Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Welcome, Miss McKie.” He walked toward her, wiping the water from his face with the back of his hand. “I am sorry the weather is so inhospitable.”

  When she looked up, her blue eyes gave away nothing. Was she the slightest bit glad to see him?

  Somerled offered his arm, though she did not take it, patting her fiddle instead.

  “Aye, we cannot have you dropping that.” He glanced at the sullen maid trailing behind her—Nan, as he recalled—dragging her skirt hem through the mud. “Let us get you withindoors where ’tis dry.”

  He led the women up the turnpike stair, addressing Davina over his shoulder. “Miss McKie, might I have a word with you before dinner?” Watching her maid’s eyes narrow, he added, “The music you’ve planned for this evening is what interests me.” Aye, and other things as well, which Nan had no business knowing.

  When they reached the top of the stair, Somerled motioned to one of the duke’s maidservants, then lifted the dripping shawl from Davina’s shoulders and deposited it in the maid’s waiting arms. “Miss McKie requires several dry towels and a cup of tea. Nan will be glad to assist you.” The Kilmichael servant turned on her heel and followed the younger maid toward the ground-floor kitchen as Somerled regarded Davina, shivering by his side, and fought a strong urge to take her hand or touch her cheek.

  “Come sit by the hearth. Even in midsummer Brodick feels dank as a tomb.” The dining room remained vacant except for the occasional servant; the duke’s footman would not ring the dinner bell for another hour. Somerled drew her chair near the fire, eying her all the while.

  “Here ye are, miss.” Nan reappeared with linen towels draped over her arm and a small tea tray in hand. The one instance when she might have dallied elsewhere, the maid was irritatingly prompt.

  “I must see to my own grooming,” Somerled admitted. “Will you pardon me for a few moments? Upon my return, we shall have our discussion, aye?”

  When Davina dipped her chin in response, he bowed and strode through the empty hall, bound for his bedchamber and Dougal’s assistance. He found Sir Harry there instead, pacing about the room, shirtless and smoking a cheroot.

  “Where do things stand with Miss McKie?” his father demanded, his silver head wreathed in smoke. “Surely you have her answer by now.”

  Somerled frowned at the man’s obstinacy. “She’s not had but two days to weigh my proposal.”

  “Och!” Sir Harry flicked a bit of tobacco from his lip. “In so precarious a situation, the only decision to be made is when. Not if.”

  “Father, I would have a willing bride.”

  “ ’Tis too late to speak of willingness.” His words dissolved into a cough. “Be firm with her, lad. Explain what happens to a respected family—ours, for instance—when society’s doors are shut against them. I daresay, young as she is, Miss McKie has ne’er given the matter of public disgrace a minute’s thought.”

  Somerled grimaced, having seen how cruel the peerage could be. Even a baronet’s family would be barred from the best circles. Hearing footsteps in the hall, Somerled lowered his voice. “To my knowledge, no one is aware—”

  “Bah!” Sir Harry coughed again. “Midnight trysts seldom remain a secret. How can you be certain one of Fullarton’s servants did not spy the two of you? You heard the men Saturday evening, congratulating you on your supposed conquest of Miss McKie’s heart. How long will it take them to deduce the rest?”

  Somerled knew the answer. Not long. “I’ll do what I can to convince her.”

  When Dougal slipped into the room, a freshly ironed shirt in hand, Sir Harry thrust out his arms. “Finally.”

  Dougal saw to the elder MacDonald first, then dressed Somerled in a clean shirt and cravat. “Nighean,” he murmured, glancing toward the door. “Teinntean.”

  Somerled nodded, understanding: Davina was waiting for him by the hearth. He ran his hand through his hair, still damp to the touch, then quit the bedchamber, preparing his speech. Miss McKie, I am afraid we have little choice in the matter. That would hardly win her hand, however truthful. If only he’d not been so single minded on Midsummer Eve, he might have courted Davina properly, at his leisure.

  Oh, is that so? His conscience taunted him as he walked down the narrow corridor. When was courtship ever your aim? Indeed, his change in attitude toward marriage was astonishing. The only explanation was Davina herself: a clever, talented, beautiful young woman who deserved more than bruises and shattered dreams.

  Please, lass. Let me right what is wrong.

  He found her seated as before, by the mantelpiece, her hair patted dry and her gloves draped near the fire. Her maid stepped back as he approached. “I’ll not be far awa,” Nan said—more warning than consolation—then curtsied and moved to a corner of the room where the other servants had congregated.

  Somerled pulled a chair next to Davina, grateful the rest of the dinner guests had yet to arrive at table. “You’ve not brought your sketchbook?”

  She shook her head, imitating the falling rain with her fingers, then produced a sealed note.

  “Ah.” Somerled broke the wax with some reluctance, fearing its contents. I cannot marry you. Will not marry you. He unfolded the paper, surprised to find only a few lines. Already her penmanship looked familiar: small, neat letters with a decided forward slant. No salutation, he noted. Perhaps she feared the letter might fall into someone else’s hands.

  I wonder if you realize what you are asking of me.

  Somerled closed his eyes, struck afresh by her honesty. And her pain. I do, lass. I am asking the unthinkable.

  When he looked up, he found her mouth pressed into a tremulous line and her eyes wet with tears. “Miss McKie, I …” What could he say when there were no words? He reached for her, then withdrew his hand, frustration and shame heating his face. “I am asking you to marry me.”

  She shook her head, then began moving her hands apart in small increments, as if measuring something.

  “More?” He searched her face, wanting to comprehend. “I realize you bear no affection for me …”

  She shook her head, then pointed to the letter, her expression resolute.

  You are asking me to marry you. You are asking me to spend my life with you. But those are nothing compared to the most difficult thing required of me.

  Somerled stared at her letter in confusion. “I know not what you mean.”

  Averting her gaze, she touched her heart, then opened her hand, as if offering him a gift.

  He’d not seen this tender gesture of hers before. What did it signify? “Your heart? Your … love? Truly, Miss McKie, I have no such expectations.” Hopes, perhaps, though he might never voice them. When she did not respond, he knew he’d missed the mark. He also knew why she’d not written down this most difficult thing: Davina was testing him. He did not intend to fail.

  She hesitated for a moment, then pantomimed a large, thick volume being opened. Slowly, reverently. Only the Buik matched her silent description.

  Like many Highlanders, he was Episcopalian. Did their religious differences trouble her? “I do not wish to alter your beliefs,” he told her gently. “Though our families do not worship in the same manner, we worship the same God.”

  When she sighed, he realized he’d still not discovered what she was trying to say. After a lengthy pause, she drew an unmistakable sign across the pages of her imaginary Buik: two lines, first top to bottom, then side to side.

  The cross? He sat back in his chair, more bewildered than ever. “This difficult thing you must do … is it a sacrifice? A penance?”

  “MacDonald!” Alastair MacDuff’s voice carried across the room, abruptly ending their private conversation. “Will we have the pleasure of hearing you play after dinner?”

  Och. They had yet to speak of the evening’s program. Would Davina welcome his accompaniment? Somerled looked into her eyes and found one answer at least.

  “Aye, MacDuff. We shall both f
ill the air with music.” He leaned toward Davina to whisper, “And while we dine, I shall give your note much consideration.”

  All through the meal Somerled sifted through the clues she’d presented him. What was he asking of her? Naught but her hand in marriage. And her body in your bed, his conscience prodded him. Aye, but what else? Not her love or her trust, though he hoped he might earn both in time. The most difficult thing required of me. She’d indicated it came from her heart. And from the Buik. And from the cross.

  His fork nearly clattered to his plate. Mercy. That was what she felt compelled to offer him. Difficult? Nae, impossible. Especially when he’d not had the decency to beg her forgiveness. Aye, he’d admitted how sorry he was, but that was not at all the same. Forgive me, Miss McKie. Had he ever said those words aloud and meant them?

  Somerled turned toward the opposite end of the table where she sat taking bites of salmon as she listened to His Grace. The rain had framed her face with wisps of hair, like a halo. Like an angel. She pursed her lips, tilted her head, acknowledged the duke’s words, yet Somerled sensed she was also aware of his gaze fixed on her, despite the table full of men between them.

  Look at me, lass. And she did, as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Please forgive me. For hurting you. Forcing you. Dishonoring you.

  Davina’s gaze was riveted to his. Could she read his expression? Discern his thoughts? Even if she had such powers, he would not take the coward’s way out, merely hoping she understood him. Nae, he would plead for her forgiveness that very night.

  When the duke’s table was cleared and his guests assembled, Somerled accompanied Davina on his flute with particular care, letting her shine on every tune, counting the minutes until she finally lowered her bow.

  As soon as the applause ended, he stepped in front of her, lest she bolt for the door. “A last word, if I may, Miss McKie.” He saw Nan walking toward them, her gaze sharp with suspicion, and held out his hand to halt her progress. “Wait by the door for your mistress.” The note of authority in his voice was intentional; he would not be rushed by an impertinent maid.

  He looked down at Davina, with her fiddle in one hand and her bow in the other, wishing he might divest her of both and take her hands in his. But he had promised not to touch her; now of all times he would not break that vow. “Will you join me by the window?” Though hardly more private, the rain might muffle his words. Not for his sake, but for hers.

  They crossed the room as the other guests started for their bedchambers or milled about with whisky glasses in hand. Standing by the open shutters, as close to her as propriety allowed, he lowered his head and his voice so she alone might hear his confession. “Miss McKie, your efforts to explain yourself earlier were not in vain.”

  The sorrow in her gaze assured him, convicted him.

  “I do realize what I am asking of you.” He swallowed what remained of his pride. “I am asking you to forgive me, Miss McKie.”

  With servants shuffling about, he dared not enumerate his sins, vile as they were. But he did not need to name them; no one knew better than Davina how grievously he’d erred. “Please, Miss McKie. If there is any mercy for me hidden in your heart, may I see it in your eyes?”

  What he found there was only what he deserved: a fresh pool of tears.

  Forty-Seven

  Without your knowledge,

  the eyes and ears of many will see and watch you,

  as they have done already.

  CICERO

  Miss McKie, I believe you are keeping something from me.” Davina stood at the foot of Mrs. Fullarton’s fourposter, hands clasped behind her back. Nae, madam. I am concealing nothing except a bruised body and a heavy heart.

  Her hostess was seated upright, supported by silk-covered bolsters. After several days of recuperating in bed, she was pale and her features drawn, yet her brown eyes still bore a warm glow. “Nan tells me that Mr. MacDonald has been particularly attentive during your evening visits to Brodick. Is that so?”

  She nodded slightly, hoping that would suffice.

  “He certainly caught you by surprise on Midsummer Eve …”

  Davina’s body stiffened.

  “… playing the violoncello with such skill.”

  Oh. She relaxed enough to pantomime a flutist.

  “Indeed, I’ve heard that he is a master of that instrument as well.” Mrs. Fullarton coughed, then dabbed at her mouth with her handkerchief. “However, I do not believe music is Mr. MacDonald’s sole passion. If Nan’s assessment is correct, he is quite taken with you, Miss McKie.”

  Davina’s cheeks bloomed like the roses in Kilmichael’s garden.

  “I see that I am right.” Mrs. Fullarton’s tone grew more serious. “As your hostess, I cannot offer my blessing on any sort of courtship, no matter how informal, without your parents’ consent. Have you written to them?”

  Here was a question Davina could answer. Aye. She pretended to write on her palm, then waved her hand toward Brodick Bay since her letter had sailed with Tuesday’s packet boat.

  “And has Mr. MacDonald done his duty and sent them a post as well?” When Davina nodded, Mrs. Fullarton released a troubled sigh. “As you two are thrown together every evening, I shall ask Nan to be especially diligent in her duties.”

  Davina had never known a more watchful maid.

  “You are fortunate to see him so often. I miss my husband terribly whenever he’s on the mainland or at sea.” She coughed again, deeper this time. “Might you keep me company today while practicing your music?”

  Since the rain had finally ceased, Davina had hoped to ride to Lamlash Bay and visit her cousins. But she could not abandon Kilmichael’s mistress to a lonely afternoon in her bedchamber. She curtsied in response, then hurried off to fetch her fiddle.

  Approaching the curved stair, Davina raised her skirts rather than let an uneven hem send her tumbling headlong down the steps. She’d pretended not to notice Nan’s slipshod alteration work—what houseguest would be so ungrateful as to mention it?—and chose to overlook the careless manner in which Nan had thrust pins into her hair that morning. The maid had been kinder to her the first day or two. Had she done something to offend the woman? Or did her muteness make Nan increasingly uneasy? If so, Davina would not add to the maid’s discomfort by pointing out her shortcomings.

  Fiddle in hand, she returned to Mrs. Fullarton’s second-floor chamber and began rehearsing a slow air. She’d hesitated to play this one at the castle, fearing that “My Heart Is Broken Since Thy Departure” might communicate more to Somerled than she intended. Would her hostess recognize the Highland melody?

  “Oh, Miss McKie,” she protested a dozen measures later, “ ’tis too sad by half, whatever the title.”

  She did not repeat the chorus but eased into a more cheerful tune, “The Bonny Banks of Ayr.” Her audience of one rested against her bed pillows with a wistful smile. “That one I do know.”

  Davina’s repertoire was thinning. Six more performances and her role as the duke’s summer fiddler would end. Perhaps Somerled might be willing to include a few more solos. Yestreen he’d surprised her with yet another talent: singing. His tenor voice, strong and true, had echoed off the stone walls, sending a chill down her spine. When he’d come to the end of the second verse, rather than using the name Eliza, as the composer had intended, Somerled had sung his entreaty to a different lass.

  I know thou doom’st me to despair,

  Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;

  But, O Davina, hear one prayer—

  For pity’s sake forgive me!

  Though the men had chuckled at his canny substitution, Somerled had not winked at her when he’d sung her name nor smiled after the last note. Instead he’d implored her with an expression so sincere, she’d begun another fiddle tune at once, hiding her dismay behind her fast-moving bow. For pity’s sake? She felt many things toward Somerled, but pity was not one of them. Forgive me? That was a request
she had yet to honor.

  “What a shame,” Mrs. Fullarton was saying, “that you and Mr. MacDonald must part one week hence. Given time, he might have become a proper suitor.”

  There were times, albeit few, when Davina was grateful she could not speak.

  At the four hours Nan Shaw appeared at the bedchamber door. “Tea, mem.” She placed a round silver tray by her mistress’s bedside. Slices of caraway seedcake were arranged on a china plate beside a steaming pot of tea and a single cup and saucer.

  “Nan, have you forgotten Miss McKie?”

  The maidservant made a slight face, which only Davina could see. “I’ll fetch her a cup, mem.” She gave a halfhearted curtsy before slipping out the door.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Fullarton murmured. “Nan is seldom so forgetful.”

  Davina laid her fiddle and bow on the dresser, then started to cross the room when she tripped on her hem, tearing the fabric loose at the seam.

  “Careful, lass!”

  Davina recovered her footing at once but was embarrassed to find a gaping hole beneath her bodice.

  “Do not fret, Miss McKie. ’Tis easily fixed.” Her hostess sat up straighter, assessing Davina’s lettuce green gown with a critical eye. “Kindly come closer.” She reached over and tugged at the fabric. “No wonder you stumbled, for your hem droops on the right. Whatever can Nan have been thinking when she stitched this?”

  Davina’s gaze followed hers, surveying the damaged gown. By the time Davina lifted her head, Mrs. Fullarton was frowning at her crown of curls and gently pushing hairpins in place. “Here I am, languishing in bed, while my household goes to wrack and ruin. I cannot apologize enough, Miss McKie.”

  Davina touched her hand, meaning to assuage her, as the hapless maid returned with another teacup.

  “Nan?” Mrs. Fullarton pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Press another gown for Miss McKie at once. The pink one she wore on Sunday will do. When she is dressed to my satisfaction and hers, I would speak with you alone.”