Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Davina nodded, grateful that it was so. When she went abroad to market or to kirk, sympathetic gazes had begun to replace dubious stares. On the Sabbath last, Janet Buchanan had finally spoken to her, full of apologies. “We did not understand, Davina, what had truly happened. Och, you poor lass! Such a terrible thing.”

  The unfortunate business with the marriage agreement had at last been settled. After a flurry of papers came and went from Galloway to Argyll, each affixed with Davina’s signature, Lady MacDonald’s fortune belonged to her once more.

  Davina treasured the brief note she had received from her only last week.

  To Miss Davina McKie

  Saturday, 20 August 1808

  Dear Miss McKie,

  You have my deepest sympathies, for I understand your loss, even as I share it. My only solace through this most difficult of summers has been knowing what an honorable young woman my son chose for his bride.

  Your kindness and generosity in releasing your claim on my family’s estate will never be forgotten. May you find comfort in knowing that your benevolence honors both my beloved son’s memory and your abiding affection for him.

  Ever grateful,

  Lady MacDonald of Brenfield House

  The treasured letter lived between the pages of her new sketchbook, to be removed and read often. His bride. With Ian’s wedding on the horizon, it comforted Davina to know that someone had desired to marry her once. That she, too, might have been a bride and not merely the young woman chosen to serve as witness.

  When Margaret had asked her, Davina could hardly refuse, not when the lass had been so supportive. She would gladly stand beside Margaret and pray her tears looked joyful.

  “Come, dearie.” Mother tugged gently on her arm. “I’ve a new gown for you to try on. Since Margaret is wearing blue, this yellow one should be a fine complement.”

  Standing in her bedchamber moments later, Davina slipped on the new silk dress, luxuriating in the feel of it against her skin. The color was rich, like butter freshly churned, with ecru lace along the neckline.

  As Leana tied the generous sash round her waist, she met Davina’s gaze in the mirror. “I confess, I brought this gown with me to Arran but did not have the heart to show it to you until now.”

  Dear Mother. Always so sensitive.

  When Leana held up matching silk slippers, Davina clapped with joy. How like her to think of everything.

  “Without you here, I had to guess at the measurements.” She pinched the excess fabric at the waistline. “I’ll need to take this in, I’m afraid. Unless you might be willing to eat a bit more.”

  Davina had lost weight since returning home—half a stone, judging by the loose fit of her garments. ’Twas not an improvement. Gazing in the full-length mirror, she realized her small body looked younger now. More boyish.

  Aye, she promised her mother, nodding emphatically. She would eat more.

  The following Tuesday, Davina awakened to the sweet aroma of treacle scones. Aubert had baked them especially for her, knowing she could not resist them fresh from the oven. Once seated at table, Davina spread a dab of rich butter across the crumbly surface, then sank her teeth into the warm scone and was, for a few seconds, in heaven.

  Ian smiled at her across the breakfast table. “I’ve not seen that look on your face in a long time, my sister. We must feed you scones more often.”

  Davina ducked her head, then promptly took another bite.

  “Father, you’ve arranged for the banns to be read on the Sabbath next?”

  “I have.” His teacup clinked on the saucer. “The cryin siller has been duly paid. You and Margaret must tarry in the kirkyard while the session clerk calls out your names before the service.”

  Folk considered it unchancie for a couple to hear their own banns read. Even in the new century, old customs remained. Three Sundays in a row their banns would be cried, with the wedding to follow on Michaelmas, the twenty-ninth of September. A Thursday boded well, Davina thought; Friday would have been better, but Saturday worse. According to her father’s copy of The Gentleman’s Diary, the moon would be waxing the night of their wedding and would shine full and bright on Ian’s birthday a week later.

  Would their brothers come home for the wedding? Father would begrudge the twins their missed lectures, of course, but might he allow them to attend?

  Earlier, when Davina had posed the question to Ian on paper, he’d promised to ask Father. She aimed a pointed gaze at him now, eying the empty chairs next to him to prompt his memory. Good brother that he was, Ian immediately responded.

  “Father, I wonder if we might include the twins in our wedding plans. They would miss less than a week of lectures—”

  “Nae. ’Tis your day and Margaret’s. I’ll not have your brothers disrupting this household nor stirring up rumors in the parish.”

  Davina watched her mother’s chest rise and fall in a sigh as soundless as her own.

  Her father must have noticed as well, for he abandoned his breakfast plate. “I am sorry to distress you, Mrs. McKie. And your children as well.” His acknowledgment, though brief, showed the sincerity of his appeal. “ ’Tis no secret to anyone at this table that the twins and I did not part well in July. Since nothing would be gained by sharing the particulars of our conversations on Arran, I will tell you only that my anger was justified, and my insistence that they remain in Edinburgh for a time was prudent.”

  “He that covereth a transgression seeketh love,” Leana said softly.

  Her father’s features did not alter, but his eyes bore a faint mist. “Aye, just that.”

  Whatever transgression her brothers had committed, Davina knew it was not against her. And in any case, she would forgive them. Hadn’t she written them weekly since returning home? They’d not answered her letters, but that was easily explained: They might have worried that Father would see their incoming posts and rekindle his anger toward them, poor lads.

  “Your brothers will return at Yuletide,” Leana promised. Nothing more was said of the twins.

  Her breakfast finished, Davina tucked her sketchbook under her arm and made for the loch. High, thin clouds covered the better part of the sky, sparing her any need for a broad-brimmed hat. She’d worn a plain braid that morning; the family was not expecting company, and she’d been too eager for Aubert’s scones to let Sarah do more than plait her hair. Her gown was not fancy either—unadorned blue linen—though Sarah declared the fabric matched the color of her eyes.

  Ensconced at the end of the pier on one of its broad stone seats, Davina opened her sketchbook with pleasure. On Father’s last trip to Dumfries, he’d located a larger book for her. Splayed across her lap, the edges extended well past her legs on both sides. The paper was of better quality, too, more suitable for drawing. Davina took her sharpened charcoal pencil in hand and turned to a fresh page, feeling very much as she had in Septembers past, seated in the library under Mr. McFadgen’s tutelage about to learn a new subject.

  She moved her hand across the paper in short, light strokes, sketching the plants that rimmed the loch. Mother would know their names; Davina knew only their shapes and colors. Were they stiff? Did they droop? Might those be leaves? Or green flowers? Some names, because they were musical, were easier for her to remember—willowherb, loosestrife, starwort, brooklime—though Davina could never sort out which name accompanied which plant. She simply sketched them.

  “What might you be drawing, Miss McKie?”

  She acted as if she’d not heard Mr. Webster, remaining hunched over her page, her pencil busy and her pink cheeks out of view.

  “You cannot fool me, miss, for I know your hearing is very keen.”

  Davina smiled, in spite of her embarrassment. Though he’d not made her feel foolish about bolting from his presence on Lammas, the memory still lingered. They’d seen each other at kirk half a dozen times since; the awkwardness between them was slowly beginning to ease.

&n
bsp; She scribbled a few words in the margin as he sat down beside her, then returned to her sketching.

  “And good morning to you,” he murmured, responding to her brief notation. “I see you’ve been keeping something from me.”

  Her hand stilled as she looked up.

  “You are a far more talented artist than I realized,” he said, smiling down at her. “But then, you’ve not shown me your work.”

  The kindness in Graham’s eyes was like nothing she’d ever experienced. There was no sense of pity—she could not abide that—nor did he make her feel like a child. His gaze was warm but not heated. Deeply interested yet not probing.

  He cares for me.

  Just that. He cares. Such awareness came effortlessly, as if she’d known for a very long time.

  “Since this is a new sketchbook,” he was saying, looking over her shoulder now, “perhaps you’ll allow me the privilege of paging through an older one.”

  She dipped her head, making no commitment. A much older one, perhaps.

  “I’ve not come about sheep today,” he told her, glancing toward the hills.

  On his last two visits Davina had been forced to hide her smile. The questions he’d asked her father! Did sheep not see well behind them? Apparently he’d startled a few. Would he need a herding dog? Aye. Might his flock recognize his voice, distinct from his herd’s? They would. Father was very patient with Mr. Webster, though she could not imagine why the man had developed a sudden interest in sheep.

  Though she liked them. Lambs especially.

  “I’ve come to extend an invitation to the McKie family,” he explained, “for dinner at Penningham Hall. On the fourteenth of September, if the day suits everyone. ’Tis a fortnight before your brother’s wedding. Perhaps an outing with just the four of you might be of some value.”

  Thoughtful. If anyone asked her to describe Graham Webster, that would be the first word that came to mind.

  She wrote her answer across the page. I am sure my family will be pleased.

  “And what of you, Miss McKie? Will you be pleased?”

  He was teasing her now, which she did not mind in the least. A man with no sense of humor was hardly worth engaging in conversation.

  She dashed off a quick response. So invited, I’m delighted.

  “I cannot provide the sort of entertainment you might offer, Miss McKie, but I do promise you a memorable evening.”

  On impulse, Davina wrote down a promise too. And I shall bring a surprise.

  Eighty-One

  A grace within his soul hath reigned

  Which nothing else can bring.

  RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON

  Graham pretended not to notice Davina walking through his front door, holding something behind her back. Her new sketchbook? A bread offering sent by Aubert? Cut flowers from her mother’s garden?

  He would have to wait to find out. And wasn’t he very good at waiting?

  Davina did not test his abilities for long, revealing a baize bag.

  “I’ll tak yer fiddle,” Mrs. Threshie offered, which Davina politely declined, cradling the instrument as if it were a newborn and she its proud mother.

  The image unnerved him, because when Davina crossed the threshold of his home, Graham knew she belonged there. Was meant to live there, raise a family there. The house suited her. Even an amateur artist could see the warm shades complemented her coloring, and the smaller rooms were a good fit for her diminutive form.

  “Mr. Webster?” Leana McKie peered at him. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Quite.” He smiled, stepping back with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome to Penningham Hall.”

  While they found seats in his drawing room, Mrs. McKie declared the peach-colored upholstery and ornate ivory-and-gold furnishings “charming,” while Jamie and Ian looked out of place, like stags that had wandered in from the moors. Davina, dressed in a lighter shade of the same golden pink, appeared to have been part of the room’s original décor.

  He directed his attention to her fiddle, if only to keep from staring at her lovely face. “I am honored by your surprise, Miss McKie, and commend you for your courage.” Graham had some inkling of what lifting her bow would cost her. Not unlike lifting a paintbrush and deciding that life must be lived, that it must continue, however great the sorrow.

  When their gazes met, he hoped his thoughts might show on his face. Tonight will be the hardest, lass. However tentative her playing, he would applaud fervently. ’Twill become easier over time, I promise you.

  Mrs. Threshie stood at the drawing room door, grinning like an old cat handed a wee mouse. Graham had not spoken a word about his feelings for Davina; the woman had jaloused everything the moment she’d answered the McKies’ knock.

  “Denner is served, sir.”

  As the housekeeper stepped back, allowing them to enter the hall, Graham said sotto voce, “Make haste to the table, my friends. We’ve oysters on the menu, and the only way to eat them—”

  “Is verra het.” Mrs. Threshie nodded her approval, shepherding them into the dining room. No sooner had Graham offered the blessing than she rang a bell, bringing forth two kitchen maids with steaming plates of soup. “Have a care,” Mrs. Threshie warned, “for the bree—”

  “Is verra het.” Graham lifted his spoon but not before she saw him smile.

  With guests to educate, Mrs. Threshie was in her element. “The saicret tae guid oysters is thus: Oysters. Salt.” She served the mutton, then confessed she’d purchased the meat from a flesher. “Me puir master couldna bear tae part wi’ onie o’ his wee sheep.”

  “Och, Graham,” Jamie lightly chided him, “you’ll be breeding your ewes next month and soon have more sheep than you have land. Your flock will not suffer if you cull one now and then for your table.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, chuckling.

  When the maids served roast red grouse, Graham couldn’t resist taking credit for hunting the game birds on his own land. “Well done,” Jamie told him, “and well cooked, Mrs. Threshie.”

  One word and Jamie McKie had won the woman’s heart. On all subsequent visits, the laird of Glentrool would surely command the largest portions from the kitchen.

  Graham smiled at his guests, enjoying their company at his table. Over the summer both Jamie and Leana had become good friends. Ian was a bright young man, deserving of his heirship. And Davina brought nothing short of light and life to his home. Her animated features and expressive hands gave the lass a voice all her own. He could hardly wait for the final course to be served, for the joy of seeing her face and then hearing her music.

  With much fanfare from his housekeeper, a large glass compote was ushered into the dining room and placed on the sideboard for all to admire: Naples biscuits soaked in wine and heaped with the richest concoction imaginable. Butter, eggs, almonds, loaf sugar—it made Graham’s teeth hurt to look at it.

  “Fairy butter,” Mrs. Threshie announced, flourishing her serving spoon.

  Davina’s reaction was all Graham had wished. Her blue eyes widened, her sweet mouth fell open, and her freckled cheeks turned pink.

  “Our wee fairy is impressed,” Ian told him, the gratitude in his eyes apparent.

  “My pleasure,” Graham murmured. He could think of no better way to spend his days than loving this woman and her family.

  When the rich pudding was consumed and their plates cleared, the party moved to the drawing room. Davina hurried in ahead of them, no doubt to tune her instrument. Or perhaps to collect her thoughts or calm her nerves. For a seasoned fiddler, she did seem anxious.

  Yet Graham was as nervous as she was. He prayed from the psalms for her comfort and his own. God shall help her, and that right early.

  The gloaming fell over Galloway well before seven o’clock now. Davina stood before the darkened windows, which framed her like a stage. Nae, like a painting. Graham folded his hands, covering up a stray dot of bl
ue watercolor he’d neglected to find earlier.

  “Whenever you are ready,” Leana said, smiling at her daughter, a mother’s love in her eyes.

  Davina lifted her bow with a slight tremor in her hands until the moment the taut horsehairs touched the strings. Her shoulders relaxed. A faint smile appeared. And music, smooth as fairy butter, poured over the room.

  Graham had never imagined such a voice as hers. Singing to him. Speaking to him. They were not notes; they were words, and he heard every one.

  Lord, what must I do to deserve this woman?

  He knew the answer—wait—but he did not know how long. He was thirty now. Would he be another year older when she was ready? Two years older? Could he bear it if he waited and she married another?

  I will wait, Davina. And pray that my waiting will not be in vain.

  He was ashamed of his tears until he saw her family dabbing at their eyes.

  Each tune, like the first, was played lovingly, reverently. No reels and jigs to set their feet tapping, but pastoral melodies, tender airs, slow laments. Graham could not name the titles or composers. Was not certain of the keys or tempos. He only knew that Davina McKie had been given a gift. And that he would give her a small one in return.

  Not until she lowered her bow did her audience break the spell she’d cast. Applauding. Standing. Leana embraced her, and then Ian, and then her father, holding her so tightly Graham feared she might be crushed. ’Twas only envy; he longed for the day when he might do the same.

  After her family finished showering her with praise, Graham offered his arm and an invitation. “Miss McKie, I wonder if you might join me in my study.”

  Jamie’s brow darkened. “Webster?”

  “Nothing untoward, sir. I will leave the door open, and Mrs. Threshie will stand inside the room as chaperon.” An impromptu decision but proper. “I’ll have a maid bring you coffee and nuts. We’ll not be long.”

  Davina was still holding her fiddle when she took his arm. She seemed willing to go with him, Graham thought, though her eyes did not tell him why. Curiosity? Interest? Amusement? He escorted Davina to his study, then left her there only long enough to make arrangements with Mrs. Threshie.