Limmer. Hizzie. Tairt.
She winced, hearing the shameful words mumbled by neighbors she’d known all her life. McWhaes and Herons and Patersons. They had danced to her fiddle tunes on May Day and welcomed her into their homes at Yuletide. She’d held their bairns and listened to their stories and cried when they’d buried loved ones. Now they jerked their chins at her and would not meet her gaze.
Please look at me. She could not beseech them with words. Only with her eyes. I am still Davina.
Her mother walked behind her, so close that her toes brushed the hem of Davina’s skirt. Leana was whispering too. “The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”
Davina bowed her head, hiding her dismay.
When they reached the McKie pew, her mother and father sat on either side of her, their backs straight, their eyes clear. They knew the truth about their daughter; so did the Almighty.
The gathering psalm began, calling them to worship. All round her, parishioners sang the words of the sixth psalm in run-line manner, with the precentor singing each line and the congregation repeating it in tuneless unison. Davina knew the verses, having memorized them long ago and having lived them for the last fortnight at Glentrool.
I water my couch with my tears. And her pillow and her handkerchiefs and her gowns. She’d grown accustomed to the sad face that gazed back at her from the looking glass: her eyes rimmed in red, the skin round them swollen.
Mine eye is consumed because of grief. Everything she saw reminded her of Somerled: her fiddle hanging on the library wall, undisturbed; her sketchbook brimming with memories that even a wide ribbon could not hide; Ian’s long-legged gait, so like her braw Highlander’s.
When she thought of Somerled in a pine kist, buried in the hard soil of Argyll, a coldness swept over her. He had once been a dream and now was nothing more. She closed her eyes while her family sang and imagined Somerled’s voice among them. A sweet tenor, wending its way through the air and through her heart.
For the LORD hath heard the voice of my weeping.
Davina squeezed her eyes shut. Do you hear me, Lord? In the dark of night, when no one else does?
During the long sermon, the parishioners kept their comments to themselves. But in the kirkyard the McKies were treated as if they were fremmit. Strange, foreign. Spoken of but not spoken to.
One family stood by them: the McMillans.
“I’m ashamed of my own parish,” John grumbled under his breath, glaring at anyone who dared narrow their eyes at him. “They assume the worst and ask no civil questions.”
His wife, Sally, frowned at the neighbors who frowned at them. “Why does the minister not preach against gossip? For ’tis the sin his flock most commits.”
Reverend Moodie was not unaware of the problem. He sought out the family the moment the service ended, assuring them he would do what he could to stem the rumors by telling others the truth.
“Alas, gossips prefer savory lies to dry facts,” John said when the minister was out of earshot.
The household had gathered not far from the door facing east among the oldest graves in the kirkyard. Moss-covered and crumbling, the gravestones stood about like sleeping guards, their once-broad shoulders drooping with age. Margaret and Ian flanked Davina on either side, deflecting the brunt of the parishioners’ stares. Even Janet Buchanan of Palgowan avoided her, standing a safe distance away with her father.
Davina touched Margaret’s hand, silently thanking her for her friendship.
The girl’s brown eyes turned glassy. “ ’Tis wrong, what they are doing. I am glad to stand by you, Davina.”
Glancing in the direction of the old yew, Davina glimpsed a familiar face bearing a sympathetic expression. Graham Webster. A brave soul indeed, to be willingly counted among their friends. Though he was not wearing the armor of a knight nor bearing a sword, he courageously walked toward them, leaving no doubt of his allegiance.
Mr. Webster offered her father a cordial bow. “Mr. McKie.” The man’s voice was warm and his gaze kind. “I was grieved to hear of your family’s trials on Arran.” The widower greeted her mother with equal decorum and then Ian.
When he turned to Davina, Mr. Webster not only bowed; he also looked into her eyes, as if unafraid of the sorrow he would find there. “Miss McKie.”
Fresh tears welled up, then spilled over. Chagrined, Davina looked down, letting the drops fall to the ground, then drying her cheeks with her sleeve. When she lifted her head, Graham Webster was still there. Waiting for her. Offering his handkerchief.
“I’m sorry the unkind behavior of our neighbors has compounded your suffering.” He aimed a cool gaze at Mrs. Paterson, who tarried closer than necessary, one ear cocked. “The words of a talebearer are as wounds,” he murmured. When the woman moved along in a huff, he returned his attention to Davina. “I’m honored to bear this burden with your family. If there is anything else I might do …”
The bell announcing the second service clanged over their heads. When he stepped back, giving her room, she pressed her hands together, holding them to her heart, hoping he might comprehend her meaning. Thank you.
“Thank you, Miss McKie,” he said with a bow. “I trust we will speak again.”
Seventy-Seven
The perfection of art is to conceal art.
QUINTILIAN
Graham dipped his sable brush into the porcelain saucer of paint, then tapped the brush to remove the excess water. In his haste he’d neglected to mix the colors as evenly as he liked. The small, hard cakes of pigment and gum were far easier to work with than grinding his own colors from natural pigments, but the combination had to be just right. Too much water, and the paper cockled; too little, and the paint would not brush on smoothly.
There. The consistency was perfect. He held the paintbrush with a steady hand as he leaned over the drawing board to apply a thin line of color near the center.
Paint touched paper.
A bell tinkled outside his study door. “Yer denner is het, sir.”
He groaned under his breath, leaning back. “Thank you, Mrs. Threshie.”
Graham swirled his brush in a shallow dish of water, then wiped the silky marten hairs dry with a clootie. Once again, time had slipped away from him. He’d meant to keep an eye on the mantel clock, but the landscape before him had so captured his attention that an hour had passed without his noticing.
Graham glanced at the clock as he strode toward the door. Nae, two hours.
Not until he stretched out his hand to grasp the doorknob did he remember the dried pigment on his fingertips and the color-stained apron protecting his suit of clothes. If he meant to keep his paintings a saicret from his canny housekeeper, preventive measures were in order. A hasty visit to the washstand and a folded apron tucked into a desk drawer solved the problem for the moment.
He was not embarrassed by his efforts as an amateur artist, because his paintings were not meant for the public; they were for Susan. He’d painted the first one the day of her funeral, watering the pigment with his tears. His journey through grief was measured by watercolors, each progressively smaller, yet more detailed; softer, yet more colorful. As he’d learned to paint, he’d also learned to live without the woman he loved. Painting brought him joy, and grieving brought him sorrow, yet he’d found strength in both. Both were gifts from the same loving hand. From sorrow to joy, and from mourning into a good day.
Mrs. Threshie had been instructed not to enter his study uninvited, and for two years she’d honored his request. Had she outwitted him, Graham soon would have known: The woman could not keep her opinions to herself. “Leuk at a’ yer paintrie, Mr. Webster!” she would say. “Hae ye been aboot yer wark for a lang time? Ye’ve a real airt for it, sir. That’s a richt guid likeness o’ Garlies castle.” His talkative housekeeper was a welcome fixture at Penningham Hall, but she was not one for keeping secrets.
She stood waiting for him now in th
e dining room, her black dress styled for a matron, her red hair not unlike a certain fiddler’s, though fading with age. “I’ve a gustie dish for yer Wednesday denner,” she announced as he sat at the head of his table. “Rabbit curry, jist the way ye like it. Wi’ mushroom and celery and onions.”
“But not with fresh coconut,” he teased her, knowing she would bristle. He’d once been served a tasty mild curry with coconut on a London visit and had never let Mrs. Threshie forget the fact.
“Och! Whaur would I be findin’ a coconut in Scotland?” she said with a flap of her hand, then returned a moment later with his piping-hot dinner.
“I am sure this rabbit would have no use for tropical nutmeat,” he told her, nodding toward the aromatic dish. “My compliments to you for a fine meal. Though it appears you’ve cooked enough to feed two people.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Webster.” Her ruddy coloring heightened. “I dinna mean tae forget.”
After a dozen years of cooking for Penningham Hall, Mrs. Threshie sometimes neglected to halve her recipes; the additional serving was a poignant reminder of his late wife. “Mrs. Webster would have enjoyed your curry very much,” he said lightly, wanting to put her at ease. “I am sufficiently hungry to consume a second portion. You can be sure ’twill not go to waste.”
“Ye’re the kindest o’ men, sir,” she said with a curtsy, then disappeared into her kitchen.
A woman of sixty years, Mrs. Threshie had a temperament well suited to her descriptive name; she would soundly flail anyone ill-disposed toward her master. Had he been the subject of parish gossip for the fortnight past, Mrs. Threshie would have stood beside him in the kirkyard and thwacked naysayers with her broom. Indeed, if Miss McKie continued to suffer from their neighbors’ cruelty, Graham would extend his housekeeper’s services to the lass, complete with a new besom.
As he tasted a forkful of curry and rice, he recalled Davina’s first Sabbath after returning from Arran. The good people of Monnigaff did not bother to inquire if the rumors about her had any merit. Had they asked her father or consulted Reverend Moodie, as he had, they would have learned the terrible truth: The innocent Miss McKie was violated by Somerled MacDonald, then forced into a betrothal, only to have him fall to his death. A tragedy by any reckoning. And for this they scorned her? Insulted her with callous names?
He jabbed his fork at the stewed rabbit, remembering how infuriated he’d been, watching tears stream down her freckled cheeks. The poor lass! He’d had to clasp his hands behind his back to resist taking her in his arms and shielding her from thoughtless onlookers. Or taking folk by the neck and throttling them until they apologized.
On Sunday last, the furor had died down a bit. Still, he’d tarried in the kirkyard in case the family required his support. However polite, Davina had not paid him particular attention. Apparently the McKies had never informed their daughter of his interest in courting her. A blessing, that. Otherwise Davina might feel awkward in his presence, and he in hers. Instead he could befriend her family. Offer encouragement. Continue to do business with her father.
Oo aye, and find every excuse to be near Davina. Have you forgotten that part?
He gulped down a goblet of water, ashamed of his thoughts. Toward Somerled MacDonald, whom he did not mourn. And toward Davina McKie, whom he could not put out of his mind. She would have no interest in marriage, not for a very long time. And she might never have an interest in him.
Drowning his frustration in rabbit curry, Graham finished the second serving, then rang for Mrs. Threshie to bring the last course.
“Ye leuk flushed, sir. Was the curry too flavorful for yer taste?”
“It was delicious,” he assured her, letting her refill his water goblet while his face cooled.
“I hae burnt cream wi’ orange rind for a sweet.” She smiled when she said it, knowing it would please him. “Wull ye hae yer coffee noo, sir?”
He nodded toward the front corner of the house. “I’ll take it in my study later.”
Mrs. Threshie paused, her thinning eyebrows arched. “I’d be glad tae serve ye thar.”
“And have you discover what a mess I’ve made of the room this week?” he chided her. “Indeed not. When it’s ready for you to clean, I’ll throw open the door, I promise.”
She looked downcast, though he knew it was for show. “Whate’er ye say, Mr. Webster.”
A quarter of an hour later he carried his steaming cup of coffee into the study, considering how he might enhance his current painting. A solitary human figure would give the scene perspective.
Donning his apron—a poor fit for a man’s chest—he then wet his brush, working the hairs into a fine point. He dipped a cake of dark brown watercolor in water, then rubbed the color into a clean porcelain saucer until he was satisfied with the consistency. After barely touching the fine hairs to the paint, he lifted the brush above the woven paper pinned to his drawing board and held his breath as paint met paper. Tiny strokes. Minimal detail.
There. Davina was in his painting now, if not truly in his life.
Come Lammas, when the shepherds of the parish gathered for their annual festivities, he would have a sound reason for visiting Glentrool: to arrange for delivery of his fivescore sheep and to see the bonny fiddler he’d captured in watercolor.
Seventy-Eight
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
’Twill not be Lammas wi’oot yer fiddle, Miss McKie.” With the patience of a shepherd and the stubbornness of a red-headed Scot, Rab Murray had shadowed Davina all through July, pleading with her to reconsider providing the music for Lammas. In the end, Rab had accepted her decision: Her memories were far too fresh and far too painful. She’d yet to lift her grandfather’s fiddle from the library wall, waiting for her music to return. Perhaps by Ian’s wedding at Michaelmas. Perhaps then she could find the courage to play again.
The first of August dawned clear and bright—fine weather for a day of festivities, despite her misgivings. By midafternoon the shepherds from neighboring farms would begin arriving and the lasses of the countryside as well.
Vowing to do what she could to celebrate, Davina chose a gown in white Brussels lace; browns and burgundies could wait until autumn settled over the hills. With a wide blue sash round her waist and a braid of hair circling her crown, she was dressed to greet their visitors.
“Aren’t ye the bonny lass?” Eliza exclaimed when Davina wandered into the drawing room, where gleaming furniture and a well-swept carpet awaited their guests. “The herds wull miss yer fiddle, but they’ll be pleased tae see yer loosome face.” She waved her dusting cloth toward the door with a cheery smile. “If ye’re leukin’ for yer mither, she’s in the gairden jist noo.”
But Davina did not find her mother snipping herbs in her physic garden or pinching withered flowers among her ornamentals. Instead she came upon the servants setting up tables for the food and Robert attending to his duties, pulling the weeds choking his radishes and peas.
The moment he spied her, the lanky gardener stood and tipped his cap. “Mrs. McKie is round the hoose, miss, prunin’ yer aunt’s rosebush.”
Davina nodded her thanks and headed in the direction of the Apothecary Rose, a spreading shrub her mother nursed through summer’s heat with particular care. When she turned the northeast corner of the house, she spotted Leana kneeling by the plant, her hands full of faded blooms and her eyes full of tears.
Feeling like an intruder, Davina waited until her mother noticed her, then walked to her side, lifting her white hem above the freshly cut grass.
“How nice you look.” Leana dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron, then stood, depositing the roses in her pockets. “For potpourri,” she explained, though Davina knew she saved the petals for sentimental reasons too.
Davina stood beside her mother in companionable silence, admiring the rosebush. The robin
s had started singing again, a sure sign of summer on the wane. Warmed all morning by the August sun, her aunt’s Apothecary Rose perfumed the air.
“My sister would have been thirty-five today.” Leana drew her closer, nestling Davina’s head beneath her chin. “We cannot control the seasons, dearie, and we have far less control of our lives than we imagine. Yet the Lord reigns. ‘He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.’ ” Her mother kissed her hair, then gently released her. “ ’Tis what he did for me, Davina, and what I believe he is doing for you.”
Aye. She still soaked her pillow at night. Still had little appetite. But the sharpness of her pain had eased a bit. She could smile from time to time without a sense of guilt washing over her.
Hearing voices on the hill, her mother turned, taking her round with her. “Here come our lads.” Both women shaded their eyes to see the herds descending through the purple expanse of heather, their arms bearing dried branches for the Lammas bonfire. “The others will not be far behind. Will you help me attend to the food?”
Davina was glad to keep her hands occupied, for then her mind stayed busy as well. Aubert’s kitchen staff had already delivered the food out of doors; her mother’s task, by happy choice, was to arrange the dishes in some artful fashion.
Working side by side, they soon had Glentrool’s storehouse well displayed. The first of the season’s apples and pears waited to be plucked from willow baskets, while scones and oatcakes beckoned from pottery plates surrounded by cream, butter, and cheese. Smoked ham and boiled eggs were stacked in several places along the table, and glass pitchers of Eliza’s cider and black currant wine sparkled at each end.
Davina was beginning to think she might be hungry after all.
Her father joined them, eying the feast appreciatively. “The fiddlers are here,” he said, his voice free of any censure, then turned and waved for two young men to join them. “They hail from Newton Stewart. Reverend Moodie says they play a lively reel.” He leaned down and added in a whisper, “Rest assured, they cannot hold a candle to my daughter’s talents.”
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 41