She pushed open the door and hastened across the spacious room, the sound of her footsteps lost in the thick carpet. Grandfather Alec had spent his last years in this room, sleeping in the ornate half-tester bed, bathing at the mahogany washstand, warming his fragile limbs at the hearth, listening as his grandson Ian read to him. Awash with tender memories, Davina stood before the bookshelves, her gaze trained on her grandfather’s fiddle.
Might the familiar scent of the wood ease her distress or the taut strings hold her broken heart together? She’d assumed—naively, perhaps—that Will and Sandy would remain at Glentrool until they married many years hence. Instead they were departing for Edinburgh on Thursday, leaving her to fill the ensuing silence with her one true friend.
Davina carefully removed the worn fiddle from its hallowed perch between two bookcases, remembering the first time she’d held it. How enormous the instrument had seemed to her then. Now the curved wooden body fit snugly beneath her chin, and her left hand circled the ebony fingerboard with ease. She plucked each string, wincing until she’d adjusted the tuning pegs just so.
Alec McKie had bestowed the prized instrument on her, his only granddaughter, when she was seven—not long after her accident, not long before his death. “Take it, my wee posy,” he’d said, clutching the fiddle with gnarled hands as he’d held it out to her. “ ’Twill be your voice.”
He’d spent his last days teaching her all he knew of gapped scales and bowing techniques, playing every fiddle tune in his repertoire—airs and pastorals, reels and rants, jigs and hornpipes, and his cherished strathspeys—until his willing young pupil had committed the many tunes to memory.
No one had mourned the death of Alec McKie more than Davina.
Determined to honor his memory, she quit the room, headed for the garden. Heartsome voices beckoned from out of doors, lifting her spirits. She could neither speak nor sing, but she could make music. Aye, she could. And bless the One who gave her the gift: not her grandfather but her heavenly Father.
I love the LORD, because he hath heard my voice.
Familiar faces awaited her as Davina sallied forth, her fiddle held high like a standard. Hannah McCandlish, the weaver’s daughter from Blackcraig, was the first to greet her, waving a branch covered with snow-white petals. “God bliss ye, Miss McKie! Firsten the flooers, then yer fine fiddle.”
Davina dipped a curtsy, then stepped aside to watch their neighbors bring in the May. Young mothers with wriggling bairns, older children dressed in their Sabbath clothes, and lads and lasses of courting age—all came bearing fresh hawthorn. Robert Muir, gardener to the estate for many a season, grinned broadly as he collected their offerings, winking at each unmarried girl as if he were a lad of twenty. With her mother’s guidance, Robert fastened the branches round the doorposts, assuring good fortune to the household. Though the petals would flutter to the ground long before the dancing ended, at the moment the massed tiny white flowers were newly blossomed, still wet with dew.
Waiting her turn, Davina breathed in the heady fragrance: strong, evocative, unmistakable. Some folk compared blooming hawthorn to the scent of a woman; others insisted the flowers smelled like death. “Decaying meat,” Will once said, wrinkling his nose. “May’s perfume,” their mother had countered, and Davina agreed.
A sharp yank on her braid brought her whirling round.
“Beggin’ yer pardon.” Johnnie McWhae fell back a step and hung his copper-colored head. “I … I howped ye might … cry oot.” The shoemaker’s apprentice from Drannandow could not hide his embarrassment any better than he could hide the leather dye etching the creases of his hands. “I meant nae harm, Miss McKie.”
Davina brushed her fiddle bow through the air, waving away his harmless trick. Johnnie was not the first lad in Galloway to attempt some canny ruse to make her speak. ’Twas fortunate that none of her brothers had seen Johnnie’s foolish prank, or the lad might never have cobbled another shoe. Ian was merciful, but Will and Sandy preferred judgment, swift and terrible.
When a weaver’s son from Creebridge had bedeviled her at market one Saturday morning, making choking noises and pointing at his throat, the twins had tied him up with his own yarn and left him badly bruised and shaking. They were no kinder to the blacksmith’s son, who’d called Davina names—stupit and dummie—and so was treated to a severe beating with heated tongs from his own forge. Davina understood her brothers’ need to protect her, to defend her, but she did not care for their methods. Most in the parish knew the twins’ wranglesome reputation and therefore did nothing to merit the attention of their fists.
“Music! Music!” the crowd began to chant, clapping their hands as they ambled along the flagstone path toward the center of Glentrool’s garden. A rowan tree covered with vivid green leaflets would serve as their Maypole—one not carved by man but grown by the Almighty. Planted years ago, the tree for which Grandmother Rowena was named had withstood many a wintry blast to bloom again each spring.
With Robert’s assistance, Davina mounted a broad stone bench that served as her stage. She tested the fiddle with a light touch to the strings, then struck a more confident note, choosing a spirited reel meant to amuse Will and Sandy: “The Fairy Dance.”
From her vantage point, she quickly picked out her three brothers, each with a sonsie lass in tow. However trying their breakfast hour, the twins appeared to have rallied. Agnes Paterson, with her softly curved figure, well suited Will, while raven-haired Bell Thomson stood eye to eye with Sandy. Ian, taller than his brothers by a handbreadth, had claimed Margaret McMillan, whose small face turned toward his like a daisy seeking the sun.
Davina blinked away tears. What a strange brew of emotions stirred inside her, seeing her brothers so paired. Was it simply because they each had a partner for the day and she did not? Or was it the sad realization that she would lose her place in their hearts whenever they married?
Och! Unhappy with herself, Davina repeated the opening measures of the reel with more fervor. She seldom gave in to self-pity and would not do so now. Let the lads choose whomever they pleased. With fiddle in hand and flowers in her hair, she alone was the May Queen. All would dance to her tune this day.
Hands clasped, folk circled the rowan three times deasil, or clockwise, rather than widdershins, the direction favored by witches. Dappled sunlight decorated their smiling faces as the sprightly tune carried them along. Callused, bare feet dinted the grass beside well-heeled leather boots. Woodcutter and landowner, dairymaid and gentlewoman—all moved as one, led by the laird of Glentrool and his fair-haired Leana.
Without missing a note, Davina launched into a second reel, livelier than the last, then a third, amazed at how easily the music poured forth. Was it the freshness of the air? the joyful occasion? seeing the twins in a better humor? Whatever the reason, her fingers were more nimble than usual. If only someone in the glen played the violoncello. She imagined hearing the accompanying bass notes of the larger instrument and tapped her foot to the duet that sang inside her, reel after whirling reel.
When the breathless revelers begged for mercy, she eased into “Miss Wharton Duff,” a marching air with a pleasing lilt. She noticed her parents bowing out of the dance, bound in opposite directions—the hostess toward her kitchen, the laird toward his stables—both attending to the needs of their guests, who’d not depart for their homes until the four hours, when tea was served.
Taking advantage of the slower rhythm, the dancers formed two circles, one inside the other, and began weaving in and out, moving in opposite directions. Davina pretended not to see the couples who exchanged fleeting kisses whenever they met in passing. Tradition, to be sure, but had her father been present, he would not have approved—not for his unmarried sons and especially not for his only daughter, who had yet to be kissed.
The thought warmed her face. To have lived seventeen years and not felt the touch of a young man’s lips on hers! She turned aside, concealing her pink cheeks behind
her fiddle lest anyone spy her discomfort and question its source. While the gentlemen of the parish always treated her with the utmost kindness and respect, no one had sought her father’s permission to court her, and for that, Davina felt nothing but relief. She’d been introduced to many a lad at kirk, yet none had made her breath catch or her heart dance. Not Andrew Galbraith, with his sandy hair and sizable inheritance, nor the handsome widower, Graham Webster, nor dark-eyed Peter Carmont in his lieutenant’s uniform, nor any other gentleman of her acquaintance. Though perhaps tonight …
“Hoot, lass!”
Startled, she looked down to find young Jock Robertson, a laborer from Brigton farm, lurching toward her. She smelled the whisky on his breath and heard it in the slur of his words. The flask bulging from his pocket explained his condition; Mother seldom served anything stronger than ale. Pointing her gaze elsewhere, Davina started another tune.
But Jock would not be ignored. “Will ye nae speak tae me?” He planted one foot on her bench, listing to the side as he did. “Losh, but ye’re a bonny wee thing!”
Flustered, she took a small step backward and nearly tumbled into her mother’s rosebushes. Her music came to an abrupt halt, attracting the attention of the dancers, who craned their necks to see whatever was the matter.
She heard Will and Sandy before she saw them.
“Davina!”
The twins parted the crowd like a sharpened dirk separating bone from flesh. When the bleary-eyed lad at her feet tried to right himself by grabbing a fistful of her gown, her brothers came at him running.
“You’re a dead man, Robertson.” Will snatched the young man’s broadcloth shirt by the neck and yanked hard, nearly choking him in the process, forcing Jock to release his grip on her clothing.
Davina recovered her balance, then watched in dismay as Sandy caught Jock behind the knees with his boot heel, pitching him forward with a sickening thud. Though the farm laborer was taller and broader than her brothers, he was no match for them both. They pummeled him with fists and lashed him with words until the ruddy-faced lad collapsed on the ground in an untidy heap.
Whispered comments traveled round the garden as Davina pressed her fiddle to her heart, waiting for its fierce beating to ease. Whatever were her brothers thinking, treating the man so roughly when he’d done little to deserve it? If her father had witnessed the ugly scene, he’d have purchased the twins’ army commissions at once and sent them off to fight Napoleon instead of thrashing a poor, inebriated neighbor.
Oblivious to her distress, Will brushed the dirt from his sleeves, then stepped over Jock’s body as one might a discarded roll of carpet. “Did he hurt you, Davina?” Will grasped her elbow and helped her step down, even as Sandy dragged the laborer to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the byre. “Worthless drunkard should know his place,” Will grumbled, “and ’tis not next to my sister.”
Davina acknowledged his words with a nod but did not look at him, ashamed of his behavior. When her brothers left for Edinburgh, she would miss them desperately. But she would not miss their cruelty or their love of vengeance. Sometimes it seemed her charming brothers had been stolen by fairies and changelings put in their place.
She consoled herself with one observation: Jock was not limping. Perhaps the contents of his flask had dulled his senses and spared him the worst of her brothers’ blows. At least among the cows he could sleep off his whisky in peace.
With the brief spectacle ended, the company turned their attention to a row of tables draped in linens and covered with serving dishes. Davina presented her fiddle to a trusted servant, then surveyed the May Day feast. Her brothers stood beside her, piling their plates with smoked beef and pickled mutton, congratulating each other for their heroics.
A woman’s voice carried through the air. “Are you quite all right, Davina?” Her mother hurried across the flagstones, a look of alarm on her pale features. “Jenny said there was a row with one of the neighbors …”
Will turned toward her, quick to vindicate their actions. “You did not see the look on Robertson’s face, Mother.” The set of her brother’s jaw, the defensiveness in his voice said more than his words.
Violence, however, did not suit their mother’s peaceful nature. “One should match the punishment to the crime, William. Though I do not approve of drunkenness, I was told Jock merely addressed your sister in too familiar a manner. And manhandled her gown quite by mistake.” The mistress of Glentrool cast her gaze toward Agnes and Bell, who tarried near a plate of oatcakes, waiting for their dance partners to return. “I’ve noted the fond looks you’ve given Miss Paterson today and the many times you’ve touched her sleeve. Would her brother Ranald be justified in throwing you to the ground and beating you senseless?”
A dark stain colored Will’s cheek. “Nae. Though I am a gentleman—”
“And Jock Robertson labors with his hands.” Her soft voice did not diminish the power of her words. “He is a child of God, just as you are, William. And a guest of Glentrool as well.” She rested a hand on each of them, her blue gray eyes shining with maternal affection. When Leana McKie disciplined her children, the strength of her love was even more apparent. “Later today,” she told them, “when our neighbor has recovered, you will escort him home. On one of your own mounts.”
Five
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire.
JOHN MILTON
Davina lowered her gaze as Will and Sandy nodded in resignation rather than argue with their mother. Who could not respect so virtuous a woman? After a mumbled apology, her brothers joined Agnes and Bell, who surely would affirm the lads’ brave efforts and thus affix a healing poultice to their wounded pride.
Her mother, meanwhile, was straightening the ribbons that Jock had unintentionally pulled askew. “Do forgive your brothers. They’re young and brash and full of energy, with few opportunities to expend it. Like fine horses kept too long in the stables.” She fell silent for a moment, smoothing Davina’s hair. “Edinburgh will be good for the twins, though I know it will be difficult for you. At least your older brother won’t be leaving.” Her mother looked at Ian, standing not far from them, two dinner plates in hand, his attention fully engaged by Miss McMillan.
Nae, Ian would not depart from Glentrool. But it seemed someone else might be joining their family, perhaps by summer’s end. Davina studied the couple, weighing the notion. Another woman in the house. A sister, by marriage.
Her mother’s soft laugh brought her round. “I know what you’re thinking. And I believe Margaret will fit in nicely.” She presented Davina with a plate of her favorite foods, hard cheese and almond cakes among them. “I’ll come check on you in a bit, aye?” She touched Davina’s cheek, then made her way to the house.
Davina dutifully ate a few bites of mutton and a slice of cheese, intent on enjoying the beauty of the day and the companionship of her neighbors. The sky was sapphire blue, the clouds high and sparse, and a soft breeze fluttered the rowan leaves. Seated on the stone bench, she drank in the warm sun like a refreshing cup of tea, all the while looking about the garden for a friendly face.
Barbara Heron hurried to her side as if she’d been called by name. The miller’s daughter, twenty-odd years of age and still unmarried, bore a cheerful enough countenance. Her ruffled gown of white sprigged muslin was two seasons old but no worse for the wearing. “How wonderfully you played today!” she began, perching next to her on the bench. Barbara did not pause as some did, waiting for Davina to respond, then remembering she could not. Instead Barbara related the day’s news in a lively monologue, barely catching her breath between subjects. Imminent betrothals, new arrivals to the parish, proposed summer journeys—all were divulged in enthusiastic detail.
Davina almost didn’t hear Janet Buchanan join them, so quietly did she light on the bench, like a wee meadow pipit. A sweet-natured lass from nearby Palgowan farm, Janet preferred to
listen and did so with wide-eyed attentiveness, covering her mouth with her fingertips at each astonishing revelation. Several more young women were drawn into their circle before Barbara’s store of gossip ran out.
“My, but ’tis warm.” Barbara stood and curtsied, her performance at an end. “Will you entertain us again, Davina? I’ve yet to dance a strathspey with Peter Carmont.” She looked round, then lowered her voice. “They say he’s to sail for Portugal before Lammas.” Even more quietly. “His regiment awaits orders.” A mere whisper. “From Sir Wellesley.” On that dramatic note Barbara quit their company and aimed herself like an arrow toward the unsuspecting lieutenant, who stood amid a knot of men on the far side of the garden.
When Davina rose, Janet did as well, lightly clasping her hand. “Might you play a slow air? For me?”
Davina squeezed her gloved fingers in response. She knew just the melody to please her soft-spoken friend. She waved to the manservant who’d kept her fiddle safely by his side for the dinner hour, then mounted the bench with his help, lifted her bow, and struck a vibrant chord. A chorus of gleeful shouts rang out. Enough of feasting; the assembled were eager to dance.
The ritual of May Day with its single circle was put aside for sets, with dancers choosing partners and forming lines. As the sun arced over the glen, Davina served up one tune after another, from Janet’s gentle air, “The Nameless Lassie,” to her brothers’ favorite hornpipes.
She could not help noticing the tentative pairings the day’s festivities had produced. Lads and lasses who’d marked each other from the first now shared a cup of punch or lingered after a reel, hands still touching. Sandy in particular seemed bent on wooing Bell Thomson, though she was as tall as he and had a fine temper of her own. As expected, Ian and Margaret were inseparable. Had she ever seen her taciturn brother so animated? Barbara Heron did partner with Peter Carmont for a strathspey, though he soon put her aside for a willowy brunette from the village.
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 3