Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  The smallest room in the tavern, the oblong Coffin seated only half a dozen patrons. Sandy usually protested, but Will favored the privacy. “ ’Tis just the place for us,” he told John as they entered from the narrow wynd. “We’re here to toast the month of July.”

  “ ’Tis as good a reason as any,” John said cordially, lifting three clean glasses from the bar. He opened a fresh bottle of ale while they took their seats, then joined them in a small drink, as was his custom. “To your health, lads. And to the month ahead.”

  Sandy held up his glass. “And may July be drier than June.” He took a generous swallow. “Though ’twill likely rain half this month as well. So says our father.”

  “A wise man,” John observed, leaving them to their drink.

  Will licked the ale from his lips. “Aye, Jamie McKie is wise, all right. And wealthy. And weak.” He cared not if he sounded bitter; his brother had heard it before.

  Sandy rubbed the scratchy beard on his unshaved cheek. “Suppose we blether about something more interesting. The lasses, perhaps.”

  “You mean that maid from Dickson’s Close?” Will yawned and leaned back in his chair. Friday had been long in coming. “The one with eyes the color of glessie?”

  Sandy grinned at him and lifted his ale. “The very one.”

  Will had just begun describing her flindrikin ways when two older gentlemen were ushered into the Coffin. Gentry, by the look of them. Fife men, by the sound of them. They nodded at Will and Sandy in greeting before they sat down at their table behind a privacy screen. The brown paper blocked the view but did nothing to muffle the sound.

  Sandy prompted him, “You were telling me about Meg, the toffee-eyed tairt.”

  They kept their conversation low, in deference to the other patrons, but the gentlemen from Fife did not return the favor. The longer they drank, the louder they grew, until Sandy stamped off to order their supper, leaving Will to nurse the last of his drink and a mounting temper.

  “Och, she was a bonny wee thing,” the older of the two men was recounting. “Seventeen and sweet as a plum.”

  “A Lowlander? And a redhead, you say?”

  “You’ve ne’er seen hair this color. Like a sunset. And such a douce face! She could’ve had her pick of any man in that room.”

  “Including you, Alastair?”

  “Oo aye.” The bearded man chuckled, then banged down his glass. “Especially me.”

  Will turned his back on the men, disgusted. Whoever the poor lass might be, she’d found an admirer in old Alastair.

  Sandy returned with John Dowie on his heels. In one hand John bore a fresh bottle of ale and in the other a plate of whitings in cream, smelling of onions and chives.

  “Two more months, lads, and we’ll have oysters,” John promised. “And then you’ll see how many folk we can fit into this Coffin.” He served them their supper, then disappeared into one of the nearby rooms, propping their empty ale bottle on the shelf above their heads before he left. When the reckoning came, the tavern owner would tally their empty bottles and charge the lads threepence apiece.

  Will sank his teeth into a tender whiting, still hot from the pan, while the men on the other side of the screen continued their discourse on the loosome redhead.

  “Who ever heard of a wee lass playing the fiddle?”

  Will froze. Davina? Nae, ’twas impossible. She was on Arran, far from Fife.

  Sandy looked up from his plate. His thoughts were running along similar paths, judging by his guarded expression.

  “She’s especially good with strathspeys,” the Alastair fellow said. “The Duke of Hamilton invited her to entertain his guests ’til Wednesday next.”

  Will relaxed and swallowed another forkful. Hamilton Palace was in Lanarkshire. Not on Arran.

  “Any other musicians with her?” his companion wanted to know.

  “Aye, a Highlander by the name of Somerled MacDonald. Sir Harry’s son, if you ken the family. He joined her on violoncello one night and wooden flute another. They performed many a fine tune for His Grace.” Alastair chuckled. “And played another sort of duet for the horses in the stables, if you ken my meaning. At least that was the blether making the rounds before I sailed from Arran.”

  Will choked on his fish, struggling to spit it out.

  “Is everything all right, lads?” Alastair stood and looked over the screen, his complexion ruddy from his ale. “Should we order the ham instead?”

  Sandy pushed away his plate. “I beg your pardon, for ’tis a private conversation you gentlemen are having, but …”

  The older man tapped on the flimsy screen. “Not much use, these. You heard my gossip from Brodick castle on Arran, I’ll warrant. About the fiddler lass and her braw Highlander.”

  “Aye.” Will wiped his mouth and took a long gulp of ale; the fish did not go well with bile.

  “Make no mistake, she’s a beauty.” Alastair stepped out from behind the screen, yanking at his waistcoat. “And small as they come.”

  Will rose on unsteady feet. “Like a fairy?”

  “Aye.” The man’s gray eyebrows arched as he smiled. “Just that.”

  It cannot be Davina. Cannot possibly be our sister.

  But Will had to know. Had to be sure. “Do you happen to recall the lass’s name?”

  “Well …” Alastair studied the ceiling as if her name might be written there. “I cannot remember her Christian name. I might recognize her family name if I heard it. Och, but where are my manners?” He bobbed a clumsy bow. “I am Alastair MacDuff, and this is Roy Dalrymple of Fife. You two young gentlemen attend university, I’ll wager. And are brothers, unless my bleary eyes deceive me.”

  “Correct on both counts, sir.” Sandy stood, and they both offered shallow bows. “William and Alexander McKie of Glentrool.”

  “McKie?” Alastair looked pleased with himself. “Why, that’s it! That’s the lassie’s name. She is not a”—his brassy voice lost its luster—“not a relative of yours, I … ah, presume.”

  Will and Sandy stared at each other. If by any chance, any small chance, the woman was not Davina, they would never sully her name by mentioning it here. But if the unfortunate lass was indeed their sister …

  Sandy’s nod was almost imperceptible. Aye. Tell him.

  Will tried to wet his lips, longing for a sip of ale. “As it happens, the young woman you are discussing so freely may be our sister. Davina McKie.”

  “Davina, you say?” The florid cheeks of Alastair MacDuff turned pale. “Aye … aye, that was the young lady’s Christian name.” In the close quarters of the Coffin, his swallow was audible. “N-not a c-common name, Davina.”

  ’Tis not your fault, lass. Will stared at the floor as heat rose through his body, sparking his anger, fueling his vengeance. ’Tis the Highlander’s fault. And Father’s fault. And mine.

  “Gentlemen …” Alastair had sobered considerably. “I must beg your forgiveness for speaking as I did.” He spread out his hands, a silent plea. “I did not ken … nae, I could not ken that you … that she …”

  “Well, now you do, MacDuff.” Will ground out the words. “See that you do not drag our family name through every tavern in Edinburgh.”

  “Aye, to be sure.” Alastair wiped his brow, sweating profusely. “Though the Highlander’s the one who deserves your wrath.” He lowered his voice, casting a glance at the door. “ ’Twas a rough wooing, I’m told. Her maid said the young lady was bruised—”

  “Hech!” Will grabbed his wooden chair and flung it across the room, splintering the legs in pieces, roaring at the top of his lungs, “How dare he!” Their table went tumbling after it, fish and ale crashing to the floor. Then Sandy’s chair sailed from his own hand, followed by a string of curses, as the men from Fife cowered at the far end of the Coffin.

  “Gentlemen!” John Dowie was at the door, his scowl fierce. “I’ll not have such behavior in my establishment. Must I summon the Town Gua
rd—”

  “Nae.” Will yanked out his purse. “ ’Twill not be necessary.” Breathing hard, his head ready to burst, Will emptied his store of coins into the ale seller’s hands.

  “You’ll not be welcomed here again,” John warned.

  “ ’Tis of no consequence.” Will brushed past him, his face set like flint. “My brother and I depart for Arran within the hour.”

  Fifty-Two

  And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

  The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

  THOMAS MOORE

  Davina moved the charcoal pencil across the page of her sketchbook with short, firm strokes. Drawing a building, however grand, held little appeal for her. Too many straight lines, almost no color, and the stones were lifeless. A stand of sweet cicely waving in the breeze, smelling of anise, or a long-legged sandpiper with its brown wings and white belly, bobbing its head and wagging its tail, were far more interesting subjects for an artist. Buildings remained the same. Living things were ever changing—captured for a moment, then gone forever.

  But Somerled wanted a sketch of Brodick castle. “To remember the place,” he said.

  What Davina remembered was climbing up to the castle last month with her cousins on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. And Cate singing, “There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads come to our town.” One boat especially, sailing from Claonaig, had changed Davina’s life. She dearly missed Cate and Abbie, both of them bright as a pair of copper buttons. Missed eating Mrs. McCurdy’s simple meals and playing the fiddle for a handful of undemanding neighbors. Missed sleeping in a cozy bedroom with two sisters who cared about her.

  Davina sighed, pausing to look up at the stony parapet that marched along the roofline, and caught a glimpse of the Highlander strolling down the sloping path to the walled garden, his golden hair rivaling the bright July sun. Nan was scurrying to keep up with him. The maid had been sent up to the castle to inform Somerled of Davina’s early arrival, well before the start of Saturday evening’s meal and the music that would follow.

  Somerled and Davina had much to discuss. If they hoped to hold back the swift-moving tide of rumors for another few days, it was safest to meet out of doors, in plain view, and well chaperoned.

  “What fair flower is this, growing in the duke’s garden?” Somerled smiled, but she saw a deeper question in his eyes. Had there been further trouble?

  “I’ll be sittin’ o’er thar,” Nan said with a halfhearted curtsy, then flounced off to take a seat on one of the broad sandstone benches in the garden. She landed far enough away to let them converse privately, yet close enough to notice if their hands touched.

  Somerled joined Davina, giving the woman his back. “What a glib-gabbit creature!” he muttered. “Spreading lies like a Lowland farmer spreads manure.”

  His silver had stopped Nan’s tongue, but the damage had already been done. Wherever Davina went she sensed people staring at her and felt the daggers of their pointed looks. Nan had not told anyone about the jacket, perhaps, but she’d told them enough.

  “We’ll not let her spoil our afternoon,” Somerled insisted, leaning over Davina’s shoulder to study her drawing. “You’ve been working on my castle, aye?”

  Davina waited for his reaction. Unlike playing the fiddle, when she experienced the audience’s joy and her own at the same moment, sketching was a solitary pleasure. Months might go by before anyone saw her work, and who knew how they would respond?

  “You’ve rendered it perfectly,” Somerled said at last. “Will you sign it?”

  She was about to write Davina McKie across the bottom when he stayed her hand.

  “Why not try your new name?” He was winking at her again, or so it appeared in the slanted afternoon sunlight. “See how it looks on the page.”

  Davina would never confess it, but she’d written it several times that morning. Davina MacDonald. How strange and frightening a prospect, to be married so young in life. To be married to a Highlander.

  Honoring Somerled’s request, she signed the sketch with her married name, even though it felt unchancie. The banns had to be cried in the kirk three Sabbaths in a row, meaning the earliest they could wed was Lammastide. Was it wise to write a name that was not yet hers?

  Somerled seemed to think so. “I like the look of it, don’t you?” He withdrew a slender dirk from his boot, then pressed the sharp point into the gutter of the book, preparing to cut the page free. “Do you mind?”

  She did, a little. His presumptuous habit of simply taking what he wanted remained vexing.

  “I see that you do mind.” Somerled tucked the knife back into his boot, his even gaze locked with hers. “Do not be afraid to say nae to me, Miss McKie.”

  It was difficult to resist a man so determined to please her.

  Then his smile returned, his greatest weapon; surely he knew that. “There is one exception. You may not change your mind about marrying me. Once your father has blessed our union, we shall sail for the mainland and leave all this unfortunate gossip in our wake.”

  My bonny Arran. She’d come to the island with such high hopes. Would she leave nothing behind except unkind whispers and a lingering sense of shame? Her only consolation was knowing the slander would remain on Arran. She’d be a married woman and off to Argyll before the folk of Monnigaff parish even expected her home.

  Home. Her throat began to tighten. Glentrool. Mother. How could she bid farewell to the world she knew and the people she loved, knowing she might not see them for months, even years at a time? What husband, however wealthy or handsome, could appease so great a loss?

  Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t realize Somerled had taken the sketchbook from her lap and was scanning the pages with great interest. When she gave a silent gasp and tried to reclaim it, he held her book out of reach. “I believe I saw a familiar face. One crowned with wavy hair.”

  Mortified, she looked away as he turned to the page. He would find it a poor likeness. And think her a silly schoolgirl for drawing it.

  He gazed at the sketch longer than she liked, holding it this way and that. “An uncanny resemblance,” he finally said. “Though I see you omitted the pale birthmark on my neck. A kindness, that. How clever of you to draw this while I was not paying attention.”

  Davina shook her head and tapped her pencil on the date she’d scribbled in the corner. May Day 1808. When he started to protest that they’d not met until June, what else could she do but write out the truth? I dreamed of you that night in May.

  “Dreamed of me?”

  Pencil and paper were not enough. She picked a stray gowan that had escaped the gardener’s scythe, pretended to slide it beneath an imaginary pillow on which she laid her head, then opened her eyes and reached for the sketchbook as she sat back down.

  He shook his head, incredulous. “Does every unmarried lass in Scotland put wildflowers under her pillow on May Day?”

  She began pulling off the daisy petals, one by one.

  “And the man she dreams about … is he meant to be her husband?”

  Davina shrugged, but she didn’t fool him. Aye.

  “Then ’tis no accident.” His voice had a note of awe. “The two of us, visiting Arran this summer, crossing paths as we did. My love, we were betrothed before we met.”

  My love. The torn petals slipped through her fingers. Could it be true?

  He reached for her hand, then hesitated. Waiting.

  Davina glanced toward Nan. She will see us.

  Undaunted, he rested his hands next to hers, palm up. An invitation.

  My love. He did not need to say those words. For the sake of their families’ reputations, she had no choice but to marry him, and he knew it. Yet Somerled wooed her.

  “Sir,” Nan said, walking up, “they’ll be wantin’ ye baith for denner suin.” She stood nearby, waiting to follow them up the steep walk toward the castle, a self-satisfied look on her face.

  Somerle
d offered Davina his arm, and she took it willingly. Even Nan could not find fault with that. The couple walked side by side along the wide, graveled walk, through a rectangular door in the garden wall, then upward, past a closely clipped hedgerow and the lowpin-on stane, two stone steps used to mount a horse or carriage.

  “I have a last tune in mind for tonight,” Somerled told her as they paused by the castle door, built when men as tall as Somerled were seldom found. “ ’Tis a reel,” he said, ducking beneath the lintel. “You’ll recognize it from the first note.”

  Indeed she did.

  As the sun was setting and the half-moon was high above Arran, Somerled led them into their final piece, “I Love My Love in Secret.” Davina blinked away tears as her bow flew across the strings. She couldn’t sing the words, but she knew them. I gied my heart in pledge o’ his ring. Could she do so? Could she give this man her heart, not just her hand?

  Davina finished the reel with her back to Somerled, hiding her feelings, remembering his confession. I have wronged you in the worst imaginable way. Aye, he had. The very worst. Yet his remorse seemed genuine. I truly am sorry, Miss McKie. Spoken many times. Contritely. Sincerely.

  I dare not ask you to forgive me. But it was not Somerled who asked.

  Our Father which art in heaven. She’d prayed the words aloud as a child and whispered them in her heart every Sabbath. Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. Yet she’d never been so tested. Forgiving her brothers had been easy. She loved them; it was an accident; they were children. But forgiving Somerled required a divine portion of grace. Her defilement was no accident, and Somerled was no child.

  The applause round the room crowded out her solemn thoughts as Somerled took her hand. “Bow with me.” She felt the warmth of his grip, the solid strength of him. My love. Did he mean what he said?

  He remained by her side as she stored her fiddle, then followed her down the turnpike stair. When the couple stepped out of doors and tarried at the top of the castle steps, Nan stood a few feet away, waiting to escort Davina back to Kilmichael, the baize bag tucked beneath her arm. Not far to the east Brodick Bay glimmered in the moonlight.