Grace in Thine Eyes (43 page)

Now it was her turn to mollify Will and Sandy. Might music accomplish what food and conversation had not?

Dressed in pale green muslin—the twins’ favorite color—she stood with the castle hearth at her back, eying the duke’s guests. Somerled’s promised surprise had yet to materialize, and the gentleman himself was nowhere to be seen. Should she begin without him? She’d dutifully rehearsed all the Niel Gow tunes in her repertoire that afternoon while her brothers had climbed Goatfell. They’d returned drenched with sweat and breathing hard, with barely enough time to dress for dinner, wearing expressions as hard as the granite they’d traversed.

Lifting her bow, Davina prayed her instrument might be like David’s harp, soothing their spirits.
Please, Lord
. She began with a familiar Gow strathspey, “Highland Whisky,” driving her bow across the strings with even more vigor than usual, attacking the dotted quavers.
When she finished the opening measures, a second fiddler joined her for the repeated phrase, matching her spirited bowing.
Somerled
.

He was smiling as he walked across the room, playing all the while, his tail coat a fitting match for her darker green sash. Wherever had he located a fiddle? The duke’s guests applauded his entrance; her brothers did not join them. Refusing to be discouraged, she segued into another strathspey in the same key, “Miss Stewart of Grantully.” Somerled kept pace with her, letting her add the many grace notes that enlivened the tune, communicating only with his eyes and with his bow.

Mind the G natural. That’s the way. A bit faster this time? Perfect, my love
.

Davina looked away, overwhelmed by her feelings. Somerled understood her. Nae, he heard her. And spoke in a language meant for her alone.

As they finished the tune, the duke called out, “Have you a jig for me, Miss McKie?”

Davina nodded to assure him that, aye, she did: one with a blithe melody yet a sobering name, “The Stool of Repentance.” She could not imagine climbing the dreaded wooden stool of old, sitting before the pulpit for an entire morning service, then openly confessing her sins to the congregation. Had the
cutty stool
not gone the way of tricorn hats, Somerled would surely have been sentenced to
compear
for many Sabbaths in a row. The notion would no doubt please her brothers.

Their dark eyes were fixed on the Highlander as he played, their mouths unsmiling, their chins jutted out. Even the energetic reel “Dunkeld Bridge,” to which the twins had often danced on Glentrool’s lawn, did not set their feet tapping or erase the furrows in their brows. Davina kept to the melody, allowing Somerled to embellish the tune, and still her brothers seemed unimpressed by him.

As the hour grew later and drams of whisky were poured round the room, the lads did not imbibe but sat straighter in their chairs, defying those who were beginning to list. Davina had one final Gow tune to offer, a gentle air written for Lady Ann Hope. Somerled lowered his fiddle, giving her the stage. She missed hearing his notes intertwining with hers, yet was grateful for his perceptiveness. If she played alone, the
twins might sense her affection for them and put aside their need to punish the man who’d changed her life in a single night.

The tune swept up and down the scale in graceful phrases, even as her hands moved up the ebony fingerboard to reach the higher notes. She looked directly at Will and Sandy as she played, hoping they might read her thoughts as Somerled often did.
You will always have my love, dear brothers. Nothing could ever change that
.

Did she note a sheen in Sandy’s eyes, or had the flickering candle fooled her? Davina took one step toward them, pleading her case with music.
Can you not see that we must marry? And that I have forgiven him?
Will shifted his posture but not the firm line of his mouth.
Please, Will. He is not so different from us
.

Somerled accompanied her on the final chorus, playing not in harmony but in unison, strengthening the power of each note. The McKie men joined in the crowd’s lengthy ovation, though her brothers’ applause ceased when she nodded toward Somerled, inviting him to take a bow as well. He clasped her hand as together they acknowledged the audience’s enthusiastic response, his grip strong and warm as ever. If the twins unnerved him, it did not show.

The duke’s guests rose to their feet at last—some more steadily than others—and ambled off in several directions toward their sleeping chambers. Her father reached her first. “You’ve never sounded better,” he told her, paternal pride shining in his eyes. “Don’t you agree, lads?”

“The last tune especially,” Will said, looking only at her.

Somerled squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I concur with you, Will. Your sister fares very well without my accompaniment.”

“Indeed she does.” Sandy folded his arms across his chest, like a bird ruffling its plumage to appear larger to its rivals.

Davina was glad when Sir Harry joined them; three McKies to one MacDonald felt less than sporting. She slipped her hand through the crook of Somerled’s arm, making her allegiance clear to her brothers.
Though I am proud to be a McKie, I will soon become a MacDonald
. A tremor ran through her at the thought of all the changes ahead. A new name. A new home. A new life.

“So, lads.” Sir Harry’s booming voice, soaked with whisky, filled the
quiet dining room. “Your father tells me you spent the afternoon on Goatfell.”

“We did.” Will exchanged glances with his twin. “Have you been to the summit yet? It offers an incomparable view.”

“So we’ve been told, though Somerled and I have yet to make the ascent.”

“Really?” Sandy arched his brows with marked disdain. “Surely you’ll not leave Arran without mastering Goatfell?”

Sir Harry rose to her brother’s challenge. “Nae, we will not.”

“Have you forgotten, Father?” However smooth Somerled’s delivery, Davina heard the underlying tension in his voice. “Tomorrow we journey on horseback to Machrie Moor for a look at the stone circles. With His Grace.”

“Aye, aye.” Sir Harry rubbed his chin. “Still, if the weather holds, we might climb Goatfell on Wednesday before we take our leave.”

An uneasiness stirred inside Davina.
Goatfell
. Somerled had lodged a fortnight in the jagged mountain’s shadow with no desire to mount its heights. Yet if he did not climb, the twins would brand him a coward.

“My brother and I would be willing to guide you,” Will offered. “What say you, Father, to a scramble up Goatfell?”

“Alas, I cannot join you,” Jamie admitted, though it clearly pained him to do so. “ ’Tis difficult for me to get a decent footing on the steeper hills.” He shrugged in Sir Harry’s direction. “I once wrenched my leg crossing a tidal burn at night.”

The older man frowned. “A pity, that.”

“Sorry you cannot join us, Father.” Will sounded more compassionate than usual. “Suppose you keep Davina company while Sandy and I take the MacDonalds climbing. Other than some loose stones and gritty slabs of granite near the summit, Goatfell is none too daunting.”

“See that you descend along the same path,” Jamie cautioned, “for there are dangerous precipices to the west.”

Sir Harry drew himself up. “You forget, McKie, that my son and I are Highlanders. We’ve climbed many a
ben
and will hardly be bested by this one.”

“Let us hope for fair weather on Wednesday, then.” Somerled rested
his hand on Davina’s; she nearly jumped at the coolness of his skin. “As for this evening, with your permission, I should like to escort Davina to your lodging at Cladach.”

“By all means.” Will stood back, gesturing toward the door. “We know what a gentleman you are, MacDonald. ’Tis why my brother and I will stay close on your heels ’til the very hour you depart this isle.”

Sixty-Three

When the mind is in a state of uncertainty
the smallest impulse directs it to either side.
T
ERENCE

L
eana knelt beneath her dining room window and pressed the sharp blade of her garden knife against the thorny stem. She winced as the first bloom from her Apothecary’s Rose gave way, feeling her heart break with it.
I should never have let her go
.

She held the deep pink flower to her nose, hoping its sweet fragrance might ease her anxious thoughts. Would her husband come riding up with Davina in a day or two, rescued from the Highlander’s embrace? Or had Jamie already sent a letter, assuring her their daughter was well and in no danger?

Leana had little hope for either outcome; her heart was too heavy, her spirit too restless. She’d lived with a sense of dread from the moment Arran had been mentioned. Then Sunday at kirk the phrase “moral fortitude” had flown round the sanctuary like a trapped wren.
What has Davina done? Who is she with? What will become of her?
Between services Leana had remained in the pew with Ian rather than face the gossips in the kirkyard belittling her daughter.

Please, Lord, let none of it be true
. Leana hastened for the door of the house, as if she might outrun her fears, breathing in the rose’s fragrance once more when her foot touched Glentrool’s threshold.

“Och! Thar ye are.” Eliza closed the drawing room door behind her, then hurried to Leana’s side, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Ye’ve a visitor, jist arrived. I’ve taken the
leebeertie
tae serve him tea.” She relieved Leana of her apron and plucked the rose from her fingers. “ ’Tis Mr. Webster o’ Penningham Hall, mem.”

Leana had taken note of him on the Sabbath: seated alone in his pew, his auburn head bowed, his shoulders sagging as if he bore a heavy
burden. She’d longed to speak with him, but he’d slipped out the door when the morning service ended. Away to the Penningham kirk, perhaps. Away from the blether, to be sure.

Had he come to inform her he no longer wished to court Davina?

Moving toward the library, she told Eliza, “I’ll speak with Ian briefly and then greet Mr. Webster. You say he has tea?”

“And honey cakes baked fresh this morn.”

“Well done. Do tell our guest I shall join him presently.”

She found Ian sitting at his father’s desk, surrounded by books. “Graham Webster is here,” she informed him, then rinsed her hands at the washstand and patted her face, grown moist beneath the sun. “You are free to join us, but it might be best …”

“Aye,” Ian was quick to agree. “You should meet with him alone, for ’tis a private matter. Do send Jenny for me if I’m needed.”

“Ian …” She dried her hands on the fresh linen, then carefully placed it by the bowl. “Might you pray for our conversation? I can only imagine how upset Mr. Webster must be, yet I’ve so little information to offer him.”

“Consider it done, Mother.” His smile was Jamie’s. His blue gray eyes were hers. But his heart belonged to God, and for that she was abundantly grateful.

Leana crossed the entrance hall, with its polished floors and gleaming mirror, and opened the drawing room door, mustering what confidence she could. “Mr. Webster, how good of you to come.”

He was already standing, his hat and gloves on the table, his tea poured but apparently untouched. “Your housekeeper was kind enough to usher me in, Mrs. McKie. Pardon me if I’ve chosen an inconvenient time to call.”

“Not at all. You are always welcome at Glentrool.”

He murmured his thanks, then sat, though he looked uncomfortable, as though he might spring to his feet at any moment.

She took her cup and saucer, hoping he might do the same. “Were you expecting to find my husband at home? I know Mr. McKie has fivescore sheep set apart for you come Lammas. The very best of his flocks.”

“I am pleased to hear it, but …” He spread out his large hands, as if
they might express what he could not. “ ’Tis your daughter … ’tis my concern for Miss McKie that brings me to your door.”

“Of course.” Leana put down her teacup before it began rattling in her hands.
Give me wisdom, Father. And strength. “
In truth, I meant to speak with you on the Sabbath last.”

His hazel eyes brightened. “You have news, then? From Arran?”

Leana hesitated, knowing her answer would disappoint him. “Not yet,” she finally admitted. “Later in the week—Thursday or Friday, perhaps—I may receive word from my husband.”

Graham sighed, his gaze settling on the window facing the loch. The morning sun poured through the glass, decorating the carpeted floor with yellow squares. “Might he bring her home?”

“I confess, Mr. Webster, that is my hope. I will gladly tell you what I know.” She briefly described Davina’s Midsummer Eve performance for the Duke of Hamilton.

Graham blanched. “His Grace?”

“Aye.” Leana still could not comprehend it herself. “It seems one of his guests, a young Highlander from Argyll, accompanied Davina on the violoncello.”

“I see.”

“Do not imagine the worst,” she hastened to add, noting his downcast expression. “Mr. MacDonald is the heir of Sir Harry MacDonald, a gentleman of some standing. I feel certain his son has made no inappropriate, ah, overtures toward our daughter.”

Heat rose up her neck. She had no such assurance, and Graham Webster knew it.

“But wasn’t Reverend Moodie asked to pray for her—”

“Aye.” Leana could not countenance hearing the phrase again. “I beg you not to condemn our daughter on such slender evidence.”

“You can be sure I will not,” he said firmly. “Until you or your husband informs me otherwise, I’ll assume Miss McKie remains chaste and above reproach.”

May it be so, Lord
. She waited until her cheeks cooled before she broached the delicate subject of his suit. “Then you’ll not withdraw your offer to court our daughter?”

“By no means.”

Leana could not contain her relief. “I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Webster.” All was not lost. Not if a gracie man such as he could ignore the gossips and trust his own heart. “The moment Davina is home, we’ll join you for dinner at Penningham Hall, as you requested.”