Grace in Thine Eyes (5 page)

“You’re a dead man, Robertson.” Will snatched the young man’s broadcloth shirt by the neck and yanked hard, nearly choking him in the process, forcing Jock to release his grip on her clothing.

Davina recovered her balance, then watched in dismay as Sandy caught Jock behind the knees with his boot heel, pitching him forward
with a sickening thud. Though the farm laborer was taller and broader than her brothers, he was no match for them both. They pummeled him with fists and lashed him with words until the ruddy-faced lad collapsed on the ground in an untidy heap.

Whispered comments traveled round the garden as Davina pressed her fiddle to her heart, waiting for its fierce beating to ease. Whatever were her brothers thinking, treating the man so roughly when he’d done little to deserve it? If her father had witnessed the ugly scene, he’d have purchased the twins’ army commissions at once and sent them off to fight Napoleon instead of thrashing a poor, inebriated neighbor.

Oblivious to her distress, Will brushed the dirt from his sleeves, then stepped over Jock’s body as one might a discarded roll of carpet. “Did he hurt you, Davina?” Will grasped her elbow and helped her step down, even as Sandy dragged the laborer to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the
byre. “
Worthless drunkard should know his place,” Will grumbled, “and ’tis not next to my sister.”

Davina acknowledged his words with a nod but did not look at him, ashamed of his behavior. When her brothers left for Edinburgh, she would miss them desperately. But she would not miss their cruelty or their love of vengeance. Sometimes it seemed her charming brothers had been stolen by fairies and changelings put in their place.

She consoled herself with one observation: Jock was not limping. Perhaps the contents of his flask had dulled his senses and spared him the worst of her brothers’ blows. At least among the cows he could sleep off his whisky in peace.

With the brief spectacle ended, the company turned their attention to a row of tables draped in linens and covered with serving dishes. Davina presented her fiddle to a trusted servant, then surveyed the May Day feast. Her brothers stood beside her, piling their plates with smoked beef and pickled mutton, congratulating each other for their heroics.

A woman’s voice carried through the air. “Are you quite all right, Davina?” Her mother hurried across the flagstones, a look of alarm on her pale features. “Jenny said there was a row with one of the neighbors …”

Will turned toward her, quick to vindicate their actions. “You did not see the look on Robertson’s face, Mother.” The set of her brother’s jaw, the defensiveness in his voice said more than his words.

Violence, however, did not suit their mother’s peaceful nature. “One should match the punishment to the crime, William. Though I do not approve of drunkenness, I was told Jock merely addressed your sister in too familiar a manner. And manhandled her gown quite by mistake.” The mistress of Glentrool cast her gaze toward Agnes and Bell, who tarried near a plate of oatcakes, waiting for their dance partners to return. “I’ve noted the fond looks you’ve given Miss Paterson today and the many times you’ve touched her sleeve. Would her brother Ranald be justified in throwing you to the ground and beating you senseless?”

A dark stain colored Will’s cheek. “Nae. Though
I
am a gentleman—”

“And Jock Robertson labors with his hands.” Her soft voice did not diminish the power of her words. “He is a child of God, just as you are, William. And a guest of Glentrool as well.” She rested a hand on each of them, her blue gray eyes shining with maternal affection. When Leana McKie disciplined her children, the strength of her love was even more apparent. “Later today,” she told them, “when our neighbor has recovered, you will escort him home. On one of your own mounts.”

Five

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire.
J
OHN
M
ILTON

D
avina lowered her gaze as Will and Sandy nodded in resignation rather than argue with their mother. Who could not respect so virtuous a woman? After a mumbled apology, her brothers joined Agnes and Bell, who surely would affirm the lads’ brave efforts and thus affix a healing poultice to their wounded pride.

Her mother, meanwhile, was straightening the ribbons that Jock had unintentionally pulled askew. “Do forgive your brothers. They’re young and brash and full of energy, with few opportunities to expend it. Like fine horses kept too long in the stables.” She fell silent for a moment, smoothing Davina’s hair. “Edinburgh will be good for the twins, though I know it will be difficult for you. At least your older brother won’t be leaving.” Her mother looked at Ian, standing not far from them, two dinner plates in hand, his attention fully engaged by Miss McMillan.

Nae, Ian would not depart from Glentrool. But it seemed someone else might be joining their family, perhaps by summer’s end. Davina studied the couple, weighing the notion. Another woman in the house. A sister, by marriage.

Her mother’s soft laugh brought her round. “I know what you’re thinking. And I believe Margaret will fit in nicely.” She presented Davina with a plate of her favorite foods, hard cheese and almond cakes among them. “I’ll come check on you in a bit, aye?” She touched Davina’s cheek, then made her way to the house.

Davina dutifully ate a few bites of mutton and a slice of cheese, intent on enjoying the beauty of the day and the companionship of her neighbors. The sky was sapphire blue, the clouds high and sparse, and
a soft breeze fluttered the rowan leaves. Seated on the stone bench, she drank in the warm sun like a refreshing cup of tea, all the while looking about the garden for a friendly face.

Barbara Heron hurried to her side as if she’d been called by name. The miller’s daughter, twenty-odd years of age and still unmarried, bore a cheerful enough countenance. Her ruffled gown of white sprigged muslin was two seasons old but no worse for the wearing. “How wonderfully you played today!” she began, perching next to her on the bench. Barbara did not pause as some did, waiting for Davina to respond, then remembering she could not. Instead Barbara related the day’s news in a lively monologue, barely catching her breath between subjects. Imminent betrothals, new arrivals to the parish, proposed summer journeys—all were divulged in enthusiastic detail.

Davina almost didn’t hear Janet Buchanan join them, so quietly did she light on the bench, like a wee meadow pipit. A sweet-natured lass from nearby Palgowan farm, Janet preferred to listen and did so with wide-eyed attentiveness, covering her mouth with her fingertips at each astonishing revelation. Several more young women were drawn into their circle before Barbara’s store of gossip ran out.

“My, but ’tis warm.” Barbara stood and curtsied, her performance at an end. “Will you entertain us again, Davina? I’ve yet to dance a strathspey with Peter Carmont.” She looked round, then lowered her voice. “They say he’s to sail for Portugal before Lammas.” Even more quietly. “His regiment awaits orders.” A mere whisper. “From Sir Wellesley.” On that dramatic note Barbara quit their company and aimed herself like an arrow toward the unsuspecting lieutenant, who stood amid a knot of men on the far side of the garden.

When Davina rose, Janet did as well, lightly clasping her hand. “Might you play a slow air? For me?”

Davina squeezed her gloved fingers in response. She knew just the melody to please her soft-spoken friend. She waved to the manservant who’d kept her fiddle safely by his side for the dinner hour, then mounted the bench with his help, lifted her bow, and struck a vibrant chord. A chorus of gleeful shouts rang out. Enough of feasting; the assembled were eager to dance.

The ritual of May Day with its single circle was put aside for sets, with dancers choosing partners and forming lines. As the sun arced over the glen, Davina served up one tune after another, from Janet’s gentle air, “The Nameless Lassie,” to her brothers’ favorite hornpipes.

She could not help noticing the tentative pairings the day’s festivities had produced. Lads and lasses who’d marked each other from the first now shared a cup of punch or lingered after a reel, hands still touching. Sandy in particular seemed bent on wooing Bell Thomson, though she was as tall as he and had a fine temper of her own. As expected, Ian and Margaret were inseparable. Had she ever seen her taciturn brother so animated? Barbara Heron did partner with Peter Carmont for a strathspey, though he soon put her aside for a willowy brunette from the village.

A few folk inquired of Davina, “Is there no May King?” She only smiled, thinking of her evening plans. The day would end as it had begun—with a solo venture out of doors. Not to bathe in the dew nor to banish her freckles but to test an old Beltane tradition “from auld
lang syne
,” as her father would say.

At the four hours, cups of fresh tea were brought out on trays before their guests were sent home, weary yet well sated. Most departed on foot, some on horseback; the narrow, rutted road into the glen did not accommodate wheeled conveyances. Will and Sandy did their duty by Jock, saddling the best horse in Glentrool’s stables.

When the last rays of sunlight painted the horizon the color of orange marmalade, and the first quarter moon neared its zenith, the twins finally returned from Brigton farm. Davina flew to the front window at the sound of her brothers pounding up the drive, relieved to see them. Aubert Billaud, Glentrool’s temperamental cook, served supper precisely at eight. Jamie insisted they all be seated on time without exception.

After handing over the horses to a stable lad, her brothers disappeared up the stair, then arrived at table with damp hair and loosely folded cravats. If any ill feelings remained between father and sons, they did not surface during the meal. Aubert’s main courses—boiled salmon with fennel, kidney collops, and roasted plover—kept everyone’s forks busy and their attention occupied. Ian and Mother carried much of the conversation and avoided any mention of Edinburgh.

As always the evening ended with family worship. In many Scottish homes, the practice had faded away with the last century, but not at Glentrool. Davina folded her hands in her lap, waiting as her father opened the wooden box by the hearth, lifted out the
Buik
, and placed it on the table with due reverence. A tattered ribbon marked the psalms. He opened the thick volume, smoothing his hands across its worn pages.

“For the L
ORD
God is a sun and shield.”

Her father could spend an entire evening’s worship on a single verse. Davina did not mind the long hour, but the twins shifted in their seats, elbowing each other to stay awake. As for Leana, her gaze remained fixed on her husband, her face shining like the moon.

“The L
ORD
will give grace and glory.” Spoken like a promise, which her mother affirmed by lifting her hand to her heart. Her father had much to say about glory and more still about grace. “Mercy is a gift. Yet we are encouraged to ask for it, as David did. ‘Have mercy upon me, O God.’ ”

Davina’s brow wrinkled, considering his words. Was it seemly to request a gift? King David, for whom she was named, repeatedly cried out for mercy. Did the Almighty not grow weary of extending grace to his people over and over?

Her father didn’t seem to think so. As the hour drew to a close, he finished the evening’s verse. “No good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.” Davina missed most of his comments that followed, her mind circling round the last two words:
walk uprightly
.

The phrase nagged at her as she followed her family up the stair, knowing she would steal back down when their bedroom doors were closed and the entrance hall stood empty. Though her plans were innocent enough, custom required that she go alone, then return in utter silence. She dared not risk her boisterous brothers trailing after her, or this night would be lost to her for another twelvemonth.

Sarah undressed her with practiced ease, then slipped a fresh muslin nightgown over her head and brushed her hair until it fell round her shoulders like a soft cloud. “Sleep well,” Sarah murmured before quitting her bedroom, bound for the servants’ quarters behind the house.

The mantel clock in the drawing room chimed half past eleven when Davina pulled on a pair of cotton stockings and wrapped herself in a thin plaid. She tiptoed down the long staircase, holding the plaid with one hand and clutching a knife in the other. Pilfered from Aubert’s knife drawer while he was distracted with supper preparations, the small utensil provided all that custom dictated: an ebony handle and a sharp blade.

Opening and closing the broad oak door without making a noise required a steady hand and infinite patience. Once the door was securely shut, Davina grabbed the iron lantern from its perch by the door and started down the front path, holding out the lantern with its windows of thinly scraped horn, twin candles lighting the way. The waxing moon was of little help, low in the sky as it was. As for the night air, it was chillier than she had expected. She tightened her grip on the plaid and peered along the edges of the path. No need to strike out for the hills if she could find what she needed closer to home. Yarrow—
milfoil
, her mother called it—grew everywhere.

By Lammas, the plant would reach her knees. Now it was not so tall, nor had it flowered. Surely she would recognize the angular stems covered with feathery leaves. Didn’t her mother collect yarrow each harvest to make tea? She remembered the bitter leaves being broader than her thumb …

There
.

Davina leaned down, placed her lantern on the walk, then pinched the hairy plant with her fingers. A familiar scent wafted up to greet her. Refreshing, like feverfew. And strong.

She gripped the knife in her right hand and pulled the yarrow taut with her left. The single cut sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of approaching midnight. In her heart she whispered the lines of an old verse:

Good-morrow, good-morrow, fair yarrow,
And thrice good-morrow to thee;
Come, tell me before tomorrow,
Who my true love shall be.