Quite well, sir. Did he see the answer in her eyes?
“Somerled still remains on Arran,” he said finally, “buried on Holy Isle.”
When the tablecloth was removed and a fluted glass of Caledonian cream was placed before her, Davina gave it the attention it richly deserved. Her first spoonful of the fresh cream, whisked with marmalade and brandy, tasted divine. So did the second. And the third.
Then Somerled leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Davina slowly put down her spoon, realizing what came next on the bill of fare.
Thirty-Three
Backward, turn backward,
O Time, in your flight!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN
In the entrance hall the tall-case clock measured the waning hours of Midsummer Eve. The flickering candles now provided more light than the sky, draped in navy and rimmed in gold along the far reaches of the western horizon.
Soon the gloaming would give way to the moonless night.
Davina stared at the ambrosial dessert, her appetite gone, for there was no turning back: Her performance was the final course. The women would repair to the drawing room for coffee while the men remained at table for half an hour, drinking port and discussing the political outrage that was Bonaparte, before rejoining the ladies for an hour’s entertainment.
“Miss McKie.” Somerled leaned back in his chair like a well-sated man and dabbed the last drop of cream from his lips. “They’d never have invited you to play if you were not a very talented musician indeed.”
A comforting notion. Davina acknowledged his words with a grateful nod, then folded her hands in her lap, gathering courage round her like a cloak. Countless times over the last ten years she’d played her fiddle for audiences large and small. Could she not tell herself this drawing room was Glentrool’s garden? Or Michael Kelly’s humble cottage? Or the Clarinda’s sea-washed deck?
“I, for one, am eager to see you perform.” Somerled leaned closer, a half smile on his face. “I feel certain I will not be disappointed.”
She’d covertly studied his features throughout dinner. Thick, expressive brows, the same golden color as his hair. A strongly drawn jaw and high cheekbones not unlike hers. Only now did she notice that one blue eye was slightly smaller than the other, which explained why Somerled always seemed to be winking at her.
Davina smiled back at him, hoping he might see the confidence growing in her eyes. I am ready to play for the duke—or will be soon. ’Tis what I do best and what I love most.
When Captain Fullarton invited the women to take their leave, they rose with their escorts’ assistance, then collected their gloves and discreetly brushed any stray crumbs from their skirts. Davina locked gazes with Cate at the far end of the table, longing to have a moment with her. Has the evening gone smoothly for you? Was your escort cordial? Abbie caught her eye as well. The three cousins would have endless things to discuss once they returned home. She only prayed Somerled MacDonald would not see them climb into a farm cart. He’d traveled the Continent, and his family owned an estate in Argyll even larger than Glentrool; Davina was certain most women of his acquaintance did not resort to riding in carts.
He moved toward the other men taking empty chairs round His Grace, who was sampling the port. “Until later, Miss McKie,” Somerled said with a parting bow and an enigmatic smile.
Davina sensed him watching her as she skirted the table, flattered and a little disconcerted at his attentiveness. Perhaps dinner couples commonly indulged in a flirtation at table, only to part at dessert and never cross paths again. If so, best to concentrate on entertaining the Duke of Hamilton rather than pleasing a braw Highlander.
Mrs. Fullarton stood in the entrance hall, directing the young women away from the stair and toward an inviting doorway on the ground floor. “Coffee will be served in the music room, ladies.”
Davina’s brows arched. A room devoted to music? Very promising.
“Miss McKie.” The hostess motioned Davina closer. “Your instrument is waiting for you on the pianoforte. I’ve taken the liberty of removing it from the bag. If there is anything else you might need …”
Davina bobbed her head in thanks and started across the candlelit hall, anxious to tune her fiddle before the room grew too crowded. Then she’d be free to seek out Cate and Abbie for a few minutes at least. The doors leading to the front lawn were open, ushering in the warm evening air, fragrant with honeysuckle. She paused to breathe in the heady scent, letting it calm her nerves, then swept into the music room, bound for her fiddle.
The charming room with its silk-covered walls and gilt chairs was aptly named: A grand pianoforte, a cittern, a violoncello, a harpsichord, and an old treble viol were displayed among the furnishings. Young ladies with feathers in their hair sat perched on chairs, like colorful plumed birds, and vases brimming with yellow roses covered every available surface. A manservant moved through the room, silently pouring tea and offering candied walnuts, while a maidservant lit more candles, then drew the curtains.
Intent on her mission, Davina clasped her fiddle, played the G below middle C on the pianoforte, and then began tuning in fifths, inclining her ear to the strings so she could hear above the hum of conversation. Since she’d practiced earlier in the day, her fiddle was easily tuned. One concern was quickly dispatched: Her jacket was not as confining as she’d feared, nor would the broad ruffle of lace at her elbow interfere with her playing. She drew the bow across the strings, listening for the sweetness of the tone.
Aye. Her fiddle was ready, and so was she.
Carefully replacing her instrument and bow on the pianoforte’s polished top, closed for the evening, Davina watched for her young cousins and their mother to appear, which they soon did, looking for her as well. By tacit agreement, she joined the Stewarts in a corner of the room not yet spoken for, all of them hastily taking their seats.
“Davina!” Cate paid little attention to the coffee placed in her hands, though her eyes were as round as the saucer. “You must tell us everything about your handsome dinner companion. Shall I fetch your sketchbook and pencil?”
Not certain of its location at the moment, Davina held out her empty hands, then touched her lips, inviting Abbie to continue.
“So I shall,” she agreed, “for I’ve learned several things about Mr. MacDonald.”
“Guard your tongue, Abigail,” Mrs. Stewart cautioned. “Gossip is never appropriate.”
“But it’s not gossip when it’s true,” she said petulantly, and Cate laughed behind her gloves. Abbie wasted no time divulging her store of knowledge. “Somerled MacDonald is twenty-two years of age, the only son of Sir Harry and Lady MacDonald, and heir to Brenfield House and his father’s title.”
Davina was impressed. Somerled had told her much of the same but rather nonchalantly, as if none of it mattered to him. She’d no sooner affirmed Abbie’s words with a nod than Cate chimed in.
“He also has a bit of a reputation …” Her cheeks took on the same pink hue as her silk gown. “That is to say, the young gentleman who escorted me said that Mr. MacDonald—”
“That’s quite enough.” Elspeth frowned at her elder daughter. “Rumors and accusations honor no one, Catherine. Neither the one speaking nor the one spoken about. The fact is, Mr. MacDonald comes from a good Highland family, has impeccable manners, and came to our cousin’s aid this evening when she was asked to address His Grace.”
Elspeth turned to Davina, a look of regret on her soft features. “Do forgive my husband. I fear he stepped in where he wasn’t needed and said more than you might have wished.”
Davina gently shook her head. In such a small gathering her secret would not have remained so for long.
The door to the hall swung open, and Captain Fullarton entered, his eyes bright from the port. “May we join you, ladies?” He stepped aside for His Grace to enter and be seated in the place of honor, closest to the pianoforte. The other gentlemen followed, Sir Harry Mac
Donald included, finding vacant chairs wherever possible while coffee was poured.
Somerled stood inside the doorway for a moment, eying the room. His gaze flickered over Davina, pausing long enough for her to note his regard before moving on. He spoke to his father briefly, then chose a straight-backed chair next to the violoncello.
Despite her nervousness, Davina smiled. Did the man always prefer a silent companion by his side? She moved to the chair by the pianoforte and awaited her turn.
In a matter of minutes the audience was settled, ready for the evening’s program to begin. Though her heart still raced and her hands were icy, Davina was not alarmed; such apprehension always ceased with the first note. She settled her gaze on the duke and took a long breath. Please, sir. Just let me begin.
Captain Fullarton extended his hand and brought her to her feet. “Your Grace, Miss McKie will perform several selections for us on a fine Italian instrument that once belonged to her grandfather, Alec McKie of Glentrool.” He released her with a gallant sweep of his arm. “Come, Miss McKie, and fill Kilmichael with music.”
Bathed in the light of a chandelier, Davina tucked her fiddle beneath her chin as lovingly as a mother nestling her bairn in a cradle. Safe. Home. She lifted her bow with a flourish, then struck the opening chord of “Highland Laddie,” a spirited dance tune in cut time.
Tapping her toe as she played—it was impossible not to, so infectious was the rhythm—Davina spied the duke’s well-shod foot soon keeping time with hers. Round the room, ladies bobbed their heads, and gentlemen drummed their fingers. Though propriety would not let them leap to their feet, Davina watched the gentry dance in their hearts.
No one was more engaged than Somerled MacDonald. He’d put his coffee aside and was leaning forward, as if he were steel and she a magnet. Or perhaps the music drew him, lighting his face and warming his gaze.
Surrendering to the moment, Davina threw herself into the tune with merry abandon, the notes streaming from her hands, the words singing through her heart. The bonniest lad that e’er I saw—Bonny laddie, Highland laddie!
Thirty-Four
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,
And lay incessant battery to her heart.
EDMUND SPENSER
Somerled saw the truth in her eyes.
Bonny Highland laddie. Davina McKie meant this song for him.
He knew the next verse too. Bonny lassie, Lawland lassie. Aye, she was bonny, this wee thing from Galloway. And talented far beyond her years. Look how she controlled the bow, bending it to her will. Had he a jealous nature, he’d resent her musical skills; instead they made the young woman even more desirable, if that were possible.
A second tune now. “Miss Hope’s Strathspey.” Was this one chosen by intent as well? Somerled grinned, certain she would notice. What is it you hope for, Davina? For I have hopes of my own. He leaned back in his chair, studying her technique as she lifted the bow smartly off the strings, snapping her wrist just so. Each note was distinct and precise, the melody never lost in the complex rhythm. In truth, he’d not heard her equal; neither had His Grace, judging by the man’s alert expression.
Somerled scanned the audience, not surprised to find their mouths open in wonder. They were accustomed to a gentlewoman sitting before a pianoforte or embracing a pear-shaped cittern, not standing before a crowd and driving a bow across her fiddle strings as if her life depended upon it. Davina, both spirited and gifted, already had the entire assembly at her feet. Was that your intent, lass? To win every heart? He would not give his heart so easily, but she was welcome to the rest of him.
“Garthlands” now, in the same key and written by a MacDonald. Another of your ploys, eh, Davina? Clever girl, letting her songs make subtle overtures on her behalf. Though she was small, her confidence suggested she was not as young as she appeared. Twenty years of age, he guessed. Old enough.
From the moment he learned their dinner party would include a lady fiddler, he’d been curious to meet her, never guessing she would be so accomplished a musician or so delectable a creature. Her red hair was positively scandalous. Her deep blue eyes communicated everything her voice could not. And a silent woman? Every man’s fancy. Not to mention her prominent cheekbones, which drew a lovely line straight to her pout of a mouth. He had plans for those lips and those small, lithe hands as well.
Oh, she might be called Miss McKie, but Davina did not fool him for an instant. No virginal maid played so passionately or chose her songs with such braisant intent. When he’d touched her lace-covered elbow in the drawing room, she’d not resisted. Nae, she’d backed into him on purpose so they might have a chance to meet, tossing convention to the dogs.
Not an innocent, this one. He knew the signs. If Davina had given herself to some other man, she could give herself to him.
When she ended the third tune with a flourish, Somerled joined the audience in sustained applause, humming a ribald Burns song for his own amusement.
His Grace, meanwhile, was effusive with praise for his fiddler. “Excellent, I say! And what of jigs, Miss McKie? Might you know any?”
Apparently she knew several. “Hamilton House” had the duke practically dancing in his upholstered chair, and “Dumfries House” was a tip of the hat to Miss McKie’s corner of the mainland. “Admiral Nelson” delighted the captain in particular, the hornpipe requiring a shift in both key and meter, which Davina handled with ease.
Somerled was enchanted with her performance and more determined than ever to have her in his arms. Tonight, if it might be arranged. Or would she return home shortly to the manse in Lamlash Bay? Nae, that would never do.
Even more enthusiastic applause greeted the final note of the hornpipe. He could only guess what tune might come next. Too soon for a lament. An air, perhaps? Or might she recall his earlier suggestion of a certain reel …
She looked directly at him when she launched into “The Fairy Dance,” starting at a tempo that would leave her breathless by the last measure. Was that a challenge he saw in her blue eyes? Watch me, sir.
Nae, he would do more than that. The busy melody, with its continuous string of eighth notes, called for a steady bass line beneath it. Somerled reached for the violoncello at his side and maneuvered it in place before she reached the fourth measure. He’d tuned the instrument when he first arrived; now he would put it through its paces. Davina did not blink an eye or miss a note, plying her bow with even more fervor as he provided the distinct rhythm a reel demanded.
The crowd stared at them in amazement, yet Somerled was vexed. He’d not said a word about his musical abilities. Could the lass not at least pretend to be shocked? But he soon overlooked her impudence for the sheer delight of accompanying her. Each time they repeated a bar, she added more embellishments until the rose-scented air of the music room was filled with grace notes.
Tradition required they slow the tempo at the end, then strike four accented chords at precisely the same instant—forte. Even rehearsed, such things were not easily managed. Somerled watched her closely, prepared to follow her lead.
One. Two. Three. And four.
Perfect.
His Grace was applauding before Davina lowered her bow. “Well done, miss. Well done!”
Somerled rested the violoncello against his knee, hardly noticing if they were clapping for him, so taken was he by his “Speechless Lassie.” What a fool he’d been to make so careless a jest. Davina had forgiven him, it seemed, for which he was elated. He could think of no better way to spend his last days on Arran than sporting with a willing gentlewoman.
Davina already had her fiddle back in position, a faraway look in her eyes. She’d not so much as glanced at him. Did she mean for him to accompany her, or should he put his instrument aside? The evening was hers in every sense; he would wait to see if she made her desires known.
When she drew her bow across the strings, he realized she had something gentler in mind. The room fell silent. No
idle words were whispered; no spoons rattled in china saucers; no throats were cleared. She had saturated the air with notes; now she was spinning a thread of music so singular, so finely wound, they’d soon find themselves wrapped in it, unable to breathe.
Familiar as the tune was, Somerled almost did not recognize “Niel Gow’s Lament,” for she’d made the plaintive melody her own. The expressiveness of her phrasing—slower here, a bit more movement there—was masterful. As if she were the grief-stricken composer himself, mourning the loss of his second wife.
Davina would not grieve alone. Without making a sound, Somerled positioned his instrument firmly between his legs, horsehair bow poised. When she reached the refrain, he would be waiting for her.
Thirty-Five
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face.
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
Eyes closed, Davina let the music take her where it would. As often as she’d played Gow’s lament, each time the sorrowful beauty of the piece washed over her anew. Yet in the midst of the elegy she sensed a note of hope, and so she played toward that end, wanting to leave her audience not tearful but joyful.
When Davina began the refrain, slightly increasing the tempo, the low, warm notes of the violoncello rose to greet her once more. Somerled. Why had he not mentioned his musical abilities at dinner? She sensed him fitting his notes between hers, like fingers sliding inside a silk glove. When she altered the tempo, so did he; when she paused, his instrument fell silent.
Not only was Somerled an exceptional talent, he was also unselfish, anticipating what she might need, yet never providing more than she wanted. How did he know? Did he hear in the music what she heard? When they played in perfect harmony through a tender passage, did his heart soar too?
Davina slowly opened her eyes and found her answer. Somerled’s golden head was bowed over his instrument, his expression intent, as if he were listening, waiting for her, as lost in the music as she was. They played on, their gazes never quite meeting, speaking only in notes rather than in words. Follow me here. Aye, just that. Longer still. Now ’tis right.
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 18
