Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Aye, mem.” Nan offered her mistress a contrite curtsy, then quit the room.

  “Please do not take offense, Miss McKie.” Mrs. Fullarton’s voice was growing raspy. “For some reason Nan is not herself lately. After I’ve spoken with her, I trow you’ll find her manners much improved.”

  Nan Shaw did not walk; she marched two steps ahead of Davina, swinging her baize bag with such careless disregard that Davina feared the maid might drop her fiddle in the mud. At least their late afternoon walk to the castle would be shorter than usual and quiet, for Nan had not spoken two words since they’d departed Kilmichael House. Whatever Mrs. Fullarton had said to Nan had only made things worse.

  Davina did her best to keep up with the long-legged maid, eying the blacksmith hammering away at his anvil as they walked past, then nodding at the gentleman who rode by on a chestnut mare. When they turned onto the shore road—wider than the lane to Kilmichael but no smoother underfoot—Nan turned and thrust a letter into her hands. “This came yestermorn. Carried by a neighbor who’d been tae see the Stewarts.”

  Yestermorn? Davina frowned as she broke the seal. Had the letter remained in Nan’s pocket all this time? In another week she would gladly return to the manse and leave her disagreeable maid behind.

  Her cousin Cate’s penmanship—as artless and blithe as the lass herself—looped across the paper. Merely seeing her familiar hand made Davina long for Lamlash Bay. She read as she walked, slowing her pace, requiring Nan to do the same.

  To Davina McKie

  Monday, 27 June 1808

  Dearest Cousin,

  We missed you at service yestermorn and pray this letter finds you in good health.

  A wave of guilt washed over Davina. I’ll not disappoint you on the Sabbath next, dear Cate.

  How dreary our lives are without you! Mother is transplanting coleworts and beets, Abbie and I weed between plumpshowers, and Father is minding the bees. Mrs. McCook at Kingscross suffers from the ague. We are to visit her before long.

  Cate’s letter was filled with domestic details, written with a carefree innocence that weighed on Davina’s heart. Their lives could not be more different now. While her cousins tended the garden, she contemplated a marriage proposal from a rake.

  Davina scanned the closing paragraph twice, trying to read between the lines. Was Reverend Stewart genuinely unhappy with her?

  Father is still fretting over your performance on Midsummer Eve. Can you imagine anything so daft? Abbie and I thought you two played beautifully together. Does Mr. MacDonald accompany you at Brodick castle each evening?

  Aye, lass. He does.

  She folded the letter and slipped it into her reticule as she and Nan started their climb from Cladach to the castle grounds. Assuming the dry weather held, Davina would borrow one of the Fullartons’ mounts and ride to the manse tomorrow, if only for a short visit. To put her cousins’ minds at ease. And to remind herself of simpler days.

  Somerled was waiting for her when she reached the dining room. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived early.” He claimed her baize bag, then sent Nan to join the other servants. “Rest assured,” he told her. “Miss McKie and I will not stray from your sight.” Davina heard the note of sarcasm behind his words; Somerled had wearied of their chaperon.

  He’d arranged two chairs by a window overlooking the bay. The faint cry of gulls wafted through the open sash as he seated her, then pulled his chair closer. “At least we’ll have a few moments to ourselves,” he said, then tapped her bag. “Have you brought your sketchbook?”

  Davina pulled it from her bag, avoiding his warm gaze, knowing he had more in mind than idle conversation. I am asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to marry me. He was asking far more than she was ready to give him. But at least he was asking rather than taking.

  Searching for an empty page, she came upon her drawing of one of the wee folk.

  Somerled eyed the sketch with a raised brow. “The maids say a fairy has been seen above ground in Brodick Bay, raiding houses in broad daylight and poking round the kitchen, investigating all the dishes being prepared for dinner.”

  Davina promptly wrote across the page. Fairies only do so on Fridays. This is Wednesday.

  He sobered at that. “And on what day do fairies marry mortals? For we must plan accordingly.”

  Somerled had not veered from his stated course: He wanted her for his wife. “We cannot delay much longer,” he’d told her yestreen. “The eyes of many are upon us, making what they will of our duets. The sooner we are betrothed, the sooner Arran’s gossips will look elsewhere.”

  Only one pair of eyes remained fixed on her now. “Pink is quite becoming on you,” he said, though his gaze did not linger on her gown. “I have a blithe song in mind to end the evening. You are welcome to accompany me on your fiddle if you like, but do pay particular attention to the last verse.”

  Once they were seated at table, Davina watched him as they dined on venison soaked in claret, his fork no busier than her own. If she might be certain that his remorse was sincere, that his apparent affection for her was genuine, that his wish to marry her stemmed from desire and not duty …

  But she could be sure of none of those things.

  As promised, Somerled closed with a heartsome song, to which she added sparse accompaniment; his fine tenor voice needed no help from her strings. When he reached the final verse, he turned and sang the words directly to her, as if no one else were present.

  She has my heart, she has my hand,

  By secret troth and honour’s band!

  Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,

  I’m thine, my Lowland lassie, O!

  Davina blushed at his altered lyric. The song was “Highland Lassie, O,” as everyone in the room well knew.

  Somerled bowed low before her while their small audience generously applauded. Except for Nan Shaw, who stood to the side, a smug expression on her face.

  Forty-Eight

  Gossip is mischievous, light and easy to raise,

  but grievous to bear and hard to get rid of.

  HESIOD

  Thursday dawned gray and cool. Sitting alone at the breakfast table, Davina sensed someone tarrying outside the door leading to the hall: two maids speaking Gaelic in hushed voices. Then she heard her name, stark amid the unfamiliar words. McKie. Nan was not the only servant at Kilmichael who behaved oddly round her; other maids frowned when Davina entered a room or whispered when she passed them in the hall. Maybe, like Betty at the manse, they assumed their silent houseguest was a fairy.

  Her breakfast finished, she rose from the table, intent on riding to the Kilbride manse and paying her cousins a long-overdue visit. No one was in the hall by the time she opened the door. Nor did she find Nan straightening her room as the maid often did, even though all was in order.

  Davina searched through the wardrobe, hoping she might locate a pair of shoes better suited to riding. Though she came up empty handed, she discovered that her damask gown was fully dry. Come Lammas she’d take her dress home and see it properly washed and ironed, with the hope of sparing it from the rag bin. At least her lace-trimmed jacket had survived.

  Her heart thudded to a stop. My brocade jacket. In the painful aftermath, she’d not given it a moment’s thought.

  But she remembered the jacket now. Remembered where she’d left it.

  Nae! How could she have been so careless?

  Fighting to catch her breath, she opened her bedchamber door, praying no servants were in sight, then hastened down the hall, through the front door, and round the house. One small grace: With the master of Kilmichael away, the stables were deserted.

  A gray mantle of clouds hung overhead as images flooded her mind: Somerled unfastening the buttons beneath her bodice. Sliding the jacket over her shoulders. Tossing it onto the straw-covered floor. I cannot wait much longer, lass.

  Tears stung her eyes afresh. But I could have.

&nb
sp; When she neared the far corner of the stables, she slowed her steps, overcome with a sense of dread. Still, she had to look now while she had the chance. She’d not be long finding one small jacket.

  Davina pulled open the stable door and nearly fainted.

  The stall was empty. Swept clean. Even the tin pails were gone from the pegs.

  She stumbled along the perimeter, staring at the wooden pegs, willing her jacket to appear. But it was not there. Had never been there. She’d left it on the floor, neglected, forgotten. A jacket stitched by her mother’s loving hands.

  Davina collapsed against the rough wall, her heart aching, her thoughts disjointed. The jacket was lost. Nae, it was found. Discovered by someone. A stranger? A servant? Did that person know it was hers and guess how it had landed here?

  Each possibility she envisioned was worse than the last. What if someone was watching the stables, waiting to see who came looking for it? What if one of the lasses in the neighborhood began wearing the jacket, telling folk where she’d found it?

  Nae, nae! Davina could not fathom the consequences any further.

  Unless … unless the jacket had been raked up by a stable lad unnoticed, then burned with the straw. Please, let that be the truth of it! Though she hated to lose her beautiful jacket, it would be a thousand times worse to lose her reputation.

  She fled from the stables, haunted by memories, hounded by remorse. If only she’d had her wits about her that night and claimed her jacket. If only she’d stopped Somerled from removing it in the first place. If only they’d never kissed by the burn. If only. If only. If only.

  Davina had just turned the front corner of the house, drying her tears with her sleeve, when a familiar male voice brought her to an abrupt stop. Reverend Stewart? Aye, there he was. Standing at the front door with his back to her. Talking to Clark and handing him a valise.

  Had her cousin come for a visit? When the minister disappeared through the front door, she shook out her skirts and pinned her hair back in place, then hurried after him, praying her fears were not written across her features.

  Reverend Stewart was waiting in the entrance hall, his clothes rumpled and dusty from the ride. He greeted Davina with a nervous smile. “The footman just went looking for you. But I’ve found you first. Or you’ve found me. Have you been in the garden?” The flurry of words was unusual, as if her presence discomfited him. “Come, let me have a look at you, Cousin.”

  When he clasped her hands, she noticed his were clammy, and his forehead was covered with a sheen of perspiration. Was he ill? Was there trouble at the manse? Had he come to take her home?

  Clark reappeared, then seated them in the music room. Tea would follow within minutes. Despite Mrs. Fullarton’s concerns, Kilmichael was an efficient household even with its mistress confined to her bedchamber.

  The moment they had the room to themselves, Reverend Stewart said, “I was sorry to hear that your hostess is nursing a persistent cough. And Clark indicated that Captain Fullarton is on the mainland.”

  She nodded, though she could tell the news upset him.

  “Davina, I confess I’m grieved to find you here … unprotected. Had I known, I would have come sooner.” He lowered his voice, though no one else was in the room. “I had hoped the captain might offer some explanation of why you were not at kirk on Sunday.”

  Of course. The instant she saw Reverend Stewart she should have realized why he’d come. No wonder he was perspiring, having to question his own cousin’s devotion to God. Had she called on her cousins yesterday, she could have put their worries to rest.

  Davina retrieved her sketchbook from her baize bag on the pianoforte and wrote a brief explanation: I’m sorry to say the maid did not awaken me, and so I overslept. Though every word was true, it looked inadequate on paper.

  “In your weeks at the manse you were usually up at dawn.” Reverend Stewart mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief. “Did you retire late on Saturday evening?”

  She wrote again, determined to remain honest. It was eleven o’clock before I returned to Kilmichael from the castle. His Grace has been most appreciative of my music. By the look on his face, her comments were not improving matters.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps on the mainland parishioners do not find it necessary to attend church weekly, as they once were obliged to do. I can assure you we are not so lax on Arran.”

  She wrote out a heartfelt apology, assuring him she would be in the Kilbride kirk on the Sabbath next. Though he nodded as he read it, he did not look appeased.

  “The girls miss you very much,” he finally admitted. “The sixth of July cannot come soon enough for them.”

  Davina nodded, touching her heart. I miss them too. And you, Cousin. And Elspeth.

  “I’ve brought some of your dresses, your riding habit, and so forth. I believe the valise has been delivered to your room.”

  Davina offered her thanks, then put aside her sketchbook as tea was served. Though her precious jacket was lost to her, she would have several dresses made by her mother to console her. A tender reminder of home.

  Reverend Stewart lifted his teacup, then said, almost as an afterthought, “I wrote to your father last Friday, letting him know you’re here at Kilmichael.”

  The notion made her uneasy. What had Reverend Stewart told her parents? That the duke had honored her by requesting she entertain his guests? Or that Somerled had dishonored her with his “wanton” accompaniment?

  Her one solace was this: The minister knew nothing of what had happened in the stables.

  “I realize the house is brimming with servants, Cousin, and you are hardly alone. But I’ll be happier when you are safely at the manse and the duke’s guests have returned to Argyll … or, ah … to Fife or … well, Stirlingshire or whence they hail.”

  Somerled. Davina was glad the reverend couldn’t read her thoughts. You were not entirely wrong about him, Cousin.

  He placed his tea saucer on the table, no longer meeting her gaze. “People can be cruel, Davina. They see things … or hear things … and make judgments that are not fair.” He stood, as if he’d run out of words or could no longer bring himself to say them. “Resist the devil, lass, and he will flee from you.”

  She did not need to be told the devil’s name.

  “Now I must discharge my ministerial duties,” he said, attempting in vain to smooth the wrinkles from his coat, “assuming Mrs. Fullarton is awake and will not object to a brief visit. My physic books are in my saddlebag, should her symptoms warrant.”

  Davina followed him up the stair, then stood in the corner of the room as he listened intently to his patient’s cough, touched her brow, then prayed for her health. On Arran, ministers and midwives usually sufficed as medical practitioners.

  “How good of you to call.” Mrs. Fullarton sounded weak, but her spirits remained strong. “Miss McKie, kindly see your cousin to the door since I cannot.”

  Davina watched him depart, saddened by the slump of his shoulders as he threw himself onto his horse. He had traveled all these miles to admonish her. And to warn her. Perhaps he’d sensed it was too late.

  She sighed as she walked through the quiet house, feeling very alone. There was no one she might confide in, no one she could trust with her secrets, which were mounting. If her mother were here, could she even tell her what had happened? The thought of writing her experiences on paper made Davina blush. Nae. Some things could never be discussed.

  At least she had the gowns her mother had made, waiting in the guest room. After luncheon she’d spend the afternoon airing them and choose one to wear that evening for the duke. Which ones had Elspeth packed, she wondered. Undoubtedly Cate and Abbie had slipped notes in her valise.

  Anticipation quickened her heart as she swept open the guest room door. But what she found was not at all what she’d expected.

  Her brocade jacket lay on the bed. Cleaned and pressed.

  She fell back agai
nst the door, grasping the cold brass knob for support. God, help me! One of Kilmichael’s servants had found her jacket. There could be no other explanation.

  If one servant knew, they all knew. If one household knew, the whole parish would know come the Sabbath. The captain would be informed upon his return. Reverend Stewart would be told on the road before he reached home. The truth would travel faster than any newspaper headline on the mainland: Davina McKie disrobed in the stables of Kilmichael on Midsummer Eve. A woman would only do such a disgraceful thing in the company of a gentleman.

  She sank to her knees on the carpeted floor. Somerled. He alone could save her.

  Even if she could not trust him … even if she did not love him … even if her father did not approve of him, marrying Somerled was her only hope.

  Forty-Nine

  A lost good name is ne’er retriev’d.

  JOHN GAY

  Jamie McKie eased his oars into the loch, watching Leana’s eyes drift shut, a faint smile on her face. The fine lines in her skin were beginning to show. Her hair was threaded with silver, like her Aunt Meg’s, and lately Leana needed her spectacles more often than not.

  She had never looked more beautiful to him.

  He guided their skiff across Loch Trool with slow, even pulls, not wanting to disturb her. Leana had not slept well of late, worrying about their children, longing for their homecoming at Lammas. Neither Davina nor the twins had written her in a week, which only heightened her concerns. If a forenoon outing on the glassy surface of Trool afforded his wife the rest she needed, he would let her nap. Ian was visiting the McMillans that morning; the house was as peaceful as the loch.

  High above them the sky resembled a watercolor painting in pale blues and soft grays, without sun or rain in the offing. The air was cool for the last day of June, and a light breeze moved across the water. He leaned forward and draped a thin, woolen plaid across Leana. She stirred, but her eyelids did not flutter open. Sleep, dear wife. He had loved her for nearly twenty years. Lord willing, he would have her with him for twoscore more.