“Oh, Jamie.” She drew him into the room, lest Davina hear them. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“My troubled dreams are the culprit. Not you.” He kissed her brow, then gazed over her shoulder at the valises. “Counting gloves and stockings again, I see. And have you tucked your heart among our daughter’s gowns?”
Her throat tightened. “First the twins … and now Davina …”
Jamie wrapped her in his arms. “They will come back to us, Leana. Depend upon it.”
The warmth of him, fresh from their bed, the musky scent of his skin, the solid feel of his chest—nothing on earth could offer her such solace. Though her children were leaving, her husband remained.
After a moment he leaned back, then lifted her chin until their eyes met. “You may trust the man who loves you, even as you trust the One who made you. ‘Whoso putteth his trust in the LORD shall be safe,’ aye?”
“Why, Mr. McKie.” She smiled up at him. “When did you become such a halie man?”
Jamie returned her smile. “When I married such a gracie woman.” Even with his breath thick from sleeping, even with the plaid chafing her bare skin, Leana welcomed his kiss.
Minutes later the sound of a door opening and muffled footsteps in the hall signaled the arrival of the servants, stirring the house to life as surely as Aubert would stir the breakfast porridge with a wooden spurtle. “And so the day begins.” Jamie slowly released her from his embrace. “We leave at six o’clock. Please see that Davina is dressed and at table by half past five, for I’ll not have her ride off hungry.” He stepped back, half turning toward the door, though his gaze still held hers. “I wish ’twere practical to bring you with us, Leana. But I’m afraid that Glentrool—”
“Needs a mistress,” she finished for him. The possibility of her joining them had already been considered. “I am content to stay here with Ian, who’ll have his hands full managing the estate. The maidservant we fee’d at Whitsuntide requires training, and my gardens would languish without me.”
“Nae, you would languish without your gardens.”
Much more so without my daughter. Leana kept her thoughts to herself and clung to the psalmist’s words: My heart shall not fear.
“And when I return,” Jamie added, “we will have a quiet house to ourselves.”
“Too quiet,” she confessed, “though ’twill not remain so. When will the shearing begin?”
“The sixth of June.” Jamie yawned, then rolled his shoulders. “Rab has hired a goodly number of herds to handle things.” He retrieved her candle, then led her into the hall, lowering his voice. “This morning there’s only one wee lamb that requires your care.”
While Jamie went off to tend to his ablutions, Leana lightly rapped on Davina’s bedchamber door, then tiptoed inside the murky room, shielding the bright candle. Her precautions were unnecessary; Davina was already bathed and half-dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Did you sleep at all, dearie?”
An apologetic smile was answer enough. Nae.
“No wonder, with such a day ahead of you.” Leana sat beside her daughter and took her hand, not surprised to find her skin cool. “Sarah will be along shortly to dress us both. In the meantime, I am glad we have a moment alone.”
Davina nodded, then touched her heart. I am glad too.
Leana eyed the bedside table where she’d hidden Davina’s parting gift: a linen handkerchief, delicately embroidered and scented with dried lavender from her garden. “I have a wee something for you.” She reached inside the drawer and lifted out the fragrant present, breathing the sweet aroma once more before placing the handkerchief in her daughter’s waiting hands. “To remind you of home.”
Davina held the fabric to her nose, slowly closing her eyes. Her red lashes began to glisten.
“Nae, dearie,” Leana pleaded, circling her arms round her. “Do not cry, or I shall do the same.”
But it was too late.
“Davina, I …” The words would not come. Help me, Father. Help me let go. Leana pressed their wet cheeks together and tried again. “I will miss you … so very much.”
Her daughter gave a small sob, more felt than heard.
“And I will pray for you.” Every day, lass. Every hour.
Davina pulled away long enough to use her new handkerchief before wrapping her fingers round it and bowing her head, her meaning clear. Pray. Now.
Without hesitation, Leana rose, bringing her daughter with her. “Your father spoke a blessing over the twins,” she whispered. “Now ’tis our turn.” Her hand trembled as she rested it on Davina’s head, having never done so bold a thing. “Almighty God, let my daughter dwell under thy shadow and take refuge beneath thy wings.” With each word, her voice grew stronger. “Be with her in trouble, Lord. Deliver her and honor her. Give thy angels charge over her, to keep her in all thy ways.”
Leana kissed her brow, as if to seal the words in place, then embraced her once more, only then aware of the room growing brighter and of Sarah tapping at the door.
Sixteen
Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience.
FRANCIS BACON
Well seated on her mare and dressed in a light wool riding habit, Davina already felt different. Not taller, alas, but older. Less like Will and more like Ian.
Nae, more like Mother. Davina touched her gloved hand to her bodice, where she’d tucked her new handkerchief for safekeeping.
“ ’Tis a perfect day for riding.” Father swept his arm to take in their surroundings. “We’ll make good time if the weather holds.”
Glentrool was an hour behind them. Crosshill, where they would break their journey and seek lodging for the evening, was twenty miles north across the mountain fastness. Few puddles remained from the rainy Sabbath, and the air was clear and dry. Patches of blue appeared above the towering pines, and a northerly breeze lifted the fine hair round her face.
“There’s a pied wagtail looking for a tasty morsel.” Father pointed to a black and white bird running across the stony path ahead. “Imagine the shore birds you’ll see on Arran. Ringed plovers and dunlins and redshanks.” He turned to catch her eye. “You’ll draw some for me?”
She patted the sketchbook tucked in her bag—almost left behind until Ian discovered it in the library. “Fill the pages with memories,” her brother had told her that morning on the lawn. Bidding Ian good-bye had been even harder than she’d expected. Only ’til Lammas, dear brother.
“Take your time,” Jamie cautioned as they approached their first ford of the morning. “We’ve many more waters to navigate before we reach the harbor at Ayr.”
The pair eased down into the Water of Minnoch, a wide, meandering stream tumbling over a rocky bed. Her father’s gelding found solid footing, as did her mare. When they reached the opposite bank without mishap, Davina smoothed her hand along the animal’s sleek neck. Well done, Biddy. Her mother’s dun-colored horse would return home to its mistress, leaving Davina to explore Arran on foot or borrow a mount from the Stewarts.
Another shiver of anticipation—beyond counting this morning—ran down her spine. Think what she would see! And whom she might meet. Only one book was packed in her bags: The Lay of the Last Minstrel, a yuletide gift from her father. Diverting enough for a rainy day, but reading poetry was hardly how she intended to spend her time on Arran.
No other travelers were in sight as they turned onto the main route, little more than an unpaved track. A farmer pulling a two-wheeled cart full of manure would block the way, it was so narrow. She’d traveled on this stretch of road before, but no more than a few miles. They rode side by side, the yellowish coat of her mare a stark contrast to her father’s black gelding. Magnus, he’d named the beast—a large horse yet with a calm disposition.
“Listen, Davina.” Her father held up his hand as the distinctive call of a cuckoo sounded among the trees. The bird was easier he
ard than seen, so swift was its flight. “How does the auld rhyme go? ‘In May I sing all day.’ Not much of a tune. Two notes.” He imitated the bird, then chuckled when she patted the green baize bag strapped behind her. “I would much prefer to hear my daughter’s music. Perhaps when we stop for our meal?”
Davina nodded absently. Food was the last thing on her mind. Had she even eaten breakfast?
Her father pointed to the broad, rushing river on their right. “ ’Tis the same Minnoch we forded earlier this morning. We’ll follow it to its source, Eldrick Hill.” Two deep burns in succession momentarily slowed their progress, then a bit farther along they passed a neatly painted sign—Palgowan—posted where a dirt track veered toward the neighboring Buchanan farm.
At kirk on the Sabbath, Davina had promised Janet Buchanan a letter from Arran. “If you’ll cross the letter and keep to a single piece of paper,” Janet had said, “my father would be grateful.” Davina had agreed, knowing a second page would double the postage the recipient was obliged to pay. Difficult as it was to manage, she would fill one page, then turn the paper at right angles and continue writing across it. Poor Janet, having to decipher such a thing.
They continued north for another hour, climbing past the Rig of Kirriereoch. “We’re in Ayrshire now,” her father announced. “Kirkcudbrightshire is behind us.”
Davina looked round, as if the ground might change color or a line appear, as on a map, indicating the end of one county and the start of another. She’d not complain again about the remoteness of Glentrool, now that she’d seen the desolate Minnoch valley. Scarcely a house or tree adorned the wide, boggy landscape below, painted in a drab green.
When Biddy started breathing harder, Jamie slowed their steps. “In less than a mile we’ll reach Rowantree Toll.” He gave her a sideways glance. “And the Nick of the Balloch beyond it.”
Davina shifted in her saddle and ignored the uneasiness stirring inside her. A nick was a narrow gap in a range of hills. Would the track be narrow as well? And steep?
“The pass offers a splendid view,” her father promised as if to bolster her spirits. “Unlike anything you’ve seen in Galloway.”
Perched on a rise, Rowantree Toll soon came into sight. Built without mortar and thatched with brown heather, the old stone tollhouse was the roughest sort of building. “ ’Tis not much to look at,” her father admitted, “but it nigh marks our halfway point this day.” He dismounted with a gentlemanly grunt. “Come, let me help you, lass.”
A brisk wind swept along the road that continued up Rowantree Hill, bending the tall grass across their footpath as they neared the tollkeeper’s door. At her father’s knock a voice bellowed from within, bidding them enter. The single-room dwelling was dark, the windows shuttered against the elements. A peat fire burned in the hearth, and two candles lit the table where the tollkeeper stood, a grimy ledger spread before him.
Davina tried not to stare, but the man appeared to be a giant. Taller than her father by a foot, broader than Will and Sandy put together, he looked quite capable of swallowing her whole.
The mammoth tollkeeper peered at her father through a haze of peat smoke. “Ye’ll be headin’ o’er the Nick, aye?”
“We will.” Jamie slipped his hand inside his coat.
Knowing his purse and his pistol were both within easy reach, Davina prayed the weapon would not be necessary. When their brief transaction was completed, the man followed them out the door and lifted the stout toll bar that blocked the road. Davina was as grateful to be seated on her horse as she’d been happy to dismount minutes earlier. The horses seemed eager to be gone as well, setting off at a good trot.
“An unco place, even on a bright May morn,” her father murmured as the toll bar dropped into place behind them. “Be glad we’re not here on a dreich November eve with a cold north wind in our faces and the sky black with rain.”
Davina had more present concerns on her mind. With each sharp turn round Rowantree Hill, she feared the road might disappear beneath her. All at once she was there, at the highest point, looking down into a valley that stretched so far below her she feared she might faint.
“Steady, lass.” Her father gripped her elbow, holding her in place. “ ’Tis a slender track, to be sure, and a precipitous drop. Four hundred ells or more. Stay close to the hillside and away from the edge of the road.” A half smile creased his face. “And try not to look down.”
There was nowhere else to look but down.
Her father started down first, speaking softly to Magnus. She followed, keeping a tight rein on Biddy lest the wide-open vista unnerve the mare. To her right, narrow gorges dissected the hillside, the clefts as deep as a man was tall. To her left, the road was edged with thin air. Keeping an eye on the burn weaving its way along the valley floor, Davina held her breath until Biddy was at last walking along its banks and the hazardous descent was behind them.
Her father drew his horse next to hers. “You’ve earned a brief respite, and so have our mounts. The bridge o’er the River Stinchar lies just ahead. Suppose we break here for our dinner.” They dismounted, spread their plaid across the grass, then sat down to enjoy Eliza’s pickled herring and cheese. After giving the horses time to graze and drink their fill, Jamie stood and shook the crumbs from the wrinkled plaid.
“I’d hoped to hear a fiddle tune, but we’ve still eight miles of hilly country to cover. This evening, aye?” He fell silent as he helped her get settled on Biddy.
Davina sensed he was about to say something, then hesitated. She rested her hand on his shoulder, prompting him to look up at her, certain he would understand. Tell me, Father.
“How like your mother you are,” he said at last. “ ’Tis simply this, Davina: When I compare our day to the ones spent with your brothers en route to Edinburgh …” He rubbed his hand across his jaw, though he could not hide his disappointment. “I do not blame your brothers entirely, for I’d given them but two days’ notice. Still …” He sighed heavily.
So the twins’ journey had been trying. She’d suspected as much. Poor lads. As they crossed the bridge and left the Stinchar behind, Davina sorted through what she knew to be true: Her father still blamed Will and Sandy for her muteness. And her brothers would never forgive themselves if he did not show them mercy first.
Please, Father. Forgive them.
A startling notion began circling round inside her. If she could bring herself to write those words, could she show them to her father without trembling?
Aye. That very night when she sat across from him at table, her book and pencil in hand, she would plead on behalf of Will and Sandy. ’Twas an accident, Father, and long ago. Her brothers had defended her for a decade. Could she not do one courageous thing in return? She prayed she would be strong when the time came, then set her mind on the hours ahead.
They traveled on through the afternoon, lifting their hands to greet farmworkers in the fields and shepherds on the hills. “Not much longer to Crosshill,” her father informed her, eying his pocket watch as they neared a crossroad edged with yellow-centered gowans. “We’ll be there by six. ’Tis a small settlement. Handloom weavers, mostly. I’ve in mind a particular cottager who might make us welcome.”
Though she’d never traveled thus, Davina had heard the stories: Kintra folk were known for their hospitality. If supper and a bed were needed by a traveler, obliging farmers and villagers provided for their unexpected guests, even if it meant family members slept three to a mattress or a kettle of soup was thinned with water. Inns were the stuff of coaching routes; in the countryside, a knock on a cottage door was sufficient.
The hills were behind them now, the velvet green landscape gently rolling as they came upon a row of single-story cottages. Her father smiled at her, though the weariness lining his face was unmistakable. “Shall we see if Michael Kelly of Crosshill is receiving visitors?”
They dismounted at the unpainted door of a bothy no different than its neighbors:
dry stane walls with straw fitted in the cracks rather than mortar; a thatched roof, held down with rocks on taut ropes of hemp; one small window without glazing, the shutter hanging open on a leather hinge; peat smoke curling out a bent chimney poking through the rooftop.
Her father knocked, then stood back. They did not have long to wait. The door was flung open by a spry, red-haired man of uncertain years, who blinked at them from the shadowy interior of his cottage.
Father nodded at the man. “Good day to you, Michael.”
Davina hid her smile when she got a good look at him, for the weaver was as small as the tollkeeper was large. With an Irish name and wiry red hair, who was to say Michael Kelly wasn’t a leprechaun?
“An’ a guid day tae ye, sir.” The man bowed politely. “Ye’ve stood on me thrashel afore, aye?” He stepped aside, waving them within. “Ye’ll pardon me for not recallin’ yer name, sir, but if ’tis ludgin ye’re needin’, ye’ve knocked on the richt door.”
Davina followed the men inside, amused that the humble weaver did not remember the laird of Glentrool. Such a thing would never happen in Monnigaff parish. While the man saw to their horses, Davina studied their lodgings. Rough pine covered the dirt floor, and the plain, square hearth bore no mantelpiece. Two iron lanterns hung on either side of the loom, which took up a third of the one-room cottage, leaving space for a table with two benches and a single bed, low to the floor. Still, the bedcover was finely woven wool, and the iron stewpot gave forth the savory aroma of barley.
Michael lugged their saddles through the door and hung them near the hearth, then washed his hands with the pitcher and bowl beside the bed. “Ye’ll be joinin’ me for supper, aye?” He served their meal in simple crockery bowls with horn spoons. “Traded ’em from a tinkler,” Michael explained, running his small thumb over the smooth contour of the spoon carved from ox horn, a specialty of the traveling Gypsies. “What aboot yerself, sir? What’ll ye gie me for yer nicht’s sleep? ’Twill not be yer siller, for I wouldna ask for it.”
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 9
