Grace in Thine Eyes (18 page)

A capricious breeze fluttered her pages whenever she lifted her pencil, making it difficult to sketch. When another gust nearly closed the book on her fingers, Davina gave up drawing and thumbed through some of her artwork from two months past. Her mother’s cherished roses. Grandmother’s rowan. The corner of the garden where she’d
weeded with her mother, waiting for Father to return from Edinburgh, and the words she’d written that afternoon.
I look forward to our summer together
. Instead they were spending the summer far apart, all of them.

Davina quickly turned the page before a wave of homesickness washed over her.

Ah
. The perfect antidote. She looked down at the page with the thumb-worn corners and smiled at the thickness of his wavy hair, the generous shape of his mouth, the firm jut of his chin. Dreaming of him was no longer necessary, not when he lived in her thoughts and in her sketchbook, ever close at hand.

“There you are, Davina!” Cate came flying across the lawn, her eyes shining with excitement.

Startled, Davina closed her sketchbook in haste and stood, trying not to look guilty.

Cate clasped her free hand and squeezed it tight, so out of breath she had to gasp between words. “I have the most … wonderful news! Guess who’ll arrive … on Arran … Tuesday next?”

Twenty-Four

O, what are you waiting for here? young man!
J
AMES
T
HOMSON

Y
ou did say Tuesday at noon, Mr. McKie?”

“Indeed I did.” Jamie stood, greeting the younger gentleman with a bow, while the mantel clock in the drawing room struck the hour.

Graham Webster bowed as well, his smile wreathed in a closely trimmed auburn beard. Before Jamie could offer him a seat, Graham drew a letter from his waistcoat pocket. “I traveled by way of Monnigaff this morning, and among the mail waiting at the inn was this post for Glentrool. I took the liberty of paying the postage. I trust you’ll forgive me for handling your letter.”

“Nothing to forgive when you did me a kind service.” He reached for his coin purse. “May I reimburse you?”

“Think nothing of it, sir.”

“Much obliged.” Jamie noticed three things as he placed the letter on the tea tray: The postmark was
Edinburgh
, the writing was Will’s, and the address was
Mrs
. James McKie. “How was the weather for your ride, Mr. Webster?”

Quiet and unassuming, Graham Webster had not exchanged a dozen words with Jamie in the last year, yet his reputation spoke for him. Honest in his dealings, well mannered and well traveled, he was a fine shot and a good horseman. And handsome, according to the women of the household. Jamie paid no attention to such things, though he did notice the man was no longer wearing the black armband of a grieving widower.

“A stiff westerly breeze escorted me through the glen,” Graham said as Jamie offered him an upholstered chair, the most comfortable in the room.

“I know the value of a brisk wind, having sailed from Arran a fortnight ago.” They both sat, a small table positioned between them in anticipation of tea. “If not for a hard wind blowing from the west, we might still be paddling our way to Ayr.”

Graham’s expression, always sincere, grew more so. “Miss McKie is enjoying her stay on the island, I trust?”

Jamie had been asked the same question—on the Sabbath, at market, in the village—countless times since returning home. “She is keeping quite busy,” he began, then motioned Jenny forward with her tea tray. “We received a letter last week describing her adventures on Arran. Frequent visiting of parish cottages and farms, apparently, and rambles over the hills and glens.”

The moment his tea was poured and milk added, Graham took a lengthy sip, no doubt parched after the eight-mile ride from his estate in neighboring Penningham parish. “Your daughter is expected home at Lammas?”

“Aye.” Jamie sensed something lurking behind the young widower’s question. Was he making polite conversation or a pointed inquiry? To his knowledge, Graham Webster had courted no one since his wife’s passing, not even after his year of mourning had ended. Surely the proprietor of Penningham Hall had no interest in Davina. The lass was but seventeen.

Jamie studied him more closely. “You’ve come to discuss a purchase of sheep, I believe.”

“Aye, sir. Sheep.” Graham cleared his throat. “As my property rests on the banks of the Cree with woods to the south, hills to the west, and moss to the north, I’ve not much grazing land, but I’m keen to have a healthy flock of blackface.” His smile was genuine, if a bit strained. “I saw no need to look further than Glentrool, renowned for its fine breeding.”

Jamie acknowledged his compliment with a nod. “I’ll tell Rab you said so.” Mr. Webster had more than sheep on his mind; no gentleman fiddled with his shirt cuffs over livestock. “We had particularly fine lambs born three springs ago. The flocks are freshly sheared and will be ready for market in another few weeks. I’d be pleased to have my herds deliver twentyscore to Penningham.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. McKie, but fivescore was what I had in mind.” Graham spread out his hands in apology. “ ’Tis not the expense, mind you, but the limitations of my property. Until I have more land cleared …”

“Fivescore it is, then. Shall we say … sixty pounds?” Though an honest price, Jamie waited for a lesser offer, which any canny Scotsman would extend. Unless the buyer, however competent, was interested in the seller’s daughter.

Graham agreed to the full price at once. “Sixty pounds sterling it is. My factor will arrange things.”

“ ’Tis done, then, Mr. Webster.” Jamie had to drink his tea to keep from grimacing. Would Davina be his next order of business?

“Sir, I do wish you’d call me Graham.”

“Fine.” Jamie uncrossed his legs. “Now, if we’re quite finished—”

“How nice to see you, Mr. Webster.” Leana stepped into the drawing room, curtsying as both men stood. “I hope you will join us for dinner. Though our noontide meals are less elaborate, Aubert assures me you’ll not taste better veal flory on the Continent.”

“It’s been a decade since I visited Florence, Mrs. McKie. I will no doubt find your cook’s veal pie far superior.”

Jamie followed his guest into the dining room, more convinced than ever of Graham’s intentions: Visitors were expected to refuse a meal at least once, if not twice, until pressed into staying by their host; this young man had not hesitated for a second.

A genial guest, Graham consumed proper quantities of every offering, praised their hospitality after each course, and extended an invitation for dinner at Penningham Hall at the McKies’ earliest convenience.

“Is it your wish that our daughter be included?” Jamie asked, gauging his reaction. “And our son Ian?”

Graham remained cooler than he expected. “By all means, sir.”

As they reclaimed their chairs in the drawing room for sherry and biscuits, Leana said, “Mr. Webster, I believe you have just celebrated a birthday.”

Graham accepted a glass of sherry. “Aye, my thirtieth. On Thursday last.”

“My housekeeper and yours spoke in the kirkyard on the Sabbath,” Leana explained. “I hope you’ll forgive the mention of something so personal, but thirty years is significant. A time when one evaluates what has been and considers what will be.”

“I quite agree, Mrs. McKie.” Graham watched the maidservant curtsy and close the drawing room door, then positioned himself so he faced them both. “In the process of evaluating my future, I have come to realize that I will most honor my wife’s memory by marrying again.”

“How wise you are,” Leana said softly. “Do you have a young lady in mind, sir?”

“I do,” he confessed, putting his glass aside. “Your daughter.”

Twenty-Five

Guilt is present in the very hesitation,
even though the deed be not committed.
C
ICERO

J
amie swallowed the myriad objections that threatened to choke him, except one. “Davina is too young.”

Graham held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. “I am in no hurry and will gladly court her for however long you deem appropriate. Your daughter’s youthful innocence—her purity, if you will—is part of her charm.”

“You do know …” Leana wet her lips. “You do understand …”

“Aye.” Graham spared her the rest. “I remember when the accident happened. My wife and I were newly wed. Davina … ah, Miss McKie … had strewn rose petals from your garden across the kirk step on our wedding day. A few weeks later …” Sympathy shone in his eyes. “I cannot imagine your suffering.”

Jamie started to say,
’Twas the worst day of our lives
, then held his tongue.
Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God
.

“I know what the physicians have said,” Graham continued, “but your
loosome
daughter is whole in every way that matters. You can be certain her many gifts and talents would be appreciated at Penningham Hall. I do not …” His strong voice faltered at last. “I do not fool myself that she bears any affection for me, yet I can assure you that I would love and cherish her completely.”

Jamie stared at Graham’s hands, larger than his own. Felt his stomach clench at the thought of those hands on his daughter. He listened to the man recount Davina’s many fine attributes—all the praiseworthy comments a father might want to hear—yet he could not bring himself to smile and nod and affirm and agree when everything inside him wanted to scream in protest.
Nae! Not yet. Not ever
.

Ashamed of his reaction, Jamie forced himself to ask in as civil a tongue as he could, “Is Davina aware of your interest?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mr. McKie. I wanted your permission before even approaching her.”

Jamie shot to his feet, irritated by Graham’s thoughtfulness. The man had no faults whatsoever. Except his desire to woo Davina.

“We will discuss the matter with our daughter,” Jamie said, looking down at him more sternly than necessary. “Nothing is agreed upon until we are certain of her willingness to be courted. And even then, sir, you will proceed slowly.”

Graham stood, and their eyes met. “I will respect whatever decision you and your family reach. Kindly inform me when that time comes.” He stepped back and bowed. “Mrs. McKie, Mr. McKie, thank you for your indulgence.”

Leana, ever the gracious hostess, saw him to the door, leaving Jamie to pace the carpet, more annoyed with himself than he was with Graham. He had known this day would come. Why did it unnerve him so?

When Leana returned, she hastened to his side. “Jamie, whatever is the matter?” She landed on the embroidered settee, then gently pulled him down beside her. “ ’Tis not like you to be so short with a neighbor. Graham Webster is a trustworthy gentleman of good repute. He is perhaps more reserved than Davina might choose, yet he is in all ways honorable, considerate, dependable, a man of means—”

“She is too young,” Jamie said again. Did he have no other rightful complaint? “I will not make any promises on her behalf when she is not here to offer an opinion.”

“Exactly what a good father should do.” Leana’s voice was as soothing as his was strident. “Shall I at least write Davina? Tell her of Mr. Webster’s interest?”

“Nae,” Jamie said, then searched for a valid reason. “Such things are best discussed in person.” He met her gaze, wanting to be sure she understood him. “Graham said he is in no hurry. I prefer that we not be either.”

Leana sighed more heavily than usual. “Very well. Though I believe Davina would want to know. Now, while she is on Arran.”

To what end?
Jamie swallowed the words, refusing to let his irritation get the upper hand. “Davina can do nothing with the information except to fret over it.” He took Leana’s hands in his, thinking his touch might assuage her. “I have asked Graham to wait, Leana. I’m asking you to do the same. When Davina comes home, we will consider his offer. Together.”

She nodded absently, then looked off to the side. “When did a letter arrive?”

Och!
He’d forgotten the post from Will. “Graham brought it from Monnigaff.” He stood long enough to slide the letter from the tea table, then sat again and placed it in her hands. “ ’Tis addressed to you.”

“In Will’s hand, I see.” Her fingers shook as she opened it. “I wrote to the twins when Davina left for Arran—”

“And told them what?”

“That you’d arranged for Davina to spend the summer with the Stewarts. That I missed them. That Ian was still courting Margaret.” With the letter unfolded, she gave him a puzzled look. “Jamie, what is it? Should I not have written to our sons?”

“Nae, nae.” He brushed his hand through the air as if frustration were candle smoke, easily dissipated. “Naturally you should write to them. Now then, what does Will have to say?” He leaned back, trying to relax, trying to ignore the fact that the letter was not addressed to him.

She scanned the page in silence, her skin growing paler, and her eyes filling with tears. “Will is unhappy with me.”

“Unhappy with
you
?” Jamie tugged the letter from her grasp. There were only a few lines. Will’s bold handwriting quickly covered the paper, and he’d wasted no time on pleasantries.

Mother, we are deeply grieved to learn that Davina is visiting

Arran without a chaperon and are surprised that you allowed it.

“A
chaperon
?” Jamie huffed. “Benjamin Stewart is the parish minister. Our daughter could not have a better escort.”

We will not rest until we have heard from Davina herself and are assured of her well-being. Father should never have
suggested so perilous a journey. We pray he will not live to regret it.

Jamie folded the letter, understanding what his sensitive wife did not. “Will and Sandy are unhappy with
me
, Leana. Not you.” He kissed her brow, hoping to ease the furrows there. “I alone am responsible for Davina’s summer on Arran.”

“Then I, too, pray you’ll not regret your decision, Jamie.”