Grace in Thine Eyes (16 page)

“ ’Twas new when I visited last,” Jamie told him, glancing over his shoulder.

“Aye, whan Gershom Stewart was minister.” Hugh grunted with another pull of the oars. “Back whan they still buried
fowk
on Halie Isle. Not lang after, a boat was ferryin’ a funeral party o’er the water whan a squall o’ wind turned o’er the boat.” He shook his head. “God preserve us! Seven fowk
droondit
on their
wey
tae a burial.”

The men’s conversation faded to the low drone of a bagpipe, while Davina overheard a small knot of women speaking to one another on the shore. Her heart began to pound as their high-pitched voices carried across the water. Though she wrote fluently in French and had little trouble translating Latin, she knew nothing of Gaelic, the native language of the Scottish Highlands and islands. Over supper, Father had told her many folk would speak English as well, but all would speak Gaelic. “Do not fret, lass. Your cousins will interpret for you.” He’d smiled at her across his plate of haddock. “I believe the parishioners of Kilbride will learn
your
language by summer’s end.”

She smiled now, remembering his words. The longer she listened, the more the women’s blithe chatter simply became another chorus of the song that was Arran.

“Mrs. Stewart asked me tae bring ye
stracht
tae the manse,” Hugh said, lifting his oars from the water. Unlike the harbor at Ayr, Lamlash Bay had no proper pier extending far into the water. Instead he eased their skiff into a rustic quay. “Mind yer step, for ’tis
slitterie.
”

Davina appraised the narrow, sea-washed stair leading to the solid ground above, then gamely stepped out, clasping her father’s hand as they slowly climbed the steps sideways.

Hugh followed her, steadying hands at the ready. “Ane
mair
, Miss McKie, an’ ye’ll be oot o’ danger.” When she had landed safely, he returned to the skiff, then handed up her fiddle and the two valises. Her father offered to carry one, but Hugh would not hear of it. “I’m at yer service, sir.”

Davina admired Holy Isle from her new vantage point. A rounded peak in the center, with ledges on either side, the bay island looked quite
different from shore. Closer, as if she might sprint across the water and touch land without soaking her hem.

“Miss McKie, may I escort you to your new home?” Jamie smiled, but she saw the sadness lingering in his eyes.

Good-bye, Father
. Could she truly say the words without weeping? Two months was a very long time.

Davina took his arm and discreetly examined her gown as they began to walk. She’d chosen a moss green linen for the crossing, hoping any stains or wrinkles would not show, wanting to make a good impression on her cousins.

“Very distant relations,” her father was saying to Hugh. “On my mother’s side. Though it might take pen and paper to sort it all out.”

The track ran parallel with the shore for a bit, then veered sharply left, turning its back on the sea. Hugh grunted as they started up a steep rise. “Ye’ll find a warm walcome here. The lasses are aflocht tae think o’ meetin’ Miss McKie.” After a bit Hugh swung her valise toward the right, leading them down a narrow lane. “The auld Saint Bride Chapel is here. Naught but ruins
noo.
”

They soon came upon a broad expanse of glebe on the slope of a hill, encompassing the decrepit remains of a once-proud sanctuary. In the old kirkyard scores of lichen-covered gravestones leaned this way and that, sunken with age. To the east stood a two-story house of stone and lime, oblong in shape and unadorned in design. A chimney rose from each end, curtainless windows faced the bay, and a path of crushed mussel shells led to the entrance.

The front door was propped open, beckoning visitors within, and the aroma of cooked beef greeted them. “Ye’ve come at the richt time.” Hugh went ahead of them, quickening his steps. “Wull ye be wantin’ me tae find yer passage back, Mr. McKie? I ken most o’ the skippers an’ can
mak
inquiries. After ye hae yer
denner
, o’ course.”

“The Lord bless you for handling those arrangements, Hugh.” Jamie pressed some coins into the man’s hand. “And I’m indeed ready for a hot meal. How many hours has it been since our porridge at the King’s Arms, Davina?”

She patted the watch in his pocket, for she could not guess. Had
they breakfasted in Ayr only that morning? It seemed days ago. Her heart was racing by the time Hugh knocked on the doorpost.

The minister was the first to appear in the shallow entrance hall, a smile on his brown-bearded face. Not as tall as her father, nor as fit, Benjamin Stewart was harmless looking, like a large, friendly dog. “They’re here, Mrs. Stewart,” he called, walking forward with his hand outstretched.

A black-haired maid suddenly ducked in front of him and curtsied, her cheeks the color of wild strawberries. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Reverend. I didna hear them knock.”

“Not to worry, Betty.” His smile broadened. “Our guests are family members and may forgive our informality. Cousin Jamie, can it really be you?” The men shook hands warmly as Hugh ducked past them to deposit the baggage in the hall, then took his leave.

Reverend Stewart turned his attention to Davina. “So this is your daughter. Even more fair than her mother described her, I see.” He bowed, then stepped back, making room for them to enter. “Welcome to the manse, Cousin Davina.”

She curtsied, still holding her fiddle, then moved inside the house. An awkward moment followed when the minister stared at her as if waiting for a response, then said in a louder voice, “Well! Here you are, then.” He looked round him, a ruddy tint above his beard. “Ah … Mrs. Stewart.”

His wife scurried into the hall, a softly rounded woman with bright eyes and an eager manner. “Look what a wee thing she is!” She pulled Davina into the room with both hands. “A fairy from the glen come to the manse. Oh, and she brought her music with her. How glad we are to have you, lass.”

Davina curtsied again, then entrusted her fiddle to Elspeth Stewart, who placed it on a sturdy table amid a stack of books. The parlor was small, made more so by the abundance of chairs and the scarcity of candles to brighten the dim corners. A dyed wool rug the color of port warmed the stone floor, and light gray paint covered the walls, where an indifferent still life was the only decorative piece. Still, the room was clean and well kept, the simple furnishings in good repair. Two glazed
windows would afford her a glimpse of the sparkling blue sea and a taste of the salty air.

Elspeth took her arm and steered her to one of the upholstered chairs with exaggerated care, as if Davina were blind as well as mute. “Come and sit, for you must be weary. I always feel a bit unsteady after a sail.” Dressed in a bleached muslin gown, her light brown hair pulled into a tight knot, the minister’s wife had more color in her blue eyes than anywhere else on her person. She sent Betty to fetch their tea, then sat next to Davina, studying her so closely that Davina averted her gaze. Would her younger cousins be this curious?

When she heard the men entering the room, she glanced toward her father. Something must have shown on her face, for when his eyes met hers, one question was clear.
Will you be content here?

On my bonny Arran?
Davina made certain he saw her answer.
Aye, Father. More than content
.

Twenty-One

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—A sound which makes us linger;—yet—farewell!
G
EORGE
G
ORDON
, L
ORD
B
YRON

M
ay we persuade you to tarry for a few days, Cousin Jamie?” Benjamin sat, then leaned forward in his wing chair, his expression as heartfelt as his words. “Or must you return to the mainland at once?”

Please stay, Father. Nae, go
. Davina looked down at her hands lest he discern her thoughts. How strange to feel so torn, wanting her father’s company yet longing to be on her own.

“If there’s a fishing boat that will take me, I’d best claim it, for I’m told they are as unpredictable as the weather.” He paused, as if waiting for her to look up, perhaps to assure him that he was free to depart. “I’ve left Glentrool in my son’s capable hands, but when the sheep shearing begins—”

“Aye, say no more.” The minister held up his hand, stemming Jamie’s explanation. “I’ve a pastoral flock of my own that needs constant tending. Though at least not fleecing, eh, Cousin?”

Her father seemed relaxed as the two men swapped memories from the McKies’ only visit to Arran. “I was a lad of ten,” Benjamin reminded him, “and much impressed with my older cousins. We climbed Goatfell, the three of us. Was it you or Evan that reached the summit first?”

“Evan.” Her father shifted in his chair. “But I was close on his heels and dragged him behind me to claim first place.”

“Always rivals, the two of you,” Benjamin said good-naturedly. “We last heard from Evan and Judith”—he looked to his wife—“at Eastertide, wasn’t it?”

“Aye. She writes with a fine hand, Judith does.”

Betty swept into the room with tea on a plain wooden tray, putting a temporary end to their conversation as each was served a steaming
cup. “Denner wull be ready shortly,
mem
,” the maidservant said before taking her leave.

“So, Davina,” Elspeth began, “I pray you are as eager to meet my daughters as they are to meet you.” When Davina nodded, her cousin continued, “I expect them any moment. They went to Clauchlands farm to fetch more eggs, for our hens are not laying well of late.”

Davina envied her cousins’ having neighbors so close. In the remote glen of Loch Trool, borrowing eggs would require a two-hour walk.

She’d taken her first tentative sip of tea when the door flew open and two girls burst into the room. “Och! We
did
miss greeting her.”

“And after running all the way home,” the younger one groaned, handing Betty a willow basket before both of them offered a tardy curtsy.

Jamie stood and their father as well. “Catherine, Abigail, come meet your cousins: Mr. James McKie, and his daughter, Miss Davina McKie.”

As they found their seats, Davina quickly put aside her preconceived notions. The Stewart sisters were nothing like she’d imagined. Younger and less polished. Taller with ample figures like their mother’s. And full of energy.

“I prefer the name Cate,” her cousin insisted, her light brown curls escaping their pins to dangle about her round cheeks. “Catherine suits a queen, not a minister’s daughter. Though Davina quite fits you,” she added with an endearing smile, “for aren’t you bonny enough to sit on a throne?”

“Aye,” her sister said with a giggle, “you are that. And I am Abigail only to my papa. My friends call me Abbie.”

Davina smiled and nodded across her teacup. Who could find fault with such affable, unpretentious girls? If they were concerned about her lack of speech, the sisters did not show it. They launched into an entertaining account of their errand to Clauchlands farm while their mother poured their tea, then excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen.

“Tell me about your summer plans for my daughter,” Jamie asked, sharing a smile with Davina. “She will see some of the island, I hope.”

“Oh, as much of Arran as she wishes!” Cate said, her color rising with her enthusiasm. “We’ll begin this afternoon, for the weather is
quite fine. And we’ve friends in every cottage in Kilbride parish who’ll be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

An older woman wearing a cap and apron appeared at the door.

Reverend Stewart greeted her with a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. McCurdy. Dinner is served.”

With the housekeeper leading the way, they crossed the hall and were soon seated in the informal dining room, as small and dark as the parlor. Two windows illuminated the room, along with a cluster of candles in the center of the rectangular dining table, which was draped in a printed cloth. The table easily accommodated the six of them, with the men in chairs at either end and the women perched on benches. A hearty meal of nettle soup and veal collops was blessed and served. Davina was too nervous to eat, but her father practically picked up his soup dish and drank, so swiftly did he drain his portion. Mrs. McCurdy also served the household as cook, keeping them well supplied with dishes of roasted potatoes and onions.

The Stewarts were a lively family at table, the minister regaling his guests with Arran lore, his daughters prompting him whenever he omitted important details. He told of an
etin
named Scorri, who was chased by the men of neighboring Kilmory parish; when the giant fell, he created Glen Scorradale, where the Sliddery Water flows. Then he described the night a smack was crossing to Ireland from the western shore, sinking low in the water from the weight of its unusual passengers: All the fairies of Arran were departing, the island having become too holy for them to remain.

“I believe one of them came back,” Abbie said, grinning at Davina.

The moment Mrs. McCurdy presented the gathering with a baked almond tart, Betty ushered Hugh McKinnon through the door, his hat in his hands.

“Beg pardon for interruptin’ yer denner, Reverend.” His contrite expression was apology enough. “I’ve jist come from the quay. Thar’s a fishin’ boat wi’ room for Mr. McKie aboot tae sail for Ayr. I fear thar wull not be anither for a day or twa.”

Davina’s breath caught.
So soon, Father?

“Forgive me.” Jamie dabbed his mouth with his linen. “How impolite of me to quit the table when pudding has just been served.”

“Nae, you must go when you can.” Reverend Stewart stood first, making it easier for Jamie to take his leave. “Let me see you to the door. Perhaps Davina would like to send you off as well?”

She rose on trembling legs, wishing she had her sketchbook in hand so she might write all that was on her heart.
I love you, Father. I will miss you very much
. An hour ago she had been prepared to bid him good-bye. Now she could not even think the word, let alone write it.
Must you go? And leave me behind?