Grace in Thine Eyes (21 page)

“Aye, he does, sir.” With the gamekeeper leading the way, the men
headed south on a slender track skirting the rushy water, bound for the steep glens ahead. “Captain Fullarton o’ Kilmichael Hoose has an evenin’ o’ entertainment planned for ye gentlemen as weel. On Midsummer Eve.”

Somerled shifted in his saddle. “Entertainment?” Far more civil sounding than fishing poles and salmon nets. “Might that include music?”

“A bonny fiddler, I’m told, though I dinna ken the lassie’s name.”

For the first time that long and tiring day, Somerled smiled. A lass who played the fiddle. What saint might he thank for that generous provision on so festive a night? He mentally crossed the days off his calendar. “ ’Tis but one week away.”

Twenty-Nine

How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
J
AMES
G
RAHAME

D
avina awakened with the sun, rising when the first tendril of light slipped through the crack in the bedroom’s shuttered window. On the longest day of the year she resolved to embrace every minute, until the last rays of the sun disappeared over the summits toward Beinn Bhreac.

Would this evening’s dinner party convene beneath the Midsummer Eve sky in all its painted glory? Or would the distinguished guests gather withindoors, seated round a crescent of chairs, waiting to hear Davina McKie of Glentrool play her fiddle? The thought sent a chill skipping along her bare arms. Tonight, of all nights, she needed the notes to pour forth with ease. She could not fathom all the talented violinists His Grace had enjoyed over the last sixty years—musicians from London and Paris and Vienna who had come to Hamilton Palace at his invitation. She was naught but a Lowland lass who treasured her grandfather’s generous gift.
Please, heavenly Father. Let it be enough
.

Davina sat motionless on the edge of her narrow cot, not wanting to disturb the sisters, asleep in their shared bed. Three gowns hung from the clothes press, airing until Betty could iron them later that morning. Cate’s was a pretty silk in salmon pink with a matching fringed shawl, and Abbie’s a pale yellow satin with a fine chiffon yoke and ruffled sleeves. The smallest costume was hers, a red and green silk brocade jacket made of fabric her father had purchased in Edinburgh on Martinmas last, worn over a damask gown embroidered with an array of swirls in matching ivory silk. Her mother had knotted the last thread the day before Davina had left home.

Mother
. Davina’s throat ached as she pictured Leana humming while she stitched.
’Tis a loosome gown
. Davina had tried it on to be certain
the short jacket buttoned snugly beneath her bodice. Frothy lace circled the elbow-length sleeves, and a broad band of gold brocade edged the stand-up collar.
Fit for a duke
.

Restless, Davina stood and made her way to the window, then peered through the gap between the shutters. Already the pale blue sky was growing brighter, the first rays of the sun having chased away the last of the twinkling stars.

“We will leave for Kilmichael immediately following the four hours,” Reverend Stewart had announced yestreen, insisting they not depart without first having tea and scones. Bless the man, he’d arranged two pony-drawn carts with drivers for the women, meaning to spare their hems and shoes from the muddy roads. Arran seemed to weather a brief shower every afternoon, often with the sun still shining. Davina had never seen so many rainbows—watery pastels arching across the sky for an instant, then fading from view.

But rainbows meant rain, and rain meant drooping curls and soggy gowns.
Please, Lord, not today
.

She turned toward the door, longing to slip down the stair. Locating one of her cotton gowns in the crowded clothes press would surely wake her cousins, yet she could not leave the room wearing her nightgown. In any case, it was far too early to venture out of doors and pluck violets from the lawn—one of her morning tasks—and Mrs. McCurdy would not serve breakfast on the sideboard for another two hours.

Resigned to tarrying in their bedroom, Davina eyed the small packet of letters tied with one of her satin hair ribbons. She never wearied of reading them, hearing the writers’ voices as she scanned their words. On the top were a half-dozen letters from Mother. The most recent hinted at some news involving a neighbor; perhaps her next post would be more forthcoming. Will and Sandy’s two letters were filled with much gnashing of teeth over their lives in Edinburgh, as well as pointed inquiries about her welfare on Arran. They were furious with Father; that much was obvious. Davina had written the lads, assuring them she was well situated at the manse and not to worry. Rather like telling lions not to roar or bulls not to charge.

Ian had written her on one occasion, the lines as neat and evenly
spaced as a ledger sheet. She smiled at his careful script telling her all about Margaret McMillan. Her brother was truly smitten. Janet Buchanan’s letters were her favorites, brimming with parish gossip. Barbara Heron had a tooth extracted, poor girl. Andrew Galbraith was courting Agnes Paterson—Davina wouldn’t dare mention that to Will. Someone actually heard Graham Webster chuckling at market on Saturday last. And Jeanie Wilson delivered Mrs. McCandlish of another son.

Reading it all again, Davina shook her head. Had she been gone only a few weeks?

“Can you not sleep, Cousin?” Cate propped herself up on one elbow, blinking at her across the rumpled bedsheet. Keeping her voice low, she offered to help Davina dress. “Though ’tis an early start to a long day.”

Davina was already pulling one of her plainer gowns from the clothes press, shaking out the wrinkles as she did. Without another word Cate was by her side, guiding Davina’s arms through the sleeves. They would dress in their best clothes after the noontide meal; the blue cotton would do for now.

Cate crawled back into bed with a sleepy yawn. “Gather ye violets while ye may,” she said blithely, knowing Davina’s plans. “You’ll find the
Flora Scotica
in Father’s study.”

Davina hastened down the dimly lit wooden stair. The ground floor was brighter, though the interior shutters remained closed. She tiptoed along the short hall, listening intently for any sounds of life. The minister’s cramped study had but one window. Even with the shutter cracked open, she had a difficult time finding what she needed, squinting her way along the musty bookshelf. At least she knew what the spines looked like; her mother owned the two-volume set as well.

Ah
. She pulled out one of the thick books with care.
Flora Scotica
. The passages she needed were easily located. Unlike most wildflowers, the scientific name for violet—
Viola tricolor
—sounded like the English one.
Or like a stringed instrument
. She smiled, picturing the yellow, purple, and white flowers with their heart-shaped leaves.

Davina ran her finger along the sentence in question, wishing the author had been more specific in his instructions.
Anoint thy face with
goat’s milk in which violets have been infused
. The manse kept one goat, milked daily for curds and whey. She’d asked kindhearted Rosie, the dairymaid, to save a bowl of fresh milk for her. But how many violets and infused in what quantity of milk? Her mother would know; Davina could only guess. Since the mixture would eventually be strained, perhaps it did not matter.

The text did offer one assurance:
There is not a young prince on earth who would not be charmed with thy beauty
.

She grinned at so bold a promise. His Grace was far from young and merely a duke; she had no intention of charming so elderly a man or his unmarried son. Alexander, the duke’s heir apparent, had chosen to remain in London rather than join his father for three weeks of sport. ’Twas just as well: Alexander was forty, nearly as old as her father.

According to the local blether, there were younger men to be found at Brodick castle. Names and descriptions were hard to come by. A broad-shouldered Macleod from Skye. A red-haired Keith from the Borders. A long-legged MacDonald from Argyll. The duke’s guestlist was smaller than usual this summer; some said no more than a dozen. Who knew if the men would even notice her, however soft her complexion? Still, she had little to lose and a whole day to spend wisely.

After replacing the minister’s book, Davina headed for the front lawn, lifting a garden apron from a hook in the entrance hall as she passed. The salty breeze from Lamlash Bay felt cool against her skin. On the eastern horizon the sun was inching upward, hinting at fine weather.

Clustered along the front path grew all the violets she might need. Davina knelt to pick the delicate flowers, taking care not to crush them as she pinched each slender stem. Her apron was soon filled with the colorful blooms favored by fairies. “Heartsease,” her mother called them. Davina stood, losing only a few blooms in the process, then carried the wildflowers into the kitchen, relieved to find the room vacant. Betty, who was already convinced Davina was one of the wee folk, would drop in a faint if she saw her with violets.

She emptied the contents of her apron into a plain, round teapot, then added hot water just off the boil and dropped the lid in place. Her mother’s voice whispered to her while she worked. “Not too hot, dearie,
or you’ll lose the precious oils in the steam.” Ten minutes for the herbs to infuse the water—that much she remembered.

Davina was busy straining the cooled liquid when the dairymaid appeared at the back door, a small pail of goat’s milk in hand.

“Here ye go, Miss McKie.” Rosie held it out, wrinkling her nose as she did. “Whatsomever tea is that ye’re brewin’?”

Davina pointed first to the goat’s milk, then to a stray violet caught in her apron strings, and mimicked washing her face.

“Oo aye!” Rosie’s expression brightened. “I heard tell o’ sic a thing.”

Davina thanked her by smiling and nodding her head, to which the dairymaid dropped a curtsy and went whistling out the door. Rosie had the Stewarts’ cow to milk before moving on to the Pettigrews’ farm and the rest of her morning rounds.

After pouring equal parts goat’s milk and violet infusion into a shallow bowl, Davina lowered her cupped hands into the lukewarm mixture and splashed it on her face. She felt a bit daft, hanging over the bowl, milk dripping off her nose, yet she washed her cheeks again, then her neck, pulling her gown loose, lest she miss a spot. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” her father often said.

“May I try some?” Cate stood in the kitchen doorway, rubbing her eyes.

Minutes later Cate was bathing her face in a fresh bowlful, sputtering as she did. “Och! You didn’t swallow any of this, I hope.”

The two were still drying their faces when Mrs. McCurdy found them. “Awa wi’ ye, lassies. I’ve parritch tae mak.” Her tone was not unkind, and in her eye shone a knowing gleam. “I
maun
say, ye leuk bonny. This evenin’ the gentrice wull be wooin’ the
baith
o’ ye.”

Davina blushed as they quit the kitchen in search of a looking glass. Had the goat’s milk accomplished what the May dew had not?

When they reached the bedroom with its small dressing-table mirror, Cate said, “You look first.”

Chagrined at what she saw, Davina did not linger in front of the glass. Her skin was still sprinkled with color, her ferntickles darker than ever from a month of Arran sunshine.

“But feel how smooth it is.” Cate touched her own cheek, then
Davina’s. “As silken as your damask gown.” She nodded toward her sister, curled up in their bed. “Abbie cannot wait to see you wearing it with that wonderfully tailored jacket. Isn’t that so?”

When Abbie sat up and stretched, Davina’s sketchbook protruded from beneath her bedsheet.

“Abbie!” Cate scolded her. “Whatever are you doing with our cousin’s property?”

“I’m sorry, Davina.” Her face bright as red campion, Abbie pulled the borrowed sketchbook from its hiding place. “I only meant to look at your fine drawings. This one is my favorite.” She opened the book to a particular page, then held it up to her. “Is he someone you know?”

Davina looked down at her golden prince.
Not yet, young Abbie
.

“Hoot!” Cate’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of him. “If our cousin knew such a braw lad, would she be spending her summer with us?” She nudged Davina with her elbow. “Nae, she’d be getting fitted for her wedding gown and hiring a piper.” Laughing, Cate pulled her sister out of bed. “Come, Abbie, we’ve much to do. Your hair needs a good brushing, and Davina and I intend to wash ours in egg whites and rose water.” She clasped both their hands and squeezed tight. “ ’Tis not every day we’re joined at table by a duke.”

Thirty

Where doubt
there truth is—’tis her shadow.
P
HILIP
J
AMES
B
AILEY

L
eana knew that spending time in her daughter’s bedroom would not ease the pain of her absence. Even so she found herself sitting there, lightly fanning away the afternoon heat as she gazed into an empty oak cradle. She well remembered nestling each of her children inside its wooden confines, lined with linen and decorated with a sprig of dill.

First came Ian, born in the Newabbey manse on a dark October eve with Auchengray’s dear housekeeper, Neda Hastings, in attendance. Then Davina, delivered in their own bedroom at Glentrool, with Jamie grasping her hand, straining with her to bring their daughter into the world. And lastly the twins, who shared the cradle for only a month before they outgrew it. Jeanie Wilson had nearly crowed, she was so proud of herself for delivering two sonsie bairns minutes apart.

Now all four were grown and scattered to the winds: William and Alexander in Edinburgh, Davina on Arran, and Ian with his father at Keltonhill Fair away to the south.

Jamie had promised to visit her Aunt Meg in Twyneholm before returning home from the annual horse fair with all its diversions. Margaret Halliday, her only living aunt, was nearing eighty. When Leana had seen her last, Aunt Meg’s hair and eyes had faded to a pale gray, yet her spirits were bright as ever.
May that still be so, dear Aunt
.