Grace in Thine Eyes Page 10

  “I can tell a good tale,” Jamie offered. “And I’ve all the blether from Monnigaff, if you care to hear it.”

  “Aye, that’ll do,” the small man agreed. “What aboot yer dochter?” He regarded Davina with a curious gaze. “She’s too quate tae spin a yarn.”

  “Oh, she has much more to say than I do.” Jamie nodded toward her saddle. “My daughter speaks by way of notes, rather than words.”

  “Hoot!” The man leaped to his feet. “The fiddle is yers, lass?” In an instant he had the green bag in his hands and held it out to her reverently. “Stay as lang as ye wish, miss, and eat whatsomever ye like.”

  She quickly tuned her instrument, then launched into a cheerful air. One melody led to another, from strathspey to reel to jig. While her father tapped out the rhythm on the tabletop, Michael danced round his cottage with unabashed exuberance. A passerby draped himself through the open window to listen, then the door was propped ajar for the whole neighborhood to hear. Unbidden, the cottagers of Crosshill soon came in to join the weaver in his revelry, dust rising from the wooden planks beneath their feet, their voices lifted in song.

  My heart was ance as blithe and free

  As simmer days were lang;

  But a bonny, westlin weaver lad

  Has gart me change my sang.

  The throng begged for more, and she could not refuse them, having never entertained a more appreciative audience. Roses were plucked from nearby gardens and strewn at her feet, bairns were carried to the cottage for her blessing, and half a dozen starry-eyed lads seemed about to propose.

  Jamie was the one who finally drew the curtain on her performance. “We’ve had a long day’s journey, and another awaits us.” He nodded at Davina to put her fiddle away, lest one more song be coaxed from her hands. An hour passed before the cottage was truly empty, for her father felt compelled to share a bit of gossip as promised. In rural areas, visitors were the only source of news, every crumb was a feast, and no one left until they’d had their fill.

  When the door finally closed on the last visitor, Davina was given the bed, Jamie a pile of woolen blankets, and the weaver curled up on the floor near the hearth. The chaff-filled mattress was nothing like her heather bed at home, but tired as she was, sleep would not elude her long.

  While her father arranged his bedding, Davina carefully wrote out her question by the faint lantern light. She’d show it to him tomorrow morning on horseback. Though he might look elsewhere while he weighed his answer, he could not ride off and leave her. She had to try, for her brothers’ sake.

  Davina closed the book, her pencil marking the page.

  Seventeen

  Good, to forgive;

  Best to forget.

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Jamie sat up all at once, as if someone had tapped his shoulder while he slept.

  A faint gray light filtered through the cracks in the shutter. Morning had broken, but only just. The shadowy loom with its tautly drawn warp, its shuttle and treadle, provided his bearings. Beyond the battered door a cock crowed, and the horses shuffled their feet. Whether he was well rested or not, his day had begun.

  He bathed his face and hands in a washbowl, using tepid water and a sliver of lye soap. On the other side of the cottage Michael Kelly slept like an Irish setter, nose to knees in front of a hearth gone cold in the night. He would rise before long and attend to their breakfast. However mean his lodging, Michael was a generous host.

  Jamie dried his face with his shirttail, gazing down at the narrow bed that cradled his sleeping Davina. With her hands pressed beneath her high cheekbones and her long red lashes fanned across her pale skin, she looked younger. Though not so young she might awaken and still be able to speak.

  “Good morning, Father. Shall we visit the lambs today?”

  He had never forgotten the sound of her voice. Like the sweetest notes on her fiddle.

  My darling girl. Jamie reached down, longing to brush her soft cheek, yet not wanting to wake her. If love alone could heal his daughter, he would touch her throat and make her whole. But that task belonged to another. Come and lay thy hands on her, that she may be healed. How many times had he prayed those words, to no avail?

  Davina, perhaps sensing his nearness, slowly opened her eyes. She mouthed the word, “Father,” then took his hand to help her sit up, looking closely at him, as if she’d not seen him in days instead of mere hours.

  Behind them a candle sparked to life. Michael was awake and busy at his labors. He added peat to the grate, then disappeared out the door with a pair of buckets. The Water of Girvan was not far to the north; its steep banks would require careful steps on so misty a morn.

  “Less than a dozen miles to the harbor at Ayr.” Jamie kept his voice low, as suited the hour. “We’ll wait to see whether the fog lifts, though even if it does not, the road is easily followed.”

  He buttoned his waistcoat while Davina neatly plaited her hair, her hands as graceful as her mother’s. Her red mane was soon beribboned and swept over her shoulder. So much for his concern about his daughter managing without her maid.

  The weaver returned with a muted bang of the door, water sloshing in his bucket. “Yer horses are drinkin’ from the ither bowie,” he informed them. “I’ll hae yer tea quick as I can. Will parritch do tae break yer fast?”

  Jamie assured him porridge would suffice, then winked at Davina as he asked their host, “How is it that a man named Kelly sounds like a Scot?”

  “Och!” He swung his teakettle over the heat. “Me faither was Irish, but me mither was from Ayrshire. ’Twas she wha raised me.”

  She’d also taught him how to make porridge, Jamie decided, sitting down half an hour later to a steaming bowl of cooked oats, lightly salted and topped with butter. Davina ate a spoonful now and again while he downed the contents of two bowls. His daughter was always quiet, but she was not always still; this morning she was practically motionless, her left hand resting on her sketchbook. He’d noticed her with pencil in hand yestreen. Had some worthy subject caught her eye in Michael’s cottage and set her to drawing?

  Putting aside his teacup, Jamie nodded toward the well-worn book. “Will you show me your latest entry?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Perhaps later?”

  Davina nodded briskly, then quit the table, clearly impatient to be going.

  “ ’Twould seem we’re away,” Jamie told their host, who was already seated at his loom, raising and lowering the treadles with his feet, throwing the shuttle back and forth across the warp in a practiced rhythm. “You’ve not asked for silver, Michael, but I’ve left two shillings by your plate.”

  The weaver nodded his thanks in time with his pedaling. “I’m obliged tae ye, sir. May yer open hand ayeways be fu’.”

  Magnus and Biddy were brushed and saddled, waiting for their riders, when Jamie and Davina stepped out of doors. Dense, moist air swirled along the row of cottages, like the breath of a living creature.

  “Rising from the river,” Jamie guessed, helping his daughter get settled before mounting his own horse. “If the sun shines tomorrow, your mother would contend ’tis a rightful thing. ‘Mist in May and heat in June bring all things into tune,’ or so gardeners say.” He guided their horses round to the north. “Walk on,” he told them, and the second day of their journey commenced.

  A stone bridge carried them out of the settlement and over the swollen Water of Girvan, where the moist air was at its thickest. The signpost for Dalduff farm appeared suddenly in the mist. Though they could not see the steading, the clucking of the brood hens signaled its location to the west. The road began to undulate—now rising, now falling, ever winding, one mile, then another. After one especially sharp bend, they left the mist behind. Jamie exhaled, glad to view the countryside again. The sun, still low on the eastern horizon, draped the land in a pale, clear light, with only a few wisps of fog remaining.

  “Another fine day in the
making.” He turned to Davina, surprised to find her holding her sketchbook. “Surely you don’t intend to draw while you ride?” He said it in jest, meaning only to make her smile, but she frowned instead and gripped the book more firmly. In one of her moods, perhaps? He’d not grown up with a sister; judging by his daughter, young women seemed prone to alternating fits of joy and despair.

  “We can stop in Maybole, if you wish. A fair size village with several old ruins to tempt your artist’s eye.” He pointed out a few possibilities as they rode through the sleepy town, its residents only now beginning to stir. “Maybole castle?” Nae, she did not want to sketch its tower and turrets. “The Collegiate Church?” Nae, the arched stone doorways, however venerable, apparently held no appeal.

  Davina had something on her mind; that was certain. He stole a glimpse at her profile—gaze straightforward, brow slightly furrowed, chin neither tipped up in defiance nor bowed down in dejection, mouth shaped in a pensive sort of pout. Was she worried about crossing the sea? The lass had never been in a boat larger than the skiff moored at their own dock. Might she be having second thoughts about so long a visit on Arran? Or some concern about her reception from the Stewarts?

  His questions were not answered until they rode out of the village and started across the high ridge leading to Ayr. Davina touched his sleeve, then held out her sketchbook, opened to a page without any drawings, only words.

  Jamie slowed his horse and took the book from her trembling hand. “Whatever is the matter, Davina?” Appalled to see tears in his daughter’s eyes, he brought Magnus to a full stop. “Do you not feel well?”

  Though she pointed to the open page, he could not look away from her face, so marked was her anguish. Instead he took her gloved hand in his. “I will read this, Davina, but only if you assure me that doing so will ease your distress.”

  She bobbed her head, which sent tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “Oh my child.” He released his hold on her and searched his waistcoat pockets in vain for a handkerchief.

  But Davina had one of her own. After patting her cheeks dry, she held the dainty linen to her nose and drew in a long, shaky breath.

  Jamie recognized the embroidery; Leana had finished stitching the handkerchief only days earlier. “A pleasant fragrance, lavender.” He kept his voice even, waiting for Davina to compose herself. “Strong, like mint, but sweeter.”

  She lowered her handkerchief, then aimed her gaze at the page. Whatever was written there, the time had come to read it.

  Jamie looked down, unprepared for what he found. Please forgive my brothers.

  An ache rose inside him. The heaviness of grief and the sharpness of pain twined into one.

  “William! What have you done to your sister?” His voice, roaring at a six-year-old boy.

  “Oh Father! I did not … I did not mean to … hurt her …” Will, sobbing hysterically. Sandy, collapsed on the grass in shock. Davina, unmoving, pale and still as death.

  Jamie shut his eyes, clutching the sketchbook in his hands, but the memory and the ache grew sharper.

  He’d flung the broadsword into the pines as if it were made of straw, then gathered his small daughter in his arms and strode toward the house, his heart in his throat. “Davina, Davina! Can you not speak to me?”

  Will and Sandy had circled round his heels like dogs, panting for air, trying to keep up with him. He’d ignored them, moving across the lawn toward Leana, who was running with arms outstretched, calling their daughter’s name.

  Davina did not answer. Would never answer …

  A gloved hand rested on his.

  Jamie lifted his head, bile stinging his throat. “I am sorry, Davina. You were very brave to ask this of me, but I …”

  Eyes bright with tears, she touched her heart, then his, a gesture he knew well. I love you. No spoken words could have humbled him more. She slipped the book from his grasp and underlined the phrase with her finger, drawing a question mark at the end.

  “Why can I not forgive your brothers? Is that what you are asking?”

  He saw the answer in her eyes. Aye.

  The horses moved beneath them, restless. “Walk on,” he said softly, praying the motion might dislodge the misery locked inside him. “Davina …” He swallowed again, despising the bitter taste in his mouth. “If your injury had been an accident. That is to say, truly an accident, with no one at fault …” He groaned, knowing how she would respond. It was an accident, Father. The twins never intended this to happen.

  He started again. “I realize your brothers did not mean to injure you, Davina. But they stole Grandfather’s broadsword, knowing they were wrong to do so.” Hadn’t he told them never to touch it? Hadn’t they sworn they would not? “And they wrestled with it,” Jamie said more emphatically, “ignoring the danger involved. Knowing they could hurt someone.”

  You, Davina. They hurt you.

  He forced himself to continue. “Will said you warned them to be careful. In fact, begged them to stop. Is that not so?”

  Davina shrugged, nodding slightly.

  “But Will and Sandy ignored you, caring only who won the sword.” His voice was strained from the telling, his heart from remembering. “Now do you see? How can I forgive your brothers when they alone are to blame? For that matter, how can you forgive them, Davina?”

  He regretted his question the moment he asked it. When she looked away, he regretted it even more. Before he could apologize, a flock of bleating sheep wandered onto the road, trailed by a patient shepherd.

  While they waited, Davina quietly reached over and reclaimed her sketchbook. She wrote in haste, then handed the book back to him just as the last sheep leaped out of their way.

  Jamie glanced at the page, and his heart sank.

  Mercy is a gift. His own words. Spoken at his own table.

  Then Davina’s words. I gave my brothers that gift long ago, Father. Will you not do the same?

  Eighteen

  Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea.

  ROBERT BURNS

  Her father’s dark features were etched with pain.

  Nae! Davina stared at him in dismay. This was not at all what she’d intended. In seeking to spare Will and Sandy further shame, she had merely redirected it.

  Father, please. When she tugged at the sketchbook, he released it without comment. She then snagged his sleeve, forcing him to look at her as she briefly covered her eyes, the gesture she used to communicate embarrassment or shame. I am sorry.

  “Nae, my daughter.” He hid his own eyes for a moment, employing her language. “I am the one who is sorry.” When he lowered his hand, naught but sincerity shone on his face. “Sorry that you, of all people, had to find the courage to ask this of me. And sorrier still for neglecting your brothers.”

  She pointed to the watch in his waistcoat pocket. Would he grasp her meaning? It is not too late.

  “You are quite right, Davina. We still have time, your brothers and I, to make amends.” He brushed the dust off his coat with deliberate strokes, as if considering something, then met her gaze. “When Will and Sandy return at Lammas, I shall speak with them at length. In truth, ’tis a decision I made while in Edinburgh.”

  She had not erred, then, in asking him so difficult a question. While her father’s attention was drawn to a red-crowned linnet poking about the rough ground, she quietly put away her sketchbook; it had served its purpose well.

  They rode in silence for a time, though not uncomfortably so. Their high vantage point gave them a fine view of distant blue hills and fertile farmland. As the morning progressed, she sensed her father’s spirits beginning to lift. His brow was smooth once more and his posture straight. When he spoke, she heard no tension in his voice.

  More travelers joined them as they neared Ayr. Farmers and gentlemen alike made their way to and from the royal burgh, tipping their hats as they walked by—strangers, all of them. She’d spent seventeen years in
the same parish, surrounded by familiar faces, knowing everyone’s station, gentry to servant. On Arran she would need her cousins to inform her, else she might address someone incorrectly or not give proper courtesy.

  Her father eyed her green bag. “If the proprietor of the King’s Arms requires music for our lodging, will you oblige him?”

  She knew he spoke in jest—innkeepers wanted silver not song—but Davina gamely pantomimed sweeping a bow across her bent arm.

  “You can be sure Michael Kelly will not forget your name. I believe you carried away his heart in your fiddle bag.”

  She shook her head, then hunched over her saddle, pretending to use a cane.

  “Too old for you, eh? I presume a younger man would be to your liking. Dark haired, like your brothers? Or fair haired, like your mother?”

  Golden like the sun. Davina had studied her cherished sketch yestreen. More Viking than Scot, she’d decided. And more braw every time she pictured him. She busied herself with the folds of her skirt, lest any color stain her cheeks and give away her thoughts.

  “A gentleman with auburn hair, then,” her father suggested. “Of sufficient property to merit my approval and sufficient intellect to earn yours.”

  Davina rolled her eyes. Property? Intellect? How very dull.

  “I see you do not agree with my criteria for a suitor.” His voice was stern and his visage more so. She was not fooled for a moment. “My complete list of qualifications is a good deal longer,” he insisted, “and your mother’s requires a second page.”

  Davina threw back her head in a soundless laugh, nearly losing her bonnet in the process. A list? The very idea.

  Her father laughed as well, tugging her bonnet back in place. “However diverting you may find the subject, I can assure you of this:”—he paused, his expression more serious—“The gentleman who wins my Davina’s hand will not do so easily.”

  She touched her forehead. I understand, Father. And I am glad.

  The sun was nearing its zenith when they descended into a wooded valley and crossed the River Doon over an old sandstone bridge. Its single, high arch spanned the placid waters below and carried them into the village of Alloway.