Reading it all again, Davina shook her head. Had she been gone only a few weeks?
“Can you not sleep, Cousin?” Cate propped herself up on one elbow, blinking at her across the rumpled bedsheet. Keeping her voice low, she offered to help Davina dress. “Though ’tis an early start to a long day.”
Davina was already pulling one of her plainer gowns from the clothes press, shaking out the wrinkles as she did. Without another word Cate was by her side, guiding Davina’s arms through the sleeves. They would dress in their best clothes after the noontide meal; the blue cotton would do for now.
Cate crawled back into bed with a sleepy yawn. “Gather ye violets while ye may,” she said blithely, knowing Davina’s plans. “You’ll find the Flora Scotica in Father’s study.”
Davina hastened down the dimly lit wooden stair. The ground floor was brighter, though the interior shutters remained closed. She tiptoed along the short hall, listening intently for any sounds of life. The minister’s cramped study had but one window. Even with the shutter cracked open, she had a difficult time finding what she needed, squinting her way along the musty bookshelf. At least she knew what the spines looked like; her mother owned the two-volume set as well.
Ah. She pulled out one of the thick books with care. Flora Scotica. The passages she needed were easily located. Unlike most wildflowers, the scientific name for violet—Viola tricolor—sounded like the English one. Or like a stringed instrument. She smiled, picturing the yellow, purple, and white flowers with their heart-shaped leaves.
Davina ran her finger along the sentence in question, wishing the author had been more specific in his instructions. Anoint thy face with goat’s milk in which violets have been infused. The manse kept one goat, milked daily for curds and whey. She’d asked kindhearted Rosie, the dairymaid, to save a bowl of fresh milk for her. But how many violets and infused in what quantity of milk? Her mother would know; Davina could only guess. Since the mixture would eventually be strained, perhaps it did not matter.
The text did offer one assurance: There is not a young prince on earth who would not be charmed with thy beauty.
She grinned at so bold a promise. His Grace was far from young and merely a duke; she had no intention of charming so elderly a man or his unmarried son. Alexander, the duke’s heir apparent, had chosen to remain in London rather than join his father for three weeks of sport. ’Twas just as well: Alexander was forty, nearly as old as her father.
According to the local blether, there were younger men to be found at Brodick castle. Names and descriptions were hard to come by. A broad-shouldered Macleod from Skye. A red-haired Keith from the Borders. A long-legged MacDonald from Argyll. The duke’s guestlist was smaller than usual this summer; some said no more than a dozen. Who knew if the men would even notice her, however soft her complexion? Still, she had little to lose and a whole day to spend wisely.
After replacing the minister’s book, Davina headed for the front lawn, lifting a garden apron from a hook in the entrance hall as she passed. The salty breeze from Lamlash Bay felt cool against her skin. On the eastern horizon the sun was inching upward, hinting at fine weather.
Clustered along the front path grew all the violets she might need. Davina knelt to pick the delicate flowers, taking care not to crush them as she pinched each slender stem. Her apron was soon filled with the colorful blooms favored by fairies. “Heartsease,” her mother called them. Davina stood, losing only a few blooms in the process, then carried the wildflowers into the kitchen, relieved to find the room vacant. Betty, who was already convinced Davina was one of the wee folk, would drop in a faint if she saw her with violets.
She emptied the contents of her apron into a plain, round teapot, then added hot water just off the boil and dropped the lid in place. Her mother’s voice whispered to her while she worked. “Not too hot, dearie, or you’ll lose the precious oils in the steam.” Ten minutes for the herbs to infuse the water—that much she remembered.
Davina was busy straining the cooled liquid when the dairymaid appeared at the back door, a small pail of goat’s milk in hand.
“Here ye go, Miss McKie.” Rosie held it out, wrinkling her nose as she did. “Whatsomever tea is that ye’re brewin’?”
Davina pointed first to the goat’s milk, then to a stray violet caught in her apron strings, and mimicked washing her face.
“Oo aye!” Rosie’s expression brightened. “I heard tell o’ sic a thing.”
Davina thanked her by smiling and nodding her head, to which the dairymaid dropped a curtsy and went whistling out the door. Rosie had the Stewarts’ cow to milk before moving on to the Pettigrews’ farm and the rest of her morning rounds.
After pouring equal parts goat’s milk and violet infusion into a shallow bowl, Davina lowered her cupped hands into the lukewarm mixture and splashed it on her face. She felt a bit daft, hanging over the bowl, milk dripping off her nose, yet she washed her cheeks again, then her neck, pulling her gown loose, lest she miss a spot. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” her father often said.
“May I try some?” Cate stood in the kitchen doorway, rubbing her eyes.
Minutes later Cate was bathing her face in a fresh bowlful, sputtering as she did. “Och! You didn’t swallow any of this, I hope.”
The two were still drying their faces when Mrs. McCurdy found them. “Awa wi’ ye, lassies. I’ve parritch tae mak.” Her tone was not unkind, and in her eye shone a knowing gleam. “I maun say, ye leuk bonny. This evenin’ the gentrice wull be wooin’ the baith o’ ye.”
Davina blushed as they quit the kitchen in search of a looking glass. Had the goat’s milk accomplished what the May dew had not?
When they reached the bedroom with its small dressing-table mirror, Cate said, “You look first.”
Chagrined at what she saw, Davina did not linger in front of the glass. Her skin was still sprinkled with color, her ferntickles darker than ever from a month of Arran sunshine.
“But feel how smooth it is.” Cate touched her own cheek, then Davina’s. “As silken as your damask gown.” She nodded toward her sister, curled up in their bed. “Abbie cannot wait to see you wearing it with that wonderfully tailored jacket. Isn’t that so?”
When Abbie sat up and stretched, Davina’s sketchbook protruded from beneath her bedsheet.
“Abbie!” Cate scolded her. “Whatever are you doing with our cousin’s property?”
“I’m sorry, Davina.” Her face bright as red campion, Abbie pulled the borrowed sketchbook from its hiding place. “I only meant to look at your fine drawings. This one is my favorite.” She opened the book to a particular page, then held it up to her. “Is he someone you know?”
Davina looked down at her golden prince. Not yet, young Abbie.
“Hoot!” Cate’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of him. “If our cousin knew such a braw lad, would she be spending her summer with us?” She nudged Davina with her elbow. “Nae, she’d be getting fitted for her wedding gown and hiring a piper.” Laughing, Cate pulled her sister out of bed. “Come, Abbie, we’ve much to do. Your hair needs a good brushing, and Davina and I intend to wash ours in egg whites and rose water.” She clasped both their hands and squeezed tight. “ ’Tis not every day we’re joined at table by a duke.”
Thirty
Where doubt
there truth is—’tis her shadow.
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
Leana knew that spending time in her daughter’s bedroom would not ease the pain of her absence. Even so she found herself sitting there, lightly fanning away the afternoon heat as she gazed into an empty oak cradle. She well remembered nestling each of her children inside its wooden confines, lined with linen and decorated with a sprig of dill.
First came Ian, born in the Newabbey manse on a dark October eve with Auchengray’s dear housekeeper, Neda Hastings, in attendance. Then Davina, delivered in their own bedroom at Glentrool, with Jamie grasping her hand, straining with her to bring th
eir daughter into the world. And lastly the twins, who shared the cradle for only a month before they outgrew it. Jeanie Wilson had nearly crowed, she was so proud of herself for delivering two sonsie bairns minutes apart.
Now all four were grown and scattered to the winds: William and Alexander in Edinburgh, Davina on Arran, and Ian with his father at Keltonhill Fair away to the south.
Jamie had promised to visit her Aunt Meg in Twyneholm before returning home from the annual horse fair with all its diversions. Margaret Halliday, her only living aunt, was nearing eighty. When Leana had seen her last, Aunt Meg’s hair and eyes had faded to a pale gray, yet her spirits were bright as ever. May that still be so, dear Aunt.
Leana was grateful the men would break their journey with Meg at Burnside Cottage, though it meant she would not see them again until Saturday. On this, the longest day of the year, Glentrool felt as empty as the cradle at her feet.
Refusing to give in to melancholy, Leana stood and took a turn round the turret bedroom, pausing at the clothes press bearing Davina’s older dresses and a new gown, finished that morning. Leana pulled the buttery yellow silk from its resting place and shook it out, admiring the rich fabric once more. How perfectly the soft color would complement Davina’s hair and skin. A pair of slippers from the same silk had been fashioned by the shoemaker from Drannandow.
Welcome home, Leana would say when she showed Davina her new costume. How I’ve missed you. She’d asked Jamie to bring home a bolt of fabric from Keltonhill so she might sew yet another gown for her daughter before Lammas. What else could she do with her home so empty? At least her hands would be filled and her mind occupied with stitches rather than fretful thoughts.
With a lengthy sigh she turned her attention to the narrow window that looked down on her gardens, a sight that never failed to comfort her. After a month of mild days and gentle rains, her roses and perennials were at their peak. The musk roses in particular, with their delicate white blooms, spilled over their corner of the garden in fragrant profusion.
Leana was still admiring them when she heard Eliza’s steps in the upper hall, then her voice from the doorway.
“Are yer flooers callin’ ye, mem?”
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Aye, they are.” Even from this distance, Leana could imagine the rich scent of her roses and feel their silky petals.
“I jalouse ye hear Davina callin’ ye even mair.” Eliza held out the sealed letter in her hands. “She’s a guid dochter tae write ye sae aften.”
“So she is.” Leana had broken the wax seal before her housekeeper finished speaking. “Bless you, Eliza.”
She bobbed her head. “Rab carried the post from toun. And a new silver thimble for me as weel.”
Leana heard the affection in Eliza’s voice and took secret delight in it. Like Eliza, Rab had once lived in Newabbey parish and had accompanied the McKies from Auchengray to Glentrool. Eliza had stayed with her mistress, but Rab had returned home. Two years later, when Glentrool had lost its head shepherd, Jamie inquired after Rab at Leana’s request. The affable, red-haired shepherd had come at once. And Eliza and Rab had married a twelvemonth later, just as Leana had prayed they might.
Grateful for Eliza’s faithful service, Leana touched her hand in thanks, then smoothed out the folds in Davina’s post.
“I’ll leave ye tae yer letter,” Eliza said with a parting curtsy.
By the time the door softly closed, Leana had already begun to read.
To Mrs. James McKie of Glentrool
Tuesday, 14 June 1808
Dearest Mother,
Please forgive the brevity of this letter, but I have thrilling news that cannot wait. Reverend Stewart is bound for the harbor within the hour, and I do not want my post to miss the packet boat sailing from Lamlash.
Her heart quickened at Davina’s breathless prose. Whatever had excited her daughter so?
We have just learned that the Duke of Hamilton and his guests will be entertained at Kilmichael House on Midsummer Eve, and we are invited to join them.
The Duke of Hamilton? Leana stared at the words, incredulous. Davina had never been in the presence of so exalted a member of society. Jamie occasionally traveled in such circles, but not their inexperienced daughter. Leana mentally reviewed all that would be expected of Davina in the way of deportment. Could she count on Elspeth Stewart to instruct her, or should she pen a letter at once?
Then she noticed the date. Midsummer Eve. In a matter of hours Davina would be dining with a gentleman eclipsed in power only by King George himself.
Leana looked toward the window, gauging the late afternoon light. Six o’clock or so. Perhaps Davina had already arrived at Kilmichael.
The invitation names me specifically and requests that I bring my fiddle. If my letter reaches you in time, pray that I may please the duke and the gentlemen in his party. I must go, Mother, for our cousin is anxious to leave with the mail. Do pray!
Your loving daughter
Oh lass. She did not need to ask; Leana prayed for her children without ceasing. Even now, Lord, watch over my Davina.
She studied the letter closely. The gentlemen in his party. Who might that include? Something about the phrase troubled her. Gentlemen. A sporting party, she imagined. Men of high social standing yet without wives on hand to ensure their behavior matched their titles.
Another gentleman came to mind, one worthy of the description: Graham Webster of Penningham Hall. How she wished Jamie had allowed her to inform Davina of Mr. Webster’s interest. It seemed dishonest not to do so. As if they were hiding something from their daughter. Which, in fact, they were.
Try as she might, Leana did not understand why Jamie was so averse to the man’s suit. Aye, he was a dozen years older than Davina but hardly old. He was a kind man, a devout man, who would love and cherish their sweet daughter. Did he not find her youthful innocence—her “purity,” as he’d delicately put it—charming?
Distraught, Leana tossed the letter onto Davina’s neatly made bed. What would Mr. Webster think of Davina plying her bow for a roomful of his peers? ’Twas not like being presented in court, a formal affair replete with rules. Davina would be simply introduced as … what? A performer?
Nae! Leana pressed her hand against her knotted stomach. Manners among the gentry were not always what they seemed. What if—
Och! Now she sounded like the twins, always imagining the worst. In truth, the lads could not protect their sister this night, nor could Jamie.
But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me.
Leana closed her eyes and prayed in earnest, standing in the center of the room where she’d taught her four children to fear God. I know that thou canst do everything. Her hands were clasped so tightly, her fingers began to ache. Please, heavenly Father. Please. What else could a mother pray? Protect her. Defend her. Her throat tightened. Keep her, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked.
And then she made a vow, for she could not seek God’s favor and offer him nothing in return. What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.
Head bowed in the weighty silence, Leana heard a faint tapping at the door.
“Mrs. McKie?” Jenny’s voice.
Leana slowly opened her eyes. “Come in, lass.”
The young woman, no older than Davina, stepped into the room and curtsied. “Mr. Billaud sent me. He thocht ye might want yer meal noo rather than waitin’ ’til eight.” A hint of color stole into her fair cheeks. “Syne ye’re dinin’ alone and a’.”
“How thoughtful of Aubert,” Leana murmured. For a man who insisted on serving supper at the same hour night after night, the offer was a generous one.
Leana’s gaze was drawn to the window and the abundance of roses below. “Kindly set up a small table for me in the garden. ’Tis too fair an evening to spend inside.”
Thirty-One
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower
Glowed with the tints of evening hour,<
br />
The beech was silver sheen,
Such the enchanting scene.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
With each passing moment, Davina found it harder to catch her breath.
On either side of her stood majestic firs and tall, silvery beeches, flanking the private lane. To the north unfurled a vast lawn, groomed by unseen gardeners and bordered by a high-spirited burn. Stone benches placed here and there afforded an impressive view of Goatfell, watching over the property like a dour benefactor. Beyond the avenue of trees loomed the white rubble walls of Kilmichael, an estate house of imposing proportions.
Nature had also done her part: The sun was beginning its slow descent, staining the western sky a vibrant orange and casting Glen Cloy in dark blue shadows.
“The stables are directly behind the house,” Cate announced, sounding eager to climb out of their uncomfortable conveyance. The sisters had traveled side by side in a small, two-wheeled cart, as had Davina and Mrs. Stewart, while the reverend rode astride Grian. Poor Abbie in her satin gown had slithered about every time they hit a bump, which was often; Cate had not fared much better in her silk, despite the clean woolen blankets her mother had used to line the rustic carts.
“Almost there,” Elspeth called out to her daughters. Turning to Davina, she said in a softer voice, “No need to be timorsome, Cousin. Play as if you were in our parlor, and you’ll win their hearts with a single tune.”
Davina nodded, though she knew the grand drawing room of Kilmichael would be nothing like the crowded parlor of the manse. And it was one thing to please a neighbor but quite another to impress a duke. She clasped her fiddle to her waist, hoping her letter had reached Glentrool so she might depend upon her mother’s prayers.
The house faced northeast toward the bay, its only ornamentation mounted above the slender double doors. “Three otters,” Reverend Stewart explained as they drew to a stop before the gilded Fullarton crest. “And the clan motto: Lux in tenebris. Light in darkness.”
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