Grace in Thine Eyes (19 page)

Her words, though spoken softly, pierced him to the core. Was there some way to convince her that he cared about their children’s welfare just as she did?

Jamie placed his hand beneath her chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “Leana, you need to know that Davina and I had a … conversation, of sorts. About the twins.”

She listened, hope rising in her eyes like the sun, as he described his plans to speak with Will and Sandy when they returned at Lammas. “We have snarled at one another like ill-tempered dogs long enough. ’Tis time we spoke as men.”

Leana smiled at him through her tears. “Nothing could make me happier, Jamie.”

“You have no doubt been praying for this for years.”

“Ten years, to be precise.” She eyed the letter in his hands. “But must you wait until Lammas? Why not ride to Edinburgh now? Put to rest their fears about Davina and settle your own differences as well. Please, Jamie, will you consider it? I do not wish to lose your company for a week, but think what your efforts might mean to the twins.”

He looked away, feeling trapped for the second time that day—first by Graham, now by Leana. Could he not handle his children according to his own schedule?

“Surely their tempers have cooled since they wrote you,” Jamie said, convincing himself, if not his wife. “And Davina has no doubt written them as well, easing their concerns.” He smiled at her, deliberately at first, then with increasing sincerity as she slowly returned his smile. “That’s better,” he said, relieved to have Leana’s support. “Now suppose we let summer take its course.”

Twenty-Six

I have heard say that in Arrane
In a strong castle made of stane
An Englishman with a strong hand
Holds the lordship of that land.
S
IR
J
AMES
D
OUGLAS

H
e visits the castle every summer,” Abbie said, “for a fortnight or more.”

“We can never be sure when,” Cate cautioned, “though the news travels quickly. His guests include the finest families in Scotland.”

Davina turned first to one cousin, then the other, as arm in arm the trio made its way north toward Brodick Bay. Their intent was to reconnoiter the castle, like British soldiers crossing the French border, seeking information.

Word first came on Saturday from a family of Gypsy tinklers making their way round the island, peddling horn spoons and the latest blether: The Duke of Hamilton would arrive from the mainland on Tuesday, perhaps this very hour. “There’ll be no better time for you to see the grounds of Brodick castle,” Cate had insisted yestreen when the three concocted their plan. “With servants running about, we’ll hardly be noticed.”

Davina had seen old castles before—Galloway was thick with them—but she’d never clapped eyes on so noble a member of the aristocracy. A
duke
! Even if he was older than her father by a score of years, the ninth Duke of Hamilton was also a marquis, an earl, a lord, and a baron. She could not fathom one gentleman holding so many titles.

The mild temperature and westerly breeze were both welcome, but the skies were less favorable. Hanging low over their heads, the clouds were the color of rock doves and full of secrets. Would they unload their watery burden until the burns ran in torrents or drift toward the Ayrshire coast and usher in a sunny afternoon?

As the trio crested the first small hill, Abbie slowed so they might catch their breath. “I’ll warn you, Davina. It’s not the sort of castle one could live in year round, for it’s centuries old and barely furnished. The duke and his family reside on the mainland at Hamilton Palace in Lanarkshire. Brodick castle is little more than a hunting lodge.”

“Sometimes His Grace comes in June,” Cate said, “when the salmon fishing is fine, or in August for grouse shooting.” She looked about the rough moorlands, her cheeks flushed from walking. “He used to come in the autumn, but Father says after years of lawless hunting, there aren’t a dozen stags left for deer stalking, and the wild boars have vanished.”

Near the summit of the hill separating Lamlash Bay from Brodick Bay, Abbie swept her plump arm in the direction of the sea. “If we continued eastward to the cliffs, we’d come to Dun Fionn, where the ancients lit their beacon fires to signal the alarm.” She laughed as they continued walking. “No need to light a beacon today. The gentry are coming, not the enemy.”

At the summit Davina drank in the peerless view. Goatfell, rising from the dark blue waters and green foothills, thrust its peak into the low clouds like a broad iron spear. Had Father and Uncle Evan truly scaled so fearsome a giant?

They picked their way across frothy burns lined with pink thimbles of fairy foxglove and leafy bracken, dipping their fronds in the moving waters. Some of the burns were deep enough to require wooden bridges. Davina crossed the primitive structures with due haste, made nervous by the creaking of the boards beneath her feet.

In her fortnight on the island, Davina had seen no more than a handful of carts, drawn by little Arran ponies. Folk were fortunate if they owned a single horse, as the Stewarts did. A healthy beast sixteen hands high, Grian accompanied the minister on his parish visits, while the girls walked everywhere. Didn’t she do the same at home except when a gravel track allowed a carriage? There were precious few paved roads in her corner of Galloway and none whatsoever on Arran.

When they reached the coastline, the threesome continued round Brodick Bay, similar in shape to Lamlash but without sharp points of
land protruding into the sea or an island nestled in the center. The fresh breeze off the water was salty and a bit brisker, fluttering the sails of the fishing boats in the harbor. South of the bay, the low green hills were gently sloped and rounded, like the Lowlands; to the north rose a jagged range of mountains and moors, like the Highlands, as if the whole of Scotland had been squeezed onto one small island.

Cate glanced at the darkening clouds overhead and groaned. “We’ll see rain before we see home. But
not
before we see His Grace.”

On level ground it was easier to quicken their steps along the coast road. They hurried past a scattering of stone cottages, nodding politely at a knot of fishermen whose chapped faces were as weathered as their boats. At water’s edge a pair of noisy oystercatchers piped at each other and stabbed their bright orange beaks into the seaweed, looking for food.

Davina sympathized with their search. Even without a visible sun to help gauge the time, she knew the four hours were near, for her stomach growled incessantly.

“Glen Cloy,” Abbie called out, turning inland down the narrow lane. “We’ll not go far, just to the smithy’s. Not all the way to Kilmichael House or the Fairy Hills beyond. But isn’t it a bonny spot?”

Despite the beauty of the glen she called home, Davina could not deny this one was lovely too. A dark avenue of trees drew her eye toward an estate house of white-painted stone, barely visible through the trees, with a valley of purple hills beyond it.

“The Fullartons own Kilmichael,” Cate said, lowering her voice as if someone belonging to the family might be hiding behind a hedgerow, thick with bramble. “I mean truly
own
it. The whole of Arran belongs to the Duke of Hamilton. But not Kilmichael.”

“Fullartons have lived here for five centuries,” Abbie said proudly, as if she were describing her own ancestors. “Of course the house is not so old as that, but ’tis quite grand. John Fullarton is a dashing naval officer, not much more than thirty. He’s commander of the
Wickham.
” She added airily, “Cate and I have been to Kilmichael on a few occasions.”

“
Very
few,” Cate reminded her sister as they walked on.

They crossed a meadow of melancholy thistle, the purple heads still waiting to bloom. In a week the meadow would be alive with color.
Reaching the track leading north, they were greeted by a standing stone poking out of the ground like an ancient signpost. “There’s one of our monuments,” Abbie said casually as if every village in Scotland had vertical stones planted along the main roads.

They were much closer to the mountains now, rising straight up from the meadows to their left, where a cluster of thatched cottages stood. “They call the settlement Cladach because ’tis by the shore.” Cate tugged on her sleeve, drawing her attention to the sea. “And that’s where His Grace’s boat will land.” She nodded toward the stone quay, empty for the moment.

The solid square of stones sat well above the high-tide mark for larger vessels, with a broad curve of stone steps leading down to the water for skiffs. Davina did not find the small harbor especially ducal, but she pretended to be impressed for her cousins’ sake.

Then she turned and saw the castle. And she
was
impressed.

High above the bay rose four stories of red sandstone, an oblong fortress built in sections of differing heights, chimneys marking each addition. Windows marched from one end to the other in a random pattern—some rectangular, others square, a few with arches like regal eyebrows. A rounded tower near the door looked older than the rest, but all bore the stamp of history.

“Cromwell built the battery on the east end soon after he beheaded the first Duke of Hamilton. But then Good Duchess Anne came.” Abbie smiled, as if she’d just beheld the woman walking out the castle door. “There are none on Arran who do not think well of her, even now.”

As they climbed the steep hill, Cate was describing what they might find inside should they have the chance to peek in a lower window. “The kitchen is very large, with flagstone floors and broad pine dressing tables. The brick bread oven has the longest paddles I’ve ever seen, and there are fancy copper pots—”

“
Wheesht!
” Abbie yanked them to a stop, her eyes widening as she pointed toward the battery. “Someone’s coming.”

Twenty-Seven

Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
R
OBERT
B
URNS

D
avina held her breath as round the eastern side of the castle came a bowlegged man, head down, his tall, black hat aimed at them like an accusing finger.

“He manages the property,” Cate murmured. Then she called out in a cheery voice, “Good day to you, Mr. Nichol!” The three of them stood, shoulders touching, as the man advanced.

When he finally looked up, his scowl faded, and he slowed to a stop a few feet from them. “Miss Stewart, why didna ye tell me wha ye were?” He bobbed his head toward each of the sisters, giving Davina a curious glance. “Yer faither had a fine sermon on the Sabbath.”

“He’ll be glad to hear it, Mr. Nichol.” Cate, looking vastly relieved at not being chastised for trespassing, turned to Davina. “Do meet our guest for the summer, Miss McKie of Glentrool.”

He bobbed his head once more. “Pleased tae mak yer acquaintance, miss.”

Davina simply curtsied, certain he knew of her condition. She’d met none on the island who were surprised when she did not speak.

“I ken why ye’ve come, lasses, but thar’s naught but servant fowk here tae ready the castle.” He cast a wary gaze at the skies. “The
wather
isna guid for sailin’. I leuk for His Grace tae come in the morn.” Turning his attention back to them, he wagged his finger. “But dinna be comin’ round, thinkin’ ye’ll see the duke, for he’ll hae his guardsmen as weel.”

“Will the …” Cate swallowed and started again. “Will His Grace have many guests coming this year?”

“Oo aye!” He nodded so hard he almost unseated his hat. “
Gentrice
from Argyll and Stirlingshire and Fife. Not a woman
amang
them,
sae
’twill not be proper for ye tae be seen on the castle grounds.
Awa
wi’ ye noo, Miss Stewart, and gie yer faither me best.”

Cate murmured their thanks, and the three took their leave, hurrying back down the hill as the ominous clouds made good on their threat—first in fat drops, then in a steady downpour.

“Och!” Abbie took shelter beneath a leafy oak, pulling the others with her. Water dripped off their noses and ran down their necks, and their bonnets were already sagging. “We’ll be as good as drowned by the time we get to the manse.”

“Aye, but we cannot tarry, or Mother will wonder why we’re not home for supper.”

They had no choice but to link arms and brave the rain together, heads bent against the onslaught, their shoes quickly soaked through. Expecting to see a nobleman, Davina had worn her favorite gown. Now the fabric was dark and colorless, clinging to her legs as she walked, the embroidered hem streaked with mud. Would she never learn to dress with Arran’s changeable skies in mind?

The harbor, the glens, the hills, and the mountains—all were lost in a gray wash of rain. To keep their spirits up, Cate and Abbie sang beneath their bonnets.

There’s news, lasses, news,
Guid news I’ve to tell!
There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads
Come to our town to sell!

“How true,” Cate cried. “Even if we cannot watch them sail into our harbor.”

“If they’re all as old as the duke, we’ll not miss much,” Abbie teased her.

“Old or young, handsome or no, we cannot go back to the castle, or Mr. Nichol will mention it to Father on the Sabbath.” Cate looked over at Davina. “Many apologies, fair Cousin, for we’d hoped to send you home to Glentrool with a story to tell.”

They started up the long hill, their enthusiasm beginning to flag, for the ruts in the road were rain filled and treacherous. After struggling to
reach the summit, they discovered that going down toward Lamlash was no improvement. The slippery mud made their footing unsure, so they hung on to each other and inched their way down, unable to move out of the way when a horse galloped past, splattering their costumes. All three were close to tears by the time they stumbled through the door of the manse, holding up their dripping hems and shivering uncontrollably.

“Mrs. McCurdy, towels if ye please!” A wide-eyed Betty ushered them into the kitchen, where Elspeth and her housekeeper quickly disposed of the girl’s hats, then dried their hair and gowns as best they could before sending the bedraggled girls off to their second-floor bedroom to change.