Grace in Thine Eyes (34 page)

Reverend Stewart was waiting in the entrance hall, his clothes rumpled and dusty from the ride. He greeted Davina with a nervous smile. “The footman just went looking for you. But I’ve found you first. Or you’ve found me. Have you been in the garden?” The flurry of words was unusual, as if her presence discomfited him. “Come, let me have a look at you, Cousin.”

When he clasped her hands, she noticed his were clammy, and his forehead was covered with a sheen of perspiration. Was he ill? Was there trouble at the manse? Had he come to take her home?

Clark reappeared, then seated them in the music room. Tea would follow within minutes. Despite Mrs. Fullarton’s concerns, Kilmichael was an efficient household even with its mistress confined to her bedchamber.

The moment they had the room to themselves, Reverend Stewart said, “I was sorry to hear that your hostess is nursing a persistent cough. And Clark indicated that Captain Fullarton is on the mainland.”

She nodded, though she could tell the news upset him.

“Davina, I confess I’m grieved to find you here … unprotected. Had I known, I would have come sooner.” He lowered his voice, though no one else was in the room. “I had hoped the captain might offer some explanation of why you were not at kirk on Sunday.”

Of course
. The instant she saw Reverend Stewart she should have realized why he’d come. No wonder he was perspiring, having to question his own cousin’s devotion to God. Had she called on her cousins yesterday, she could have put their worries to rest.

Davina retrieved her sketchbook from her baize bag on the pianoforte and wrote a brief explanation:
I’m sorry to say the maid did not
awaken me, and so I overslept
. Though every word was true, it looked inadequate on paper.

“In your weeks at the manse you were usually up at dawn.” Reverend Stewart mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief. “Did you retire late on Saturday evening?”

She wrote again, determined to remain honest.
It was eleven o’clock before I returned to Kilmichael from the castle. His Grace has been most appreciative of my music
. By the look on his face, her comments were not improving matters.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps on the mainland parishioners do not find it necessary to attend church weekly, as they once were obliged to do. I can assure you we are not so lax on Arran.”

She wrote out a heartfelt apology, assuring him she would be in the Kilbride kirk on the Sabbath next. Though he nodded as he read it, he did not look appeased.

“The girls miss you very much,” he finally admitted. “The sixth of July cannot come soon enough for them.”

Davina nodded, touching her heart.
I miss them too. And you, Cousin. And Elspeth
.

“I’ve brought some of your dresses, your riding habit, and so forth. I believe the valise has been delivered to your room.”

Davina offered her thanks, then put aside her sketchbook as tea was served. Though her precious jacket was lost to her, she would have several dresses made by her mother to console her. A tender reminder of home.

Reverend Stewart lifted his teacup, then said, almost as an afterthought, “I wrote to your father last Friday, letting him know you’re here at Kilmichael.”

The notion made her uneasy. What had Reverend Stewart told her parents? That the duke had honored her by requesting she entertain his guests? Or that Somerled had dishonored her with his “wanton” accompaniment?

Her one solace was this: The minister knew nothing of what had happened in the stables.

“I realize the house is brimming with servants, Cousin, and you are
hardly alone. But I’ll be happier when you are safely at the manse and the duke’s guests have returned to Argyll … or, ah … to Fife or … well, Stirlingshire or whence they hail.”

Somerled
. Davina was glad the reverend couldn’t read her thoughts.
You were not entirely wrong about him, Cousin
.

He placed his tea saucer on the table, no longer meeting her gaze. “People can be cruel, Davina. They see things … or hear things … and make judgments that are not fair.” He stood, as if he’d run out of words or could no longer bring himself to say them. “Resist the devil, lass, and he will flee from you.”

She did not need to be told the devil’s name.

“Now I must discharge my ministerial duties,” he said, attempting in vain to smooth the wrinkles from his coat, “assuming Mrs. Fullarton is awake and will not object to a brief visit. My physic books are in my saddlebag, should her symptoms warrant.”

Davina followed him up the stair, then stood in the corner of the room as he listened intently to his patient’s cough, touched her brow, then prayed for her health. On Arran, ministers and midwives usually sufficed as medical practitioners.

“How good of you to call.” Mrs. Fullarton sounded weak, but her spirits remained strong. “Miss McKie, kindly see your cousin to the door since I cannot.”

Davina watched him depart, saddened by the slump of his shoulders as he threw himself onto his horse. He had traveled all these miles to admonish her. And to warn her. Perhaps he’d sensed it was too late.

She sighed as she walked through the quiet house, feeling very alone. There was no one she might confide in, no one she could trust with her secrets, which were mounting. If her mother were here, could she even tell her what had happened? The thought of writing her experiences on paper made Davina blush.
Nae
. Some things could never be discussed.

At least she had the gowns her mother had made, waiting in the guest room. After luncheon she’d spend the afternoon airing them and choose one to wear that evening for the duke. Which ones had Elspeth
packed, she wondered. Undoubtedly Cate and Abbie had slipped notes in her valise.

Anticipation quickened her heart as she swept open the guest room door. But what she found was not at all what she’d expected.

Her brocade jacket lay on the bed. Cleaned and pressed.

She fell back against the door, grasping the cold brass knob for support.
God, help me!
One of Kilmichael’s servants had found her jacket. There could be no other explanation.

If one servant knew, they all knew. If one household knew, the whole parish would know come the Sabbath. The captain would be informed upon his return. Reverend Stewart would be told on the road before he reached home. The truth would travel faster than any newspaper headline on the mainland:
Davina McKie disrobed in the stables of Kilmichael on Midsummer Eve
. A woman would only do such a disgraceful thing in the company of a gentleman.

She sank to her knees on the carpeted floor.
Somerled
. He alone could save her.

Even if she could not trust him … even if she did not love him … even if her father did not approve of him, marrying Somerled was her only hope.

Forty-Nine

A lost good name is ne’er retriev’d.
J
OHN
G
AY

J
amie McKie eased his oars into the loch, watching Leana’s eyes drift shut, a faint smile on her face. The fine lines in her skin were beginning to show. Her hair was threaded with silver, like her Aunt Meg’s, and lately Leana needed her spectacles more often than not.

She had never looked more beautiful to him.

He guided their skiff across Loch Trool with slow, even pulls, not wanting to disturb her. Leana had not slept well of late, worrying about their children, longing for their homecoming at Lammas. Neither Davina nor the twins had written her in a week, which only heightened her concerns. If a forenoon outing on the glassy surface of Trool afforded his wife the rest she needed, he would let her nap. Ian was visiting the McMillans that morning; the house was as peaceful as the loch.

High above them the sky resembled a watercolor painting in pale blues and soft grays, without sun or rain in the offing. The air was cool for the last day of June, and a light breeze moved across the water. He leaned forward and draped a thin, woolen plaid across Leana. She stirred, but her eyelids did not flutter open.
Sleep, dear wife
. He had loved her for nearly twenty years. Lord willing, he would have her with him for twoscore more.

“I can feel you watching me.” She gradually opened her eyes, and her smile grew. “How lovely to catch a wee nap.” She sat up slowly, taking care not to tip the bow of the skiff toward the water, then winced as she rolled her shoulders. “I spent too long in the garden this morning.”

“Easily done when the sky is light by four o’clock.”

She nodded, adjusting the plaid across her gown. “After that soaking rain on Sunday, everything’s blooming. I’ve never seen the field poppies so bright. And the fairy foxgloves nearly reach my chin.”

Jamie thought of another fairy that nearly reached his chin, though he wouldn’t mention her name and risk dampening Leana’s spirits. He never should have taken Davina to Arran, never should have suggested it. Not because he’d infuriated the twins, but because he’d disappointed his wife, who missed their daughter more each day.

“We have company.” Leana was staring over his shoulder. “Galloping hard on the glen road.”

He started rowing toward the pier, listening for the hoofbeats. “A single rider?”

“Aye. Reverend Moodie has a roan gelding, does he not?”

Jamie nodded, grunting as he dragged the oars through the water. In summer the minister often made monthly rounds of the parish. But not at a full gallop.

By the time they reached the stone pier, Reverend Moodie had already dismounted and sent his horse off to the stables. He stood waiting for them, his face flushed. “May I give you a hand, Mrs. McKie?” he asked with a tip of his hat, revealing his balding pate. “Good day to you as well, sir.” The minister offered him a slight bow, then started up the walk. “Pardon me if I’ve interrupted your boating.”

It was then Jamie noticed the strain in the man’s voice, the reserve in his demeanor, and was convinced this was no monthly visit.

Leana tried to smile. “Reverend Moodie, will you honor us with your company at our noontide meal? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Tea,” he said quickly, walking ahead of them through the front door. “I’m afraid I’ve not much time. Nor much appetite.”

Once the three of them were seated in the drawing room and tea was served, Jamie dispensed with any small talk. “Reverend Moodie, ’tis obvious you’ve come to Glentrool on some matter of import.”

“So I have.” He pulled two letters from his waistcoat. “These arrived by mail coach this morning.” The letters appeared to be identical, written in the same masculine hand on the same stationery, except for the colors of the wax. One was sealed in red—a business letter, already opened—and the other, sealed in amber beeswax, was personal. “They’re both from Kilbride parish.”

Arran
. Jamie’s heart quickened as Leana’s hand sought his.

“Is Davina …” Her voice was barely audible. “Is she ill? Has she been harmed?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mrs. McKie. I believe your daughter is in good health.”

“Thanks be to God.” Leana let out an airy sigh. “Pardon me, Reverend, for being anxious.”

Though neither letter was sealed in black, the color of mourning, Jamie felt no such relief.
To my knowledge … I believe …
The man was hedging.
Whatever has happened?

“You have every reason to be anxious,” the minister assured her, “when your children are not under your roof.” With compassion in his brown eyes, he handed Jamie the sealed letter. “This is from Reverend Benjamin Stewart. Your cousin, I believe.” He held up the other. “As you can see, he wrote to me as well.”

“But …” Leana stared at him. “Why would our cousin …”

“My letter is of a ministerial nature,” he explained, “requesting that I deliver your post at once. Reverend Stewart writes, ‘As a fellow minister, you will appreciate my desire to impart this urgent news to the McKies. Kindly place it in their hands at the earliest possible hour.’ Your cousin must have feared your letter would languish at a coaching inn, unclaimed for days.”

Leana apologized profusely. “He could not have known what a burden he placed on you, Reverend, asking you to ride so far.”

“I have other business in the glen,” he insisted. “And the postscript was enough to persuade me to saddle my horse.” He glanced down to read the closing words. “As Davina McKie is a member of your parish, I would urge you to pray for her moral fortitude, lest she be tempted beyond what she is able to resist.”

Jamie heard the words, but they barely registered, so outrageous was the notion.
Her moral fortitude? Davina?

“You must forgive me, but I was not the first to read this letter. As it bore a business seal, the session clerk opened it first.” Reverend Moodie glanced at their sealed post as he stood. “Knowing your dear Davina, I feel certain your own letter will not bear further tidings of that nature.”

“I pray you are right,” Leana said faintly as the minister took his leave.

The moment they had the drawing room to themselves, Jamie slid his thumb under the seal, the snap of the wax unnaturally loud in the silent room, his heart thudding.

“Hurry,” Leana pleaded, “for I cannot think what has happened.”

Jamie scanned the opening lines. “ ’Tis dated almost a week ago. Friday, the twenty-forth of June. Midsummer Day. He extends the usual greetings … ah, here.

“Last evening our family attended a Midsummer Eve dinner party at Kilmichael …”

“Davina wrote me about that dinner.” Leana twisted a lace handkerchief round her fingers. “She was to play for the Duke of Hamilton.”

“It seems she did. And does still.

“At His Grace’s bidding, Davina has remained behind at Kilmichael House with Captain and Mrs. Fullarton for a fortnight. She is to play for the duke and his visitors each evening at Brodick castle.”

Leana stared at the letter. “Is your cousin unhappy with the Fullartons?”

“Nae.” Jamie grimaced, reading ahead. “With one of the duke’s guests.