Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Davina scrubbed at her skin, washing every trace of him from her body, cringing at each tender spot. At least he’d not followed her to the house. She’d climbed over the windowsill, her limbs trembling, her heart in her throat. In the shadowy guest chamber a fourposter bed loomed behind her, thrusting its sharp spears toward the ceiling. She had yet to light a candle at the hearth or to look in the mirror, dreading what the glass might reveal.

  Please, God. She mouthed the words, wishing she might cry out. Help me. I did not want this. I did not know …

  At her feet lay her damask gown, stained and reeking of dung. She saw her mother’s pale hands clasping the fine fabric. Pictured her silver needle threading its way through the silk-embroidered linen. Remembered how proudly she’d held the dress to her shoulders and kissed her cheek. ’Tis for a special occasion, dearie.

  Davina sank to the floor, clutching the gown to her heart. Mother. If she were here, Leana would hold her in her arms and stroke her hair and whisper words of comfort and sing softly in her ear. Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing. But her mother was not here. Davina was alone in a house full of strangers, holding her mother’s gift, ruined beyond any hope of redemption.

  She dragged her gown into the washbowl and soaked it with her tears. Forgive me. She scrubbed the stains with soap, then rubbed the fabric together, harder than was prudent, trying in vain to get it clean. Please. She rinsed the dress over and over, using the last of the water, then rolled it inside a linen towel and hid it in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Later she would find a place to let the fabric dry. Later, when she could reason.

  For now her mind could grasp but one thing: I am no longer a maid. Davina clutched the carved edges of the washstand, imagining her father learning of her disgrace. The news would break his heart, and the scandal would destroy his good name.

  No one must ever know. No one. Not on the mainland and not on Arran. She could hide the truth forever. Unless …

  Nae. Davina stared at the carpet, fighting to keep her balance. Please, Lord. Not a child. Not his child.

  Guilt tightened round her heart as firmly as Somerled’s arm had wrapped round her waist. Had she not welcomed his kisses? Had she not followed him to the stables?

  Forgive me, Lord. Please, please forgive me.

  Dared she ask for mercy? She had to; she must. Withhold not thou thy tender mercies from me.

  Even if the Lord might forgive her sins, no one else would. Instead the world would soon come knocking at her door, expecting to find a young woman who’d spent the night alone, sleeping. She slipped on the white cotton nightgown waiting by the clothes press. Brushed the tangles from her hair. Hid her filthy stockings in a drawer. Unlocked the door, lest it rouse suspicion. Turned down the bedcovers.

  A wave of exhaustion rolled over her, like standing on the Clarinda and feeling the slap of the choppy surf. Beyond the curtains dawn had broken. The sky was slowly growing lighter, yet the house remained silent. Sleep would be hard to come by, though she needed rest, desperately so.

  Davina slid beneath the covers, her body still tense, her heart still pounding. She would sleep if she could. And pray that no gentleman came looking for her in her dreams.

  A persistent tapping at the door woke Davina from her fitful sleep. She struggled to sit up as a brown-haired maid poked her head round the door.

  “Guid mornin’ tae ye, Miss McKie. Me name’s Nan Shaw.” The servant, perhaps thirty years of age, swept into the room with a pitcher of steaming water in hand. “I thocht ye’d be wantin’ yer breakfast by noo. ’Tis ten o’clock.”

  Davina rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. The guest room at Kilmichael House. Midsummer Day.

  “I see ye’ve bathed yerself.” The maid gathered the wet towels draped over the washstand.

  Davina prayed Nan would not count them and notice one was missing.

  “If ye’re ready for me tae dress ye, thar’s a goun o’ Mrs. Fullarton’s hangin’ in yer wardrobe.”

  Davina held her breath as Nan reached into the wardrobe to retrieve the borrowed gown.

  The maid held the dress out to her. “I’ll raise the hem for ye, if need be.” Though the pale gray did not suit Davina’s coloring, it well matched her mood.

  She slipped down from the high bedstead, grateful that the curtains were still drawn; no wonder she’d slept well into the morning. Unless Nan insisted on lighting more candles, Davina might be able to conceal her bruises long enough to dress. She stood as far away from the candle and mirror as she could, then turned her back toward Nan and loosened her nightgown, letting it drop to the floor, hoping her hair would cover any marks on her back. Davina lifted her arms while Nan wrapped her cotton stays round her middle. Though Nan’s movements were efficient, she was not very gentle, tugging hard on the laces, putting pressure on Davina’s bruises, bringing tears to her eyes.

  Because of you, Somerled. Because of what you did to me.

  “Och, I forgot. I’ve a message for ye.” From her apron pocket Nan produced a folded paper, sealed in wax. “Here ye are, miss. Delivered last hour by ane o’ the servants from the castle.”

  While Nan brushed her hair, Davina rubbed her thumb across the address. For Miss McKie, a Guest at Kilmichael House. She did not know his hand but feared the bold script belonged to Somerled. She laid the letter aside long enough to don her gown and have her hair dressed, though her eyes remained fixed upon it and her thoughts more so. There is nothing to be said, sir. Nothing to be done.

  “Ye’ll find breakfast on the sideboard, miss.” Nan tied back the curtains, bobbed a curtsy, and was gone, leaving Davina to draw the candle near and read her note at last.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the paper, her gaze going directly to the bottom of the page. Aye. Above his signature appeared a handful of words.

  Miss McKie,

  I am more sorry than pen and paper could ever express. If you are willing, meet me at two o’clock at our bench by the burn.

  Somerled MacDonald

  Davina thrust the note into the candle flame, though she took no delight in seeing it burn. When it became too dangerous to hold, she tossed the letter into the fireplace, watching the paper grow black and charred until it was naught but ashes.

  Forty-One

  Trust me, ’tis something to be cast

  Face to face with one’s Self at last.

  JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

  Somerled did not need to consult his pocket watch.

  The hour was well past two. Davina was not coming.

  He abandoned the stone bench, striding along the path toward the house, then abruptly turned on his heel. Knocking on the Fullartons’ door was out of the question. Who knew what sort of tearful confession Davina might have made to her hostess? As it was, he’d evaded the gardener for an hour lest the man discover him lurking by the burn and inquire about his business there.

  “I wanted to view Goatfell from this vantage point” would hardly serve. But an honest answer would be worse. “I wanted to apologize to Miss McKie. To make amends …”

  Disgusted with himself, Somerled stamped the mud off his boots, then started down Kilmichael’s long road through the glen, headed for the bay. Late morning rain showers had left the ground soggy and the lane full of puddles. The avenue of trees dripped great, splattering drops of water on his face as he walked; Somerled wiped them off, grumbling under his breath.

  The duke was expecting his lady fiddler at seven o’clock; surely Davina would not disappoint His Grace in the manner she’d just disappointed him. When a quiet moment presented itself after dinner, Somerled would say what must be said in order to spare their reputations.

  Aye, and clear your conscience.

  He strode along the edge of the lane, kicking the heads off every oxeye daisy that crossed his path. He’d never felt so misunderstood in his life. Had he known Davina was chaste, he never would have escorted her to the stables.

 
Escorted? Or did you drag her there?

  Stung, he tramped through a puddle on purpose, soaking his boots.

  What if the packet boat sailing for the mainland carried a letter from Davina to her father, naming Somerled MacDonald as her molester? He could not deny he’d been too forceful. Too determined to have her. Too intoxicated by the heady scent of her and the sweet taste of her and …

  Och! Another daisy lost its petals.

  But hadn’t Davina welcomed his kisses? Hardly the behavior of a virtuous maid. True, he’d been most persuasive, but she’d also been responsive. Hadn’t she? Somerled fumed at a red-breasted robin hopping about, as if the bird were intentionally in his way. He lengthened his stride, his anger rising. If the lass so valued her maidenhood, why didn’t she wrestle free of him when he laid her on the floor of that deuced stall?

  Because you’re a foot taller and six stone heavier than she.

  The argument raged inside him as he turned north onto the coast road, where fishermen trudged by, hauling creels brimming with the day’s catch. He glowered at the local folk who stared at him and ignored those who offered a polite greeting, whether in English, Scots, or Gaelic. Could they not see he was in no mood to be cordial?

  When he passed the standing stone, he was still fuming. By the time he reached Cladach and started uphill toward the castle, his defense was weakening. The facts were irrefutable and not in his favor. He was a rogue; she was an innocent. She could not speak; he would not listen. He was a gentleman of both title and fortune; she was a gentlewoman from whom a priceless gift had been stolen.

  By you.

  “Somerled!” Sir Harry’s voice bellowed across the castle grounds.

  Groaning, Somerled acknowledged his father with a lifted hand, then veered in his direction. Sir Harry knew nothing of his reckless act yestreen. Would anything be gained by telling him?

  “You missed a fine morning of fishing and a tasty meal of potted trout.” Sir Harry fell in step with him as they walked along the castle wall. “Dougal heard you shuffling about our bedchamber at some ungodly hour yestreen while I was well asleep, then could not rouse you for breakfast. I take it you bedded that dairymaid. Is she at Kilmichael House?”

  Dairymaid? Somerled had forgotten his ploy. “Aye, she’s … at Kilmichael.”

  “Be mindful of your seed planting, lad,” Sir Harry cautioned. “I’ll not spend your inheritance feeding and clothing your bystarts.”

  Somerled only nodded, speechless at the very suggestion that Davina might be carrying his child. All the more reason he must speak with her, and quickly. Aye, and make a confession to his father, much as it pained him to do so. If his conquest had indeed been a willing servant, no more need be said. If she were a highborn strumpet who’d brought others to her bed, she’d not likely make trouble for him. But a lady of quality—even a silent one—would not keep her ruined state a secret for long.

  “Sir …” Somerled waited for the Fraser brothers from Inverness to stroll by, then lowered his voice. “The woman was not a dairymaid.”

  Sir Harry gave him a sharp-eyed look. “Who then? And do not say that fiddler from Glentrool—”

  “Aye.” Somerled looked down at his boots as he walked. “ ’Twas she.”

  His father uttered a mild oath. “What hizzies these Lowland gentlewomen are! Did I not hear that Miss McKie was but seventeen? Perhaps ’tis why her father sent her to Arran.” He rolled his broad shoulders, then sniffed the rain-washed air. “Ashamed of her, no doubt.”

  “On the contrary.” Somerled stopped, forcing himself to address his father face to face. “Miss McKie was utterly chaste. But I assumed—”

  “Assumed?” Sir Harry’s countenance grew livid. “You did not ask the lass?”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, sir, but Miss McKie is mute.”

  “Aye,” he growled, “but she is not deaf. Did you or did you not ask that young woman if—”

  “Nae.” Somerled swallowed, suddenly feeling ill. “I did not.”

  Sir Harry’s silvery eyebrows drew into a single thick line across his brooding face. “Why would a Lowland daughter with beauty, talent, and a good name give up her virtue for a Highlander she’d ne’er laid eyes on before?” When Somerled did not have a ready answer, his father plowed on. “Might it be that wee lass had no say in the matter?”

  His face heated with shame. “Very little, sir.”

  “Och!” Sir Harry cuffed his son’s head, hard. “What am I to do with you, lad? You’ve a fine mind and talents of your own. Could you not put them to better use?”

  Somerled fell back a step. His father had never upbraided him so severely. “I am … sorry to disappoint you, sir.”

  “Disappoint?” His father snorted. “ ’Tis far more serious than that. What you’ve done is not only an affront to society; ’tis also against the law. McKie is a landowner of some renown. Did you think to steal his daughter’s honor and escape unscathed?”

  “Father, I did not think—”

  “Nae, you did not!” Sir Harry stamped about, his anger barely contained. “What of my good reputation? And yours?”

  Somerled could no longer look at him. “Forgive me, sir—”

  “Och! Forgiveness is not the issue.” Sir Harry grabbed both his shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me: I have no wish to see my heir imprisoned for his profligate ways. Do your duty by her, lad, and act quickly. Before the damage cannot be undone.”

  Somerled did not need to consult his pocket watch.

  The hour was well past seven. The first course had been served at the duke’s table, and still Davina McKie had not arrived.

  Somerled glanced down at his creamy plate of partan bree. Even the aroma of fresh crabmeat held no appeal. He wanted Davina by his side, though not at all for the reasons he’d desired her yestreen. And not only because his father had made his expectations clear.

  We must speak, lass.

  Up and down the table, spoons clattered against china as men boasted of their prowess with bow and arrow, archery being the next morning’s activity. “You’re quiet this evening, MacDonald.” A fellow named Armstrong, son of a baronet from the Scottish Borders, regarded him with an amused expression. “Or would you rather be plying your bow with a certain fiddler?”

  “Miss McKie will be along shortly,” Somerled told him, glancing at the doorway. “As to my accompanying her again, that remains to be seen.”

  Thoughts of Davina consumed him. Nae, tormented him. Guilt, an unfamiliar emotion, hounded him, while anger, his old friend, had lost its teeth. He had no one to blame but himself for what had happened on Midsummer Eve. No one.

  He would tell Davina that and a great deal more. But first he had to see her.

  Far down the turnpike stair the old castle door creaked open, then banged shut. He listened to the footfalls on the stone steps. A man’s boots. Not Davina, then.

  When the footman from Kilmichael appeared in the doorway bearing a note, Somerled’s spirits sank. Davina was not coming. He had pushed back his chair, preparing to rise, when the footman—Clark, he was called—came forward and presented the note to the duke.

  Somerled frowned at the servant, the very one he’d paid to leave the torch burning. Was there no note for him? Apparently not, for the man took his leave without glancing in Somerled’s direction.

  The duke pursed his lips as he read, then tossed the paper aside. “Gentlemen, I regret to say Miss McKie will not be entertaining us this evening. Our Midsummer feast at Kilmichael House did not sit well with her, poor lady.” He trained his gaze on Somerled. “It falls to you, MacDonald, to provide tonight’s music.”

  “With pleasure, Your Grace.” Somerled pulled his chair closer to the table, resigned to honor the duke’s request. He’d brought his wooden flute and could easily sing unaccompanied. But it was Davina he would miss, not her fiddle.

  The soup course was whisked away and plates of cabbieclaw placed before the gues
ts. Somerled picked at his salted cod, his thoughts elsewhere. Was Davina truly ill? That would explain her absence earlier and this evening as well.

  Except she’d eaten very little at dinner yestreen. And he’d spent hours with her after their meal, observing no sign of illness.

  At least, not from the food.

  Somerled pushed aside his dinner, his appetite vanished. Please, Davina, do not hide from me. There was one possibility, one remedy he wished to offer her.

  ’Twas the best solution. Nae, the only solution, as his father well knew.

  But would she want him for a husband after all he’d done? Or would she wed him to avoid disgrace, then detest him the whole of their marriage?

  Somerled rose from the table, composing a letter in his head. Not so brief a note as the one he’d sent that morning. Rather, an honest entreaty that would coax Davina from the safe confines of Kilmichael and give her a reason to trust him again.

  Forty-Two

  I wish, I wish, I wish in vain;

  I wish I were a maid again.

  TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG

  Davina retrieved the still-damp towel from her wardrobe, then unrolled the thick bundle across her bed. Could it be that her ivory damask was not ruined after all? She held a candle over the dress even as she held her breath.

  Nae. Several dark stains remained. The silk embroidery was roughened where she’d scrubbed it, and a faintly pungent aroma from the stables lingered in the folds of the fabric.

  It seemed her gown could not be restored. Nor could she.

  Ruined. A terrible word for a young woman who was no longer chaste. Like a once-grand castle reduced to rubble or a lovely dress beyond repair.

  Forgive me, Lord. Not for how the night ended. But for how it began. She should never have kissed him. Never have followed him. Never have trusted him.

  With a soundless sigh Davina put aside the candle, then shook out her gown before hanging it from a peg in the wardrobe beneath a long cotton wrap. It would take days to dry there. If she were a country laundress, she’d spread her linens out on the heath or drape them across the shrubbery.