Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  After such a morning, Davina was glad to be counted among them. How daft she’d felt when Rab had knocked on Jeanie’s door. She’d meant only to go for a brief walk to prepare herself for the sad parting to follow. Instead the head shepherd was forced to search the glen as if she were a lost lamb.

  “Miss McKie, yer brithers are hame.” Eliza Murray, Glentrool’s amiable housekeeper, swept open the front door, motioning the men withindoors. Neither tall nor short, neither slender nor round, Eliza had hair the color of sand, notably different than her husband’s bright red thatch.

  “We’ve found the twins.” Ian was the first to enter the room, his face wet from the mist. He planted a kiss on Davina’s brow, then glanced over his shoulder. “You see, Will? Our sister is well protected here.”

  Davina stared up at him, confused. She’d not been gone so very long. And from whom did she need protection?

  Then Will appeared at the door, guilt etched along every line of his handsome face. Whatever has happened? She hastened to his side, her sketchbook forgotten. Clasping his hands in hers, she shook them lightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. Tell me, Will. Please.

  “Sandy and I were … worried about you,” he finally confessed, trying to pull away. “We searched along the loch … in the pines … and in the clearing.”

  The mausoleum. Now she understood. None of them ever went there.

  She touched her heart, then opened her hand—a gesture he well knew. I forgave you, Will. The very day it happened. Would he read the truth in her gaze and remember?

  When Sandy appeared, she reached for his hand, tears stinging her eyes. He, too, had suffered from that day until this. Blaming himself for an accident that was no one’s fault.

  Now that the hour had come to see them off to Edinburgh, Davina was loath to let them go. True, the twins hounded her incessantly and never gave her a minute’s peace. But did she not love them all the more for it? They were too belligerent by half, too quick to come to her defense. Yet weren’t they the bonniest lads in all Galloway with their strong chins and broad frames?

  My dear Sandy. My beloved Will.

  She bowed her head, embarrassed by her tears.

  “Och, Davina! You’ll unman us yet.” Sandy pulled her into his arms, holding her close as he whispered in her ear, “Forgive us for leaving, lass.” He smelled of heather and mist and felt as solid as the granite slopes of Mulldonach.

  When it was Will’s turn, she dared not look at his face; if she spied even a glint of tears, she’d be inconsolable. Wrapped inside his fierce embrace, she felt the tension in his body and heard the strain in his voice. “Don’t cry, my wee fairy.” However would she carry on without him?

  Will released her at last, cupping her cheek before turning to shake hands with the servants, who’d formed a ragged line round the room. She watched her brothers nod to each one, offering their thanks, receiving their blessings. The maidservants dabbed at their noses with their aprons, while the laborers shuffled their feet and tried to appear stoical. Jamie waited at the door, arm in arm with Leana, her face shining with maternal pride. Davina knew there were times when the twins had frustrated or baffled or infuriated their father; surely this was not one of them.

  As if aware of her appraisal, her father crossed the room, not stopping until they were toe to toe. “I am sorry, Davina.” His voice was low and softened with benevolence. “I ken the loss of your brothers’ company will cost you dearly.”

  She looked away, unwilling to let him see how great a price it was.

  “They will miss you as well.”

  When he fell silent, curiosity soon got the better of her. She turned to find her father deep in thought, a pensive look on his face.

  “Suppose …” He paused, then began again. “Suppose I find some diversion for you this summer.”

  Diversion? Whatever might that mean? A houseguest for the season? A midsummer ball at Glentrool? Or perhaps a horse of her own since she and Sandy shared the chestnut gelding shortly bound for Edinburgh?

  Davina lifted her brows, seeking an answer. What do you mean, Father?

  He did not elaborate. “Let me give it some thought, Davina. Astride a horse for several days, I can do little else but ponder.”

  The mantel clock chimed noon, signaling the hour of departure. Her father moved to the center of the room, then held up his hands to command the group’s attention. “My sons and I must take our leave. ’Tis a good distance to Moniaive.” He gestured to the twins to join him, then curled his hands round the backs of their muscular necks, squeezing so hard they both winced.

  By tacit agreement, Davina and Ian stepped beside their mother, who wept openly, touching her lace handkerchief to her cheeks again and again.

  In every corner of the drawing room, coughs were muffled and gazes pointed downward, anticipating the laird’s benediction. “Almighty God,” Jamie began, “grant us mercy on our journey. Guard our paths and guide our steps. Travel with us night and day, and keep watch over the cherished ones we leave behind. According to thy mercy and lovingkindness, bless thou my sons …”

  When his voice faltered, Davina opened her eyes long enough to see him bite his lip, fighting for control. Dear Father. He was not a perfect man. But he was a good man.

  “Bless thou William and Alexander. Let them not depart from thine eyes. Keep them in the midst of thine heart. Lead them in the way everlasting.”

  Davina marked the unexpected tenderness in her father’s words and sensed his conviction. Might he speak a blessing over her someday? Or were such words reserved for sons?

  At last he finished. All present lifted their heads, many with a sheen in their eyes. Jamie led Leana toward the entrance hall, their heads touching, their exchange private. Will and Sandy followed a few steps behind, while Ian waited for Davina, a look of compassion on his face.

  “Come, my sister.” Rather than offering her the crook of his elbow, as any gentleman might, Ian slipped his arm round her shoulders and drew her to his side. A bird nestled beneath its mother’s wing could not have felt more sheltered. “Let me watch over you, Davina, as my brothers did.”

  Eight

  Hopes, what are they?—Beads of morning

  Strung on slender blades of grass.

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  I an was as good as his word, serving as her watchman, like a garitour of old, whenever Davina left the safe confines of Glentrool.

  On Friday he rowed her across Loch Trool for a proper view of Buchan Burn. The fast-moving waters cascaded down the rocky hillside from pool to pool, white and frothy one moment, blue as the May sky the next. Saturday afternoon he waited patiently while she sat among the pines round Glenhead and sketched a red squirrel perched on a tree stump, its busy tail twitching, its black eyes and tufted ears alert to the intruders’ slightest movements.

  Even this Sabbath morning, secure within the rubble walls of the parish kirk, Ian remained by her side. Many a sideways glance was cast in their direction, for the family pew was half-empty, the rough wooden surface bereft of its usual occupants. Her father had promised to return on Friday next, but Will and Sandy were gone until Lammas.

  A full term. The whole of summer.

  Davina’s heart ached at the prospect. She missed her twin brothers at table, telling stories of their daily escapades. Missed them bounding over the hills with her, teaching her to climb as nimbly as they. Missed their hearty laughter, their bold speech, their palpable strength. Grateful as she was for Ian’s quiet company, she knew his first responsibility was learning to manage Glentrool, not keeping up with his sister’s whereabouts. An heir never knew when the mantle of leadership might fall on his shoulders. Ian needed to make the most of the long days—eighteen hours of daylight by midsummer.

  A measured portion of that light penetrated the plain, rectangular interior of the kirk. Gray, unmortared walls rose from flagstone floors. Dust motes hung in the air, as if suspended in place for generatio
ns, and the pews cried out for a fresh coat of green paint. At least the glazed windows invited the morning sun to stir the worshipers awake, though old Mr. Carmont, Peter’s father, would not last long; his head already drooped over his chest.

  The precentor’s gathering psalm drew all eyes to the front of the kirk. While the Galbraiths found their pew and the McMillans made their way down the center aisle, black-haired Mr. McHarg began lining out the psalm, pausing for the congregation to echo each line back in unison. “O give thanks unto the LORD, for he is good.”

  On the other side of the narrow preaching house, Margaret McMillan took her seat with her parents. When she coyly glanced over at Ian, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. Ian would speak to her in the kirkyard between services, Davina imagined. She eyed the sketchbook at her feet. Had Margaret drawn a rendering of Ian as well or traced a silhouette of his handsome profile?

  Mr. McHarg sang louder still, as if aware of Davina’s wandering thoughts. She dutifully mouthed, “Let the redeemed of the LORD say so.” The gathering psalm continued through forty more verses, enlivened by her mother’s dulcet voice and Ian’s baritone. As a young child Davina had recited portions of the Shorter Catechism and dozens of psalms by memory; even now, the words remained hidden in her heart. “Whoso is wise, and will observe these things, even they shall understand the lovingkindness of the LORD.”

  The last note faded into the morning air as Reverend Moodie, slight of build with thinning hair, stepped behind his pulpit. As usual he began by offering a nod of respect to the heritors present. His eyebrows arched when he turned to the McKie pew and realized the laird of Glentrool was not among them. More than one gentleman in the parish now rejected Sabbath rituals as out of fashion. Between services her mother would hasten to assure the minister that Jamie McKie was not of their ilk.

  Two hours later the reverend’s flock sat about the uneven kirkyard, enjoying cold victuals brought from home. The midday weather was pleasant yet chilly. More like April than May. The sky was a whitewashed blue and the ground damp beneath Davina’s slippers. As she predicted, her mother sought the reverend’s ear, while young Margaret McMillan plucked at Ian’s sleeve, beckoning him to share her plate of sausages before the start of the afternoon service.

  Her brother looked down at her with an earnest gaze. “Would you mind very much, Davina?” Ian was not one to shirk his duties, but Margaret’s soft brown eyes had weakened his resolve. “We’ll be seated beneath the yew …”

  Davina waved the couple toward the centuries-old tree that towered over the kirkyard, content to have a moment to herself. Letting her feet direct her path, she meandered among the gravestones planted round the medieval kirk in haphazard rows, like an ancient stone garden. Absent-mindedly reading the epitaphs, she noticed many a sad listing of children’s names. If a child died in infancy, the next child was often given the same name. One family gravestone recorded three children named John and two named Ann; none had survived their first birthday.

  “Miss McKie?”

  She turned to find Graham Webster standing not far behind her. Dressed in somber colors with his black armband still in place, he tarried beside a newer gravestone. When he bowed to her, Davina curtsied in return and waited for the widower to speak.

  “John McMillan tells me your twin brothers are away to Edinburgh.” Compassion shone in his hazel eyes. “Glentrool must seem quiet indeed.”

  She nodded, thinking of his own home, Penningham Hall, with its many empty rooms. After ten childless years of marriage, his young wife, Susan, had died of consumption two summers ago.

  “I know what it means to live in a house full of echoes.” Mr. Webster stared at his late wife’s grave. “Forgive me for not attending the May Day festivities at Glentrool. I am told your music was exceptional.”

  Though he did not look up, Davina offered a slight smile in thanks. She imagined he would not dance at Lammas Fair either or help build the bonfire on Hallowmas Eve or go first-footing on Hogmanay. His year of deep mourning had long since ended, yet folk in the parish said his heart was slow to heal.

  Her artist’s eye could not resist studying him for a moment. Prominent nose, like a Greek sculpture. Strong jaw and bearded chin. Thick auburn hair, fashionably cut. For a handsome man of barely thirty years, Graham Webster looked older. Careworn. Fine lines etched his brow and followed the contours of his features.

  When he turned toward her once more, his eyes reflected both grief and longing. The first was almost too painful to bear; the second, rather unnerving. No gentleman had ever looked at her in such a way. Perhaps she was imagining things.

  Nae. She was not.

  Davina blushed and turned away, certain of his interest, yet not at all certain of her feelings. For years she’d thought of Graham Webster only as Susan’s husband. And then as a widower in mourning. Never as a potential suitor. Would he continue their conversation? Should she open her sketchbook?

  “I do hope you’ll play your fiddle for me someday, Miss McKie.”

  The warmth in his voice only heated her cheeks further. Praying she did not offend the poor fellow, Davina offered him a parting curtsy and set out for Penkill Burn. The sound of rushing water, like music without notes, might be the very thing to calm her agitation.

  She was poised above the steep banks, breathing in the freshly scented air, when the kirk bell rang in the belfry, recalling the parishioners of Monnigaff to worship. “At least the second service is shorter,” Ian said, approaching her and offering his arm. “And don’t I remember a basket of fresh treacle scones waiting in the carriage for our ride home?”

  The thought of Aubert’s rich scones carried her through the afternoon, putting to rest her concerns about Mr. Webster, who’d left for the day. On Sabbath mornings he worshiped in Monnigaff, his late wife’s parish; for the afternoon service he visited his own parish, the Penningham church less than a mile south in Newton Stewart. She was sorry she’d deserted him so abruptly. He’d known her since she was a child. No doubt his gaze was one of neighborly affection, nothing more.

  Later that afternoon, seated on her cushioned carriage seat, Davina discovered that Eliza had inadvertently packed enough scones for the whole family, even those not present.

  “I’ll eat Father’s portion.” Ian lifted the baked goods out of her hands before she could protest.

  “You may also have mine,” Mother said, raising her gloved hand to stifle a yawn. “For such a cool day, ’tis warm in the carriage.” She soon drifted off to sleep, leaving the two of them to finish the scones and keep each other company until they reached the stables at House o’ the Hill Inn, where the carriage would be stored and their horses saddled for the last three miles into the glen.

  Ian, never far from a book, drew a slim volume from his pocket and held it close to the carriage window to read. “You’ll not mind, Davina?”

  He bested his younger brothers in this: Ian could be quiet for long stretches of time and require nothing of her. Communicating her thoughts by way of gestures often grew wearisome. With Ian, she could simply relax, knowing he was fully absorbed in his collection of essays.

  From time to time he glanced through the glass, just as Davina did, and perhaps for the same reason: expecting to see the twins riding beside the coach on horseback, as was their custom. Her thoughts matched the rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Hurry home. Hurry home. There was no cure for her rising melancholy except to open her sketchbook and daydream about a certain gentleman.

  Assuming an air of indifference so Ian would not ask to see what engaged her, Davina studied one drawing, then another, her charcoal pencil poised as if she might add to her artwork at any moment. Here were the linns on the Minnoch—badly rendered, she decided. Then the squirrel she’d drawn yestreen. When her gaze fell on the page she knew so well, she forgot to hide her smile.

  How different this gentleman was from her dark-headed brothers and auburn-haired Mr. Webster and balding Reverend
Moodie. In all her years she’d never seen such a man as this—not in any book or in any Lowland village. A golden prince with sunlit waves in his hair. Eyes as blue as the northern sky. Tall and strong as a mast on a ship. Bright and warm as summer itself.

  Remembering how eagerly she had moved her pencil across the page, her heart quickened. Was it only four days ago? The charcoal was slightly smudged, yet Davina would recognize him when she saw him.

  And see him she would.

  Where or how, she did not know. But her dream had been too vivid, the image too detailed not to be real. Hadn’t her father dreamed dreams long ago? And hadn’t those things come to pass? Davina hung her hope on this thread: She was the only daughter of Jamie McKie, a man whose dreams came true.

  Nine

  It is a wise father that knows his own child.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  You will see to Davina’s welfare, Father? See that she’s happy?” Jamie noted the sincerity in Will’s voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, and forgave the irksome question, oft repeated during their journey east. “Depend upon it,” he said, standing with care to avoid cracking his skull on the low beams of their lodging house. Professor Russell provided a good table and a sound mattress, but his bedchambers were far from spacious, and mean in appearance. The carpet was worn thin, the small-paned windows admitted paltry light, and the porcelain washbowl was badly chipped.

  Fortunately, young men paid scant attention to such things. The quadrangle and old library, the assembly rooms and public houses—those were the places where Will and Sandy would spend their time convening with fellow students. Hadn’t he done the same?

  Jamie leaned his forehead against the windowpane, staring down at the phaetons with their mud-splattered wheels and drenched bonnets. “I’ve stabled your mounts round the corner in Horse Wynd, though you’ll find little use for them. Edinburgh is a town best seen on foot.”