Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Davina nodded to each lad as they were introduced. Tam Connell. Joseph Dunn. Both in their twenties, bright eyed and leanly built. Apprentices to a joiner in Penningham parish, they’d learned to play by listening to an old fiddler in Newton Stewart whose name Davina did not recognize.

  Tam shuffled his feet, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Miss McKie, we heard ye’re the best fiddler in South West Scotland.”

  “Aye, and that ye performed for His Grace,” Joseph added, clearly in awe. “I howp ye’ll not judge us too harshly, miss.” He looked at Tam askance. “We’ve been playin’ thegither nae mair than a twelvemonth.”

  Jamie brushed off their concerns. “ ’Tis only a Lammas gathering, lads. My daughter will be happy to have the day free, I’ll warrant.”

  As they tuned their fiddles, Davina’s emotions swung back and forth like a clock pendulum: relieved she was not expected to play, disappointed she would not have the joy of doing so. The lads must have come early, for not many guests were standing about yet. None, really, except Glentrool’s own shepherds.

  Then Ian walked up with Margaret McMillan on his arm and her smiling parents not far behind.

  “John!” Jamie called out, waving them over. “You’ll remember Lammas days here when we were lads.”

  “Indeed I do.” He laughed, showing off his back teeth. “A fine crowd of folk came, as I recall. And a piper walked round the bonfire when darkness fell.”

  A piper. Davina’s stomach tightened at the thought. She could manage hearing another fiddle played, but not a bagpipe. Not so soon.

  Her mother, as always, read her expression. “We’ve no piper coming, dearie. And should you decide to play your fiddle, I’m sure the lads from Newton Stewart would gladly sit at your feet.”

  On cue, they struck up a tune for the few herds standing round the garden, bringing smiles to their faces, while the McMillans filled their plates at the tables. If there were more neighbors on foot, making their way to Glentrool, they would no doubt hear the music and quicken their steps.

  As each minute passed without a new face to welcome, Davina became more concerned. When her father pulled out his pocket watch, she checked the time as well. Four o’clock? Surely so many folk were not delayed. The skies were clear, the main road to the village was dry, and the paths surrounding Loch Trool had not seen rain in a week.

  Platter upon platter of food remained untouched. A dozen herds stood about, rubbing their necks and shifting their weight, patently eager to dance but not with one another. Where were the lasses? the dairymaids and the laundresses? the laborers’ daughters and the maidservants? None of the gentry had come either. Not the Carmonts or the Galbraiths or the McLellans.

  The two fiddlers made a valiant effort, sawing away at their instruments, spinning out strathspeys and reels, but the garden of Glentrool remained almost deserted.

  Davina sank onto the nearest bench and did not hide her tears. Because of me. They’ve not come because of me.

  Her mother was beside her at once. “Do not blame yourself, Davina. Not for a minute. Our neighbors have chosen to observe Lammas elsewhere, it seems. So be it.” Leana tugged her to her feet. “We shall have our own celebration, the McMillans and the McKies. Beginning with a dance.”

  Nae, Mother. Davina gazed at the forlorn knot of shepherds. Not dancing. Not like this.

  Gentle as she was, Leana would not be dissuaded. “We have a fine group of lads, any of whom would be honored to serve as your partner. Not landed gentry, yet well mannered, to be sure, and very capable dancers. What say you, Davina? Shall we make the most of an unfortunate situation since the day is so fair and you are so bonny?”

  A male voice drew her ear. “Do I understand Miss McKie needs a partner?”

  Davina turned to find Graham Webster striding toward her, his face flushed from riding. His auburn hair, pulled back in a longish tail, had come loose, and the ends brushed against his bearded chin. She had a fleeting realization that Mr. Webster was as tall as Somerled, though they had nothing else in common.

  He surveyed the garden, then turned to her and smiled. “I see I have the good fortune of being one of the first to arrive. I’d hoped to hear you play your fiddle this afternoon, Miss McKie, but as you’ve hired two lads from my own parish, I must be content.”

  “You’ve come at the perfect time, Mr. Webster.” Leana motioned Jamie and the others to join them. “We were about to form our lines.”

  Though Davina’s feet—like her hands—were not inclined to music that day, if Mr. Webster wished to join the others, he would need a partner. She curtsied to signal her willingness, avoiding his gaze.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. McKie. But I am not certain your daughter cares for dancing just now.” His response surprised Davina, as if he’d seen past her artifice. “Perhaps she prefers to sit and have a cup of cider.”

  She looked up in time to see the warmth in his smile. He understands. Though her mourning was private, she was not ready to dance in public. Food, however, held some appeal. She gladly took his arm and let him lead her to the tables, where victuals sufficient to feed an entire parish waited to be sampled. As befitted a hostess, she prepared a plate for each of them. Uncertain which foods he might choose, she settled on a taste of everything, covering his plate with Aubert’s best selections.

  Mr. Webster cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is the afternoon’s entertainment going to be watching me consume all this?” When she nodded, he put on an impressive show. Between bites he chatted amiably about the pleasant weather, the beauty of the heather in bloom, and his plans for her father’s sheep. “I expect Rab Murray will deliver them to Penningham Hall one day next week.”

  Had he come on business, then? And not, as he’d said, to hear her music? Davina tried not to mind too much. Still, she did think Mr. Webster a trustworthy gentleman, unlikely to say one thing and mean another. He fell silent as they watched the other three couples dance in longwise fashion.

  All at once the rear door to Glentrool flew open, and a bevy of maidservants appeared, headed directly for the shepherds. It seemed Eliza had decided her staff would be of more use on their feet than in the house. A shout rang out when the herds saw them coming. Maids were swept into the reel before they could catch their breath, and the fiddlers from Newton Stewart nearly joined the dancers on the flagstone, so sprightly did the lads play.

  “Lammas at Glentrool is well begun,” Mr. Webster said, as amused by the spectacle as she.

  The herds had few inhibitions, kicking up their heels like Michael Kelly dancing round his loom, while the maids in their matching uniforms took care not to get stepped on and laughed at the lads’ antics. After several reels Davina found herself smiling and tapping her foot. How could she not when “The Stuart’s Rant” was so ferlie?

  Mr. Webster brought her a fresh cup of cider. “Even seated, Miss McKie, you are full of music.”

  She looked up to find his hazel eyes trained on hers and felt her cheeks warm, though she could not say why. He was merely a friend of the family—though a good friend of late—and there was nothing unseemly about his gaze.

  “Tell me, O May Queen, when will I have the pleasure of hearing your grandfather’s fiddle?” He sat down, placing her cider before her, then lightly touched his gloved hand to hers. “I confess, I have wished to be in your audience for some time now.”

  Flustered, Davina sprang to her feet without thinking. Please … don’t.

  Graham stood at once. “Miss McKie?”

  I cannot … I am no longer … She tried to curtsy, then fled for the door.

  Seventy-Nine

  And every door is shut but one,

  And that is Mercy’s door.

  WILLIAM COWPER

  Ye’ve a visitor at yer door, sir. Mr. McKie o’ Glentrool.”

  Graham frowned, the ledgers and receipts on his desk forgotten. Jamie McKie had delivered his new flock? Nae. Mrs. Threshie must have misunderstood. Rab Murray was the
one expected. Not the man’s employer. Not Davina’s father.

  And why was there no bleating of sheep?

  Graham closed the study door behind him, then strode down the entrance hall and turned left into the drawing room, as light and feminine a place as his study was dark and masculine. The comparison had always intrigued Susan.

  Standing before the marble mantelpiece was the laird of Glentrool.

  “Mr. McKie. It is you.”

  Jamie smiled, returning his bow. “I rode on ahead. Rab will be along shortly with two other herds and your flock of sheep.” He walked toward a west-facing window, brightened by the afternoon sun. “The day was well chosen, Graham. Suitably dry but not as hot as August can be. You’ll find your sheep no worse for the journey.” He peered through the glass. “Is that your pasture?”

  Graham heard a thread of doubt woven through the man’s words. “The forage is quite rich and the dry stane dyke newly built. My new herd is inspecting the soundness of the dyke. You’ll see him out there.”

  “Aye.” Jamie knitted his brow. “Well drained, is it?”

  “All round, sir.” He reminded himself the man was a seasoned sheep breeder; any questions he raised were for the good of his flock.

  Jamie turned away from the window at last and nodded. “Well done, Graham. Shall we see your fivescore safely home?”

  Relieved to have his approval, Graham walked Jamie through the house and out the east-facing door by intent. “Most properties of this size have a garden in the rear. Penningham Hall has a river.” The Cree flowed behind his house, slower and broader here than farther above and below stream. “I’d be pleased to have you join me for smelt fishing next March. Mrs. Threshie thinks they taste like rushes.”

  Jamie laughed. “Your housekeeper has a discerning palate.” Dodging the bracken as he walked, he said, “You’ve a fine stand of trees, though you’ll not want your flock wending their way here. Sheep have an aversion to water and boggy land.”

  At the sound of bleating, Graham’s chest swelled. My flock. Guiding his visitor round to the front, he saw the sheep some distance north, being herded along the road.

  “Sheep don’t move with particular speed,” Jamie warned him, “but they do like to stay together. You’ll find they prefer moving from lower to higher ground, from darkness to light, and any direction that takes them toward food.”

  “On that subject, sir, I hope you’ll accept my invitation for supper.”

  Jamie smiled, lengthening his stride. “As long as you’re not serving baked smelt.”

  Graham matched the man’s gait as they neared the flock moving in one fleecy mass toward his enclosed pasture. Rab managed the sheep with ease, walking behind them with his long crook. Two young herds and a pair of black and white collies kept the flock from straying as they guided the sheep through the gate and into their new home.

  “Is this your first flock?” Jamie asked.

  Graham looked straight ahead, hoping he didn’t appear foolish. “Aye, it is.”

  “The men I most admire are shepherds,” Jamie said simply, then closed the gate as the last sheep scurried through. “If Rab or I may be of service, you ken the road to Glentrool. Come anytime, Graham.”

  The sheep huddled in the corners, as if afraid of the pastureland. “They’ll not stay like that?” Graham asked.

  “Not once they realize their water troughs are in the middle,” Jamie assured him. “Give them time. Sheep hate change. Almost as much as people do.”

  Graham took advantage of the open door. “Mr. McKie, on the matter of change …” He inclined his head toward the house, and they both began walking. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve not informed your daughter of our June conversation?”

  Jamie was slow in answering. “I … have not.”

  Just as he’d suspected, Davina knew nothing of his interest. No wonder she’d jumped at the mere touch of his hand on Lammas. “Was there some reason for not telling her, Mr. McKie? I know her age was a concern for you.”

  Jamie had a ready answer. “Initially I thought it best to wait until she returned home from Arran so that her mother and I might advise her in person.”

  The idea of their keeping the news from Davina rankled, yet Graham held his tongue. He was not a father; he did not know how a man informed his daughter of such things. Perhaps face to face was best.

  Jamie continued, “In light of all that has happened, we could not bear to add to her misery.”

  “Her misery?” Graham stopped in his tracks. “Would my interest so grieve your daughter?”

  “By no means,” Jamie hastened to say. “But telling Davina that she might have been courted by such a fine gentleman …” Jamie groaned, shaking his head. “Surely you can see how that would make matters worse for her.”

  Now he understood. “You mean if she compared courtship with a gentleman to her own experience of being violated and then forced into a betrothal.”

  Jamie gazed back toward the pasture, squinting into the sun. “That was not quite the way of it, Graham. Sadly, you are right on the first count. The Highlander confessed as much. But my daughter was not forced to consider marriage. Pressed upon by her circumstances, perhaps, but not by Somerled MacDonald. He did not insist on marriage. Rather, he wooed her until he won her heart.”

  Graham dragged a hand over his beard to hide his dismay. Wooed her? Won her? ’Twas not the story Reverend Moodie had shared. But who knew better than her own father? “You are certain this rake had some genuine affection for her? And she for him?”

  Jamie McKie’s gaze was steady and his voice sure. “I have loved my wife for twenty years, and I know of what I speak. Somerled MacDonald loved my daughter, for however brief a time afforded him. And I believe she favored him in return.”

  Graham began walking toward his house. To make sure that his body still moved, that his heart still beat, even though he felt numb, lifeless. He’d cherished an innocent woman from afar. Then a grieving victim from near. But this was a different Davina McKie.

  He’d thought she was mourning her lost virtue.

  Now he knew she was mourning her lost love as well.

  “I can see this does not sit easily with you.” Jamie sighed. “Frankly, I cannot blame you, Graham. Though she is still very much our sweet daughter, she is not the same lass who sailed with me to Arran at the end of May.”

  “Nae, she is not the same,” Graham agreed. “For if she truly cared for him, then her heart is with him still.”

  “I fear you may be right.”

  He sighed heavily. “I know I am, sir.” Hadn’t he grieved for Susan two long years? Only this summer did he once again see the sun shining through the trees over the Cree. And hear children laughing in the village on market day. And dip his paintbrush in yellow more often than black.

  They’d reached the front door, though Graham tarried outside, wanting to finish their discussion beyond Mrs. Threshie’s listening ears.

  Jamie spoke, his voice low. “I must be truthful with you, Graham. Though I was initially taken aback by your proposal, I would have welcomed you as a son-in-law.”

  “Would have? Has your opinion of me diminished, sir?”

  “Not at all.” Jamie looked at him evenly. “But I can hardly hold you to an offer made before … well, when the situation was very different. Most gentlemen of your stature …”

  Graham held up his hand. “My heart has not changed, Mr. McKie. Nor has my offer of marriage.”

  Jamie stared at him in disbelief. “Can you mean that?”

  “Depend upon it. She is an extraordinary young woman to forgive so completely and care so deeply. I would be honored to call your daughter my wife someday.”

  Jamie shook his head, as if trying to make sense of things. “Shall I tell her, then?”

  “Nae, for she may conclude I’m acting out of pity or prior obligation and so think less of herself.”

  Jamie clasped his hand. “You
r kindness and mercy are exemplary.”

  “The example was set by One far greater than I, sir. Centuries ago.” They shook hands, their agreement made. “Understand, ’tis not a marriage of convenience I am seeking. I endeavor to win her heart on honest terms. For I’ll not have Miss McKie marry me for any reason other than love.”

  “You are certain?” Jamie asked. “Considering what my daughter has been through, such a transfer of her affections may take some time.”

  “So be it.” Graham pushed open his front door. “I have learned how to wait.”

  Eighty

  From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love

  To long for, pureness to desire, a mount

  Of consecration it were good to scale.

  JEAN INGELOW

  You know what Robert says?”

  Davina looked up from the calendar on her father’s desk to find her mother smiling at her from the doorway.

  “Fair on September first, fair for the month.”

  Davina turned to gaze out the library windows facing the loch. The weather was indeed fair, with a cloudless sky and brilliant sunshine.

  Her mother was beside her now, looking down at the calendar with a single word written across the twenty-ninth: Wedding. “I do hope our gardener is right. If we have such a fine day on Michaelmas, ’twill be an answer to Margaret’s prayers.” She laughed softly. “And mine. Because if it rains, as it often does in late September, we’ll have to roll up the carpets or scrub out mud for weeks to come.”

  Weddings were traditionally conducted at the bride’s home. Aware of Glenhead’s modest size, Leana had quietly offered the McMillans the use of Glentrool’s drawing room. Sally McMillan had leaped from her chair and thrown her arms round Leana’s neck. “God bless you! For I declare, our wee house could not hold even our two families.”

  “I believe we will need every inch of space,” her mother admitted, “now that the parish realizes we are the same family we’ve always been.” She touched Davina’s cheek. “And that you are worthy of their compassion and not their judgment.”