Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

Mr. Hunter cleared his throat. “I shall begin with the results of our medical examination of the deceased, the bodies having been recovered with some difficulty early last evening.”

  Davina stared at her hands, fearing she might be sick. The deceased. The bodies. No longer Sir Harry and Somerled. Sown in dishonor. Raised in glory. She would cling to that promise and remember them as they were. Strong men with stout hearts.

  After shuffling his papers, Mr. Hunter found what he was looking for. “The duke’s surgeon conducted the inspection of the bodies. His report indicates he found no evidence of foul play.”

  The room seemed to exhale, the red sandstone walls expanding and contracting with their collective relief. Oddly, Will and Sandy showed little reaction to the news, though of course they already knew foul play was not involved. Vengeful as the twins might be, they were not murderers. Not the brothers who’d doted on her from the time they were children.

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Hunter continued, “we have determined that no weapons were employed, neither blunt nor sharp, and no bullet wounds were found. Their injuries suggest a struggle only with the mountain itself.” He paused, as if considering whether to elaborate. The paper before him clearly listed further details.

  Davina pleaded with her eyes. No more. Please.

  Though he did not look up, the steward honored her wishes nonetheless, moving to the next item. “Since both MacDonald men were older and physically larger than the McKies, it is unlikely that William and Alexander could have overpowered them. We also found no indication of a scuffle having taken place on the summit. No torn bits of clothing, freshly scraped rocks, or traces of blood.”

  Davina had barely come to terms with Somerled’s being gone from her life. She had not yet begun to think of him as truly dead. But she could not bear to envision him dying. Crying out in pain. Injured, bleeding. Fighting for his life and losing. Nae, nae. A tear slipped down her cheek. I pray it was swift. O Father, I pray you were with him.

  Beneath the table an embroidered handkerchief was placed in her lap.

  “I have reviewed the many questions posed yesterday, gentlemen, and am satisfied with your answers. For the record, William, please state once more the exact sequence of events that led to both deaths.”

  Will squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “While standing on the cloud-covered summit of Goatfell, Sir Harry MacDonald inadvertently stumbled over the western precipice, falling several feet beyond our reach. His son, Somerled MacDonald, made his way down the slope in a valiant attempt to save his father. Unfortunately, Sir Harry slid farther down the steep hillside and was lost to us. Since he’d grasped his son’s boot in the process, Somerled’s safety was compromised as well. My brother and I climbed down on either side of Somerled and did everything in our power to reach him. To save him.”

  “You wanted him alive.”

  “Very much, sir. For our sister’s sake. And for his.”

  “Almost the very words we recorded yesterday,” Mr. Hunter murmured. “Either you are well rehearsed, or ’tis the truth.”

  “You may depend upon it, sir,” Will said evenly. “I did not rehearse my testimony.”

  “As it happens, we found a piece of your brown woolen coat, snagged by the granite, in the very place this rescue attempt of yours was said to have occurred. ’Twas quite far down. You took a great risk, William.”

  “ ’Tis a difficult thing, sir, to watch a man die.”

  “I am sure that is true.”

  Davina had not considered the grim scenes that must haunt Will and Sandy. Hearing the men’s desperate cries. Watching their torment. My dear brothers. She would pray for their peace of mind.

  “There is one final matter that concerns me.” Mr. Hunter leaned back in his chair. “The marriage agreement prepared in this office on Monday states that, upon the death of both Sir Harry and his heir, all but a small portion of the MacDonald fortune is to be awarded to Miss McKie.”

  Her mouth fell open in dismay, only now remembering the terms of their agreement. And Somerled’s offhand remark. After all, it will cost us nothing. Unless we die.

  Mr. Hunter pointed his knife-sharp gaze at her brothers. “All our current evidence notwithstanding, such an agreement, newly signed, provides a strong motive for murder.”

  Davina stared at him in horror. Nae! Her brothers loved her. They could never have … not possibly …

  “But ’tis our sister who is the beneficiary,” Will reminded him, his voice cool. “My brother and I had no incentive whatsoever to kill these men.”

  “Unless Miss McKie promised to divide the spoils with you.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. “My sister is not capable of such a devious plot.”

  “I am not suggesting that it was her idea.”

  Only half listening, Davina wrote furiously across the page of her sketchbook. I do not want or need the MacDonald fortune. See that Lady MacDonald retains the whole of it. Satisfied, she presented her sketchbook to the steward, certain her bold statement would put their discussion to an end. There could be no motive for murder if there was no reward.

  Mr. Hunter read her words, then peered at her over his spectacles. “I am afraid ’tis not so simple as this, Miss McKie. The wishes of Sir Harry and his son were clearly stated: You are the sole beneficiary of the MacDonald holdings. Those rights were irrevocably assigned to you by the deceased.”

  Davina turned to her father. Though he had not officially been called upon, perhaps he might come to her defense. Please, Father. Say something.

  He did not disappoint her. “Surely the law would allow my daughter to accept and then reassign these same holdings to Lady MacDonald.”

  Mr. Hunter pursed his lips. “While such generosity is admirable, if you mean for it to resolve the problem of an obvious motive for William and Alexander to commit murder, I am afraid you have not persuaded me.”

  Davina reached for Ian’s hand, at a loss for what else she might do to convince Mr. Hunter their twin brothers were innocent.

  The steward looked down the table, folding his hands over his notes. “Now I have a question for you, Mr. McKie, regarding this unusual marriage agreement. ’Tis uncommon enough to name a wife as sole beneficiary, entrusting her to provide for her offspring rather than allowing one’s heir to inherit his fortune directly. But to visit such riches upon a young woman to whom a gentleman is merely betrothed”—he spread out his hands—“ ’tis unprecedented. In light of that, I am curious to know if Sir Harry made such an offer of his own volition. Or was it someone else’s suggestion to pursue such a course?”

  Davina knew the answer. The twins. She had watched them huddling in the corner that day. Had seen her father shake his head, even as Will shook his finger. Recalled Will saying to her father at the table, “We agreed on this.” But Will had presented the idea. Not her father.

  Would Jamie say as much? Build a gallows for his sons with mere words, however truthful?

  Her father hesitated only a moment. “ ’Twas my idea.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Hunter’s black brows arched. “Then if I may ask, why were you so eager to see your daughter provided for, even before her wedding day? You are a wealthy gentleman in your own right, Mr. McKie. Was there some concern that has not been voiced here?”

  Davina quietly retrieved her sketchbook. And prepared her heart.

  If her father confessed that Somerled had violated her, Mr. Hunter would have an even stronger motive for murder at his disposal. Not only greed but also revenge.

  So she wrote the words herself. And spared her father the dilemma.

  I am no longer a maid. We were allowing for the possibility of a child.

  Her mother gasped when she read the words over her shoulder, but Davina resolutely placed her sketchbook in Mr. Hunter’s hands. She did not care what the man thought of her. If her words—truly written—saved the twins, her pride was well sacrificed.

  Mr. Hunter did not tarry over
her confession. “I see. Well.” He pushed her book away with a faint look of disgust. “That explains your need for haste. If the agreement was your father’s suggestion, and he was at the manse at the time of the accident, he can hardly be implicated, nor does he stand to gain from the deaths of these good men. As to your own gain, Miss McKie, I leave that up to you.”

  I have gained nothing. I have lost everything.

  Davina closed her sketchbook, grateful he had not glanced through the other pages. She, too, had recorded the truth.

  A sudden knock at the door made them all jump.

  Mr. Hunter bade the person enter: a kintra man of thirty-odd years. His clothes looked slept in, his chin needed shaving, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  “I’m jist back from Argyll and thocht ye’d want tae hear the news wi’oot delay.” When the steward nodded for him to proceed, the man shuffled from one foot to the other as he told his sad tale. “I found Leddy MacDonald at hame. ’Twas four in the mornin’, and the sun weel up, though I fear I stirred the puir woman from her sleep.” He hung his head. “She did greet for a lang time, and I canna say I blame her. She asked tae have their kists delivered tae her hoose in Argyll and for a piper tae fallow them from Brodick castle tae her door.” He shrugged. “ ’Tis not me place tae say, but it seems a fair request.”

  “We’ll take care of things, Fergus.” Mr. Hunter stood, ending the inquiry. “Ladies and gentlemen, I must attend to these details on behalf of Lady MacDonald. Miss McKie, do you have any desire to see your betrothed before …”

  Nae. Davina pressed her hand to her mouth, imagining his broken body, then shook her head.

  “In that case, you and your family are free to return to the inn. You are not at liberty, however, to leave Arran. Not until I review my records on this case and make a final decision on whether or not the deaths were accidental.”

  Jamie stood as well. “Might I ask when that will be, sir?”

  Mr. Hunter’s gray eyes bore no hint of his verdict. “You shall have my ruling in the morning.”

  Seventy-One

  Could he with reason murmur at his case,

  Himself sole author of his own disgrace?

  WILLIAM COWPER

  Cousin, will you not sit and have some breakfast?” Jamie did not object to Benjamin Stewart’s company or Mrs. McAllister’s tea; he simply could not remain seated for very long without bolting to his feet to pace the floor. The justice of the peace had promised an answer by morning. ’Tis morning, sir. How much longer would the man make them wait? Perhaps Lewis Hunter took delight in making the accused suffer. Or perhaps he had no notion of the misery he inflicted.

  Whatever the official verdict, Jamie did not doubt for a moment the twins’ guilt.

  His wife and daughter both refused to consider the possibility. Ian was a gracie lad, like his mother, and slow to find fault. But Jamie knew the twins were fashioned out of the same black cloth God had used to make him. Thievery and deception were woven through his past; the same threads ran through the fabric of his brutish sons.

  Forgive them, Father, even as you have forgiven me.

  But until the twins sought God’s forgiveness, until they repented and were divinely changed, Jamie could do nothing but look in the mirror and heap their guilt on his own shoulders.

  “Good morning,” Leana said softly, joining them at table. The shadows beneath her eyes belied her greeting; she had not slept well. None of them had, judging by the bleariness in Ian’s gaze, the tenderness round Davina’s eyes, the slump in Benjamin’s shoulders.

  The twins had yet to make an appearance. According to Ian, they were still in their beds. Sleeping soundly, no doubt, and proud of themselves for avenging their sister. Their lies made Jamie grind his teeth, yet he’d spoken a falsehood in order to protect them. “ ’Twas my idea.” He deserved such sons.

  While Jamie sat in troubled silence, the others spoke quietly round the table. Remarking on the weather, which was cloudy and warm. Commenting on the porridge, served with fresh cream. Safe, comforting words on an uncertain morning.

  High above Cladach a lone piper’s drone floated down from Brodick castle.

  Davina’s porridge spoon stilled. The sadness in her eyes was beyond bearing.

  Jamie offered her his hand, and she took it, though her attention remained fixed on the kitchen window and the unseen funeral procession slowly moving their direction.

  Yestreen Davina had pleaded with them to let her follow the kists along the coast road, bargaining with her parents on paper. Just to San-nox Bay? Then only to Corrie?

  Leana had finally persuaded Davina that her mourning was best done in private. “The inclusion of a McKie in the funeral procession might compound Lady MacDonald’s grief when she learns of it,” was his wife’s gentle reasoning. In truth, the McKies had become anathema on Arran. People avoided them on the street, looked the other way if they walked by, threw a litany of words at them in passing. Ill-deedie. Meschant. Wickit. However Mr. Hunter ruled, the folk of Arran had deemed the family guilty of murder, fornication, deceit, and a host of lesser sins.

  As the minutes passed, the procession drew closer. The tune was appropriately mournful and skillfully played. When the piper reached Cladach, Davina pushed back her chair, beseeching her parents as she pointed to the door, then to her eyes. Just to the front door? Just to see them pass?

  Jamie could not refuse his grieving daughter. “Aye, aye. But only to the threshold.”

  Leana stood at the open front door with her arm round Davina’s waist as the notes from the chanter filtered through the entrance hall. Jamie watched from the kitchen doorway until his resistance wore thin, then joined his wife and daughter, with Ian and Benjamin not far behind.

  Plain coffins made of pine and covered with black mort-cloths were balanced on the shoulders of six men in service to the duke. Another half-dozen men walked behind them, ready to take their turns when backs grew sore on the long climb to Lochranza harbor, since custom did not allow kists to travel on wheeled conveyances. The piper, kilted in a length of faded tartan, brought up the rear, walking with a steady, solemn gait as he played a lament to honor the dead.

  Silent as ever, Davina slipped down the hall to her room. She returned a moment later with her fiddle and cradled the instrument against her heart as she watched her betrothed make his last journey home.

  The funeral party turned north on the coast road and disappeared from sight not far beyond the quay as the piper’s notes lingered in the moist air. Gazing off in the distance, Jamie did not see Lewis Hunter until he was nearly at their door.

  “A sad picture,” the duke’s steward said, eying Davina in particular. “Might I come in?”

  The knot of people at the threshold quickly unraveled. Jamie directed Hunter toward his room—an unsuitable meeting place but the only one at their disposal—then sent Ian for the twins. He ushered the rest of them into his cramped quarters, his patience sorely tested as they waited to hear the verdict.

  When the twins arrived, hastily dressed and unshaven, Jamie begged for Hunter’s indulgence and prayed the man had sons.

  “I’ll not keep you waiting this morning,” the steward began. “You’ve no doubt agonized enough. After a thorough review of the facts in hand, I have ruled the deaths of Sir Harry and Somerled MacDonald accidental.”

  Relief and guilt washed over Jamie in tandem. Two men were dead, yet his sons lived. It was not God’s justice; it could only be man’s mercy. And his own unwillingness to convict them.

  No one shared his dilemma, it seemed; round the room all were smiling. Leana kissed Sandy’s brow as Davina buried herself in Will’s embrace, though he freed one hand long enough to extend it to Hunter. Despite his rough appearance, Will at least sounded respectable. “We are both in your debt, sir.”

  The justice of the peace removed his spectacles and polished them on his sleeve. “In truth, this is not the first incident of summe
r visitors perishing in ill weather. ’Tis a risk all men assume when they take to the hills.”

  Benjamin offered a grave nod, looking properly ministerial. “The hand of the LORD was heavy upon them.”

  His words from the Buik took Jamie aback. Did his cousin think the MacDonalds deserved to die so brutally? ’Twas hard to see the hand of the Almighty when the hands of Will and Sandy loomed far closer.

  “You and your family are free to sail to the mainland,” Hunter was saying. “I’d encourage you to take advantage of this morning’s auspicious winds.”

  Jamie heard what was not said: Go at once. Your family is no longer welcome. He would heed the man’s advice, much as it rankled.

  Hunter took his leave a moment later, as if to facilitate their swift departure. “I’m certain Reverend Stewart can make your arrangements. The forenoon packet boat sails from Brodick quay, mere steps from the inn. I wish you all a safe passage.” With a tip of his hat, Lewis Hunter was gone.

  Benjamin followed him out the door, intent on his duties, while the McKies commenced with a hurried hour of dressing and packing. Leana calmly oversaw her family’s efforts, while Jamie settled their account with the innkeeper. Mrs. McAllister’s tally of their expenses, scribbled on a half sheet of paper, was offered with a smug expression. To her credit, she held her tongue. Jamie imagined she wanted his silver more than she wanted to dismiss her lodgers with a caustic word.

  “I’m most obliged, sir,” she said, dropping his coins into her deep apron pocket.

  No sooner had Jamie lightened his purse than Benjamin returned from the bay with unfortunate news. “We’ve a problem with the packet boat captain.” As the two men stood in the entrance hall, doors opening and closing all round, Benjamin explained, “ ’Tis a Friday, which sailors consider unchancie enough. But to include women among his passengers and two young men whose moral character is in question …” The minister sighed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid the crossing to the mainland will cost you dearly.”

  Jamie paled at the sum but could not argue.

  “Forgive me,” his cousin said, accepting the coins. “I did what I could to bargain with the man. At least the weather appears favorable. And you’ll be the Isabella’s only passengers.” Benjamin colored when he said it; ’twas likely no one else had agreed to sail with them. “May I carry your bags to the quay? You’re to embark at half past eleven.”