Grace in Thine Eyes (35 page)

“Davina was accompanied last evening on the violoncello by Somerled MacDonald, heir of Sir Harry MacDonald of Argyll.

“A Highlander,” Jamie muttered. His grandfather, Archibald McKie, had fathered an illegitimate son, born to a Highland woman and raised near Inverness. Hamish had supported the Jacobite rebellion; his own father, Alec, had supported the Crown. For more than a century, the two families had stood on opposite sides of every battle—political, religious, or social. Though Hamish and Alec were both gone, their descendants remained hostile, Jamie among them.

Leana touched his hand, calming him. “What does your cousin say about this young man?”

Though Mr. MacDonald is a talented musician, he played his instrument with a sense of wanton abandon and so induced your daughter to do the same.

“Oh, Jamie.” Leana sank onto his shoulder. “Our innocent Davina. Is it possible?”

The paper shook in his hands.
I made it possible. By taking her there
.

It grieves me to write this, and yet I would be remiss as your cousin and Davina’s minister this summer if I did not express my deep concern for her reputation. I overheard several of the ladies present commenting on the unseemliness of her playing and the familiarity of her manner toward Mr. MacDonald.

Enraged, Jamie threw the letter to the carpet. “How
dare
they speak ill of our daughter!”

Leana leaned down and retrieved it, her hands shaking. “I cannot believe ’tis true. Davina would never do anything that might harm your good name.”

“ ’Tis already harmed.” He was on his feet, pacing the floor. “Though I trust Reverend Moodie will keep our cousin’s postscript to himself, I have no such hopes for the session clerk.”

“But what is there to tell? Benjamin’s letter said almost nothing—”

“Och! ‘Moral fortitude’?” Jamie threw his hands in the air in frustration. “ ’Tis enough to set tongues wagging ’til Martinmas.”

She looked stricken for a moment. “Still, we do not know what happened—”

“Well,
something
happened on Arran, just as the twins said it would.” The truth pierced his soul like a sword thrust between his ribs. “Just as you said it would, Leana.”

Color stained her pale cheeks. “I could not be certain if I was right—”

“But you were,” he fumed, not willing to be appeased. Not when
he was to blame. “You asked me if Davina would be safe. You told me of your concerns. I should have listened to you.”

Leana looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “Please do not think ill of our daughter.”

“Och, Leana.” His fury died down as quickly as it had risen. “Whatever has happened, Davina is not at fault. I am.”

“Do not chastise yourself, dear husband.” She pressed the letter into his hands. “Perhaps it is not too late.”

But it was too late. The final words made that painfully clear. He read them aloud, nearly choking on each phrase.

By the time you read this letter it is difficult to say what else may have transpired. Suffice to say that last evening does not bode well for the future. Should you choose to collect Davina before Lammas, I would be greatly relieved—for her sake and for yours. If she were my daughter, I would come without delay.

“Please, Jamie.” Leana threw herself into his arms, crushing the letter between them. “Bring her home to me. The sky is light until nine o’clock—”

“I shall leave at once.” He tightened his embrace, pressing a fervent kiss to her lips. He’d not fail her again. “Forgive me, Leana. Forgive me.”

Fifty

Whispering tongues can poison truth.
S
AMUEL
T
AYLOR
C
OLERIDGE

S
omerled had to be told. Tonight. The moment Davina saw him.
I accept your offer of marriage and the protection of your name
.

She had no choice in the matter. The appearance of her brocade jacket that morning meant someone at Kilmichael knew of her disgrace. A stable lad, the laundress, a dairymaid—she could not guess who’d found it. Or how many others had been told.

Praying with each step, she climbed the turnpike stair of the castle, with no appetite for dinner and little joy at the prospect of playing music.
Let not mine enemies triumph over me
. Davina could not name her enemies, but she sensed them all round her. Whispering, accusing, condemning. How she longed to write out the truth for anyone to read:
Somerled MacDonald robbed me of my virtue
. But what purpose would her confession serve, except to salve her wounded pride and injure her future husband?
Nae
. She would use the silence of her tongue to advantage this time.

Nan was two steps ahead of her, lifting the hem of her drugget gown as she climbed. Unlike the barefoot farmworkers they’d passed that afternoon, Nan wore shoes and stockings, as any proper lady’s maid would. But her manners were better suited to a shearer in a barley field. Nan seldom knocked on her bedchamber door before entering and no longer addressed her as “Miss.” Davina was not in a position to complain—she was a guest at Kilmichael and not Nan’s employer—but each hour the maid’s attitude toward her grew more insolent.

Perhaps when the captain returned tomorrow, Nan would mend her ways.

The two women reached the main hall of the castle and were given a cool reception by the duke’s staff. Cooked trout was the dominant
aroma once again. Though few gentlemen had gathered as yet, servants darted about making final preparations. Nan traipsed off to join them, having deposited the fiddle in her mistress’s waiting hands without comment.

Davina was glad to have a moment alone to prepare her thoughts.
Let me not be ashamed of my hope
. Praying where she stood, Davina scanned the room for the gentleman who would be her husband.

“I trust I am the one you are looking for.”

She spun round to find Somerled dressed in a blue coat that matched his eyes. Smiling, as if he already knew what she’d come to tell him.

“We’ve half an hour before dinner. Shall we tally the music you have in mind for tonight?”

Davina took his arm, pulling him gently aside.

“A more intimate discussion, I see.” He steered her toward a quiet corner where they might sit unobserved—except by Nan, who kept an eye on them from across the room. Even from this distance, the maid’s smirk was apparent.

“What an impudent woman,” Somerled grumbled, turning his chair round to afford the couple a small measure of privacy.

The gray afternoon made the hour feel later than it was and cast the room in a gloomy light, dispelled only by the bright array of candles. Dinner would begin soon; Davina could delay no longer. She pulled out her sketchbook, watching his expression as she did.

“More questions?”

She shook her head.
Answers
.

Turning to the page she’d written just before leaving Kilmichael, Davina then placed in Somerled’s hands both her sketchbook and her future.

After reading the first entry, his face was ashen. “Your jacket … I am so sorry … I did not remember …”

Nae
. She pointed firmly to herself.
’Twas my fault
. Somerled could be blamed for many things but not for this.

“I fear there may be consequences, Miss McKie. Beginning with the Fullartons.” Somerled studied the page, his concern mirroring hers. “Do you have any idea who might have found it?”

Nan strolled up as if she’d been invited to join them. “I ken verra weel wha found her bonny red
jaicket
on Sunday last.”

Somerled glared at her. “I beg your pardon.”

“Ye should be beggin’ Miss McKie’s pardon, should ye not?” Nan had the audacity to wink at him when she said it, then turned to Davina. “Can ye not jalouse wha cleaned and
preesed
yer jaicket whan the
washerwife
wasna leukin’? And wha placed it on yer bed
wi’oot
bein’ seen?”

Davina’s mouth fell open in dismay. Her own maid?

Somerled stood, no doubt to put the woman in her place, for he towered over her. “What do you think you’ve found? A fancy jacket, nothing more.”

The maid rolled her eyes. “Oo aye, ’tis
meikle
mair than that. ’Tis proof that a
leddy
shucked her
cloots
in the stables, like a limmer.”

Davina shrank back in her chair when she saw the look on Somerled’s face.

“Do not use that word again in her presence.” Had he not been a gentleman, Davina feared he might have struck the woman. Instead he spoke to her through gritted teeth. “Who have you told about finding Miss McKie’s jacket?”

“I’ve yet tae tell a soul,” Nan bragged, enjoying the power such illicit knowledge gave her. “But I wull. I’ll tell
onie
person I please.
Onless
ye pay me what ’tis worth tae
haud
me tongue.”

Somerled’s blue eyes almost disappeared, so narrow was his gaze. “Are you blackmailing us, woman? I cannot think Captain Fullarton would retain so pernicious a maid in his employ.”

“Whan I tell him what I ken, ’tis Miss McKie wha’ll be shown the door. He’s a gracie man, the captain, and so’s his wife. They willna stand for
hochmagandy
at Kilmichael.”

“That is a very serious charge.” Somerled stepped closer to her, his tone menacing. “You merely found a jacket where it did not belong.”

“Fowk dinna need mair than that tae get their jaws flappin’.” Nan did not put her hands on her hips, but the defiance in her voice was unmistakable. “I can tell ’em mair, if ye like.” She lowered her voice to
a harsh whisper. “I can tell ’em aboot the bruises I saw whan I bathed her.”

Davina looked away in shame. First the forgotten jacket. Then the forgotten bruises.

Somerled withdrew from his waistcoat a calfskin purse, the coins muffled by his grip. “Truth or lies, I’ll not have you speak ill of Miss McKie. How much silver will it take to hold your vicious tongue?”

Nan stated a bold sum, then quickly pocketed the coins. “Ye have a bargain, Mr. MacDonald.” She composed her face to suit her station, then walked off, cool as lemon punch.

Still reeling from their exchange, Davina scribbled across the page.
How do we know she has not already confessed this to others?

Somerled sat in the chair opposite her, his features hard as stone. “Perhaps she has. But if we’d refused her, she would have been certain to tell every lad, lass, and bairn on Arran.” He released a heavy sigh, staring at the carpet for a moment before finally meeting her gaze. “This means we must wed. Surely you see that now.”

There was no going back, no time for second thoughts. She showed him the bottom of her sketchbook page.
I accept your offer of marriage
.

A faint sheen appeared in his eyes and was gone. “Thank you, Miss McKie. I shall endeavor to make you happy—”

She stemmed his words with her gloved fingertips, then turned the page so he understood the rest.
We cannot marry without my father’s permission
.

“But you are seventeen. By Scottish law …”

Davina tapped the page.
Please
.

“Very well,” he agreed at last. “My father’s letter and mine were posted the first of the week. Come Monday your family should know our intentions. You can be sure our letters were most persuasive. If they respond at once, and I’m certain they will, we will be free to read the banns.”

Davina wanted to nod, to mouth the words he’d said a moment earlier—
thank you
—to show her gratitude for his willingness to redeem her reputation. But she would not begin their marriage with a
lie. She was willing; but it was hard to be grateful when she’d had so little choice. He’d vowed to make her happy. Could she learn to trust him in return?

“To dinner,” he said, standing and offering his arm. “And when the first toast of the night is offered, know that my glass will be lifted to the lady at the far end of the table who will soon be my bride.”

Fifty-One

Contentions fierce,
Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT

H
ere’s one truth I’ll ne’er dispute.” Will elbowed his brother as they stumbled down Libberton’s Wynd, the uneven stones under their feet covered with muck. “John Dowie pours the finest bottle of ale in Edinburgh. Is that not the man himself, standing at his
couthie
tavern door?”

A relic of the last century, still wearing knee breeches and shoe buckles, John Dowie was nonetheless neatly groomed and well mannered. When Sandy called out a greeting, the ale seller tipped his tricorn hat. He’d seen enough of the McKies this summer to know their names and welcome their silver. “Table in the Coffin, lads?”

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
?”