Grace in Thine Eyes (12 page)

My children are gone forth of me, and they are not
.

She had awakened with tears in her eyes, remembering the verse.

Up the stair Jamie still lay sleeping, for the hour was very late—or very early—not long past three o’clock. Soon the dark blue eastern skies over Lamachan Hill would take on a pearly sheen. The thirtieth of May would officially dawn. And Davina, the sweetest of daughters, would depart from Glentrool.

Only for two months
. Leana comforted herself with that thought. But it did not relieve the pain of letting go. Did she mean to keep Davina dependent upon her?
May it not be so, Lord
. Yet she could not deny the possibility, for she delighted in having a daughter beneath her roof. Loved caring for her, loved mothering her.

Head bowed, eyes closed, she spread her hands across the pages of the Buik.
Strengthen thou me according unto thy word
. Her own strength would not be sufficient; had never been so.
Please, Lord. Give me the courage to say good-bye
.

Many minutes later she lifted her head. Nothing had changed. Yet she had changed, and that was enough.

Candle in hand, Leana adjusted the light plaid she’d thrown over her shoulders for modesty’s sake and slipped up the broad stair to the second floor, where the twins’ empty bedroom had been pressed into service. Laid out across the curtained bed were Davina’s two traveling bags, carefully packed and waiting to be buckled shut.

Leana placed the candle where it would do the most good, then began running her hands over the folded contents of each valise to be sure nothing had been overlooked. She’d chosen Davina’s clothing with care; the horses could be burdened with only so much. Fortunately, whaleboned bodices and hooped petticoats were no longer in style. Her daughter’s slender summer dresses, stitched in lightweight fabrics, were easily packed. She tallied the remaining items: an extra pair of shoes, two cloth bonnets, a reticule, half a dozen gauzy muslin tuckers, and gloves in both cotton and lace.

“Here you are, my love.” Jamie stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “When I found you missing from our bed, this seemed a likely place to look.”

“Oh, Jamie.” She drew him into the room, lest Davina hear them. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“My troubled dreams are the culprit. Not you.” He kissed her brow, then gazed over her shoulder at the valises. “Counting gloves and stockings again, I see. And have you tucked your heart among our daughter’s gowns?”

Her throat tightened. “First the twins … and now Davina …”

Jamie wrapped her in his arms. “They will come back to us, Leana. Depend upon it.”

The warmth of him, fresh from their bed, the musky scent of his skin, the solid feel of his chest—nothing on earth could offer her such solace. Though her children were leaving, her husband remained.

After a moment he leaned back, then lifted her chin until their eyes met. “You may trust the man who loves you, even as you trust the One who made you. ‘Whoso putteth his trust in the L
ORD
shall be safe,’ aye?”

“Why, Mr. McKie.” She smiled up at him. “When did you become such a
halie
man?”

Jamie returned her smile. “When I married such a
gracie
woman.” Even with his breath thick from sleeping, even with the plaid chafing her bare skin, Leana welcomed his kiss.

Minutes later the sound of a door opening and muffled footsteps in the hall signaled the arrival of the servants, stirring the house to life as surely as Aubert would stir the breakfast porridge with a wooden
spurtle
.
“And so the day begins.” Jamie slowly released her from his embrace. “We leave at six o’clock. Please see that Davina is dressed and at table by half past five, for I’ll not have her ride off hungry.” He stepped back, half turning toward the door, though his gaze still held hers. “I wish ’twere practical to bring you with us, Leana. But I’m afraid that Glentrool—”

“Needs a mistress,” she finished for him. The possibility of her joining them had already been considered. “I am content to stay here with Ian, who’ll have his hands full managing the estate. The maidservant we
fee’d
at Whitsuntide requires training, and my gardens would languish without me.”

“Nae, you would languish without your gardens.”

Much more so without my daughter
. Leana kept her thoughts to herself and clung to the psalmist’s words:
My heart shall not fear
.

“And when I return,” Jamie added, “we will have a quiet house to ourselves.”

“Too quiet,” she confessed, “though ’twill not remain so. When will the shearing begin?”

“The sixth of June.” Jamie yawned, then rolled his shoulders. “Rab has hired a goodly number of herds to handle things.” He retrieved her candle, then led her into the hall, lowering his voice. “This morning there’s only one wee lamb that requires your care.”

While Jamie went off to tend to his ablutions, Leana lightly rapped on Davina’s bedchamber door, then tiptoed inside the murky room, shielding the bright candle. Her precautions were unnecessary; Davina was already bathed and half-dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Did you sleep at all, dearie?”

An apologetic smile was answer enough.
Nae
.

“No wonder, with such a day ahead of you.” Leana sat beside her daughter and took her hand, not surprised to find her skin cool. “Sarah will be along shortly to dress us both. In the meantime, I am glad we have a moment alone.”

Davina nodded, then touched her heart.
I am glad too
.

Leana eyed the bedside table where she’d hidden Davina’s parting gift: a linen handkerchief, delicately embroidered and scented with dried lavender from her garden. “I have a wee something for you.” She
reached inside the drawer and lifted out the fragrant present, breathing the sweet aroma once more before placing the handkerchief in her daughter’s waiting hands. “To remind you of home.”

Davina held the fabric to her nose, slowly closing her eyes. Her red lashes began to glisten.

“Nae, dearie,” Leana pleaded, circling her arms round her. “Do not cry, or I shall do the same.”

But it was too late.

“Davina, I …” The words would not come.
Help me, Father. Help me let go
. Leana pressed their wet cheeks together and tried again. “I will miss you … so very much.”

Her daughter gave a small sob, more felt than heard.

“And I will pray for you.”
Every day, lass. Every hour
.

Davina pulled away long enough to use her new handkerchief before wrapping her fingers round it and bowing her head, her meaning clear.
Pray. Now
.

Without hesitation, Leana rose, bringing her daughter with her. “Your father spoke a blessing over the twins,” she whispered. “Now ’tis our turn.” Her hand trembled as she rested it on Davina’s head, having never done so bold a thing. “Almighty God, let my daughter dwell under thy shadow and take refuge beneath thy wings.” With each word, her voice grew stronger. “Be with her in trouble, Lord. Deliver her and honor her. Give thy angels charge over her, to keep her in all thy ways.”

Leana kissed her brow, as if to seal the words in place, then embraced her once more, only then aware of the room growing brighter and of Sarah tapping at the door.

Sixteen

Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience.
F
RANCIS
B
ACON

W
ell seated on her mare and dressed in a light wool riding habit, Davina already felt different. Not taller, alas, but older. Less like Will and more like Ian.

Nae, more like Mother
. Davina touched her gloved hand to her bodice, where she’d tucked her new handkerchief for safekeeping.

“ ’Tis a perfect day for riding.” Father swept his arm to take in their surroundings. “We’ll make good time if the weather holds.”

Glentrool was an hour behind them. Crosshill, where they would break their journey and seek lodging for the evening, was twenty miles north across the mountain fastness. Few puddles remained from the rainy Sabbath, and the air was clear and dry. Patches of blue appeared above the towering pines, and a northerly breeze lifted the fine hair round her face.

“There’s a pied wagtail looking for a tasty morsel.” Father pointed to a black and white bird running across the stony path ahead. “Imagine the shore birds you’ll see on Arran. Ringed plovers and dunlins and redshanks.” He turned to catch her eye. “You’ll draw some for me?”

She patted the sketchbook tucked in her bag—almost left behind until Ian discovered it in the library. “Fill the pages with memories,” her brother had told her that morning on the lawn. Bidding Ian good-bye had been even harder than she’d expected.
Only ’til Lammas, dear brother
.

“Take your time,” Jamie cautioned as they approached their first ford of the morning. “We’ve many more waters to navigate before we reach the harbor at Ayr.”

The pair eased down into the Water of Minnoch, a wide, meandering
stream tumbling over a rocky bed. Her father’s gelding found solid footing, as did her mare. When they reached the opposite bank without mishap, Davina smoothed her hand along the animal’s sleek neck.
Well done, Biddy
. Her mother’s dun-colored horse would return home to its mistress, leaving Davina to explore Arran on foot or borrow a mount from the Stewarts.

Another shiver of anticipation—beyond counting this morning—ran down her spine. Think what she would see! And whom she might meet. Only one book was packed in her bags:
The Lay of the Last Minstrel
, a yuletide gift from her father. Diverting enough for a rainy day, but reading poetry was hardly how she intended to spend her time on Arran.

No other travelers were in sight as they turned onto the main route, little more than an unpaved track. A farmer pulling a two-wheeled cart full of manure would block the way, it was so narrow. She’d traveled on this stretch of road before, but no more than a few miles. They rode side by side, the yellowish coat of her mare a stark contrast to her father’s black gelding. Magnus, he’d named the beast—a large horse yet with a calm disposition.

“Listen, Davina.” Her father held up his hand as the distinctive call of a cuckoo sounded among the trees. The bird was easier heard than seen, so swift was its flight. “How does the auld rhyme go? ‘In May I sing all day.’ Not much of a tune. Two notes.” He imitated the bird, then chuckled when she patted the green baize bag strapped behind her. “I would much prefer to hear my daughter’s music. Perhaps when we stop for our meal?”

Davina nodded absently. Food was the last thing on her mind. Had she even eaten breakfast?

Her father pointed to the broad, rushing river on their right. “ ’Tis the same Minnoch we forded earlier this morning. We’ll follow it to its source, Eldrick Hill.” Two deep burns in succession momentarily slowed their progress, then a bit farther along they passed a neatly painted sign—Palgowan—posted where a dirt track veered toward the neighboring Buchanan farm.

At kirk on the Sabbath, Davina had promised Janet Buchanan a
letter from Arran. “If you’ll cross the letter and keep to a single piece of paper,” Janet had said, “my father would be grateful.” Davina had agreed, knowing a second page would double the postage the recipient was obliged to pay. Difficult as it was to manage, she would fill one page, then turn the paper at right angles and continue writing across it. Poor Janet, having to decipher such a thing.

They continued north for another hour, climbing past the Rig of Kirriereoch. “We’re in Ayrshire now,” her father announced. “Kirkcudbrightshire is behind us.”

Davina looked round, as if the ground might change color or a line appear, as on a map, indicating the end of one county and the start of another. She’d not complain again about the remoteness of Glentrool, now that she’d seen the desolate Minnoch valley. Scarcely a house or tree adorned the wide, boggy landscape below, painted in a drab green.

When Biddy started breathing harder, Jamie slowed their steps. “In less than a mile we’ll reach Rowantree Toll.” He gave her a sideways glance. “And the Nick of the Balloch beyond it.”

Davina shifted in her saddle and ignored the uneasiness stirring inside her. A nick was a narrow gap in a range of hills. Would the track be narrow as well? And steep?

“The pass offers a splendid view,” her father promised as if to bolster her spirits. “Unlike anything you’ve seen in Galloway.”

Perched on a rise, Rowantree Toll soon came into sight. Built without mortar and thatched with brown heather, the old stone tollhouse was the roughest sort of building. “ ’Tis not much to look at,” her father admitted, “but it nigh marks our halfway point this day.” He dismounted with a gentlemanly grunt. “Come, let me help you, lass.”

A brisk wind swept along the road that continued up Rowantree Hill, bending the tall grass across their footpath as they neared the tollkeeper’s door. At her father’s knock a voice bellowed from within, bidding them enter. The single-room dwelling was dark, the windows shuttered against the elements. A peat fire burned in the hearth, and two candles lit the table where the tollkeeper stood, a grimy ledger spread before him.

Davina tried not to stare, but the man appeared to be a giant. Taller than her father by a foot, broader than Will and Sandy put together, he looked quite capable of swallowing her whole.

The mammoth tollkeeper peered at her father through a haze of peat smoke. “Ye’ll be headin’ o’er the Nick, aye?”

“We will.” Jamie slipped his hand inside his coat.

Knowing his purse and his pistol were both within easy reach, Davina prayed the weapon would not be necessary. When their brief transaction was completed, the man followed them out the door and lifted the stout toll bar that blocked the road. Davina was as grateful to be seated on her horse as she’d been happy to dismount minutes earlier. The horses seemed eager to be gone as well, setting off at a good trot.