Grace in Thine Eyes (8 page)

He bested his younger brothers in this: Ian could be quiet for long stretches of time and require nothing of her. Communicating her thoughts by way of gestures often grew wearisome. With Ian, she could simply relax, knowing he was fully absorbed in his collection of essays.

From time to time he glanced through the glass, just as Davina did, and perhaps for the same reason: expecting to see the twins riding beside the coach on horseback, as was their custom. Her thoughts matched the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.
Hurry home. Hurry home
. There was no cure for her rising melancholy except to open her sketchbook and daydream about a certain gentleman.

Assuming an air of indifference so Ian would not ask to see what engaged her, Davina studied one drawing, then another, her charcoal pencil poised as if she might add to her artwork at any moment. Here were the linns on the Minnoch—badly rendered, she decided. Then the squirrel she’d drawn yestreen. When her gaze fell on the page she knew so well, she forgot to hide her smile.

How different this gentleman was from her dark-headed brothers and auburn-haired Mr. Webster and balding Reverend Moodie. In all her years she’d never seen such a man as this—not in any book or in any Lowland village. A golden prince with sunlit waves in his hair. Eyes as blue as the northern sky. Tall and strong as a mast on a ship. Bright and warm as summer itself.

Remembering how eagerly she had moved her pencil across the page, her heart quickened. Was it only four days ago? The charcoal was slightly smudged, yet Davina would recognize him when she saw him.

And see him she would.

Where or how, she did not know. But her dream had been too
vivid, the image too detailed not to be real. Hadn’t her father dreamed dreams long ago? And hadn’t those things come to pass? Davina hung her hope on this thread: She was the only daughter of Jamie McKie, a man whose dreams came true.

Nine

It is a wise father that knows his own child.
W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

Y
ou will see to Davina’s welfare, Father? See that she’s happy?” Jamie noted the sincerity in Will’s voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, and forgave the irksome question, oft repeated during their journey east. “Depend upon it,” he said, standing with care to avoid cracking his skull on the low beams of their lodging house. Professor Russell provided a good table and a sound mattress, but his bedchambers were far from spacious, and mean in appearance. The carpet was worn thin, the small-paned windows admitted paltry light, and the porcelain washbowl was badly chipped.

Fortunately, young men paid scant attention to such things. The quadrangle and old library, the assembly rooms and public houses—those were the places where Will and Sandy would spend their time convening with fellow students. Hadn’t he done the same?

Jamie leaned his forehead against the windowpane, staring down at the phaetons with their mud-splattered wheels and drenched bonnets. “I’ve stabled your mounts round the corner in Horse Wynd, though you’ll find little use for them. Edinburgh is a town best seen on foot.”

Sandy joined him at the window. “Even in the rain, sir?”

“Especially in the rain, when you’re forced to seek shelter beneath the lowest of archways.” Jamie scanned the familiar horizon. “Be advised, the skies are often bleak and the winds from the North Sea raw. When a cold sea fog rolls in from the east, the air is so thick you cannot see your horse’s head, should you be unwise enough to mount the beast. Add the smoke from hundreds of chimneys, and you’ll find they call the town ‘Auld Reekie’ for good reason.”

He realized he was stalling, making idle conversation rather than saying what must be said and taking his leave. The ride to Edinburgh
had been long and tedious; his sons had spoken with each other but not with him, except when necessary. Their resentment hung in the air, so thick it clung to his clothing, like dust kicked up from a hard gallop.

True, he had given them little notice of his plans to enroll them in university. But they had given him little choice. Ever since their tutor’s departure, Will and Sandy had grown increasingly restless at Glentrool. “Children of wrath,” one of the parish gossips called them. Pummeling neighbors with their fists, challenging his authority, chasing after the lasses rather than courting one woman properly as Ian did—ungentlemanly behavior all round.

Nae, he had not erred, not in this. Difficult as it was to entrust the twins to strangers, his sons’ futures hinged upon their education.

When Will stepped to the window, flanking him on one side while Sandy remained on the other, Jamie slipped his arms round both their shoulders. “ ’Tis time I started for home.” He briefly pulled his sons closer—not a true embrace yet not lacking affection—then released them with a deepening sense of regret. Come Lammas, he would find Will and Sandy much altered. Not mere lads but men. Not sons of Glentrool but sons of Edinburgh.

“You’ve nae need to escort me down the stair,” he told them, collecting his riding hat and gloves. “I ken my way to the front door.”

The lads exchanged glances, then shook their dark heads in tandem.

“Nae, Father,” Will insisted. “We are not so ill mannered as that. You’ve invested many guineas in our future. Our lodging, our schooling, our allowance—”

“Aye, very generous,” Sandy blurted out. “And we’ll not soon forget this morning’s visit to Mr. Chalmers, our new tailor.”

Jamie held up a finger. “On Advocate’s Close. You’ll remember your way there?”

They assured him they’d find it with ease, to which Jamie merely nodded. In Scotland’s capital, with its labyrinth of wynds and closes, locating a particular address was like searching for a shiny new coin in the town’s filthy gutters—a vexing task with no assurance of success. Resting his hand on the doorknob, Jamie inquired, “And you ken the meaning of
gardyloo
?”

Will smiled, a rare sight of late. “ ’Tis shouted from an upper story before a chamber pot is emptied into the street.”

“Take cover,” Jamie advised, “or your new clothes will be the worse for it.”

The three of them descended the uncarpeted stair without speaking. For his part, Jamie had run out of words. Only trivialities remained, hardly worth the breath required to speak them.

Reaching the narrow entrance hall, where they were easily observed by the household, father and sons lingered in silence by the door. A sense of ending and of beginning flickered round them like candlelight.

“When your grandfather …” Jamie swallowed and began again. “When Alec McKie brought me to university in 1782, his parting words were, ‘Virtue ne’er grows auld.’ A wise saying, lads, which I trust you’ll heed.”

“We shall, sir.” Spoken in unison, as if by prior agreement, with the dry-eyed confidence of youth. “Give our regards to Davina,” Will added, “for I fear our sister will have a lonely summer without us.”

“Aye, so she will.” With some effort, Jamie held his voice steady. “Godspeed, lads.”

The three bowed to one another like acquaintances passing in the street. Nothing else was required but to part.

When the door latched behind him, Jamie stared into the gray, misty rain, not quite seeing the brick facades across the narrow street, not truly hearing the shouts of pie sellers and fishwives, the whinnying of horses, the clamor of dozens of pedestrian conversations.

’Tis done
.

He felt like a man adrift, without rudder or sail. Was he glad to see them gone from home, these headstrong sons whose carelessness had robbed their sister of her voice? Or did he mourn what might have been, the close relationship that his own pride and righteous anger had prevented?

Remember not the sins of my youth …

Alas, he remembered very well. Jamie hung his head, not caring if his hat should tumble into the mud.

according to thy mercy …

He stopped his thoughts, resisting the balance of the verse. How dared he ask Almighty God for mercy when he could not bring himself to forgive his own sons?

remember thou me …

Disconcerted, he lifted his chin and struck out for the High Street, ignoring the rain. Needing to walk, needing to think. He headed north across the Cowgate, his concentration so intent he nearly collided with a young couple huddled beneath a shared plaid.

Perhaps when the twins returned home at Lammas, the three of them could speak truthfully with one another. Address the past, however painful. Will and Sandy knew almost nothing of his own history. Might they benefit from knowing of his youthful failures, his struggles? After their summer at university—a humbling experience, to be sure—his sons might be better prepared to hear such things. And he might be better prepared to confess them.

Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven
. In August, then.

His spirits somewhat restored, Jamie paid more attention to his surroundings. Not far ahead the medieval tower of Saint Giles thrust its crown spire into the wet skies, with the oft-rebuilt
mercat
cross just steps to the east. The slippery cobblestones beneath his feet slowed his progress as he turned onto the High Street, baffled by the changes that greeted him. Seventeenth-century masonry had given way to wooden faces. Refined properties that once belonged to gentry were now humbler abodes of tradesmen. The same town, yet not the same.

With a crack of lightning, the rain turned into a deluge, sending him running for the nearest merchant: a bookseller with “Manners and Miller” painted above the battered door. Four times as long as it was wide, the dimly lit shop was no less gloomy than the street. A single window provided the only natural light. Oil lamps were scattered throughout, candles posing too great a risk among papers and books. The smell of fresh ink and tanned leather permeated the air.

The proprietor, a stoop-shouldered man wearing spectacles, looked at him askance.

“Pardon me.” Jamie stepped back from a display table with its neat
stacks of books, newly printed and decidedly drier than he. “ ’Tis a
weatherful
day.”

The older man slid a thick volume in place. “Aye.” He shelved another book without further comment, though he cast a disparaging glance at Jamie’s dripping attire.

Jamie touched the bag of coins hidden inside his waistcoat. Perhaps he could make a small purchase in appreciation for the dry roof over his head. “Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Mr. Manners or Mr. Miller?”

The bookseller answered to neither.

He tried a different approach. “Suppose I wanted to select a book for my wife. Something new …” Jamie looked about, at a loss as to where to begin. “A single volume might be best.”

Without a moment’s hesitation the man plucked a book from the nearest stack and held it out. “
The Cottagers o’ Glenburnie
it is.
Verra
popular. The
scriever’s
a woman.” Whether his comment about the author was a recommendation or a caution was unclear. “Elizabeth Hamilton o’ George Street,” he said.

Jamie opened to the title page, then smiled when he read aloud, “ ‘A Tale for the Farmer’s Ingle-nook.’ This will suit my wife very well.”

When the bookseller grunted a price, Jamie reached for his silver. As he counted out the necessary shillings, his gaze alighted on another stack. “Is that also a novel?”

The man wagged his head, knocking his spectacles askew. “ ’Tis a
buik aboot
the Isle o’ Arran. Aboot farmin’ and fishin’ and
sic
as that. The scriever’s a minister.”

Jamie was already flipping through the book. “Is he? I ken a minister on Arran. A relative of mine, Reverend Benjamin Stewart.” If he was the author, how did the man find time to write a book on agriculture and antiquities when he had two daughters to raise and a parish to oversee? When Jamie turned to the title page, he found his answer. “Och, ’tis not my cousin but a Reverend James Headrick.” He closed the book, his curiosity satisfied and his memory stirred. As a lad he’d visited the Isle of Arran, a short sail from the west coast of
Ayrshire. “Fine hill climbing in the summer,” he murmured. “Goatfell in particular.”

The bookseller shrugged before returning to his labors. “I dinna ken, sir, for I’ve
niver
been tae Arran.”

Jamie thanked the man, then tucked Leana’s book inside his coat pocket and reluctantly stepped into the street, only to discover the rain reduced to a fine drizzle. Low thunder still rumbled in the distance, yet a promising touch of blue appeared in the distant sky. Daylight, such as it was, would not fade until long past eight o’clock. By the gloaming he would reach his first night’s lodging.

Retracing his route along the Fishmarket, he instinctively watched for Will and Sandy in the crowd. Were they still in their bedchambers getting settled or exploring the shadowy closes? Acquainting themselves with their landlord or determining the shortest route to a public house? Little time remained before their work at university began in earnest. The summer term commenced at daybreak.

When he caught a glimpse of the stables in Horse Wynd, Will’s earlier request came to mind.
You will see to Davina’s welfare?
Naturally, he would.
I fear our sister will have a lonely summer
. His daughter deserved every happiness he might provide. Jamie slowed his steps, again considering the possibilities. Could nothing be done to gladden the months ahead for her?

Of course
. Jamie almost laughed aloud, so easily did the solution come to him.
Arran
.

Hadn’t Reverend Stewart invited Davina to come visit his daughters whenever it suited? Now was the perfect time. What better place for a young woman to spend the long days of summer? With an island to explore and cousins to get to know, she’d not miss her brothers. And Leana would be delighted with the idea; Jamie was certain of it.

He strode toward the stables, full of purpose. A letter must be sent to Arran at once by way of a westbound mail coach through Glasgow—far more efficient than waiting to post a letter from Monnigaff. Should he inform Davina of the possibility when he arrived home? Or wait until an invitation came by return mail? That could take a fortnight or
longer. The corners of his mouth twitched as he imagined Davina’s expression. How his daughter would fuss at him for keeping secrets!