Grace in Thine Eyes (56 page)

Standing before the marble mantelpiece was the laird of Glentrool.

“Mr. McKie. It
is
you.”

Jamie smiled, returning his bow. “I rode on ahead. Rab will be along shortly with two other herds and your flock of sheep.” He walked toward a west-facing window, brightened by the afternoon sun. “The day was well chosen, Graham. Suitably dry but not as hot as August can be. You’ll find your sheep no worse for the journey.” He peered through the glass. “Is that your pasture?”

Graham heard a thread of doubt woven through the man’s words. “The forage is quite rich and the dry stane dyke newly built. My new herd is inspecting the soundness of the dyke. You’ll see him out there.”

“Aye.” Jamie knitted his brow. “Well drained, is it?”

“All round, sir.” He reminded himself the man was a seasoned sheep breeder; any questions he raised were for the good of his flock.

Jamie turned away from the window at last and nodded. “Well done, Graham. Shall we see your fivescore safely home?”

Relieved to have his approval, Graham walked Jamie through the house and out the east-facing door by intent. “Most properties of this size have a garden in the rear. Penningham Hall has a river.” The Cree flowed behind his house, slower and broader here than farther above and below stream. “I’d be pleased to have you join me for smelt fishing next March. Mrs. Threshie thinks they taste like rushes.”

Jamie laughed. “Your housekeeper has a discerning palate.” Dodging the bracken as he walked, he said, “You’ve a fine stand of trees, though you’ll not want your flock wending their way here. Sheep have an aversion to water and boggy land.”

At the sound of bleating, Graham’s chest swelled.
My flock
. Guiding his visitor round to the front, he saw the sheep some distance north, being herded along the road.

“Sheep don’t move with particular speed,” Jamie warned him, “but they do like to stay together. You’ll find they prefer moving from lower to higher ground, from darkness to light, and any direction that takes them toward food.”

“On that subject, sir, I hope you’ll accept my invitation for supper.”

Jamie smiled, lengthening his stride. “As long as you’re not serving baked smelt.”

Graham matched the man’s gait as they neared the flock moving in one fleecy mass toward his enclosed pasture. Rab managed the sheep with ease, walking behind them with his long crook. Two young herds and a pair of black and white collies kept the flock from straying as they guided the sheep through the gate and into their new home.

“Is this your first flock?” Jamie asked.

Graham looked straight ahead, hoping he didn’t appear foolish. “Aye, it is.”

“The men I most admire are shepherds,” Jamie said simply, then closed the gate as the last sheep scurried through. “If Rab or I may be of service, you ken the road to Glentrool. Come anytime, Graham.”

The sheep huddled in the corners, as if afraid of the pastureland. “They’ll not stay like that?” Graham asked.

“Not once they realize their water troughs are in the middle,” Jamie
assured him. “Give them time. Sheep hate change. Almost as much as people do.”

Graham took advantage of the open door. “Mr. McKie, on the matter of change …” He inclined his head toward the house, and they both began walking. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve not informed your daughter of our June conversation?”

Jamie was slow in answering. “I … have not.”

Just as he’d suspected, Davina knew nothing of his interest. No wonder she’d jumped at the mere touch of his hand on Lammas. “Was there some reason for not telling her, Mr. McKie? I know her age was a concern for you.”

Jamie had a ready answer. “Initially I thought it best to wait until she returned home from Arran so that her mother and I might advise her in person.”

The idea of their keeping the news from Davina rankled, yet Graham held his tongue. He was not a father; he did not know how a man informed his daughter of such things. Perhaps face to face was best.

Jamie continued, “In light of all that has happened, we could not bear to add to her misery.”

“Her
misery
?” Graham stopped in his tracks. “Would my interest so grieve your daughter?”

“By no means,” Jamie hastened to say. “But telling Davina that she might have been courted by such a fine gentleman …” Jamie groaned, shaking his head. “Surely you can see how that would make matters worse for her.”

Now he understood. “You mean if she compared courtship with a gentleman to her own experience of being violated and then forced into a betrothal.”

Jamie gazed back toward the pasture, squinting into the sun. “That was not quite the way of it, Graham. Sadly, you are right on the first count. The Highlander confessed as much. But my daughter was not forced to consider marriage. Pressed upon by her circumstances, perhaps, but not by Somerled MacDonald. He did not insist on marriage. Rather, he wooed her until he won her heart.”

Graham dragged a hand over his beard to hide his dismay.
Wooed
her? Won her?
’Twas not the story Reverend Moodie had shared. But who knew better than her own father? “You are certain this rake had some genuine affection for her? And she for him?”

Jamie McKie’s gaze was steady and his voice sure. “I have loved my wife for twenty years, and I know of what I speak. Somerled MacDonald loved my daughter, for however brief a time afforded him. And I believe she favored him in return.”

Graham began walking toward his house. To make sure that his body still moved, that his heart still beat, even though he felt numb, lifeless. He’d cherished an innocent woman from afar. Then a grieving victim from near. But this was a different Davina McKie.

He’d thought she was mourning her lost virtue.

Now he knew she was mourning her lost love as well.

“I can see this does not sit easily with you.” Jamie sighed. “Frankly, I cannot blame you, Graham. Though she is still very much our sweet daughter, she is not the same lass who sailed with me to Arran at the end of May.”

“Nae, she is not the same,” Graham agreed. “For if she truly cared for him, then her heart is with him still.”

“I fear you may be right.”

He sighed heavily. “I know I am, sir.” Hadn’t he grieved for Susan two long years? Only this summer did he once again see the sun shining through the trees over the Cree. And hear children laughing in the village on market day. And dip his paintbrush in yellow more often than black.

They’d reached the front door, though Graham tarried outside, wanting to finish their discussion beyond Mrs. Threshie’s listening ears.

Jamie spoke, his voice low. “I must be truthful with you, Graham. Though I was initially taken aback by your proposal, I would have welcomed you as a son-in-law.”

“
Would
have? Has your opinion of me diminished, sir?”

“Not at all.” Jamie looked at him evenly. “But I can hardly hold you to an offer made before … well, when the situation was very different. Most gentlemen of your stature …”

Graham held up his hand. “My heart has not changed, Mr. McKie. Nor has my offer of marriage.”

Jamie stared at him in disbelief. “Can you mean that?”

“Depend upon it. She is an extraordinary young woman to forgive so completely and care so deeply. I would be honored to call your daughter my wife someday.”

Jamie shook his head, as if trying to make sense of things. “Shall I tell her, then?”

“Nae, for she may conclude I’m acting out of pity or prior obligation and so think less of herself.”

Jamie clasped his hand. “Your kindness and mercy are exemplary.”

“The example was set by One far greater than I, sir. Centuries ago.” They shook hands, their agreement made. “Understand, ’tis not a marriage of convenience I am seeking. I endeavor to win her heart on honest terms. For I’ll not have Miss McKie marry me for any reason other than love.”

“You are certain?” Jamie asked. “Considering what my daughter has been through, such a transfer of her affections may take some time.”

“So be it.” Graham pushed open his front door. “I have learned how to wait.”

Eighty

From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love
To long for, pureness to desire, a mount
Of consecration it were good to scale.
J
EAN
I
NGELOW

Y
ou know what Robert says?”

Davina looked up from the calendar on her father’s desk to find her mother smiling at her from the doorway.

“Fair on September first, fair for the month.”

Davina turned to gaze out the library windows facing the loch. The weather was indeed fair, with a cloudless sky and brilliant sunshine.

Her mother was beside her now, looking down at the calendar with a single word written across the twenty-ninth:
Wedding. “
I do hope our gardener is right. If we have such a fine day on Michaelmas, ’twill be an answer to Margaret’s prayers.” She laughed softly. “And mine. Because if it rains, as it often does in late September, we’ll have to roll up the carpets or scrub out mud for weeks to come.”

Weddings were traditionally conducted at the bride’s home. Aware of Glenhead’s modest size, Leana had quietly offered the McMillans the use of Glentrool’s drawing room. Sally McMillan had leaped from her chair and thrown her arms round Leana’s neck. “God bless you! For I declare, our wee house could not hold even our two families.”

“I believe we will need every inch of space,” her mother admitted, “now that the parish realizes we are the same family we’ve always been.” She touched Davina’s cheek. “And that you are worthy of their compassion and not their judgment.”

Davina nodded, grateful that it was so. When she went abroad to market or to kirk, sympathetic gazes had begun to replace dubious stares. On the Sabbath last, Janet Buchanan had finally spoken to her,
full of apologies. “We did not understand, Davina, what had truly happened. Och, you poor lass! Such a terrible thing.”

The unfortunate business with the marriage agreement had at last been settled. After a flurry of papers came and went from Galloway to Argyll, each affixed with Davina’s signature, Lady MacDonald’s fortune belonged to her once more.

Davina treasured the brief note she had received from her only last week.

To Miss Davina McKie

Saturday, 20 August 1808

Dear Miss McKie,

You have my deepest sympathies, for I understand your loss, even as I share it. My only solace through this most difficult of summers has been knowing what an honorable young woman my son chose for his bride.

Your kindness and generosity in releasing your claim on my family’s estate will never be forgotten. May you find comfort in knowing that your benevolence honors both my beloved son’s memory and your abiding affection for him.

Ever grateful,                                    

Lady MacDonald of Brenfield House

The treasured letter lived between the pages of her new sketchbook, to be removed and read often.
His bride
. With Ian’s wedding on the horizon, it comforted Davina to know that someone had desired to marry her once. That she, too, might have been a bride and not merely the young woman chosen to serve as witness.

When Margaret had asked her, Davina could hardly refuse, not when the lass had been so supportive. She would gladly stand beside Margaret and pray her tears looked joyful.

“Come, dearie.” Mother tugged gently on her arm. “I’ve a new gown for you to try on. Since Margaret is wearing blue, this yellow one should be a fine complement.”

Standing in her bedchamber moments later, Davina slipped on the new silk dress, luxuriating in the feel of it against her skin. The color was rich, like butter freshly churned, with ecru lace along the neckline.

As Leana tied the generous sash round her waist, she met Davina’s gaze in the mirror. “I confess, I brought this gown with me to Arran but did not have the heart to show it to you until now.”

Dear Mother
. Always so sensitive.

When Leana held up matching silk slippers, Davina clapped with joy. How like her to think of everything.

“Without you here, I had to guess at the measurements.” She pinched the excess fabric at the waistline. “I’ll need to take this in, I’m afraid. Unless you might be willing to eat a bit more.”

Davina had lost weight since returning home—half a stone, judging by the loose fit of her garments. ’Twas not an improvement. Gazing in the full-length mirror, she realized her small body looked younger now. More boyish.

Aye
, she promised her mother, nodding emphatically. She would eat more.

The following Tuesday, Davina awakened to the sweet aroma of treacle scones. Aubert had baked them especially for her, knowing she could not resist them fresh from the oven. Once seated at table, Davina spread a dab of rich butter across the crumbly surface, then sank her teeth into the warm scone and was, for a few seconds, in heaven.

Ian smiled at her across the breakfast table. “I’ve not seen that look on your face in a long time, my sister. We must feed you scones more often.”

Davina ducked her head, then promptly took another bite.

“Father, you’ve arranged for the banns to be read on the Sabbath next?”

“I have.” His teacup clinked on the saucer. “The
cryin siller
has been duly paid. You and Margaret must tarry in the kirkyard while the session clerk calls out your names before the service.”

Folk considered it unchancie for a couple to hear their own banns read. Even in the new century, old customs remained. Three Sundays in
a row their banns would be cried, with the wedding to follow on Michaelmas, the twenty-ninth of September. A Thursday boded well, Davina thought; Friday would have been better, but Saturday worse. According to her father’s copy of
The Gentleman’s Diary
, the moon would be waxing the night of their wedding and would shine full and bright on Ian’s birthday a week later.

Would their brothers come home for the wedding? Father would begrudge the twins their missed lectures, of course, but might he allow them to attend?