Grace in Thine Eyes Page 14

  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.”

  Her words, though spoken softly, pierced him to the core. Was there some way to convince her that he cared about their children’s welfare just as she did?

  Jamie placed his hand beneath her chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “Leana, you need to know that Davina and I had a … conversation, of sorts. About the twins.”

  She listened, hope rising in her eyes like the sun, as he described his plans to speak with Will and Sandy when they returned at Lammas. “We have snarled at one another like ill-tempered dogs long enough. ’Tis time we spoke as men.”

  Leana smiled at him through her tears. “Nothing could make me happier, Jamie.”

  “You have no doubt been praying for this for years.”

  “Ten years, to be precise.” She eyed the letter in his hands. “But must you wait until Lammas? Why not ride to Edinburgh now? Put to rest their fears about Davina and settle your own differences as well. Please, Jamie, will you consider it? I do not wish to lose your company for a week, but think what your efforts might mean to the twins.”

  He looked away, feeling trapped for the second time that day—first by Graham, now by Leana. Could he not handle his children according to his own schedule?

  “Surely their tempers have cooled since they wrote you,” Jamie said, convincing himself, if not his wife. “And Davina has no doubt written them as well, easing their concerns.” He smiled at her, deliberately at first, then with increasing sincerity as she slowly returned his smile. “That’s better,” he said, relieved to have Leana’s support. “Now suppose we let summer take its course.”

  Twenty-Six

  I have heard say that in Arrane

  In a strong castle made of stane

  An Englishman with a strong hand

  Holds the lordship of that land.

  SIR JAMES DOUGLAS

  He visits the castle every summer,” Abbie said, “for a fortnight or more.”

  “We can never be sure when,” Cate cautioned, “though the news travels quickly. His guests include the finest families in Scotland.”

  Davina turned first to one cousin, then the other, as arm in arm the trio made its way north toward Brodick Bay. Their intent was to reconnoiter the castle, like British soldiers crossing the French border, seeking information.

  Word first came on Saturday from a family of Gypsy tinklers making their way round the island, peddling horn spoons and the latest blether: The Duke of Hamilton would arrive from the mainland on Tuesday, perhaps this very hour. “There’ll be no better time for you to see the grounds of Brodick castle,” Cate had insisted yestreen when the three concocted their plan. “With servants running about, we’ll hardly be noticed.”

  Davina had seen old castles before—Galloway was thick with them—but she’d never clapped eyes on so noble a member of the aristocracy. A duke! Even if he was older than her father by a score of years, the ninth Duke of Hamilton was also a marquis, an earl, a lord, and a baron. She could not fathom one gentleman holding so many titles.

  The mild temperature and westerly breeze were both welcome, but the skies were less favorable. Hanging low over their heads, the clouds were the color of rock doves and full of secrets. Would they unload their watery burden until the burns ran in torrents or drift toward the Ayrshire coast and usher in a sunny afternoon?

  As the trio crested the first small hill, Abbie slowed so they might catch their breath. “I’ll warn you, Davina. It’s not the sort of castle one could live in year round, for it’s centuries old and barely furnished. The duke and his family reside on the mainland at Hamilton Palace in Lanarkshire. Brodick castle is little more than a hunting lodge.”

  “Sometimes His Grace comes in June,” Cate said, “when the salmon fishing is fine, or in August for grouse shooting.” She looked about the rough moorlands, her cheeks flushed from walking. “He used to come in the autumn, but Father says after years of lawless hunting, there aren’t a dozen stags left for deer stalking, and the wild boars have vanished.”

  Near the summit of the hill separating Lamlash Bay from Brodick Bay, Abbie swept her plump arm in the direction of the sea. “If we continued eastward to the cliffs, we’d come to Dun Fionn, where the ancients lit their beacon fires to signal the alarm.” She laughed as they continued walking. “No need to light a beacon today. The gentry are coming, not the enemy.”

  At the summit Davina drank in the peerless view. Goatfell, rising from the dark blue waters and green foothills, thrust its peak into the low cl
ouds like a broad iron spear. Had Father and Uncle Evan truly scaled so fearsome a giant?

  They picked their way across frothy burns lined with pink thimbles of fairy foxglove and leafy bracken, dipping their fronds in the moving waters. Some of the burns were deep enough to require wooden bridges. Davina crossed the primitive structures with due haste, made nervous by the creaking of the boards beneath her feet.

  In her fortnight on the island, Davina had seen no more than a handful of carts, drawn by little Arran ponies. Folk were fortunate if they owned a single horse, as the Stewarts did. A healthy beast sixteen hands high, Grian accompanied the minister on his parish visits, while the girls walked everywhere. Didn’t she do the same at home except when a gravel track allowed a carriage? There were precious few paved roads in her corner of Galloway and none whatsoever on Arran.

  When they reached the coastline, the threesome continued round Brodick Bay, similar in shape to Lamlash but without sharp points of land protruding into the sea or an island nestled in the center. The fresh breeze off the water was salty and a bit brisker, fluttering the sails of the fishing boats in the harbor. South of the bay, the low green hills were gently sloped and rounded, like the Lowlands; to the north rose a jagged range of mountains and moors, like the Highlands, as if the whole of Scotland had been squeezed onto one small island.

  Cate glanced at the darkening clouds overhead and groaned. “We’ll see rain before we see home. But not before we see His Grace.”

  On level ground it was easier to quicken their steps along the coast road. They hurried past a scattering of stone cottages, nodding politely at a knot of fishermen whose chapped faces were as weathered as their boats. At water’s edge a pair of noisy oystercatchers piped at each other and stabbed their bright orange beaks into the seaweed, looking for food.

  Davina sympathized with their search. Even without a visible sun to help gauge the time, she knew the four hours were near, for her stomach growled incessantly.

  “Glen Cloy,” Abbie called out, turning inland down the narrow lane. “We’ll not go far, just to the smithy’s. Not all the way to Kilmichael House or the Fairy Hills beyond. But isn’t it a bonny spot?”

  Despite the beauty of the glen she called home, Davina could not deny this one was lovely too. A dark avenue of trees drew her eye toward an estate house of white-painted stone, barely visible through the trees, with a valley of purple hills beyond it.

  “The Fullartons own Kilmichael,” Cate said, lowering her voice as if someone belonging to the family might be hiding behind a hedgerow, thick with bramble. “I mean truly own it. The whole of Arran belongs to the Duke of Hamilton. But not Kilmichael.”

  “Fullartons have lived here for five centuries,” Abbie said proudly, as if she were describing her own ancestors. “Of course the house is not so old as that, but ’tis quite grand. John Fullarton is a dashing naval officer, not much more than thirty. He’s commander of the Wickham.” She added airily, “Cate and I have been to Kilmichael on a few occasions.”

  “Very few,” Cate reminded her sister as they walked on.

  They crossed a meadow of melancholy thistle, the purple heads still waiting to bloom. In a week the meadow would be alive with color. Reaching the track leading north, they were greeted by a standing stone poking out of the ground like an ancient signpost. “There’s one of our monuments,” Abbie said casually as if every village in Scotland had vertical stones planted along the main roads.

  They were much closer to the mountains now, rising straight up from the meadows to their left, where a cluster of thatched cottages stood. “They call the settlement Cladach because ’tis by the shore.” Cate tugged on her sleeve, drawing her attention to the sea. “And that’s where His Grace’s boat will land.” She nodded toward the stone quay, empty for the moment.

  The solid square of stones sat well above the high-tide mark for larger vessels, with a broad curve of stone steps leading down to the water for skiffs. Davina did not find the small harbor especially ducal, but she pretended to be impressed for her cousins’ sake.

  Then she turned and saw the castle. And she was impressed.

  High above the bay rose four stories of red sandstone, an oblong fortress built in sections of differing heights, chimneys marking each addition. Windows marched from one end to the other in a random pattern—some rectangular, others square, a few with arches like regal eyebrows. A rounded tower near the door looked older than the rest, but all bore the stamp of history.

  “Cromwell built the battery on the east end soon after he beheaded the first Duke of Hamilton. But then Good Duchess Anne came.” Abbie smiled, as if she’d just beheld the woman walking out the castle door. “There are none on Arran who do not think well of her, even now.”

  As they climbed the steep hill, Cate was describing what they might find inside should they have the chance to peek in a lower window. “The kitchen is very large, with flagstone floors and broad pine dressing tables. The brick bread oven has the longest paddles I’ve ever seen, and there are fancy copper pots—”

  “Wheesht!” Abbie yanked them to a stop, her eyes widening as she pointed toward the battery. “Someone’s coming.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

  Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

  ROBERT BURNS

  Davina held her breath as round the eastern side of the castle came a bowlegged man, head down, his tall, black hat aimed at them like an accusing finger.

  “He manages the property,” Cate murmured. Then she called out in a cheery voice, “Good day to you, Mr. Nichol!” The three of them stood, shoulders touching, as the man advanced.

  When he finally looked up, his scowl faded, and he slowed to a stop a few feet from them. “Miss Stewart, why didna ye tell me wha ye were?” He bobbed his head toward each of the sisters, giving Davina a curious glance. “Yer faither had a fine sermon on the Sabbath.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear it, Mr. Nichol.” Cate, looking vastly relieved at not being chastised for trespassing, turned to Davina. “Do meet our guest for the summer, Miss McKie of Glentrool.”

  He bobbed his head once more. “Pleased tae mak yer acquaintance, miss.”

  Davina simply curtsied, certain he knew of her condition. She’d met none on the island who were surprised when she did not speak.

  “I ken why ye’ve come, lasses, but thar’s naught but servant fowk here tae ready the castle.” He cast a wary gaze at the skies. “The wather isna guid for sailin’. I leuk for His Grace tae come in the morn.” Turning his attention back to them, he wagged his finger. “But dinna be comin’ round, thinkin’ ye’ll see the duke, for he’ll hae his guardsmen as weel.”

  “Will the …” Cate swallowed and started again. “Will His Grace have many guests coming this year?”

  “Oo aye!” He nodded so hard he almost unseated his hat. “Gentrice from Argyll and Stirlingshire and Fife. Not a woman amang them, sae ’twill not be proper for ye tae be seen on the castle grounds. Awa wi’ ye noo, Miss Stewart, and gie yer faither me best.”

  Cate murmured their thanks, and the three took their leave, hurrying back down the hill as the ominous clouds made good on their threat—first in fat drops, then in a steady downpour.

  “Och!” Abbie took shelter beneath a leafy oak, pulling the others with her. Water dripped off their noses and ran down their necks, and their bonnets were already sagging. “We’ll be as good as drowned by the time we get to the manse.”

  “Aye, but we cannot tarry, or Mother will wonder why we’re not home for supper.”

  They had no choice but to link arms and brave the rain together, heads bent against the onslaught, their shoes quickly soaked through. Expecting to see a nobleman, Davina had worn her favorite gown. Now the fabric was dark and colorless, clinging to her legs as she walked, the embroidered hem streaked with mud. Would she never learn to dress with Arran’s changeable skies in mind?

  The harbor, the glens,
the hills, and the mountains—all were lost in a gray wash of rain. To keep their spirits up, Cate and Abbie sang beneath their bonnets.

  There’s news, lasses, news,

  Guid news I’ve to tell!

  There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads

  Come to our town to sell!

  “How true,” Cate cried. “Even if we cannot watch them sail into our harbor.”

  “If they’re all as old as the duke, we’ll not miss much,” Abbie teased her.

  “Old or young, handsome or no, we cannot go back to the castle, or Mr. Nichol will mention it to Father on the Sabbath.” Cate looked over at Davina. “Many apologies, fair Cousin, for we’d hoped to send you home to Glentrool with a story to tell.”

  They started up the long hill, their enthusiasm beginning to flag, for the ruts in the road were rain filled and treacherous. After struggling to reach the summit, they discovered that going down toward Lamlash was no improvement. The slippery mud made their footing unsure, so they hung on to each other and inched their way down, unable to move out of the way when a horse galloped past, splattering their costumes. All three were close to tears by the time they stumbled through the door of the manse, holding up their dripping hems and shivering uncontrollably.

  “Mrs. McCurdy, towels if ye please!” A wide-eyed Betty ushered them into the kitchen, where Elspeth and her housekeeper quickly disposed of the girl’s hats, then dried their hair and gowns as best they could before sending the bedraggled girls off to their second-floor bedroom to change.

  “Haste ye back tae the hearth,” Mrs. McCurdy urged them, “for I’ll hae het tea waitin’ and a het supper not lang after.”

  The girls did not have a lady’s maid—a luxury seldom needed on Arran—and so helped one another dress in the gray afternoon light. Neither the flickering candles nor the small hearth in their bedroom dispelled the chilly gloom as rain continued to lash the windowpanes.

  “What a dreich day,” Abbie murmured, tying the bow on Davina’s gown. “We’ll be lucky not to catch cold.”

  Pulling on her white cotton stockings, Cate was still humming the tune they’d sung in the rain. “There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads, all right. But who’ll be on that boat? That’s what I’m keen to find out.” She did not wait for her sister to answer but spun out the possibilities. “From Fife, it’s certain to be a MacDuff, and from Argyll, either a MacDonald or a Campbell. Not both, of course. The Borders might mean an Armstrong. ’Tis hard to say,” Cate finished with a shrug, “but blithe to contemplate.”