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!
“Aren’t ye the blithe one, sir?” The stable lad grinned at him from his perch at the arched entranceway. “I’ll see tae yer mount. A black geldin’, aye?” He disappeared for a bit, then returned with Jamie’s horse, saddled for the journey. “D’ye hae a lang raik, sir?”
“ ’Tis a few days’ journey.” Jamie took the reins in hand, eager to be on his way. “I’ve a letter to send first.” He was already composing the lines in his mind as he mounted his horse, then fished out two coppers, the metallic sound muted by his gloves.
The lad accepted the coins with a bob of his scruffy cap. “Ye’ll find the post office near the mercat cross, sir.”
“ ’Tis where I’m headed.” Jamie aimed his gelding north, calling over his shoulder, “A fine summer to you, lad.” And to you, my darling daughter. And to you, my sons of Edinburgh.
Ten
The silent countenance often speaks.
OVID
Promise not to tell your father, for the truth would surely wound him.” Leana leaned across a freshly weeded corner of her garden and dropped her voice to a whisper. “But hasn’t it been lovely having Glentrool all to ourselves?”
Davina nodded with enthusiasm.
“I’m so glad you agree.” Leana laughed, then eased her hands back into the soil. She missed Jamie, of course, and longed for his return. But she’d enjoyed these quiet days with her daughter. Their summer together held great promise.
She worked the moist ground, tugging out weeds as she went. A broad-brimmed straw hat protected her sensitive eyes from the sun, and cotton gloves kept her hands pale and soft. Now and again she slipped off her gloves, indulging in the feel of the rich soil between her fingers. Jamie teased her about doing servants’ work, yet few things pleased her more than her plants and flowers. Robert tended the large kitchen garden and many of the rose beds. The ornamental garden was her responsibility, as was the physic garden, which produced a host of medicinal herbs to keep her household in good health.
One rosy shrub was hers alone to care for: the Apothecary’s Rose planted by the dining room window in memory of her sister, Rose. The deep pink blossoms did not appear until midsummer, releasing their sweet fragrance. From the moment the first bud bloomed each year, Leana kept a freshly cut rose in a small vase by her bedside until the last one faded to a purplish red. Always remembered, dearie. Never forgotten. With both their parents gone as well, her loved ones at Glentrool were all the more precious.
Leana tipped her head back, breathing in the rain-freshened air. “ ’Tis good to see the sky so blue again.” The afternoon sun warmed their shoulders, and a light breeze from the west stirred the air, fragrant with spring: a carpet of grass, newly scythed; fertile earth, turned with a garden fork; hawthorn, still in bloom. Though her daughter had pulled only a handful of weeds, her company was blessing enough.
“We truly do not have Glentrool to ourselves,” Leana admitted, “since your brother Ian is here. Yet we’ve not seen much of him, have we?”
Davina pantomimed opening a book.
“You are quite right. Your brother is content to while away the hours reading.”
Davina pointed east toward Glenhead, then touched her heart.
“Aye, and the charming Miss McMillan garners much of his time too.” Leana relinquished her gardening for a moment, giving Davina her full attention, for her question was a vital one. “Will you mind very much when Ian marries? Nothing formal has been arranged, but a wedding seems inevitable, does it not?”
Again Davina nodded, with a bit less enthusiasm.
For a young woman unable to speak, her daughter said a great deal. Her facial expressions, her many gestures—all communicated her thoughts and feelings quite clearly. Even strangers soon grasped her unique language.
Leana noticed the sketchbook in Davina’s apron pocket. “Why not try your hand at drawing one of my flowering herbs?” Her gaze roamed the physic garden, seeking a likely subject. “ ’Til it blooms, bistort is too plain. The dandelions are quite colorful, if rather common. What of shepherd’s-purse?”
Davina made a face.
“I agree, the flowers are too small to be of much artistic interest. And agrimony doesn’t bloom until June. This is the month to harvest it, however.” She snipped a few stems with her gardening scissors and tucked the herb in her roomy pocket. Scanning the rows of plants, some of them perennials she’d planted the autumn Davina was born, she found what she was looking for. “This one is not only bonny but also quite aromatic.” Leana pinched off a hairy, egg-shaped leaf and rubbed the toothed edges between her fingers before holding it out for Davina to sniff.
Her deep blue eyes grew round.
“Strong, isn’t it? One of the many speedwells.” Leana brushed the bits of leaf from her fingers. “You may recall tasting it, boiled into a syrup and sweetened with honey.” She plucked a flower to hold against Davina’s cheek. “Just as I suspected, the petals are the exact color of your eyes. A
deeper blue than mine and rimmed in a darker shade.” She brushed her cheek with the soft petals. “No one else in the family has eyes like yours.”
A tip of Davina’s head signaled a question. She scribbled in the margin of her sketchbook, then held it out for Leana to read. Aunt Rose?
“Nae.” Her throat tightened. “My sister had brown eyes. Quite dark, like her hair.” Leana gently placed the flowers on Davina’s open book. “She was very beautiful, your aunt Rose.” And so young. So very young.
Davina did not press her further but instead began to draw.
Leana bowed her head as the sketch took shape. May you never know such sorrow. May you never know such loss. Wasn’t that every mother’s wish? To shelter her children from suffering and pain, to hold grief at bay for as long as possible? Yet here was Davina, separated from her twin brothers—both still alive but far from her side—with her older sibling destined to marry.
“I wonder when you will leave Glentrool,” Leana murmured, “for the day will surely come. ’Twill not be your father who rides off with you but a handsome young man with love in his eyes and a melody in his heart.”
Beneath her freckles, Davina’s skin turned pink.
Leana peered at her more intently. Had some gentleman caught her daughter’s eye? She’d noted Graham Webster’s attentiveness on more than one Sabbath. Might the widower be to her daughter’s liking? “You are seventeen,” she reminded her, “and bonny as they come. Is there a man in the parish who hopes to court you?”
When Davina immediately shook her head, Leana wondered if she might simply be embarrassed and not know how to go about confessing such a thing. Intending only to draw her out, Leana reached for the sketchbook, which her daughter often shared with her. “Perhaps if I search these pages, I will find a gentleman’s name—”
Davina snatched the book from her grasp.
“Oh! Pardon me, Davina. I only meant to help you.”
She clasped the book to her breast, her face brighter still.
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 6
