Grace in Thine Eyes (22 page)

Leana was grateful the men would break their journey with Meg at Burnside Cottage, though it meant she would not see them again until Saturday. On this, the longest day of the year, Glentrool felt as empty as the cradle at her feet.

Refusing to give in to melancholy, Leana stood and took a turn round the turret bedroom, pausing at the clothes press bearing Davina’s older dresses and a new gown, finished that morning. Leana pulled the buttery yellow silk from its resting place and shook it out, admiring the rich fabric once more. How perfectly the soft color would complement Davina’s hair and skin. A pair of slippers from the same silk had been fashioned by the shoemaker from Drannandow.

Welcome home
, Leana would say when she showed Davina her new costume.
How I’ve missed you
. She’d asked Jamie to bring home a bolt of fabric from Keltonhill so she might sew yet another gown for her daughter before Lammas. What else could she do with her home so empty? At least her hands would be filled and her mind occupied with stitches rather than fretful thoughts.

With a lengthy sigh she turned her attention to the narrow window that looked down on her gardens, a sight that never failed to comfort her. After a month of mild days and gentle rains, her roses and perennials were at their peak. The musk roses in particular, with their delicate white blooms, spilled over their corner of the garden in fragrant profusion.

Leana was still admiring them when she heard Eliza’s steps in the upper hall, then her voice from the doorway.

“Are yer flooers callin’ ye, mem?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Aye, they are.” Even from this distance, Leana could imagine the rich scent of her roses and feel their silky petals.

“I
jalouse
ye hear Davina callin’ ye even mair.” Eliza held out the sealed letter in her hands. “She’s a guid dochter tae write ye sae
aften.
”

“So she is.” Leana had broken the wax seal before her housekeeper finished speaking. “Bless you, Eliza.”

She bobbed her head. “Rab carried the post from toun. And a new silver thimble for me as weel.”

Leana heard the affection in Eliza’s voice and took secret delight in it. Like Eliza, Rab had once lived in Newabbey parish and had accompanied the McKies from Auchengray to Glentrool. Eliza had stayed with her
mistress, but Rab had returned home. Two years later, when Glentrool had lost its head shepherd, Jamie inquired after Rab at Leana’s request. The affable, red-haired shepherd had come at once. And Eliza and Rab had married a twelvemonth later, just as Leana had prayed they might.

Grateful for Eliza’s faithful service, Leana touched her hand in thanks, then smoothed out the folds in Davina’s post.

“I’ll leave ye tae yer letter,” Eliza said with a parting curtsy.

By the time the door softly closed, Leana had already begun to read.

To Mrs. James McKie of Glentrool

Tuesday, 14 June 1808

Dearest Mother,

Please forgive the brevity of this letter, but I have thrilling news that cannot wait. Reverend Stewart is bound for the harbor within the hour, and I do not want my post to miss the packet boat sailing from Lamlash.

Her heart quickened at Davina’s breathless prose. Whatever had excited her daughter so?

We have just learned that the Duke of Hamilton and his guests will be entertained at Kilmichael House on Midsummer Eve, and we are invited to join them.

The Duke of Hamilton?
Leana stared at the words, incredulous. Davina had never been in the presence of so exalted a member of society. Jamie occasionally traveled in such circles, but not their inexperienced daughter. Leana mentally reviewed all that would be expected of Davina in the way of deportment. Could she count on Elspeth Stewart to instruct her, or should she pen a letter at once?

Then she noticed the date.
Midsummer Eve
. In a matter of hours Davina would be dining with a gentleman eclipsed in power only by King George himself.

Leana looked toward the window, gauging the late afternoon light. Six o’clock or so. Perhaps Davina had already arrived at Kilmichael.

The invitation names me specifically and requests that I bring my fiddle. If my letter reaches you in time, pray that I may please the duke and the gentlemen in his party. I must go, Mother, for our cousin is anxious to leave with the mail. Do pray!

Your loving daughter

Oh lass
. She did not need to ask; Leana prayed for her children without ceasing.
Even now, Lord, watch over my Davina
.

She studied the letter closely.
The gentlemen in his party
. Who might that include? Something about the phrase troubled her.
Gentlemen
. A sporting party, she imagined. Men of high social standing yet without wives on hand to ensure their behavior matched their titles.

Another gentleman came to mind, one worthy of the description: Graham Webster of Penningham Hall. How she wished Jamie had allowed her to inform Davina of Mr. Webster’s interest. It seemed dishonest not to do so. As if they were hiding something from their daughter. Which, in fact, they were.

Try as she might, Leana did not understand why Jamie was so averse to the man’s suit. Aye, he was a dozen years older than Davina but hardly old. He was a kind man, a devout man, who would love and cherish their sweet daughter. Did he not find her youthful innocence—her “purity,” as he’d delicately put it—charming?

Distraught, Leana tossed the letter onto Davina’s neatly made bed. What would Mr. Webster think of Davina plying her bow for a roomful of his peers? ’Twas not like being presented in court, a formal affair replete with rules. Davina would be simply introduced as … what? A performer?

Nae!
Leana pressed her hand against her knotted stomach. Manners among the gentry were not always what they seemed. What if—

Och!
Now she sounded like the twins, always imagining the worst. In truth, the lads could not protect their sister this night, nor could Jamie.

But thou, O
L
ORD
, art a shield for me
.

Leana closed her eyes and prayed in earnest, standing in the center of the room where she’d taught her four children to fear God.
I know that thou canst do everything
. Her hands were clasped so tightly, her fingers began to ache.
Please, heavenly Father. Please
. What else could a mother pray?
Protect her. Defend her
. Her throat tightened.
Keep her, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked
.

And then she made a vow, for she could not seek God’s favor and offer him nothing in return.
What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee
.

Head bowed in the weighty silence, Leana heard a faint tapping at the door.

“Mrs. McKie?” Jenny’s voice.

Leana slowly opened her eyes. “Come in, lass.”

The young woman, no older than Davina, stepped into the room and curtsied. “Mr. Billaud sent me. He
thocht
ye might want yer meal noo rather than waitin’ ’til eight.” A hint of color stole into her fair cheeks. “Syne ye’re dinin’ alone and
a’.
”

“How thoughtful of Aubert,” Leana murmured. For a man who insisted on serving supper at the same hour night after night, the offer was a generous one.

Leana’s gaze was drawn to the window and the abundance of roses below. “Kindly set up a small table for me in the garden. ’Tis too fair an evening to spend inside.”

Thirty-One

The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower
Glowed with the tints of evening hour,
The beech was silver sheen,
Such the enchanting scene.
S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT

W
ith each passing moment, Davina found it harder to catch her breath.

On either side of her stood majestic firs and tall, silvery beeches, flanking the private lane. To the north unfurled a vast lawn, groomed by unseen gardeners and bordered by a high-spirited burn. Stone benches placed here and there afforded an impressive view of Goatfell, watching over the property like a dour benefactor. Beyond the avenue of trees loomed the white rubble walls of Kilmichael, an estate house of imposing proportions.

Nature had also done her part: The sun was beginning its slow descent, staining the western sky a vibrant orange and casting Glen Cloy in dark blue shadows.

“The stables are directly behind the house,” Cate announced, sounding eager to climb out of their uncomfortable conveyance. The sisters had traveled side by side in a small, two-wheeled cart, as had Davina and Mrs. Stewart, while the reverend rode astride Grian. Poor Abbie in her satin gown had slithered about every time they hit a bump, which was often; Cate had not fared much better in her silk, despite the clean woolen blankets her mother had used to line the rustic carts.

“Almost there,” Elspeth called out to her daughters. Turning to Davina, she said in a softer voice, “No need to be
timorsome
, Cousin. Play as if you were in our parlor, and you’ll win their hearts with a single tune.”

Davina nodded, though she knew the grand drawing room of Kilmichael would be nothing like the crowded parlor of the manse. And
it was one thing to please a neighbor but quite another to impress a duke. She clasped her fiddle to her waist, hoping her letter had reached Glentrool so she might depend upon her mother’s prayers.

The house faced northeast toward the bay, its only ornamentation mounted above the slender double doors. “Three otters,” Reverend Stewart explained as they drew to a stop before the gilded Fullarton crest. “And the clan motto:
Lux in tenebris
. Light in darkness.”

Despite her nervousness, Davina managed a smile. Leana McKie would heartily approve.
My God will enlighten my darkness
.

A liveried footman stood at the doorway, waiting to escort the ladies inside. He handled them with aplomb, as if helping gentlewomen climb out of farm carts was a daily occurrence at Kilmichael. Since the front door was at ground level, there were no steps to climb; he simply escorted them through the double doors and into the spacious entrance hall, richly tiled with marble and ablaze with candles.

Though sparsely furnished, allowing room for guests to congregate, the square hall was not without adornment. A tall-case clock stood below the stair, the even swing of the brass pendulum visible through the glass-fronted case. Several fine landscapes hung on the walls, and a spray of artfully arranged garden flowers in pinks and blues had been placed before a long mirror, enhancing the colorful display. Convivial voices—mostly male—floated down the curved stair from the second-floor drawing room.

“Captain and Mrs. Fullarton will greet you shortly,” the footman said, then politely bowed before disappearing through a doorway to his right. Presumably he would return to announce the new arrivals after they’d had a few moments to make themselves presentable.

“Quickly, everyone!” Mrs. Stewart adjusted the shawl round Cate’s shoulders, then helped Abbie shake out the ruffles on her sleeves. Skirts were smoothed, dust brushed away, stray hairs patted in place, gloves straightened.

Davina peeked in the ornate mirror, relieved to find her dress had weathered the jostling ride. With Cate’s help, she had swept up her hair into a knot of curls, secured with a comb on top of her head. The style
exposed her long neck and accentuated the gown’s low neckline; Davina blushed at the sight of so much pale skin.

Reverend Stewart held up her fiddle in its green case. “I’ll see this well cared for until after dinner, Cousin. Then ’tis all yours.”

The footman reappeared so quietly that they didn’t notice him standing at the foot of the stair until he caught the minister’s eye and bowed. “Whenever you are ready, sir.”

Davina moistened her dry lips and tried to smile as she followed her cousins up the carpeted steps, taking care not to brush her gown against the marble statuary set into the wall where the stair began to curve.

The footman preceded the Stewarts into the high-ceilinged drawing room, bowed to the small gathering, and formally announced them. “The Reverend Benjamin Stewart, Mrs. Stewart, Miss Stewart, Miss Abigail Stewart, and Miss McKie of Glentrool.”

The five of them offered their courtesy in unison, taking their time in deference to those of higher social rank. Davina was the last to look up, wanting to be very sure not to offend. A dozen or so well-dressed men of varying ages stood about—some smiling politely, others staring at the party, their curiosity manifest. To a man, they all wore their hair fashionably cut, rather than pulled into a pigtail like her father’s. Their tail coats were dark, their waistcoats and trousers white. At a quick glance, none of the gentlemen appeared old enough to be the duke.

A number of familiar-looking young women were scattered throughout the room as well. Confronted by so many faces, Davina could not decide where to land her gaze.

“You’ve met some of the ladies at kirk,” Cate whispered. “The daughters of Arran’s best families. Grace McNaughton. Lily Stoddart. Jane Maxwell.”

Davina understood why they’d been included. Since a hostess preferred having men and women seated alternately up and down her dinner table, all the young ladies present equaled the number of men in the duke’s party; they would be paired off by status and rank before going down to dinner. Compared with managing the long hour at table, where the man seated to her left was expected to engage her in witty
repartee, playing her fiddle might be the least daunting task of the evening.

John Fullarton—easily identified in his Royal Navy uniform—stepped forward and offered a smart bow, living up to Abbie’s description of “dashing” with his fringed epaulets and bold manner. “Welcome to Kilmichael, Reverend Stewart.” The captain’s dark eyes shone as he greeted each of the women in turn. “We anticipate His Grace’s arrival momentarily. I trust you had a pleasant journey from Lamlash Bay?”