Grace in Thine Eyes (33 page)

Fiddle in hand, she returned to Mrs. Fullarton’s second-floor chamber and began rehearsing a slow air. She’d hesitated to play this one at the castle, fearing that “My Heart Is Broken Since Thy Departure” might communicate more to Somerled than she intended. Would her hostess recognize the Highland melody?

“Oh, Miss McKie,” she protested a dozen measures later, “ ’tis too sad by half, whatever the title.”

She did not repeat the chorus but eased into a more cheerful tune, “The Bonny Banks of Ayr.” Her audience of one rested against her bed pillows with a wistful smile. “That one I do know.”

Davina’s repertoire was thinning. Six more performances and her role as the duke’s summer fiddler would end. Perhaps Somerled might be
willing to include a few more solos. Yestreen he’d surprised her with yet another talent: singing. His tenor voice, strong and true, had echoed off the stone walls, sending a chill down her spine. When he’d come to the end of the second verse, rather than using the name Eliza, as the composer had intended, Somerled had sung his entreaty to a different lass.

I know thou doom’st me to despair,

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;

But, O Davina, hear one prayer—

For pity’s sake forgive me!

Though the men had chuckled at his canny substitution, Somerled had not winked at her when he’d sung her name nor smiled after the last note. Instead he’d implored her with an expression so sincere, she’d begun another fiddle tune at once, hiding her dismay behind her fast-moving bow.
For pity’s sake?
She felt many things toward Somerled, but pity was not one of them.
Forgive me?
That was a request she had yet to honor.

“What a shame,” Mrs. Fullarton was saying, “that you and Mr. MacDonald must part one week hence. Given time, he might have become a proper suitor.”

There were times, albeit few, when Davina was grateful she could not speak.

At the four hours Nan Shaw appeared at the bedchamber door. “Tea, mem.” She placed a round silver tray by her mistress’s bedside. Slices of caraway seedcake were arranged on a china plate beside a steaming pot of tea and a single cup and saucer.

“Nan, have you forgotten Miss McKie?”

The maidservant made a slight face, which only Davina could see. “I’ll fetch her a cup, mem.” She gave a halfhearted curtsy before slipping out the door.

“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Fullarton murmured. “Nan is seldom so forgetful.”

Davina laid her fiddle and bow on the dresser, then started to cross the room when she tripped on her hem, tearing the fabric loose at the seam.

“Careful, lass!”

Davina recovered her footing at once but was embarrassed to find a gaping hole beneath her bodice.

“Do not fret, Miss McKie. ’Tis easily fixed.” Her hostess sat up straighter, assessing Davina’s lettuce green gown with a critical eye. “Kindly come closer.” She reached over and tugged at the fabric. “No wonder you stumbled, for your hem droops on the right. Whatever can Nan have been thinking when she stitched this?”

Davina’s gaze followed hers, surveying the damaged gown. By the time Davina lifted her head, Mrs. Fullarton was frowning at her crown of curls and gently pushing hairpins in place. “Here I am, languishing in bed, while my household goes to wrack and ruin. I cannot apologize enough, Miss McKie.”

Davina touched her hand, meaning to assuage her, as the hapless maid returned with another teacup.

“Nan?” Mrs. Fullarton pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Press another gown for Miss McKie at once. The pink one she wore on Sunday will do. When she is dressed to my satisfaction and hers, I would speak with you alone.”

“Aye, mem.” Nan offered her mistress a contrite curtsy, then quit the room.

“Please do not take offense, Miss McKie.” Mrs. Fullarton’s voice was growing raspy. “For some reason Nan is not herself lately. After I’ve spoken with her, I trow you’ll find her manners much improved.”

Nan Shaw did not walk; she marched two steps ahead of Davina, swinging her baize bag with such careless disregard that Davina feared the maid might drop her fiddle in the mud. At least their late afternoon walk to the castle would be shorter than usual and quiet, for Nan had not spoken two words since they’d departed Kilmichael House. Whatever Mrs. Fullarton had said to Nan had only made things worse.

Davina did her best to keep up with the long-legged maid, eying the blacksmith hammering away at his anvil as they walked past, then nodding at the gentleman who rode by on a chestnut mare. When they turned onto the shore road—wider than the lane to Kilmichael but no
smoother underfoot—Nan turned and thrust a letter into her hands. “This came yestermorn. Carried by a neighbor who’d been tae see the Stewarts.”

Yestermorn?
Davina frowned as she broke the seal. Had the letter remained in Nan’s pocket all this time? In another week she would gladly return to the manse and leave her disagreeable maid behind.

Her cousin Cate’s penmanship—as artless and blithe as the lass herself—looped across the paper. Merely seeing her familiar hand made Davina long for Lamlash Bay. She read as she walked, slowing her pace, requiring Nan to do the same.

To Davina McKie

Monday, 27 June 1808

Dearest Cousin,

We missed you at service yestermorn and pray this letter finds you in good health.

A wave of guilt washed over Davina.
I’ll not disappoint you on the Sabbath next, dear Cate
.

How dreary our lives are without you! Mother is transplanting coleworts and beets, Abbie and I weed between plumpshowers, and Father is minding the bees. Mrs. McCook at Kingscross suffers from the ague. We are to visit her before long.

Cate’s letter was filled with domestic details, written with a carefree innocence that weighed on Davina’s heart. Their lives could not be more different now. While her cousins tended the garden, she contemplated a marriage proposal from a rake.

Davina scanned the closing paragraph twice, trying to read between the lines. Was Reverend Stewart genuinely unhappy with her?

Father is still fretting over your performance on Midsummer Eve. Can you imagine anything so daft? Abbie and I thought you two played beautifully together. Does Mr. MacDonald accompany you at Brodick castle each evening?

Aye, lass. He does
.

She folded the letter and slipped it into her reticule as she and Nan started their climb from Cladach to the castle grounds. Assuming the dry weather held, Davina would borrow one of the Fullartons’ mounts and ride to the manse tomorrow, if only for a short visit. To put her cousins’ minds at ease. And to remind herself of simpler days.

Somerled was waiting for her when she reached the dining room. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived early.” He claimed her baize bag, then sent Nan to join the other servants. “Rest assured,” he told her. “Miss McKie and I will not stray from your sight.” Davina heard the note of sarcasm behind his words; Somerled had wearied of their chaperon.

He’d arranged two chairs by a window overlooking the bay. The faint cry of gulls wafted through the open sash as he seated her, then pulled his chair closer. “At least we’ll have a few moments to ourselves,” he said, then tapped her bag. “Have you brought your sketchbook?”

Davina pulled it from her bag, avoiding his warm gaze, knowing he had more in mind than idle conversation.
I am asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to marry me
. He was asking far more than she was ready to give him. But at least he was asking rather than taking.

Searching for an empty page, she came upon her drawing of one of the wee folk.

Somerled eyed the sketch with a raised brow. “The maids say a fairy has been seen above ground in Brodick Bay, raiding houses in broad daylight and poking round the kitchen, investigating all the dishes being prepared for dinner.”

Davina promptly wrote across the page.
Fairies only do so on Fridays. This is Wednesday
.

He sobered at that. “And on what day do fairies marry mortals? For we must plan accordingly.”

Somerled had not veered from his stated course: He wanted her for his wife. “We cannot delay much longer,” he’d told her yestreen. “The eyes of many are upon us, making what they will of our duets. The sooner we are betrothed, the sooner Arran’s gossips will look elsewhere.”

Only one pair of eyes remained fixed on her now. “Pink is quite becoming on you,” he said, though his gaze did not linger on her gown.
“I have a blithe song in mind to end the evening. You are welcome to accompany me on your fiddle if you like, but do pay particular attention to the last verse.”

Once they were seated at table, Davina watched him as they dined on venison soaked in claret, his fork no busier than her own. If she might be certain that his remorse was sincere, that his apparent affection for her was genuine, that his wish to marry her stemmed from desire and not duty …

But she could be sure of none of those things.

As promised, Somerled closed with a heartsome song, to which she added sparse accompaniment; his fine tenor voice needed no help from her strings. When he reached the final verse, he turned and sang the words directly to her, as if no one else were present.

She has my heart, she has my hand,

By secret troth and honour’s band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I’m thine, my Lowland lassie, O!

Davina blushed at his altered lyric. The song was “
Highland
Lassie, O,” as everyone in the room well knew.

Somerled bowed low before her while their small audience generously applauded. Except for Nan Shaw, who stood to the side, a smug expression on her face.

Forty-Eight

Gossip is mischievous, light and easy to raise,
but grievous to bear and hard to get rid of.
H
ESIOD

T
hursday dawned gray and cool. Sitting alone at the breakfast table, Davina sensed someone tarrying outside the door leading to the hall: two maids speaking Gaelic in hushed voices. Then she heard her name, stark amid the unfamiliar words.
McKie
. Nan was not the only servant at Kilmichael who behaved oddly round her; other maids frowned when Davina entered a room or whispered when she passed them in the hall. Maybe, like Betty at the manse, they assumed their silent houseguest was a fairy.

Her breakfast finished, she rose from the table, intent on riding to the Kilbride manse and paying her cousins a long-overdue visit. No one was in the hall by the time she opened the door. Nor did she find Nan straightening her room as the maid often did, even though all was in order.

Davina searched through the wardrobe, hoping she might locate a pair of shoes better suited to riding. Though she came up empty handed, she discovered that her damask gown was fully dry. Come Lammas she’d take her dress home and see it properly washed and ironed, with the hope of sparing it from the rag bin. At least her lace-trimmed jacket had survived.

Her heart thudded to a stop.
My brocade jacket
. In the painful aftermath, she’d not given it a moment’s thought.

But she remembered the jacket now. Remembered where she’d left it.

Nae!
How could she have been so careless?

Fighting to catch her breath, she opened her bedchamber door, praying no servants were in sight, then hastened down the hall, through
the front door, and round the house. One small grace: With the master of Kilmichael away, the stables were deserted.

A gray mantle of clouds hung overhead as images flooded her mind: Somerled unfastening the buttons beneath her bodice. Sliding the jacket over her shoulders. Tossing it onto the straw-covered floor.
I cannot wait much longer, lass
.

Tears stung her eyes afresh.
But I could have
.

When she neared the far corner of the stables, she slowed her steps, overcome with a sense of dread. Still, she had to look now while she had the chance. She’d not be long finding one small jacket.

Davina pulled open the stable door and nearly fainted.

The stall was empty. Swept clean. Even the tin pails were gone from the pegs.

She stumbled along the perimeter, staring at the wooden pegs, willing her jacket to appear. But it was not there. Had never been there. She’d left it on the floor, neglected, forgotten. A jacket stitched by her mother’s loving hands.

Davina collapsed against the rough wall, her heart aching, her thoughts disjointed. The jacket was lost. Nae, it was found. Discovered by someone. A stranger? A servant? Did that person know it was hers and guess how it had landed here?

Each possibility she envisioned was worse than the last. What if someone was watching the stables, waiting to see who came looking for it? What if one of the lasses in the neighborhood began wearing the jacket, telling folk where she’d found it?

Nae, nae!
Davina could not fathom the consequences any further.

Unless … unless the jacket had been raked up by a stable lad unnoticed, then burned with the straw.
Please, let that be the truth of it!
Though she hated to lose her beautiful jacket, it would be a thousand times worse to lose her reputation.

She fled from the stables, haunted by memories, hounded by remorse. If only she’d had her wits about her that night and claimed her jacket. If only she’d stopped Somerled from removing it in the first place. If only they’d never kissed by the burn.
If only. If only. If only
.

Davina had just turned the front corner of the house, drying her tears with her sleeve, when a familiar male voice brought her to an abrupt stop.
Reverend Stewart?
Aye, there he was. Standing at the front door with his back to her. Talking to Clark and handing him a valise.

Had her cousin come for a visit? When the minister disappeared through the front door, she shook out her skirts and pinned her hair back in place, then hurried after him, praying her fears were not written across her features.