Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Despite her nervousness, Davina managed a smile. Leana McKie would heartily approve. My God will enlighten my darkness.

  A liveried footman stood at the doorway, waiting to escort the ladies inside. He handled them with aplomb, as if helping gentlewomen climb out of farm carts was a daily occurrence at Kilmichael. Since the front door was at ground level, there were no steps to climb; he simply escorted them through the double doors and into the spacious entrance hall, richly tiled with marble and ablaze with candles.

  Though sparsely furnished, allowing room for guests to congregate, the square hall was not without adornment. A tall-case clock stood below the stair, the even swing of the brass pendulum visible through the glass-fronted case. Several fine landscapes hung on the walls, and a spray of artfully arranged garden flowers in pinks and blues had been placed before a long mirror, enhancing the colorful display. Convivial voices—mostly male—floated down the curved stair from the second-floor drawing room.

  “Captain and Mrs. Fullarton will greet you shortly,” the footman said, then politely bowed before disappearing through a doorway to his right. Presumably he would return to announce the new arrivals after they’d had a few moments to make themselves presentable.

  “Quickly, everyone!” Mrs. Stewart adjusted the shawl round Cate’s shoulders, then helped Abbie shake out the ruffles on her sleeves. Skirts were smoothed, dust brushed away, stray hairs patted in place, gloves straightened.

  Davina peeked in the ornate mirror, relieved to find her dress had weathered the jostling ride. With Cate’s help, she had swept up her hair into a knot of curls, secured with a comb on top of her head. The style exposed her long neck and accentuated the gown’s low neckline; Davina blushed at the sight of so much pale skin.

  Reverend Stewart held up her fiddle in its green case. “I’ll see this well cared for until after dinner, Cousin. Then ’tis all yours.”

  The footman reappeared so quietly that they didn’t notice him standing at the foot of the stair until he caught the minister’s eye and bowed. “Whenever you are ready, sir.”

  Davina moistened her dry lips and tried to smile as she followed her cousins up the carpeted steps, taking care not to brush her gown against the marble statuary set into the wall where the stair began to curve.

  The footman preceded the Stewarts into the high-ceilinged drawing room, bowed to the small gathering, and formally announced them. “The Reverend Benjamin Stewart, Mrs. Stewart, Miss Stewart, Miss Abigail Stewart, and Miss McKie of Glentrool.”

  The five of them offered their courtesy in unison, taking their time in deference to those of higher social rank. Davina was the last to look up, wanting to be very sure not to offend. A dozen or so well-dressed men of varying ages stood about—some smiling politely, others staring at the party, their curiosity manifest. To a man, they all wore their hair fashionably cut, rather than pulled into a pigtail like her father’s. Their tail coats were dark, their waistcoats and trousers white. At a quick glance, none of the gentlemen appeared old enough to be the duke.

  A number of familiar-looking young women were scattered throughout the room as well. Confronted by so many faces, Davina could not decide where to land her gaze.

  “You’ve met some of the ladies at kirk,” Cate whispered. “The daughters of Arran’s best families. Grace McNaughton. Lily Stoddart. Jane Maxwell.”

  Davina understood why they’d been included. Since a hostess preferred having men and women seated alternately up and down her dinner table, all the young ladies present equaled the number of men in the duke’s party; they would be paired off by status and rank before going down to dinner. Compared with managing the long hour at table, where the man seated to her left was expected to engage her in witty repartee, playing her fiddle might be the least daunting task of the evening.

  John Fullarton—easily identified in his Royal Navy uniform—stepped forward and offered a smart bow, living up to Abbie’s description of “dashing” with his fringed epaulets and bold manner. “Welcome to Kilmichael, Reverend Stewart.” The captain’s dark eyes shone as he greeted each of the women in turn. “We anticipate His Grace’s arrival momentarily. I trust you had a pleasant journey from Lamlash Bay?”

  The men continued speaking as round the drawing room conversations resumed, giving Davina a chance to explore her surroundings, if only with her eyes. Early evening sunlight poured through the windows, with their painted shutters and foot-deep sills. The carved mantelpiece and screened hearth claimed the inside wall; approaching the house she’d counted two long rows of chimneys in the peak of the roof. One could only guess how many rooms Kilmichael contained.

  Cate moved next to her. “You look very calm,” she murmured.

  Ever so slightly Davina rolled her eyes, and they both smiled.

  “Have you decided which tunes you’ll play?”

  Davina nodded, easing her jacket collar away from her neck. Despite the room’s generous dimensions, the crowded space was growing stuffy. Her sketchbook remained in the bag with her fiddle, so she could not write out the titles for Cate, but, aye, she had chosen her first few tunes. Whether or not there would be more depended entirely on the duke.

  Without warning, a deep male voice was heard on the stair. The drawing room fell silent as glances and nods were exchanged. A single phrase crept round the room, like a stockinged child on tiptoe. His Grace.

  The footman seemed taller when he stepped into the room, his chin thrust forward and his neck stretched to its limit. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, the Marquess of Douglas and Clydesdale, the Earl of Arran, Lanark, and Cambridge.”

  Despite how much she wanted to gape at the gentleman, Davina dropped into a deep curtsy, waiting until everyone round her straightened before she slowly did the same. It seemed His Grace had met most of those in attendance on previous visits, including the Stewarts; only the few strangers were being introduced. While she waited her turn, Davina studied him through her lashes. He had wiry hair, white with age and worn swept back from his high forehead, revealing thick brows and piercing eyes. His long nose came to a decided point, as did his chin. For a man nearing seventy, the duke was surprisingly erect, patiently standing for each formal presentation by Captain Fullarton.

  When he announced her, Davina curtsied again, only to have the captain reach down and gently bring her to her feet. “Your Grace, Miss McKie is a gifted fiddler from the mainland. You will hear more from her later this evening.”

  “Why can I not hear from her now?” The duke’s smile did not lessen the note of authority in his voice. “What shall you play for me this evening, Miss McKie? Will it be a lament? A strathspey?” His dark eyes bored into hers. “Come, miss, speak up. One does not keep a duke waiting.”

  Thirty-Two

  Now heard far off, so far as but to seem

  Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

  THOMAS MOORE

  Forgive me, sir. I cannot speak.

  Beneath the duke’s scrutiny, Davina felt her trembling knees start to weaken as the silence in the room pressed down on her. Please, Lord. Please.

  “Your Grace.” A strong, masculine hand cupped Davina’s elbow, lifting her up, then holding her steady. “I believe you’ve frightened the lady speechless.”

  Stunned, she simply stood there for a moment. Her rescuer was directly behind her, too near to be fully seen. Davina sensed the warmth of him through her damask gown and caught a brief glimpse of him over her shoulder. He was quite tall. A young man. Fair-haired. A Highlander, by the sound of him.

  He spoke again, his melodic voice shaping each word like a note. “I am certain she will play ‘The Fairy Dance.’ Every Scottish fiddler worthy of the title has mastered it.” He paused, as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. When she nodded once, he continued. “And if a slow air is more to your liking, then Miss—ah, McKie, is it?—aye, Miss McKie undoubtedly knows ‘The Nameless Lassie.’ Though for her sake, we’ll
dub the song ‘The Speechless Lassie.’ ”

  He meant it only in jest, Davina realized. The gentleman was a visitor to Arran; he couldn’t know of her impediment, or he would not have spoken so freely.

  When the duke laughed at his quip, the assembly heartily joined in as if only too happy to fill the room with sound again.

  Davina smiled too. The clever man had unwittingly done her a kindness, sparing her trying to explain herself with gestures. Though her knees were now strong enough to support her, his gloved hand remained at her elbow. Might she find some way to thank him, this stranger who appreciated music? She took a breath, preparing to turn and greet him properly, when Reverend Stewart appeared at her side.

  The gentleman behind her slowly withdrew his hand.

  “You speak more truth than you know, sir,” Reverend Stewart told him, before bowing to the duke. “Your Grace, I beg your indulgence. Miss McKie is mute and cannot answer you.”

  Davina heard a collective gasp circle the room and wished she might crawl beneath an upholstered chair. Oh, Cousin. He meant well, of course. But she’d hoped to perform as a simple fiddler, nothing more. Now she feared they would applaud for the wrong reason, misjudging her as a poor wee lass with no voice. And what must the kind gentleman behind her be thinking after his blithesome comments?

  The duke broke the silence. “You are wise to let your music speak for you, Miss McKie. I shall enjoy hearing you play.”

  She dropped into a curtsy, never more thankful for the common language of social graces. When she rose, Captain Fullarton was bringing forward another young woman to meet the duke as the rest of the guests began talking among themselves. Davina stepped back to make room for the lass and firmly planted her heel on a gentleman’s instep.

  To his credit, he did not cry out, though she heard a low groan. If it was the same man who’d come to her aid, he deserved an apology and more.

  Davina turned round, then had to look up to meet his gaze.

  “ ’Tis only fair that you trampled my foot, Miss McKie, since I injured you far more grievously.” The young man gave a courtly bow. “Please pardon my error. I did not know your … situation.”

  Eyes as blue as the northern sky. That was the first thing she noticed. Not dark blue, like hers. Bright blue. Sunlit waves in his hair. Against the dark collar of his coat, each wayward curl looked like spun gold.

  He smiled down at her. “If that’s forgiveness in your eyes, Miss McKie, I accept.”

  Tall and strong as a mast on a ship. Had this gentleman been on board the Clarinda, Captain Guthrie would have insisted on hanging a sail from the man’s broad shoulders. Bright and warm as summer itself. It seemed the golden prince of her sketchbook had come to life.

  “Davina!” Abbie tugged on the sleeve of her brocade jacket. “Mrs. Fullarton is sorting out couples for dinner.” Her cousin frowned at the gentleman, barely giving him a second glance, then guided Davina toward the other young women waiting to be paired with their escorts. “Whoever might that be? Did Captain Fullarton introduce you?” Growing up in the manse, Abbie well understood the rules of etiquette: Without a proper introduction, men and women of quality were not allowed to converse socially.

  Davina allayed her guilt as best she could: She’d already met the man in a dream on a fortuitous May morning, and tonight he’d learned her name.

  Though her feet dutifully carried her across the room, her thoughts remained fixed on the golden-haired stranger. Why had she not seen him earlier? The crowded room, perhaps. The opulent décor distracting her. From a distance he was an even closer match for her pencil drawing, though mere paper could never capture his strength. Or his warmth. Or his voice.

  “Miss McKie?” Elizabeth Fullarton approached her, ivory hands folded at the waist of her green silk gown. As slender as Davina was, yet taller, the mistress of Kilmichael demonstrated a confidence beyond her twenty-odd years. “If you will kindly stand behind Miss McNaughton, the captain will bring your escort to you.”

  Davina took her place, consoling herself when Grace McNaughton did not turn and greet her, as was customary. People were seldom rude by intent; they simply did not know how to engage a mute person. She was still the chosen topic of discussion; furtive glances were aimed in her direction, followed by whispered words behind fans and gloves.

  Captain Fullarton’s countenance, on the other hand, was open and kind. “Miss McKie, may I present Mr. Somerled MacDonald. Your dinner companion, at his request.”

  She didn’t bother to hide her smile. My golden prince. This time she noted his high forehead, his patrician nose, his generous mouth. And his name. Somerled.

  “We meet again, Miss McKie.” He was still smiling, as he had been a moment earlier. Was he always so amiable? Aiming his gaze toward the front of the line, he added, “And that is my father, Sir Harry MacDonald.” He lowered his voice. “A toady to the duke, though he’d never confess it.”

  This smile she did hide, pinching her lips together. What a gallus lad he was! A rascal since birth, Davina suspected. She’d not imagined him so when she had sketched her dream; perhaps his mischievous ways were part of his charm.

  When he proffered his arm, she took it, despite the fluttering in her stomach. He was nearly a foot taller than she and broad shouldered, like his father. Odd that she didn’t feel more secure, the way she did standing next to Ian.

  The line of couples began moving forward in a genteel shuffle as the duke led the procession down the stair. Somerled—his Christian name suited him far better than “Mr. MacDonald”—inclined his head down to hers as they walked. Though he did so because of their difference in size, it felt vaguely intimate. As if they’d known each other for ages rather than for minutes.

  They’d not yet reached the upper hall when he asked, “Miss McKie, I imagine you’ve developed some method of communicating with others. Might you be willing to show me?”

  The request took her by surprise; he was not only gallus but sensitive as well. She touched the corner of her eye, then waited.

  “Would that be ‘I see’?”

  She continued by touching her ear, then her forehead, then her heart, nodding as he guessed each one correctly. I hear. I understand. I feel.

  He laughed, pointing to the approaching steps, then to his eyes and hers.

  A quick study, this one. We must watch where we’re going.

  As they started down the stair, she rested a gloved hand on the polished hardwood railing, if only to steady her knees, which were feeling shaky again. Half an hour ago Somerled was confined to the pages of her sketchbook. Now he was flesh and blood, utterly male and inescapably real.

  At the turn in the stair she looked back to find Reverend and Mrs. Stewart walking a few steps behind. Davina smiled, hoping to assure them all was well. Her cousins followed, paired with agreeable-looking young men. Were they enjoying themselves too?

  “Miss McKie, ’tis ill-advised to gaze over one’s shoulder while walking down the stair,” her escort teased.

  Davina quickly straightened, taking more care with her steps. She did not have a free hand to convey her thoughts and hoped her apologetic expression would suffice. Somerled seemed unconcerned, relaxed enough for both of them.

  A few turns and they reached the dining room. The longest table she had ever seen was draped with a damask cloth as finely woven as her gown. Sterling silver candlesticks and freshly cut white roses alternated down the table, even as windows and mirrors by turns illuminated one long wall. Immaculate servants in stiff white aprons stood against the opposite wall, waiting for the butler’s signal. Reflected in the mirrors, the staff doubled in size. The china gleamed, the crystal shone, and the last rays of the midsummer sun streamed through the long windows facing west.

  The effect was dazzling.

  “Lux in tenebris,” their host said, taking his place at table. “Light in darkness.”

  Davina held her breath, committing to memory the splendid di
splay. However would she describe it to her mother? Like the sun and the moon, captured in a room.

  Once the duke was seated, they all followed suit—Somerled to her left, an older gentleman introduced as Mr. Alastair MacDuff of Fife on her right. Protocol dictated that couples exchange remarks with each other and refrain from turning elsewhere for conversation. Rather like a roomful of private dining for two, Davina decided, instead of one lively party, which was how things were done at Glentrool. Up and down the table white gloves were quietly removed and the bills of fare beside their plates consulted. Davina marveled at the extensive menu, carefully written out by hand. From pheasant consommé to Caledonian cream, she counted ten courses. The usual round of coffee and walnuts was not even mentioned.

  Somerled must have seen the glazed look in her eyes. “No one is expected to finish what is on their plates. Eat only what pleases you.” With a faint lift of his brows, he added, “I shall be interested to see what that might entail.”

  She tasted everything and ate almost nothing, far more engaged by Somerled’s running commentary on the duke’s summer guests. He was not at all like her twin brothers, for whom trout fishing and hill climbing were favorite pursuits. Nor was he like Ian, quiet and even tempered. Somerled MacDonald resembled the varied courses that swept into the dining room upon silver-domed ashets—one sweet, one savory, now cold, now hot, yet each with something to commend it.

  Davina soon learned the meaning of his name—summer traveler—and the glory of his ancestors, the MacDonald Lords of the Isles.

  “I am not the first Somerled to land on Arran’s shores,” he told her between swallows of braised lamb with red-currant jelly. “The ancient seanchaidh described Somerled the Great as a well-tempered man of quick discernment with a shapely body and a fair, piercing eye.” He gave her a sidelong glance, as if curious how the modern version compared to Somerled of old.