine openly admired Blythe’s flawless coiffure styled into pale coils over one bare shoulder and adorned with beribboned rosettes. “I’ve heard the Duchess d’Orleans covets your hairdresser while Mary of Modena covets your gems.” Her hazel eyes slid to the choker of sapphires around Blythe’s throat and the ones set in silver and pearl adorning her ears. “Not paste gems but true brilliants. I suppose they were your mother’s. Such a blinding, bewitching blue.”

  Blythe touched an earring absently. “But how ridiculous I feel in red heels.” She looked down at her new slippers in bemusement before reaching into her pocket. With a practiced snap of her wrist, she unfurled a painted fan encrusted with tiny precious stones, a gift fr
om Catherine’s aunt, lady of the queen’s bedchamber.

  Blythe tallied how many days she’d been exiled to—visiting—France. Sixty-three?

  She and Catherine strolled on with no apparent aim beneath the strengthening spring sun, their hooped, colorful skirts swaying in the breeze. “We’ve walked these paths for weeks now.” The lament in Catherine’s tone was telling. “And not one glimpse of my kindred, the ousted prince.”

  Blythe’s gaze swept the manicured grounds as though James Francis Edward Stuart would materialize before their eyes. Charming and highly polished, the would-be James III of England and James VIII of Scotland was the catch of the continent—if he could only regain his crown.

  “His Royal Highness remains in Lorraine,” Blythe said quietly. Much could be learned by listening, as gossip and intrigue buzzed at every turn. “He seeks a royal bride. One who is wealthy and polished and—”

  “That would be you.” Catherine cast her a knowing look.

  “Alas, I lack the requisite curves and double chin, plain as I am,” Blythe replied with a flutter of her fan. The foremost courtiers were voluptuous, sensuous women with heavily rouged cheeks and lips, sporting beauty patches in myriad places.

  “Ha! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

  “Most men of my acquaintance seem preoccupied with face, form, and fortune, in that order. Yet I long to be loved for myself and nothing else.”

  A shadow passed over Catherine’s porcelain-perfect features. “Though you profess to being plain, there is no denying you are the Duke of Northumbria’s daughter.”

  Blythe squinted as the sun strengthened. Not just his daughter. His only daughter—and only child. The whole weight of the Northumbrian fortune and future was upon her. If she failed to marry, failed to provide an heir . . .

  “Alas, a duke’s daughter of scandalous lineage.”

  Catherine raised slender shoulders in a shrug. “’Twas long ago and best forgotten.”

  “Then needs be I find a man of dim memory and even greater purse than my beloved father.”

  “How few nobles fit, including our impoverished if dashing Stuart prince.” Catherine sighed. “I fear we shall all be branded spinsters if we leave France unaffianced.”

  “Marriage is not a right, nor is singleness a curse.” Blythe’s fan fluttered harder. “I’ve been pondering other paths, like becoming a nun and joining a convent in Flanders or Chaillot. Perhaps a contemplative order like the English Augustine nuns at Bruges.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Catherine gave a vicious pinch to Blythe’s arm as if to bring her to her senses. “You have too much to offer to shut yourself away so.”

  Stung but in no mood to argue, Blythe made no reply. They’d reached the river’s parterre with its tall hedge walls that led to the renowned grotto rooms, raising the gooseflesh on her arms. She always felt she entered a magical, otherworldly kingdom amid its rushing fountains, water-spewing dragons, moving statuary, and automated music. Cool as a cave, it was.

  Cool as England in the rain.

  She paused before a whimsical fountain of twittering birds, their song caused by unseen waterworks that made them spin and trill. Other waterspouts were hidden, sometimes erupting to spray visitors and mimic a tempest, complete with thunder and wind. It wouldn’t be the first time Blythe got a soaking, but she wouldn’t mind a whit.

  “The musicality of this place never fails to delight me,” she said.

  “I prefer the automaton carriage and company of soldiers,” Catherine said, moving on. “Or the musical theater that enacts an opera in five parts.”

  Blythe lingered by the birds, feeling a trifle homesick for her own pet sparrow at Bellbroke Castle. Was Mrs. Stanhope taking proper care of Pepys?

  Ashiver from the grotto’s mist, she tapped Catherine’s arm with her fan as she overtook her. “The sun suits me better.” She raised her skirts and hastened up marble steps over which water cascaded, soaking her gaudy, red-heeled shoes.

  Together they moved along to the Grand Terrace as Catherine’s younger, giggling sisters joined them, their maids still in pursuit.

  When strolling, a lady should be reserved and demure.

  Blythe slowed her steps, ever mindful of French etiquette. For all she knew, the exiled dowager queen, Mary of Modena, was peering out the castle windows, wondering why her English guests were in such a hurry. And for what? Multicourse suppers preceded by endless music, games of lansquenet and portique, court balls and royal birthday celebrations, theater, and endless other amusements. Save the servants, one did not do anything resembling work here.

  Everything seemed devoted to beauty. The perfumed court was ever abloom with the lushest flowers, the gilded salons perpetually fragrant. Blythe raised her fan and hid a yawn. Though her days were astonishingly full, her mind was empty. She sought solace in the sedate order of morning prayers, private meditations, and daily mass followed by vespers and the recital of the rosary. ’Twas a relief to practice her Catholic faith openly here when it must be hidden in England. Time spent on her knees grew. So much needed praying for.

  The English Queen Anne had recently died, and the throne had been usurped by a foreign Hanoverian named George who spoke no English. All hopes for a Stuart restoration seemed at a standstill, as the displaced British court was all too content to linger in France instead of fighting to regain the English throne. Meanwhile, Louis XIV, the long-standing French monarch who financed the exiled Stuarts and royal household, lay ill. Would his successor be as generous in regard to his poor British relations?

  “We must not dally,” Catherine said, consulting her watch. “Tonight is the ball, remember. And we must look our very best.”

  They hastened on, intent on the château.

  “Mademoiselle.” At the door of their apartments stood a liveried footman, a letter clasped in his gloved hands.

  “Je vous remercie,” Blythe murmured, taking the post and noting the intact seal.

  She pocketed it, feeling a dozen eyes upon her. The exiled court was rife with spies and informants. Letters were oft written in codes and ciphers to protect their privacy, though hers to and from her father were hardly worth intercepting. Tepid at best, they were simply the terse musings of a widower and his homesick daughter. Hardly the stuff of secrecy and intrigue.

  Once inside their apartment, Blythe closed the door and leaned against it. The foolscap opened with a crisp rustle, and for a time the gilded halls of St. Germaine gave way to the north of England, the beloved landscape of home.

  Bellbroke Castle

  Northumberland

  6 April 1715

  My dearest daughter,

  I pray this finds you in excellent health and spirits. Our Northumbrian hills are now awash with your favorite bluebells. Bellbroke is hardly the same without you, and even the servants and tenants are asking about you. You will no doubt delight in the fact I have finally heeded your homesickness. The time has come for you to return to England . . .

  2

  I can make a lord, but only God can make a gentleman.

  KING JAMES I

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Edinburgh was as dangerous as it was odiferous.

  If someone had predicted that he, Everard Hume, Lord Fast, would soon be meeting the Duke of Northumbria in an oyster cellar, he’d have roared with mirth.

  But this was no laughing matter.

  The duke’s renowned dour disposition hardly sweetened the task, nor did the anticipation of ale and oysters to come. Everard wound his way through Old Town’s wynds and closes as all grew inky and the gloaming snuck in, his manservant, Boyd, on his booted heels. Flickering candle lanterns glowed outside shopkeepers’ doors, proclaiming eight o’ the clock.

  They went into the King’s Wark, which was so crowded it seemed cheek to jowl. The auld tavern had a storied past. Once a royal residence and armory, it now crowned the shore of Leith’s celebrated oyster beds. Discarded oyster shells crunched beneath Everard’s leather soles as he made his way to a far corner where the duke’s penned summons said he’d be waiting.

  “A shame we’ve not come in October when the best oysters are to be had,” Boyd said above the din. “But at a mere two shillings, I’ll not complain.”

  They moved past the large central table piled high with raw oysters and endless pots of ale. Nearby a fiddler ground out a spirited tune while a few well-dressed couples danced. Rich and poor alike came here, so it was no surprise the duke had chosen the King’s Wark.

  Did Northumbria like oysters? Everard didn’t.

  His gaze swept the crowd, alighting on what looked to be a valet standing behind a seated gentleman, both looking straight at him. Northumbria? Everard hadn’t seen Musgrave Hedley in years.