Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  She found Ian sitting at his father’s desk, surrounded by books. “Graham Webster is here,” she informed him, then rinsed her hands at the washstand and patted her face, grown moist beneath the sun. “You are free to join us, but it might be best …”

  “Aye,” Ian was quick to agree. “You should meet with him alone, for ’tis a private matter. Do send Jenny for me if I’m needed.”

  “Ian …” She dried her hands on the fresh linen, then carefully placed it by the bowl. “Might you pray for our conversation? I can only imagine how upset Mr. Webster must be, yet I’ve so little information to offer him.”

  “Consider it done, Mother.” His smile was Jamie’s. His blue gray eyes were hers. But his heart belonged to God, and for that she was abundantly grateful.

  Leana crossed the entrance hall, with its polished floors and gleaming mirror, and opened the drawing room door, mustering what confidence she could. “Mr. Webster, how good of you to come.”

  He was already standing, his hat and gloves on the table, his tea poured but apparently untouched. “Your housekeeper was kind enough to usher me in, Mrs. McKie. Pardon me if I’ve chosen an inconvenient time to call.”

  “Not at all. You are always welcome at Glentrool.”

  He murmured his thanks, then sat, though he looked uncomfortable, as though he might spring to his feet at any moment.

  She took her cup and saucer, hoping he might do the same. “Were you expecting to find my husband at home? I know Mr. McKie has fivescore sheep set apart for you come Lammas. The very best of his flocks.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, but …” He spread out his large hands, as if they might express what he could not. “ ’Tis your daughter … ’tis my concern for Miss McKie that brings me to your door.”

  “Of course.” Leana put down her teacup before it began rattling in her hands. Give me wisdom, Father. And strength. “In truth, I meant to speak with you on the Sabbath last.”

  His hazel eyes brightened. “You have news, then? From Arran?”

  Leana hesitated, knowing her answer would disappoint him. “Not yet,” she finally admitted. “Later in the week—Thursday or Friday, perhaps—I may receive word from my husband.”

  Graham sighed, his gaze settling on the window facing the loch. The morning sun poured through the glass, decorating the carpeted floor with yellow squares. “Might he bring her home?”

  “I confess, Mr. Webster, that is my hope. I will gladly tell you what I know.” She briefly described Davina’s Midsummer Eve performance for the Duke of Hamilton.

  Graham blanched. “His Grace?”

  “Aye.” Leana still could not comprehend it herself. “It seems one of his guests, a young Highlander from Argyll, accompanied Davina on the violoncello.”

  “I see.”

  “Do not imagine the worst,” she hastened to add, noting his downcast expression. “Mr. MacDonald is the heir of Sir Harry MacDonald, a gentleman of some standing. I feel certain his son has made no inappropriate, ah, overtures toward our daughter.”

  Heat rose up her neck. She had no such assurance, and Graham Webster knew it.

  “But wasn’t Reverend Moodie asked to pray for her—”

  “Aye.” Leana could not countenance hearing the phrase again. “I beg you not to condemn our daughter on such slender evidence.”

  “You can be sure I will not,” he said firmly. “Until you or your husband informs me otherwise, I’ll assume Miss McKie remains chaste and above reproach.”

  May it be so, Lord. She waited until her cheeks cooled before she broached the delicate subject of his suit. “Then you’ll not withdraw your offer to court our daughter?”

  “By no means.”

  Leana could not contain her relief. “I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Webster.” All was not lost. Not if a gracie man such as he could ignore the gossips and trust his own heart. “The moment Davina is home, we’ll join you for dinner at Penningham Hall, as you requested.”

  “I shall look forward to it, Mrs. McKie.” He smiled as he reached for his hat and gloves. “The sooner I may begin courting your daughter, the better.”

  Before Leana could rise to bid Graham Webster farewell, voices sounded in the hall. More company on a quiet Tuesday morning?

  She heard Ian greeting a visitor. John McMillan, judging by the bold sound of him. As a child, Davina had drawn a sketch of their neighbor, then titled it “The Giant of Glen Trool.” Even Ian, the tallest of the McKies, barely reached John’s mammoth shoulders.

  Moments later Ian escorted him into the drawing room; John’s black hair brushed the lintel as he strode beneath it. Both men were smiling. “Look who’s come bearing news, Mother.”

  Dressed in the simple attire of a gentleman farmer, their neighbor looked perfectly at ease in the richly furnished room. He and Jamie had been friends since they were lads. Very little intimidated John McMillan.

  “Mrs. McKie.” He offered her a cordial bow, then produced a bulky letter from his coat pocket. “You’ll be wanting this, I imagine. Courtesy of yestermorn’s mail coach. By way of Reverend Moodie.” John grinned at her. “Best I can tell, he did not break the seal.”

  “My husband will be sure to reimburse you.” Leana grasped the letter with both hands, noticing its thickness. Two pages or more. “Gentlemen, I …” She knew it would be rude to open the post and read it as if they were not present. Yet her heart would burst if she did not soon learn the contents. Though the handwriting was not familiar, the postmark was: Arran.

  John came to her rescue. “Truly, madam, we are as eager as you are for news. Read your letter. We’ll entertain ourselves with honey cakes, aye?” The others nodded, dutifully piling their plates with the round sweets.

  “Bless you,” she murmured, already sliding her finger beneath the wax seal. A separate letter waited inside, addressed in a different hand. She laid that one aside and began reading the first, her eyes widening at the sender’s name: Sir Harry MacDonald of Brenfield House.

  To Mr. and Mrs. James McKie of Glentrool Monday, 27 June 1808

  The date gave her pause. More than a week ago, yet soon after Midsummer Eve.

  Pardon me for conducting such important business by post. We will no doubt meet in the near future, when I may better express myself in person.

  To state things succinctly, my son and heir, Somerled MacDonald, desires to marry your daughter, Miss Davina McKie.

  Marry? Leana dropped onto the nearest settee. But they’ve only just met …

  I confess, I was taken aback by the brevity of their acquaintance. I am certain you are both surprised as well. When you see the two of them together, I believe you will be convinced, as I am, that Somerled and Miss McKie are meant to be husband and wife.

  Davina … a wife? And wed to a Highlander?

  Stunned at the news, Leana did not know how to think, where to look, what to say. Despite the honey cakes in their hands, the three gentlemen in her drawing room were not eating; they were watching. And waiting for some explanation.

  Struggling to maintain her composure, she scanned the balance of the letter.

  My son and I wish to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience—on Arran, if that is your preference, or at our estate in Argyll. I trust the enclosed letter will convince you of my son’s sincerity and eagerness to proceed.

  He closed with an elaborate signature, as impressive as his title: Baronet. Meaning his son would one day be Sir Somerled MacDonald.

  Leana stared at the page. And Davina would be Lady MacDonald.

  However could Jamie refuse this titled man and his wealthy heir? Indeed, he’d be hard pressed to do so if Somerled was deemed worthy. And if Davina truly desired him for her husband.

  She looked up to find Graham Webster’s gaze pinned on her. Had he guessed the subject matter? Could she bring herself to tell him?

  “There’s a second letter,” she said faintly, reaching for it. Breaking the seal, she unfold
ed it to discover only a few lines. Yet they were most convincing.

  My very soul has cleaved to your daughter. Though I speak five languages, she has taught me the sweetest language of all: silence. Though I am a skilled musician, her talent is far superior to mine. Though I have traveled the continent, I have yet to meet her equal in cleverness and beauty. Might I be so bold as to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage? My father and I earnestly await your reply.

  With slow, deliberate movements, Leana folded both letters. She did not need to read them again.

  “Mr. McMillan …” She rose, giving him an apologetic smile. “I am afraid this news cannot be shared until my husband returns.”

  His shaggy brows knotted in a mock scowl. “Can you not at least tell us if the winds on Arran blow fair or foul?”

  She hesitated, for Graham’s sake. “Fair,” she said at last.

  “Good.” John deposited his empty plate on the tea tray. “My wife and daughter will be relieved to hear it.” He clamped a meaty hand on Ian’s shoulder. “The McKies are nigh family to us now. If there’s anything I can do …”

  “Thank you, John.” She offered their old friend a grateful curtsy. “Ian, please see our neighbor to the door while I have a word with Mr. Webster.”

  Didn’t Graham deserve to know something? Even as she tried to convince herself, Jamie’s admonition came to mind: I have asked Graham to wait, Leana. I’m asking you to do the same. Could she send this anxious suitor out the door uninformed, knowing what she knew? Alas, she could not.

  Leana resumed her place on the settee. “Do join me, Mr. Webster.”

  Though he did as she asked, she saw the stiffness in his posture, the reluctance on his face.

  Waiting until he met her gaze, she then held out the folded letters so he might see the masculine handwriting on each address and know that she spoke the truth. “These are from Sir Harry MacDonald and from his son, Somerled,” she began.

  Graham glanced at them, then sighed. “I assume he wishes to marry your daughter.”

  His perceptiveness made the answer all the more difficult. “Aye.”

  “Does your daughter wish it as well?”

  “ ’Twould appear she does.” Leana pretended not to see his eyes water. Was there no solace she might offer? no word of comfort? “Mr. Webster, nothing has been decided.” She held up the letters as proof. “We have only these few words on paper …”

  Graham shook his head, defeated without a skirmish, then rose and pulled on his gloves. “Forgive me, Mrs. McKie, for hoping too much.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize, sir.” She stood and touched his coat sleeve. “We were honored by your offer of courtship. Perhaps if …”

  “Nae. ’Tis clear this is not meant to be.” Graham was already moving toward the drawing room door, his expression resolute. “Good day to you, Mrs. McKie. Kindly convey my regards to your husband. And to your daughter.”

  Moments later he was riding west toward Penningham, no doubt trampling his dreams into the ground. Watching from the window, Leana saw him disappear among the pine trees skirting the loch. “Godspeed,” she whispered, wishing things might have turned out differently. If Davina had known, if she’d been told of Graham’s interest … Ah, but there was no use contemplating such possibilities now.

  Ian came up behind her, lightly resting his hands on her shoulders. “Now will you tell me the news from Arran?”

  Leana sighed as she moved toward the settee. Needing to sit. Needing to think. “I fear ’tis most unexpected.”

  As Ian read both letters, his expressions mirrored her own: shock, concern, and disbelief. “Mother, how can this be? They’ve known each other but a fortnight.”

  “Far less, when the letters were written.” She swallowed, trying to stem her tears. “And who can say what has transpired since then?” Despite her best efforts, her voice grew thin. “Your father may have already given their marriage his blessing.”

  “Come now. They will not make such plans without you.” Ian drew out his linen handkerchief and placed it in her hands. “ ’Tis clear, I must escort you to Arran.”

  Arran? Leana’s spirits began to lift. “Oh, Ian, can we manage such a thing?”

  “I well know the road to Ayr,” he assured her. “And Father told me much about his journey with Davina. Where they lodged en route. How they acquired passage across the firth. ’Tis less than a two-day journey from our door to the Kilbride manse if the winds are favorable.”

  She pressed his handkerchief against her heart, looking about the room. “But what of Glentrool?”

  “Rab and Eliza are more than capable. I’ll ask them to manage things in our absence.” The confidence in his voice dispelled the last of her fears. “If we make haste, we’ll be away by eleven.”

  Bethankit! She would see her precious daughter in a matter of days and be reunited with her dear husband. “Ian, you are your father’s son.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “However can I thank you?”

  He smiled. “By packing our bags, since that is decidedly your gift and not mine.”

  “With pleasure.” Leana began mentally sifting through the contents of her clothes press. And from Davina’s room she would include a yellow silk gown with matching slippers. A costume fit for a bride.

  “Shall we post a letter to the twins?” she wondered aloud. “Unless your father has found time to write them, they know none of this. I would hate for them to return home and find all of us gone.”

  “But they’ll not depart Edinburgh ’til the end of the month,” Ian reminded her. “Wouldn’t it be better to write them from Arran once we know the situation?”

  “Aye, indeed.” When had he become so wise, this handsome son of hers?

  Ian stood, then helped her to her feet. “ ’Twill be an adventure, Mother.” He steered her toward the door with a sure hand. “And think of the view we’ll have from Rowantree Hill.”

  Sixty-Four

  Approach the verge

  Of that dread precipice; with care approach.

  DAVID LANDSBOROUGH

  Somerled gazed out the castle window at a world made of pewter: gray skies, gray water, gray pebbles along the shoreline. Though one could never be certain on Arran, heavy cloud cover usually boded hours of intermittent rain.

  “ ’Tis a poor day for hill climbing.” Somerled tried not to sound hopeful.

  Sir Harry, nursing his morning dram of whisky, merely grunted in response.

  Far below them a curl of smoke rose from the chimney of the old inn at Cladach, barely visible among the trees. When he imagined Davina, dressed for the day and spooning her porridge, Somerled regained his sense of purpose. He would climb Goatfell whatever the weather. ’Twould not do to appear weak before his future brothers-in-law. Or his future wife.

  I will do this for you, beloved. He would tell her as much when she arrived to send them off. I am not afraid.

  A manservant appeared at his elbow. “Yer valet is waitin’ in yer bedchamber. Says he’s bound for Lochranza harbor at yer biddin’.”

  Somerled nodded his thanks, then strode across the dining room, where only a handful of visitors remained, tarrying over their breakfast plates. His Grace had sailed for the mainland at dawn, taking half a dozen guests with him and leaving his servants to attend the rest. Somerled bade each man farewell in turn; after more than a fortnight together, they’d become well acquainted.

  “Will it be a Highland or a Lowland wedding for you and the wee fiddler?” Stuart Cameron asked as the two men clasped hands.

  Somerled shrugged. “ ’Tis the bride’s prerogative to choose. I imagine we’ll sort that out when we return to Brenfield House.” He would leave such details to his mother and to hers. All that concerned him was Davina: marrying her, loving her, creating a life with her.

  “Safe journey,” Cameron said, lifting his dram in a parting salute. “ ’Twill be good to be home, aye?”

  Aye
. Somerled had not slept well yestreen, so eager was he to quit the Isle of Arran. He longed for his own tester bed, his many musical instruments, and a menu that did not feature salmon or trout at every meal. Yet it was more than that: He’d grown restless and ill at ease since the McKies had arrived from the mainland. The twins’ disapproval was understandable—had he not debauched their sister?—but their blatant distrust continued even after the two fathers had signed a generous agreement in the steward’s office. Perhaps today’s outing would put their suspicions to rest.

  Somerled headed for his castle bedchamber, reviewing the hours to come. Even with the climb up Goatfell, they would be back at Brodick by early afternoon and bound for Lochranza on horseback for an evening sail home.

  “You have us packed, Dougal?” He greeted the valet with a smile. “Well done, man. Have you had enough of Arran as well?”

  “Aye.” Despite his stooped posture, Dougal had wrestled their trunks to the bedchamber door. “I ride in cart on coast road.” He pointed toward the window. “Tuath … north.”

  “That’s right. If you depart the castle at ten, you’ll reach Lochranza well before us and can arrange a boat for Claonaig.” Somerled filled the servant’s coat pocket with silver. “This should secure our passage.”

  Dougal’s gnarled hands reached up to straighten Somerled’s collar, then produced a comb to tame his waves. “Nighean,” he said simply.

  Somerled laughed. “And Miss McKie appreciates your grooming efforts, I assure you. She’s to arrive with her brothers at eight.” He checked his watch, then bolted for the door. “ ’Til this evening, Dougal.”

  Still smoothing back his hair, Somerled returned to the dining room to collect his father, who would not be deprived of his last few sips of whisky. “I’ll meet you at the lowpin-on stane by the castle door,” Sir Harry grumbled. “Ten minutes at most.”

  Somerled wouldn’t argue, not if it meant a longer visit with Davina. He bounded down the turnpike stair and through the broad doorway into the murky light of day. Moisture in the air deadened the sound; even the birdsong seemed muted. He circled round the castle and started downhill toward Cladach, then spied the McKies emerging from the border of firs at the edge of the lawn.