Grace in Thine Eyes (55 page)

Donning his apron—a poor fit for a man’s chest—he then wet his brush, working the hairs into a fine point. He dipped a cake of dark brown watercolor in water, then rubbed the color into a clean porcelain saucer until he was satisfied with the consistency. After barely touching the fine hairs to the paint, he lifted the brush above the woven paper pinned to his drawing board and held his breath as paint met paper. Tiny strokes. Minimal detail.

There
. Davina was in his painting now, if not truly in his life.

Come Lammas, when the shepherds of the parish gathered for their annual festivities, he would have a sound reason for visiting Glentrool: to arrange for delivery of his fivescore sheep and to see the bonny fiddler he’d captured in watercolor.

Seventy-Eight

The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
W
ILLIAM
W
ORDSWORTH

’T
will not be Lammas wi’oot yer fiddle, Miss McKie.” With the patience of a shepherd and the stubbornness of a red-headed Scot, Rab Murray had shadowed Davina all through July, pleading with her to reconsider providing the music for Lammas. In the end, Rab had accepted her decision: Her memories were far too fresh and far too painful. She’d yet to lift her grandfather’s fiddle from the library wall, waiting for her music to return. Perhaps by Ian’s wedding at Michaelmas. Perhaps then she could find the courage to play again.

The first of August dawned clear and bright—fine weather for a day of festivities, despite her misgivings. By midafternoon the shepherds from neighboring farms would begin arriving and the lasses of the countryside as well.

Vowing to do what she could to celebrate, Davina chose a gown in white Brussels lace; browns and burgundies could wait until autumn settled over the hills. With a wide blue sash round her waist and a braid of hair circling her crown, she was dressed to greet their visitors.

“Aren’t ye the bonny lass?” Eliza exclaimed when Davina wandered into the drawing room, where gleaming furniture and a well-swept carpet awaited their guests. “The herds wull miss yer fiddle, but they’ll be pleased tae see yer loosome face.” She waved her dusting cloth toward the door with a cheery smile. “If ye’re leukin’ for yer mither, she’s in the gairden jist noo.”

But Davina did not find her mother snipping herbs in her physic garden or pinching withered flowers among her ornamentals. Instead she came upon the servants setting up tables for the food and Robert attending to his duties, pulling the weeds choking his radishes and peas.

The moment he spied her, the lanky gardener stood and tipped his cap. “Mrs. McKie is round the hoose, miss, prunin’ yer aunt’s rosebush.”

Davina nodded her thanks and headed in the direction of the Apothecary Rose, a spreading shrub her mother nursed through summer’s heat with particular care. When she turned the northeast corner of the house, she spotted Leana kneeling by the plant, her hands full of faded blooms and her eyes full of tears.

Feeling like an intruder, Davina waited until her mother noticed her, then walked to her side, lifting her white hem above the freshly cut grass.

“How nice you look.” Leana dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron, then stood, depositing the roses in her pockets. “For potpourri,” she explained, though Davina knew she saved the petals for sentimental reasons too.

Davina stood beside her mother in companionable silence, admiring the rosebush. The robins had started singing again, a sure sign of summer on the wane. Warmed all morning by the August sun, her aunt’s Apothecary Rose perfumed the air.

“My sister would have been thirty-five today.” Leana drew her closer, nestling Davina’s head beneath her chin. “We cannot control the seasons, dearie, and we have far less control of our lives than we imagine. Yet the Lord reigns. ‘He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.’ ” Her mother kissed her hair, then gently released her. “ ’Tis what he did for me, Davina, and what I believe he is doing for you.”

Aye
. She still soaked her pillow at night. Still had little appetite. But the sharpness of her pain had eased a bit. She could smile from time to time without a sense of guilt washing over her.

Hearing voices on the hill, her mother turned, taking her round with her. “Here come our lads.” Both women shaded their eyes to see the herds descending through the purple expanse of heather, their arms bearing dried branches for the Lammas bonfire. “The others will not be far behind. Will you help me attend to the food?”

Davina was glad to keep her hands occupied, for then her mind stayed busy as well. Aubert’s kitchen staff had already delivered the food out of doors; her mother’s task, by happy choice, was to arrange the dishes in some artful fashion.

Working side by side, they soon had Glentrool’s storehouse well displayed. The first of the season’s apples and pears waited to be plucked from willow baskets, while scones and oatcakes beckoned from pottery plates surrounded by cream, butter, and cheese. Smoked ham and boiled eggs were stacked in several places along the table, and glass pitchers of Eliza’s cider and black currant wine sparkled at each end.

Davina was beginning to think she might be hungry after all.

Her father joined them, eying the feast appreciatively. “The fiddlers are here,” he said, his voice free of any censure, then turned and waved for two young men to join them. “They hail from Newton Stewart. Reverend Moodie says they play a lively reel.” He leaned down and added in a whisper, “Rest assured, they cannot hold a candle to my daughter’s talents.”

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.
W
ILLIAM
C
OWPER

Y
e’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.