“Aye, we must,” she said, softer still. “What angered you so on Arran?”
He closed his eyes, summoning a last ounce of strength, then touched his mouth to the curve of her ear. “I am not sure that what happened on Goatfell was unintentional.”
When she gasped, he tightened his embrace. “I am sorry, Leana.”
“That cannot be true!” Her fingers clutched the loose fabric of his shirt. “Mr. Hunter said the twins were innocent.”
“He ruled the deaths accidental. But our sons are far from innocent.”
“Did they make some … confession?” The strain in her voice was unmistakable.
Jamie knew he could put it off no longer. “I asked them if they wanted the Highlanders dead. Will admitted that they did. From the day they arrived on Arran—”
“Nae!” She buried her face in his neck and bathed his skin with her tears.
He held her for a long time, finding it hard to swallow, harder to breathe. It was unfathomable that such ill-kindit sons could come from so gentle a woman.
“Please …” She pressed in harder. “Please tell me … our sons … are not murderers.”
“They insisted the men fell and were not pushed.” That much he could offer her. “You heard their testimony: They tried to save the Highlanders at their own peril.”
She lifted her head. “Do you believe them, Jamie?”
God, help me. He could not lie to his wife. Nor could he break her heart. “I am not sure what to believe.”
Leana’s sigh was laden with a mother’s sorrow. “Whatever they’ve done, Jamie, they are still our sons.”
“Aye.” Her mercy humbled him, nae, amazed him. Had any woman ever loved her children more than Leana McKie?
She fell silent for a bit, then finally asked, “How long must the twins remain in Edinburgh?”
“ ’Til Yuletide.” He’d decided that much. “Sufficient time to repent of their sins, while my anger runs its course.”
“And while Davina grieves her loss.” Leana turned to look across the room at their sleeping daughter. “She must never know of your doubts, Jamie.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “for they are only that. Not certainties.” If Davina thought for a moment that her brothers were to blame for Somerled’s death, her grief would be compounded beyond any hope of recovery. Nothing would be gained by telling her; the lass had suffered enough.
He kissed Leana’s brow and then her lips once more. “I’m afraid your bed is too small for us both, and you need your rest.” Reluctantly he eased away from her, then lowered himself onto his bed of blankets. “Sleep well, my love.”
After a lengthy silence Leana reached down and touched his cheek. “I am glad you are my husband.”
“And I am grateful you are my wife.” Of that he had no doubt.
Seventy-Four
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Davina ran her fingertips down the strings of her fiddle, from the rosewood pegs to the thin maple bridge and then back up again. No music came forth, only the faint whisper of skin against string.
An hour ago she’d tucked her fiddle beneath her chin, wondering what melody she might play now that she was home again, sitting by her bedchamber window. But no notes rang in her heart. No song asked to be heard. The last tune she’d played was with Somerled, a tender air in the key of G.
Practice your Gow tunes, Miss McKie.
Somerled’s music was silent now. And so, it seemed, was hers.
Davina touched the back of her hand to her cheek, catching the tear before it landed on her fiddle. The supply was limitless; the reservoir never emptied. When the four McKies had arrived at Glentrool yestreen on the Sabbath, bone weary from riding over the hills of Ayrshire, Davina had washed the scent of Arran from her skin and crawled into bed, too tired to think. And still she’d soaked her pillow.
She could not always name the source of her tears: sorrow one moment, guilt the next, and a pervasive sense of loss that she feared might never lift. If not for Somerled, she would still be a maid. If not for her, Somerled would still be alive.
No sooner had a fresh spate of tears threatened to spill over her cheeks than her mother’s voice floated through the open doorway. “I’ve always loved this room.”
Davina dabbed her eyes, then turned to find Leana gazing at the turret walls that formed a perfect circle.
“You and your brothers learned to walk here. Ian took his first steps right where you’re seated.” She crossed the room and stood behind Davina’s chair, smoothing a hand over her long braid. In a low voice she added, “Perhaps this is where you will learn to walk anew.”
Davina nodded for her mother’s sake, though the idea of beginning again overwhelmed her. She’d planned a new life in Argyll. Now that life was no more than a memory.
Leana reached over her shoulder and rescued the silent fiddle from her lap. “Not every day is meant for music.” She placed the instrument on the dresser and reached for Davina’s sketchbook. “Is your mood better suited to drawing?” Her mother held out her book only as a possibility, Davina sensed, not as a demand. “Or might you prefer a conversation?”
Aye. She’d not had her mother all to herself since they’d boarded the Isabella on Friday last. Davina accepted the sketchbook, then remembered that only a handful of blank pages remained.
Her mother drew up the chair from her dressing table and sat next to her. “I’ll ask your father to purchase another for you when he visits the bookbinder in Dumfries.”
Earlier that morning Davina had wrapped a broad ribbon round the front portion of the sketchbook, tying all the old pages closed, leaving the few untouched pages free. Newly sharpened, the charcoal pencil was too short for drawing but adequate for words.
Now all she needed was the courage to write them. Again.
What is to become of me now that I am ruined?
After reading her question, Leana sighed. “My precious girl. How I wish I had an herb in my stillroom that might restore your innocence.” She slipped an arm round her shoulders, then put aside the sketchbook to draw her closer and rested Davina’s head against her shoulder. “What I can offer you are words. Not my own, but the words of One who loves you even more than I do.”
Beneath her cheek Davina felt her mother’s heartbeat and the warmth of her body, a healing comfort like no other. Could the Almighty truly love her more than this?
For a long time, they simply breathed together, mother and daughter. Sounds from the entrance hall below and the steading out of doors were muted. Glentrool seemed to hold its breath.
When Leana spoke, her voice was as gentle as a lullaby. “Heal her now, O God, I beseech thee. Let thy tender mercies come.”
Davina’s throat began to tighten. If there was no other way to heal, then she would weep until she could weep no more. Tears pooled in her eyes, then flowed down her cheeks and onto her mother’s breast.
Leana spoke again, softer still. “Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love. I have seen thy tears. Behold, I will heal thee of thy wounds.”
Davina pinched her lips tightly together. Do you see me, Lord? Can you heal me, truly heal me? She waited for an answer. She did not wait long.
“Daughter, be of good comfort,” Leana whispered. “Thy faith hath made thee whole.”
Whole. She clung to the promise of that word. To be whole and not broken, to be full and not empty, to be complete and not half. I will praise thee with my whole heart. Aye, she would.
Once again Davina and her mother sat, listening to the silence. When Davina groped for the handkerchief she’d left in her lap, only to find it soggy and of little use, her mother righted her long enough to stand and pluck a fresh one from her open valise, then tucked the handkerchief in Davina’s hands. “I am happy to embroider more of these. A lass can never have too many.”
Davina
noticed the sleeve of her damask gown protruding from the jumble of dresses. There was no better time than this. She rose on unsteady legs and tugged on the gown until it pulled free, then sat and held the soiled fabric to her breast, ashamed.
“Ah, your ivory gown.” She heard no hint of disappointment in her mother’s voice. But she did hear sadness. “You wore it on Midsummer Eve, aye?”
Davina slowly nodded, unfolding the wrinkled dress for her mother’s inspection.
Seated next to her once more, Leana ran her fingers over the embroidery. She studied the worn places, rubbed the stubborn stains, and turned the fabric this way and that until she’d examined every inch. “ ’Tis not ruined.”
Davina’s stared at the soiled gown. Was it possible?
“Linen is a very tough fabric,” her mother explained. “It can be washed again and again and withstand the hottest iron in the laundry.” Leana touched her cheek. “I have a daughter much like fine linen. Resilient, her faith tried as in a furnace. Yet she, too, is not ruined. In truth, she is whiter than snow.”
Davina closed her eyes and let the truth sink in. Her dress could be made good as new. And so, by God’s mercy, could she.
When she opened her eyes, there was her gracie mother, carefully folding her gown as if it were freshly cleaned and about to be slipped inside her clothes press.
Davina’s sketchbook lay open at her feet, her one question finally answered. But now she had another. Though her body and her soul could be healed and made new, her heart still grieved for her golden prince. She’d known the man only a fortnight, yet the loss of him was almost more than she could bear. Might her mother understand? With some hesitancy, Davina picked up her sketchbook and wrote a second question. When Aunt Rose died, did you suffer for a long time?
“Ah, dearie, I mourn her still.” Sympathy shone in her blue gray eyes. “ ’Tis a long journey, grieving. I was numb at first and did not quite believe my sister was gone. I expected any moment to turn and see her on the stair.”
Davina looked away. Aye. Had she not imagined Somerled standing at the quay as they sailed from Arran’s shores?
“The day will come, Davina, when sorrow and mourning shall flee away. Until then, let your heart mend. And let those who love you bind your wounds as best we can.” Leana stood, the linen gown in her arms. “Will you come to the dining room for your noontide meal? Or might you prefer a tray in your room?”
Davina patted the book in her lap. Here.
“A tray, then.” Leana paused at the door. “Solitude can be a fine remedy, and silence an even better one.” Her mother’s voice was infused with love, more restorative than any herb. “I am here if you need me, lass. And we’ll be glad to have you at table whenever you’re ready.”
Seventy-Five
O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Davina did not venture down the stair until Friday. And then only for Ian’s sake.
“You will join us for dinner with Margaret … with Miss McMillan?” Ian’s expression had been so earnest when he’d asked her, Davina could not refuse him.
Aye, dear brother. I will join you.
At nine Davina donned her freshly pressed blue gown, then wandered about the house, feeling at loose ends. A walk out of doors? Alas, the grass was still drenched from yestreen’s rain and would soak her cotton hem. A book? Davina found it hard to read; her mind wandered easily, often down disheartening paths.
Come midmorning her brother discovered her studying grandfather’s atlas in the library. Davina abruptly closed the Geographiae Scotiae, lest Ian take note of the particular page she was examining. The map was dated, yet the necessary details were there: two crescent-shaped bays, an isle within an isle, a stalwart castle, and a fateful mountain.
If Ian recognized the outline of Arran, he did not mention it.
“Miss McMillan will be along shortly,” he reminded her, crossing the room. “But if I may, I need to speak with you before she arrives.”
Davina knew what he was going to say.
As they sat by the window where Mother and Father often had tea, Davina prepared her heart. Let me not be selfish. Let me share his joy.
Ian leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he took her hands in his. “Davina, I will officially announce this at the end of our meal, but I wanted to tell you privately first so you would not be surprised. Miss McMillan and I are engaged to marry.”
Help me, Lord. Please help me be happy for him. She squeezed his hands and tried to smile.
He looked relieved. “You are glad, then?”
I am. Davina pulled one hand free to touch her heart and then his. I love you, Ian.
“I love you too, lass.” He swallowed, his eyes watering. “But I cannot imagine how … difficult this must be for you.”
Davina held up her palm, putting a stop to his words. I am fine, she mouthed. I am delighted for you. Then she tried to clap her hands, expressing joy. But she could not. Her hands refused to move. Nae. She could not clap. She could only choke back tears.
“Och, lass.” He took her mutinous hands in his. “Forgive me. We should have waited. ’Til autumn, perhaps.”
Davina shook her head. Not for my sake.
“We were hoping to wed at Michaelmas. But perhaps Yuletide …”
Nae. She pulled free from him long enough to reach for her sketchbook, pressing one of the remaining pages into service as she wrote furiously across the paper.
Please do not wait. Marry at Michaelmas. And forgive me for weeping yet again.
Reading over her shoulder, Ian brushed a kiss against her hair. “Never apologize for tears, lass. They are so precious to God, he stores them in a bottle for safekeeping.”
A very large bottle. Davina released a shaky sigh.
Two light taps at the door, and Eliza was standing in the room. “Mr. McKie, your guest is here.”
Blotting her cheeks with a handkerchief, Davina followed Ian into the entrance hall, where Mother waited with their fair-haired, brown-eyed neighbor.
The lass stood practically on tiptoe with anticipation as Leana said, “Margaret, I believe this is the young gentleman you are looking for.”
“He is indeed.” She turned as pink as her rose-colored gown when she curtsied and whispered his name. “Mr. McKie.”
His color matched hers as he bowed. “Miss McMillan.”
Father was waiting for them at the dining table. “Grace before meat,” he said simply, calling them to prayer. The servants tarried while he offered thanks, then resumed their duties, filling the glasses with claret.
Davina had not sat at table with her family since they returned home. The chair felt familiar yet strange. The twins were noticeably missing. And in their place next to Ian sat a lovely young woman, glowing more brightly than the candles in their polished silver stands.
Kippered salmon and a host of cooked vegetables crowded their china plates, but no one paid much attention to the food or to Davina, for which she was grateful. Having every eye fixed on her grew tiresome. Margaret and Ian had eyes only for each other; Father and Mother were busy watching the two of them, no doubt aware of what was to come.
The instant their plates were cleared, Ian clasped Margaret’s hand—above the table, in full view of everyone. “Father, I am pleased to announce that I have asked Miss McMillan of Glenhead to be my bride.” Ian gazed down at her radiant face. “And she has consented.”
“Has she indeed?” Her father succeeded in looking surprised. “This is most welcome news.”
“Indeed.” Leana smiled across the table as she secretly clasped Davina’s hand.
Bless you, Mother. Davina was the only one with tears in her eyes.
Margaret, meanwhile, was beaming. “Shall our banns be read come the Sabbath?”
Her parents exchanged glances, easily read. Nae. Not this Sunday. Her father
spoke for both of them. “Miss McMillan, I’m certain Ian has apprised you of the difficulties we endured while on the Isle of Arran.”
Davina looked away as Margaret’s face dimmed.
“A little, sir.”
“Because this will be the family’s first Sunday at kirk since our return, it might be prudent to wait before announcing your wedding plans. Perhaps a month or two.”
Margaret’s entire body sagged in response.
“Come September,” he continued, “the news of your engagement will be welcomed by our parish neighbors. But just now …” He looked at Leana for support, and she nodded.
“I understand, Mr. McKie.” Margaret’s voice was thin, reedy. “In truth, last Sabbath before you arrived home …” She looked down, as if embarrassed for them. “ ’Twas the only thing people blethered about. Though they did not have many facts at hand.”
Jamie grimaced. “They never do.”
For a week Davina had given little thought to life beyond Glentrool’s walls. But life, alas, had gone on without her, and news traveled whether she wished it to or not. Two Highlanders falling to their deaths on Arran’s hills would raise few eyebrows in Galloway. But rumors of hasty betrothals and formal inquiries involving the McKies would fly across water and land faster than the prevailing winds. Had her mother and Ian not weathered the first gale a fortnight earlier?
Her father rose, prepared to offer thanks for their meal once more. “Whatever our reception at kirk, we are called to worship on the Sabbath.” He looked down at Margaret fondly. “ ’Twill be good to have our friends there with us. For I believe we shall need every one of them.”
Seventy-Six
As the yellow gold is tried in fire,
so the faith of friendship must be seen in adversity.
OVID
Davina started down the aisle of the kirk, her heart pounding. I will not be afraid what man can do unto me. But what man could do was far worse than Davina had imagined.
She’d sensed a collective intake of air when the McKies entered the kirk at ten, stepping from the bright Sabbath sunshine into the shadowy light of the preaching house. Heads swiveled in their direction. Then the whispers began. A low hiss at first, gradually increasing in volume until she distinctly heard what they were saying as she walked by.
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