Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Davina appraised the narrow, sea-washed stair leading to the solid ground above, then gamely stepped out, clasping her father’s hand as they slowly climbed the steps sideways.

  Hugh followed her, steadying hands at the ready. “Ane mair, Miss McKie, an’ ye’ll be oot o’ danger.” When she had landed safely, he returned to the skiff, then handed up her fiddle and the two valises. Her father offered to carry one, but Hugh would not hear of it. “I’m at yer service, sir.”

  Davina admired Holy Isle from her new vantage point. A rounded peak in the center, with ledges on either side, the bay island looked quite different from shore. Closer, as if she might sprint across the water and touch land without soaking her hem.

  “Miss McKie, may I escort you to your new home?” Jamie smiled, but she saw the sadness lingering in his eyes.

  Good-bye, Father. Could she truly say the words without weeping? Two months was a very long time.

  Davina took his arm and discreetly examined her gown as they began to walk. She’d chosen a moss green linen for the crossing, hoping any stains or wrinkles would not show, wanting to make a good impression on her cousins.

  “Very distant relations,” her father was saying to Hugh. “On my mother’s side. Though it might take pen and paper to sort it all out.”

  The track ran parallel with the shore for a bit, then veered sharply left, turning its back on the sea. Hugh grunted as they started up a steep rise. “Ye’ll find a warm walcome here. The lasses are aflocht tae think o’ meetin’ Miss McKie.” After a bit Hugh swung her valise toward the right, leading them down a narrow lane. “The auld Saint Bride Chapel is here. Naught but ruins noo.”

  They soon came upon a broad expanse of glebe on the slope of a hill, encompassing the decrepit remains of a once-proud sanctuary. In the old kirkyard scores of lichen-covered gravestones leaned this way and that, sunken with age. To the east stood a two-story house of stone and lime, oblong in shape and unadorned in design. A chimney rose from each end, curtainless windows faced the bay, and a path of crushed mussel shells led to the entrance.

  The front door was propped open, beckoning visitors within, and the aroma of cooked beef greeted them. “Ye’ve come at the richt time.” Hugh went ahead of them, quickening his steps. “Wull ye be wantin’ me tae find yer passage back, Mr. McKie? I ken most o’ the skippers an’ can mak inquiries. After ye hae yer denner, o’ course.”

  “The Lord bless you for handling those arrangements, Hugh.” Jamie pressed some coins into the man’s hand. “And I’m indeed ready for a hot meal. How many hours has it been since our porridge at the King’s Arms, Davina?”

  She patted the watch in his pocket, for she could not guess. Had they breakfasted in Ayr only that morning? It seemed days ago. Her heart was racing by the time Hugh knocked on the doorpost.

  The minister was the first to appear in the shallow entrance hall, a smile on his brown-bearded face. Not as tall as her father, nor as fit, Benjamin Stewart was harmless looking, like a large, friendly dog. “They’re here, Mrs. Stewart,” he called, walking forward with his hand outstretched.

  A black-haired maid suddenly ducked in front of him and curtsied, her cheeks the color of wild strawberries. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Reverend. I didna hear them knock.”

  “Not to worry, Betty.” His smile broadened. “Our guests are family members and may forgive our informality. Cousin Jamie, can it really be you?” The men shook hands warmly as Hugh ducked past them to deposit the baggage in the hall, then took his leave.

  Reverend Stewart turned his attention to Davina. “So this is your daughter. Even more fair than her mother described her, I see.” He bowed, then stepped back, making room for them to enter. “Welcome to the manse, Cousin Davina.”

  She curtsied, still holding her fiddle, then moved inside the house. An awkward moment followed when the minister stared at her as if waiting for a response, then said in a louder voice, “Well! Here you are, then.” He looked round him, a ruddy tint above his beard. “Ah … Mrs. Stewart.”

  His wife scurried into the hall, a softly rounded woman with bright eyes and an eager manner. “Look what a wee thing she is!” She pulled Davina into the room with both hands. “A fairy from the glen come to the manse. Oh, and she brought her music with her. How glad we are to have you, lass.”

  Davina curtsied again, then entrusted her fiddle to Elspeth Stewart, who placed it on a sturdy table amid a stack of books. The parlor was small, made more so by the abundance of chairs and the scarcity of candles to brighten the dim corners. A dyed wool rug the color of port warmed the stone floor, and light gray paint covered the walls, where an indifferent still life was the only decorative piece. Still, the room was clean and well kept, the simple furnishings in good repair. Two glazed windows would afford her a glimpse of the sparkling blue sea and a taste of the salty air.

  Elspeth took her arm and steered her to one of the upholstered chairs with exaggerated care, as if Davina were blind as well as mute. “Come and sit, for you must be weary. I always feel a bit unsteady after a sail.” Dressed in a bleached muslin gown, her light brown hair pulled into a tight knot, the minister’s wife had more color in her blue eyes than anywhere else on her person. She sent Betty to fetch their tea, then sat next to Davina, studying her so closely that Davina averted her gaze. Would her younger cousins be this curious?

  When she heard the men entering the room, she glanced toward her father. Something must have shown on her face, for when his eyes met hers, one question was clear. Will you be content here?

  On my bonny Arran? Davina made certain he saw her answer. Aye, Father. More than content.

  Twenty-One

  Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—A sound which makes us linger;—yet—farewell!

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  May we persuade you to tarry for a few days, Cousin Jamie?” Benjamin sat, then leaned forward in his wing chair, his expression as heartfelt as his words. “Or must you return to the mainland at once?”

  Please stay, Father. Nae, go. Davina looked down at her hands lest he discern her thoughts. How strange to feel so torn, wanting her father’s company yet longing to be on her own.

  “If there’s a fishing boat that will take me, I’d best claim it, for I’m told they are as unpredictable as the weather.” He paused, as if waiting for her to look up, perhaps to assure him that he was free to depart. “I’ve left Glentrool in my son’s capable hands, but when the sheep shearing begins—”

  “Aye, say no more.” The minister held up his hand, stemming Jamie’s explanation. “I’ve a pastoral flock of my own that needs constant tending. Though at least not fleecing, eh, Cousin?”

  Her father seemed relaxed as the two men swapped memories from the McKies’ only visit to Arran. “I was a lad of ten,” Benjamin reminded him, “and much impressed with my older cousins. We climbed Goatfell, the three of us. Was it you or Evan that reached the summit first?”

  “Evan.” Her father shifted in his chair. “But I was close on his heels and dragged him behind me to claim first place.”

  “Always rivals, the two of you,” Benjamin said good-naturedly. “We last heard from Evan and Judith”—he looked to his wife—“at Eastertide, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye. She writes with a fine hand, Judith does.”

  Betty swept into the room with tea on a plain wooden tray, putting a temporary end to their conversation as each was served a steaming cup. “Denner wull be ready shortly, mem,” the maidservant said before taking her leave.

  “So, Davina,” Elspeth began, “I pray you are as eager to meet my daughters as they are to meet you.” When Davina nodded, her cousin continued, “I expect them any moment. They went to Clauchlands farm to fetch more eggs, for our hens are not laying well of late.”

  Davina envied her cousins’ having neighbors so close. In the remote glen of Loch Trool, borrowing eggs would require a two-hour walk.

  She’d taken her first tentat
ive sip of tea when the door flew open and two girls burst into the room. “Och! We did miss greeting her.”

  “And after running all the way home,” the younger one groaned, handing Betty a willow basket before both of them offered a tardy curtsy.

  Jamie stood and their father as well. “Catherine, Abigail, come meet your cousins: Mr. James McKie, and his daughter, Miss Davina McKie.”

  As they found their seats, Davina quickly put aside her preconceived notions. The Stewart sisters were nothing like she’d imagined. Younger and less polished. Taller with ample figures like their mother’s. And full of energy.

  “I prefer the name Cate,” her cousin insisted, her light brown curls escaping their pins to dangle about her round cheeks. “Catherine suits a queen, not a minister’s daughter. Though Davina quite fits you,” she added with an endearing smile, “for aren’t you bonny enough to sit on a throne?”

  “Aye,” her sister said with a giggle, “you are that. And I am Abigail only to my papa. My friends call me Abbie.”

  Davina smiled and nodded across her teacup. Who could find fault with such affable, unpretentious girls? If they were concerned about her lack of speech, the sisters did not show it. They launched into an entertaining account of their errand to Clauchlands farm while their mother poured their tea, then excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen.

  “Tell me about your summer plans for my daughter,” Jamie asked, sharing a smile with Davina. “She will see some of the island, I hope.”

  “Oh, as much of Arran as she wishes!” Cate said, her color rising with her enthusiasm. “We’ll begin this afternoon, for the weather is quite fine. And we’ve friends in every cottage in Kilbride parish who’ll be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

  An older woman wearing a cap and apron appeared at the door.

  Reverend Stewart greeted her with a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. McCurdy. Dinner is served.”

  With the housekeeper leading the way, they crossed the hall and were soon seated in the informal dining room, as small and dark as the parlor. Two windows illuminated the room, along with a cluster of candles in the center of the rectangular dining table, which was draped in a printed cloth. The table easily accommodated the six of them, with the men in chairs at either end and the women perched on benches. A hearty meal of nettle soup and veal collops was blessed and served. Davina was too nervous to eat, but her father practically picked up his soup dish and drank, so swiftly did he drain his portion. Mrs. McCurdy also served the household as cook, keeping them well supplied with dishes of roasted potatoes and onions.

  The Stewarts were a lively family at table, the minister regaling his guests with Arran lore, his daughters prompting him whenever he omitted important details. He told of an etin named Scorri, who was chased by the men of neighboring Kilmory parish; when the giant fell, he created Glen Scorradale, where the Sliddery Water flows. Then he described the night a smack was crossing to Ireland from the western shore, sinking low in the water from the weight of its unusual passengers: All the fairies of Arran were departing, the island having become too holy for them to remain.

  “I believe one of them came back,” Abbie said, grinning at Davina.

  The moment Mrs. McCurdy presented the gathering with a baked almond tart, Betty ushered Hugh McKinnon through the door, his hat in his hands.

  “Beg pardon for interruptin’ yer denner, Reverend.” His contrite expression was apology enough. “I’ve jist come from the quay. Thar’s a fishin’ boat wi’ room for Mr. McKie aboot tae sail for Ayr. I fear thar wull not be anither for a day or twa.”

  Davina’s breath caught. So soon, Father?

  “Forgive me.” Jamie dabbed his mouth with his linen. “How impolite of me to quit the table when pudding has just been served.”

  “Nae, you must go when you can.” Reverend Stewart stood first, making it easier for Jamie to take his leave. “Let me see you to the door. Perhaps Davina would like to send you off as well?”

  She rose on trembling legs, wishing she had her sketchbook in hand so she might write all that was on her heart. I love you, Father. I will miss you very much. An hour ago she had been prepared to bid him good-bye. Now she could not even think the word, let alone write it. Must you go? And leave me behind?

  Hugh was waiting on the lawn, his hat back in place. “Ye dinna hae flat feet, d’ye, Mr. McKie? Fishermen canna abide a sclaff-fittit passenger. ’Tis unchancie, ye ken.”

  “Not to worry,” Jamie assured him, doing little to hide his smile. “My arches are sufficiently high. I’ll not bring the men ill luck.”

  The male cousins shook hands once more. “Godspeed.” Benjamin seemed genuinely sorry to see Jamie leave. “When you return at Lammas, bide a wee while, aye?”

  Lammas. She pressed her hands to her stomach, glad she’d not eaten much veal. Such a long time away.

  “I shall look forward to my return,” Jamie promised. As the minister stepped back, her father turned toward her, holding out his arms, a tender expression on his face. “Davina?”

  She fell into his embrace. Oh, Father. Though she squeezed her eyes shut, she could not stop her tears. Who will ever care for me as you do?

  Jamie held her against his chest, smoothing his hand over her hair. “Two months, my darling daughter.” His voice was low, edged with emotion. “Then I will come for you. And make things right with your brothers. Depend upon it.”

  Twenty-Two

  And life is thorny, and youth is vain;

  And to be wroth with one we love

  Doth work like madness in the brain.

  SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE

  They’ll soon be banging the ten o’clock drum, lad.”

  Will lifted his pewter tappit-hen, eying Sandy across the tavern table. “And when they do, I’ll be drinking John Dowie’s ale, and so will you.” Above him tallow candles sputtered in a wooden chandelier, the yellow light reflected in the polished drinking vessels lining the shelves and hanging from wall hooks. Plates scraped clean of toasted cheese and beef tripe waited to be collected from their table.

  Parliamentarians and antiquaries, lawyers and booksellers alike convened nightly at the tavern by West Saint Giles. Will’s gaze circled the small room, noting the patrons fishing out their watches and wiping the last drop of ale from their mouths. Let the rest of the town toddle home to bed at the sound of the drum. His night had only begun.

  “O Dowie’s ale! thou art the thing,” Will sang to himself before swallowing another mouthful. Some said Edinburgh ale was so potent it could glue a drinker’s lips together. Will insisted if he could still sing, he could still drink. He slapped his waistcoat to be certain his purse was where it belonged. Aye. Plenty of silver for a serious debauch.

  Sandy wagged his head, half smiling. “Auld Reekie’s sons blithe faces wear.”

  “Aye, don’t they just?” Will downed another long swallow, the folded letter from home still clutched in his left hand. He’d almost thrust it into the candle flame twice, then stopped when his gaze fell on the address written in their mother’s elegant hand. William and Alexander McKie, College Wynd, Edinburgh.

  He could not fault her for the letter’s hatesome contents. The blame rested squarely on Jamie McKie’s broad shoulders. Your father has arranged for Davina to spend the summer with our cousins, the Stewarts, on the Isle of Arran.

  “Arranged,” Will muttered, taking a final swig before banging the empty tappit-hen on the table with a noisy clink of its ornamented lid. “The same way Father arranged for us to move to Edinburgh, I suppose. Does the man never tire of playing God?”

  Sandy rose, weaving only slightly as he reached for the pewter tankards. “Perhaps Davina wanted to go to Arran. Have you thought of that?” He went off in search of fresh ale, leaving Will to stare at the dying coal fire and contemplate a response.

  Did you want this, lass? The news would be easier to bear if she’d chosen to go. Yet, even if she did relish a visit to the island,
Davina was not the issue. ’Twas Father’s broken promise that rankled. “How can you watch over our sister,” Will growled under his breath, “when she’s on an island days away from Glentrool?”

  He unfolded the letter again, punishing himself with yet another reading. I trust you are finding your place in Edinburgh. Will scanned the smoky, windowless room—one of several in the busy tavern—certain this was not the place his mother meant. He read on. Glentrool is woefully empty without my twin sons. At least Mother missed them. No mention of Father or Ian in that regard. Your older brother continues to court Miss McMillan. Will snorted at that. Once Ian married and produced an heir, there would be no hope of heirship for him or for Sandy. Now that June is here, the gardens are lovely. That comment eased his ire a bit, picturing his mother with an apron full of colorful blooms.

  But then came the fateful line that ruined everything, Your father has arranged for Davina to spend the summer … Two long months without one of the McKie men to guard the lass, to escort her safely about, to keep her from harm. Who were these Stewarts of Arran? Will could not recall hearing much spoken of them. Was there a strong enough man among them, one worthy of the task?

  Nae. He alone knew what was best for his sister.

  Will creased the folds with a rough hand, nearly tearing the stationery in the process. His mother’s words were still emblazoned on his mind. Your father has arranged …

  The letter had arrived in the afternoon post. After a single reading, he and Sandy had marched up the Cowgate, bound for John Dowie’s in Libberton’s Wynd, intending to feed their hostility with black pudding and drown their anger in ale. Sandy had been marginally successful, growing more philosophical by the hour. Perhaps Davina wanted to go.

  “Hech!” Will dragged a hand across his jaw, rough with beard stubble, trying to remember if he’d shaved that morning. After a month without a valet, the two of them had become lax in their grooming. The professors did not notice, and the lasses did not care.