Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Ah, the auld kirk.” Her father pointed to the roofless remains, an ancient bell still hanging in the belfry. Graves stood where pews once rested; the windows were naught but stone ribs. “ ’Tis haunted, if Rabbie Burns is to be believed.” He made an ugsome face, then whispered hoarsely, “When glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, Kirk Alloway seem’d in a bleeze.”

  Still holding the reins, she lifted her hands, wiggling her fingers like a blazing fire.

  Her father laughed. “Aye, if only in the poet’s vivid imagination.”

  The pair wound their way through the small farm village. Clay cottages, covered with lime and roofed with thatch, were set in haphazard fashion on both sides of the road. Each dwelling had its own garden of summer vegetables. Dairy cows were corralled by dry stane dykes and pigs confined to their sties, while geese and chickens had the run of the place, squawking and flapping about the congested roadway.

  As they headed northwest, one-story cottages gave way to farmlands newly sown with barley. A stiff breeze, tasting of salt, bore down on them. “We’ll arrive in Ayr in less than an hour. Keep an eye to the west.” Jamie gestured in the general direction of the sea. “The blue outline of Arran should make an appearance shortly. Some say the island looks like a sleeping warrior.”

  She heard the anticipation in her father’s voice and felt it in her spirit as she scanned the western horizon. The only shoreline she’d ever seen was Wigtown Bay at the mouth of the River Cree, a tidal, silt-laden estuary. Nothing like this wide-open view of deep ocean and endless sky.

  And then she saw it: the Isle of Arran, a long, rugged silhouette of mountains rising from the sea. Bigger than she’d imagined. Remote and mysterious looking. As if the island were not part of Scotland at all but its own world. My world. Just the sight of it made her eyes water and her heart race.

  “Come, lass.” Her father tugged on her elbow. She’d brought Biddy to a stop without realizing it, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Tuesday is market day in Ayr. We’ll be trampled by cattle if we stand still.”

  Davina rode on, dodging the flow of people and livestock, trying not to lose sight of the majestic profile jutting from the water. The tallest peaks were hidden by a solitary bank of clouds, as if the island had its own weather. Might that be the case? The outskirts of Ayr closed in round them as they entered the town by way of the Carrick road. Though she craned her neck to catch a glimpse now and again, Arran was finally gone from view.

  “You will have your fill when we sail in the morning,” Jamie promised her. “For the moment, suppose we find the High Street, the King’s Arms, and our dinner, in that order.”

  The air was thick with the smell of horses and laborers in the summer heat. Merchants and tradesmen lined both sides of the Carrick Vennel, their names boldly painted on crosspieces above the lintel. A carpenter named McClure had his door propped open, sweeping sawdust into the street. Two-wheeled gigs were available for hire from Thomas Brown, and an anvil rang out from Cuthill’s blacksmith shop beside it. Coal merchants, ironmongers, and stonemasons added to the riotous din.

  Eyes wide in wonder, Davina tried to absorb it all, half listening as her father described the bustling town. She’d visited other royal burghs but none like Ayr. Though Dumfries was larger, she’d been there just once, soon after her accident. Her parents had delivered her to the infirmary, hoping something might be done to restore her voice, only to return home despondent. Davina remembered nothing of Dumfries; she would not soon forget Ayr.

  When they reached the High Street and turned west, the scene changed dramatically. The thoroughfare was much wider and the shops taller by another story, each one crowded next to its neighbor without a breath of air between them, save the occasional close. The aroma of freshly baked goods wafted out one open door, the scent of leather through another. Linen drapers filled their windows with bolts of fabric, and confectioners displayed trays of tempting sweets. Perfumers, chandlers, tailors, milliners—Davina’s head was spinning.

  Her father leaned toward her, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Will we need to stroll the High Street this afternoon?”

  How unlike Father to ask a silly question! She nodded with enthusiasm. Aye, please.

  Davina took note of each establishment before they reached the meal market and the town kirk. When they neared the fish cross, where the daily catch was sold, the smell of seaweed and rotting flounder was almost overpowering.

  “Here’s the King’s Arms,” Jamie said as she covered her nose with her new handkerchief. “I’ll request a room that faces the River Ayr rather than the street.” They could barely reach the entrance for all the carriages and horses milling about. “ ’Tis not only an inn but also a posting house,” he explained, eying the hectic stables.

  When a bright-eyed lad appeared, offering to look after their horses, her father dismounted, then reached up to assist her, a broad smile on his face. “It seems you’ve arrived, Miss McKie.”

  Davina slipped her leg from round the pommel and leaned toward him, chagrined to discover she was trembling. So many strange and new experiences! Would she be able to eat a bite or sleep a wink?

  Her father lowered her gently to the ground, then brushed the dust from her skirts. “You’ve no more need for your riding habit,” he reminded her, offering his arm, “for the horses will lodge at the King’s Arms for a day or two.” He gazed at the sky, then started toward the entrance, keeping her close to his side. “With the Almighty’s blessing, tomorrow we sail for Arran.”

  Nineteen

  And thou majestic Arran! dearest far

  Of all the isles on which the setting sun

  In golden glory smiles: Queen of the West

  And Daughter of the Waves!

  DAVID LANDSBOROUGH

  Jamie could not take his eyes off the sight before him: his beautiful daughter, standing on Ayr’s north quay, the ribbons on her gown fluttering like a sail, her blue eyes fixed on Arran.

  When had Davina grown up? The daughter he carried in his heart was an impish girl of twelve, hiding behind her freckles and her fiddle; this young woman, nigh to eighteen, was confident and poised, boldly taking on the world. Though he knew her apprehensions—employing her sketchbook, she’d inundated him with questions about Arran and the Stewarts through dinner, supper, and breakfast—none of those fears showed on her bonny face.

  All at once Davina swiveled toward him, drew a circle round her eyes, then pointed at him rather sharply. You’re staring at me.

  “I am,” he confessed, and they both smiled. “A father’s prerogative. Especially when I’ll not see you again ’til Lammas.”

  The sun had risen hours earlier, long before the citizens of Ayr had thrown back their bedsheets. Yestreen he’d visited with one of the skippers on the Sandgate. Aye, the man had said, Captain Guthrie could offer passage for two on a boat carrying woolen goods to Arran. No proper passenger vessels sailed the Firth of Clyde; Jamie had to make whatever arrangements he could. “O’ course, we depend on the wind tae fill oor sails,” the skipper had cautioned him. “Bring yer dochter tae the nor quay at nine, and be prepared tae wait.” The man had filled Jamie’s ear with stories of traveling parties abandoned on the quay or, worse, stranded for days on a calm sea with few provisions.

  Jamie knew little about sailing but plenty about wind, as any man with five thousand sheep on the hills would; the strong gusts against his chest, blowing hard from the southeast, boded well.

  Davina touched his arm, then looked inland. The Clarinda, a seaworthy vessel bearing a goodly quantity of crates, was headed their way. The bow was high, the stern rounded, and three masts pointed to the cloudless blue skies, the sails still furled to the yards. Half a dozen oarsmen brought the Clarinda beside the quay as an able-looking young captain hailed his passengers.

  “Walcome aboard, Mr. McKie!” Sun-browned and smiling, Captain Guthrie extended his hand, guiding them onto the boat. The strength in his grip was re
assuring; the salacious gaze he cast over Davina, bow to stern, was not.

  Jamie slipped a protective arm round her shoulders. “My daughter and I are grateful for the passage.”

  “An’ we’re thankrif for yer siller.” The skipper laughed, and so did his crew. “The wind wull suin fill oor sails.” He gestured toward the crates. “Hae ye a sit.”

  Jamie chose the sturdiest crate amidships, where the motion of the boat would be less severe, and sat close to Davina, sending a clear signal to the sailors. He’d paid dearly for this passage—ten shillings apiece—and would not risk the journey costing him a goodly amount more.

  Their baggage was brought on board, including Davina’s fiddle, which she balanced across her knees. When the oarsmen had rowed clear of the harbor, the captain gave the order to unfurl the sails. Jamie resisted the temptation to ask how long the twenty-mile crossing might take. “Three or four hours,” some had said. “A day,” warned others.

  If a strong wind was needed, that they had. The edges of the square sails shivered as a steady course of waves lashed the sides of the boat, sending a fine spray of seawater over their heads. Davina wore a stalwart countenance, but Jamie saw how tightly she gripped her fiddle. It was impossible to converse without raising his voice, so he rested his hand on hers and looked in the direction of Arran, hoping she would do the same.

  The mainland was several miles behind them when one of the oarsmen burst into song in a whisky-soaked tenor, quickly overpowered by the others, each man singing in his own key. Their infectious music, blustery as the wind, brought a smile to Davina’s face. Before long she was tapping her feet on the deck. Even Jamie had to restrain himself from singing the second verse.

  If I should sell my fiddle,

  The warld would think I was mad;

  For mony a rantin day

  My fiddle and I hae had.

  Davina applauded on the final note, and the sailor who’d started the tune took a courtly bow. Whatever nervousness she’d felt seemed banished to the salty air. Her fiddle was out of its bag in an instant, greeted by the seamen with a roar of approval. Seated amidships, Davina plied her bow with sufficient energy to match theirs, even as the captain barked out orders time and again, directing the crew to trim the sails whenever the wind changed.

  “In anither hour we’ll be thar,” Captain Guthrie announced, eying Davina. “Ye’re walcome on me vessel oniewise ye like, miss. As lang as ye bring yer fiddle.” He winked. “An’ leave yer faither at hame.”

  “Not likely, Captain.” Jamie squared his shoulders, his queasy stomach forgotten, his hackles raised. “My daughter is too young to travel alone.”

  The skipper stared at him with a quizzical expression. “I was told ye were plannin’ tae leave the lass on Arran for twa months.”

  “Aye, but she’ll not be on her own,” Jamie argued. “My cousin is the minister of Kilbride parish.” He clamped his mouth shut before he said more. Whatever was he doing, discussing private matters with a sailor? Justifying your decision, Jamie. Aye, that was the ugly truth of it. Convincing himself he’d not been mistaken in suggesting—nae, insisting upon—this summer excursion in the first place.

  Are you certain Davina will be safe? Leana, voicing her concern. Our sister must be protected. Will, nagging at him. Jamie yanked his damp coat sleeves in place, trying to hide his irritation. Was he not laird of Glentrool? Did he not know what was best for his children? Davina would learn more on Arran than her lecture-burdened brothers would glean in Edinburgh.

  “Lamlash Bay!” the captain hollered, and a general cry went up.

  Davina lifted her head, her expression alert, her eyes wide with anticipation as they approached the southeastern coast of Arran, bypassing Whiting Bay for Lamlash with its sheltered harbor, shaped like a crescent moon and protected by an oblong island of its own. Davina gazed toward the dark mass of rock rising a thousand feet from the center of the bay, her face full of questions.

  “Holy Isle,” Jamie told her, “where Saint Molios once resided as a hermit.” The smaller island, no more than five miles round, was ringed in vegetation and covered with heath, surrounded by calmer waters reflecting the gentian blue sky above. He pointed out the large, black-winged birds diving into the water. “Cormorants, looking for dinner.”

  They were in the bay proper now, the dying winds of little use. Sails were furled, and oars dipped into the water as the seamen pulled hard for the rocky shore. Lamlash Bay looked much as he’d remembered it thirty years earlier. Covered with coarse sand, the uneven coastline was dotted with an odd scattering of enormous boulders. Between them a dozen barelegged lads stood knee deep in the water, fishing poles in hand.

  Other vessels were anchored a good distance from the shore, waiting for skiffs to ferry the goods and passengers to safety. Captain Guthrie had his crew row as close as they dared, then he dropped anchor. “We canna run the Clarinda aground. Ane o’ the cobles wull tak ye in.”

  Jamie and Davina stood, helping each other find their balance as they scanned the coastal settlement, little more than a string of stone cottages with heather-thatched roofs. Behind the kirktoun the land sloped upward, a sweep of green hills and red sandstone, sheltering the inhabitants to the west as Holy Isle did to the east.

  Jamie waited for his daughter’s reaction. After the shop-lined High Street of Ayr, was she disappointed to find Arran so primitive and untamed?

  Davina turned to him, eyes shimmering, one hand pressed to her heart.

  A lump rose in Jamie’s throat. “I’m glad you like what you see.” He slipped his arm lightly round her waist as they turned toward an approaching skiff.

  Jamie hailed the older man rowing steadily toward them. “I’d be much obliged, sir, if you’d deliver us to the manse. Reverend Stewart—”

  “Aye, aye.” He interrupted Jamie with a wave of his hand. “The minister said tae keep an e’e oot for ye. Said ye’d be comin’ the first o’ June. So it is, and here ye are.” Despite his advanced years, the man handled their heavy valises with minimal effort, then assisted father and daughter into his craft. “Hugh McKinnon’s the name. Walcome aboard, sir.”

  The crew of the Clarinda seemed reluctant to bid Davina and her fiddle good-bye. When the skiff pulled away, Captain Guthrie doffed his cap, and so did every seaman aboard. Davina waved to them with unbridled enthusiasm, a child again, if only for a brief moment.

  Jamie laughed. “Have a care, Davina, or you’ll tip our wee boat and have us swimming to shore.” She lowered her arm at once, though her bright smile remained as she turned and faced Arran.

  Whistling more air than tune, gray-haired Hugh pulled on his oars, drawing them closer to their destination with each stroke. Jamie had no need to look toward shore, for he saw the wonder of Davina’s summer home shining in her deep blue eyes.

  Twenty

  O! Bonny little Arran,

  Grand is thy mantle in summer.

  TRADITIONAL GAELIC SONG

  Davina breathed in the sea-scented air, cool and fresh. Had she dreamed of Arran and awakened to draw a sketch of it, this was precisely the picture her book would have contained: a score of humble cottages close to the shore; low whitecaps breaking on the pebbly coastline; seasoned fishing boats bobbing in the harbor. But only paint and brush could bring the scene to life, for Arran was awash with color: the bluest sky and water, the greenest trees and glens, limned in buttery sunlight and fringed with pink wildflowers.

  Tears stung her eyes. Of joy, not sorrow. She heard Arran singing to her, like a suitor beneath her window. Davina, Davina. As if the island knew her name and had been holding its breath, waiting for her arrival.

  In the Clarinda, her father’s arm round her waist had felt like a rope tethering her to childhood. Now that the two were seated in the ferryboat, the separation had already begun; her gaze was aimed at Arran, even as he looked toward the mainland. Toward Glentrool. Good-bye, Father. She would practice saying it in her heart unti
l she could bring herself to mouth the words and bid him farewell. Davina vowed to hold back her tears, if only to spare her father second thoughts. She had none. Her future was here.

  Hugh plied the oars in a steady rhythm, straining as he pulled against the current. “Reverend Stewart an’ the lasses wull be waitin’ for ye at the manse a mile up the road. But the kirk is o’er thar if ye care tae leuk.” He inclined his head toward a sizable building to the south, facing the bay. Without steeple, belfry, or vestry, it was as plain as the wooden box that held the family Bible.

  “ ’Twas new when I visited last,” Jamie told him, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Aye, whan Gershom Stewart was minister.” Hugh grunted with another pull of the oars. “Back whan they still buried fowk on Halie Isle. Not lang after, a boat was ferryin’ a funeral party o’er the water whan a squall o’ wind turned o’er the boat.” He shook his head. “God preserve us! Seven fowk droondit on their wey tae a burial.”

  The men’s conversation faded to the low drone of a bagpipe, while Davina overheard a small knot of women speaking to one another on the shore. Her heart began to pound as their high-pitched voices carried across the water. Though she wrote fluently in French and had little trouble translating Latin, she knew nothing of Gaelic, the native language of the Scottish Highlands and islands. Over supper, Father had told her many folk would speak English as well, but all would speak Gaelic. “Do not fret, lass. Your cousins will interpret for you.” He’d smiled at her across his plate of haddock. “I believe the parishioners of Kilbride will learn your language by summer’s end.”

  She smiled now, remembering his words. The longer she listened, the more the women’s blithe chatter simply became another chorus of the song that was Arran.

  “Mrs. Stewart asked me tae bring ye stracht tae the manse,” Hugh said, lifting his oars from the water. Unlike the harbor at Ayr, Lamlash Bay had no proper pier extending far into the water. Instead he eased their skiff into a rustic quay. “Mind yer step, for ’tis slitterie.”