Fourteen
BLAIR CASTLE
1993
I awoke completely rested with a smile on my lips. The morning air was unusually warm, and I was very aware of Ian’s lean, bare body next to mine. Propping myself up on one elbow, I studied his face, relaxed in sleep. With his hair falling over his forehead, his sun-dark chest against the bleached-white sheets, the stubble of a beard covering his cheeks and chin, he looked different, less civilized, more vital than the sophisticated gentleman I knew by day.
His eyes opened to my admiring gaze. Smiling, he held out his arms. I blushed and looked away, embarrassed by the circumstances. Never before, in my entire life, had I spent an entire night with a man who was not my husband. In the deceptive shadows of darkness, a woman of a certain age might flatter herself into believing that the crow’s-feet around her eyes and the sagging flesh on her neck and kneecaps wouldn’t be noticed. But in the merciless glare of daylight such deception is impossible. Every widening pore, every smudge of leftover mascara, every line and dark circle, every blemish, is sharply and painfully evident.
I drew a deep breath, deciding then and there that this time, with this man, I would make no excuses for my imperfections. Forcing myself to meet his eyes, I allowed Ian Douglas to look his fill. For a long time he didn’t speak. His fingers sifted through my hair, catching in the thick tangle at the back of my head. Then he traced my nose, my lips and chin, lingering on the hollows of my cheeks. Carefully, like an artist, his palm molded my face and throat, resting at last on the flesh covering my pounding heart.
“Do you have any idea how lovely you are?” he asked, his voice hoarse and breathless.
I laughed, shaky with relief. Burying my head against his chest, I erased from my mind the fact that we had known each other only a few days, that the differences in our backgrounds were as great as two people’s could possibly be, and, at this very moment, the forces of a seven-hundred-year-old curse were aligning themselves against us.
His lips were warm against my throat “Are you ready to go home?”
“Uh-hum,” I answered, intent on the feel of his lips as they explored the sensitive skin behind my ear, the column of my throat, and the slope of my shoulder. I shivered as they moved lower. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Ian tensed.
“Who is it?” I asked, looking at the clock. It was after nine.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Murray, but it’s the cook’s day off. Would you like breakfast before she leaves?”
I looked at Ian. He shrugged his shoulders and bent his head to my mouth. “Tea and toast will be fine,” I managed to call out before Ian’s lips closed over mine. For a moment, I was lost, caught in the incredible sensations of pleasure and passion that his presence managed to evoke.
“Ian,” I gasped, pulling away. “It doesn’t take any time at all to make tea and toast. The maid will be back in a few minutes.”
He relaxed against the pillow. “I hope she’ll bring more than that. I’m starving.”
I sat up, pulling the covers around me. “We should get dressed.”
Ian frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t want her to find us like this.”
“Good Lord.” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”
I didn’t answer, but my incredulity must have been obvious. His eyes danced with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed in front of the servants.”
“Aren’t you?”
He laughed. “Not at all. There isn’t a person in this entire castle who doesn’t know where I spent the night. Why do you think no one knocked on my door to ask if I wanted breakfast?”
I could feel the deep blush staining my chest and shoulders. Opening my mouth to speak, I was silenced by another knock.
“Your breakfast is here,” announced a feminine voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” Ian mouthed the words. I nodded. He threw back the covers, gathered his clothing, kissed me briefly on the forehead, and exited through the adjoining door.
“Come in,” I called out as the knock resounded once again.
The maid, carrying a tray of silver-covered dishes; two plates, cups, and saucers; and two sets of silverware, entered the room. She placed the tray on a nearby table and looked around. “Will you be breakfasting alone this morning, Miss Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Where will Mr. Douglas be eating?”
“I beg your pardon?” I couldn’t help myself. I was unprepared for such a matter-of-fact attitude toward sex.
“Where shall I take Mr. Douglas’s breakfast?” she asked, not at all disconcerted by the tumbled bedclothes, my bare shoulders, or chapped, kiss-swollen lips.
“He’s in the bathroom,” I muttered, acknowledging defeat. Ian was right. The habits of the duke of Atholl and his guests didn’t concern the servants in the least.
“Will he be returning or shall I take a tray to his room?” she asked politely.
Enough was enough. Wrapping the sheet around me, I stood, grateful for my inches. I was in control once again. “I’ll see that Mr. Douglas gets his breakfast,” I said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dress.”
“Of course, Miss Murray.” With a pleasant smile, she left the room. I didn’t relax until I heard the click of the bolt.
Pulling on a robe from the armoire, I walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Ian was shaving at the sink. He looked rested and healthy from the tracks in his shower-damp hair to the towel wrapped around his waist. “There’s breakfast for two in my room,” I announced.
He grinned, and I relaxed. “How did you know it wouldn’t matter?” I asked, leaning against the marbled sink.
He wiped the shaving cream from his face. “British society is still very status conscious, Christina. Those in service to the upper classes regard everything their employers do with a certain detached amusement that wouldn’t be tolerated within their own order.”
“Are you telling me that the duke of Atholl’s servants wouldn’t be comfortable associating with us?”
“Exactly.”
“Isn’t that a rather outdated assessment? After all, I’m a history teacher and you’re a farmer.”
Ian laughed. “True. But in this case, it makes no difference how we earn our living. On this island and in much of Europe, family is everything.”
“Do you approve of that philosophy?” I asked curiously.
“It doesn’t matter whether I do or not. I live here and change doesn’t occur overnight.”
He was wrong. It did matter, but I wasn’t sure how much. He turned away from the mirror and folded his arms across his chest. His face was smooth and completely expressionless. “Will you pour me some tea?” he asked.
I nodded and walked back into my room, conscious of his presence close behind me. He slipped beneath the bedcovers, while I poured the dark, fragrant liquid into a cup, added milk, and handed it to him. Ian ate and drank the same way he did everything, quickly and efficiently with a minimum of wasted motion. I watched him swallow his tea and wield a knife, carefully spreading the delicious Golden Shred marmalade across his toast with blunt, capable fingers. A sweet, piercing ache rose up inside me. There was something deeply personal about the sharing of breakfast after lovemaking. It was a promise, a sense of completeness, of well-being and security, that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Later, after we’d dressed and were on our way back to the borders, I asked Ian about Jeanne Maxwell. “Did Jeanne die at Traquair House?”
He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Yes, but I wouldn’t call it dying exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was murdered, accused of witchcraft and hanged.”
I could feel the color leave my face. “Before or after she married John Maxwell?” I asked.
“After. I believe she had her share of happiness even though she came to such a tragic end. The marriage was a good one. After John died at Flodden, she was arrested and executed.” He glanced at me curiously. “Were you able to read through most of MacCleod’s information last night?”
Leaning back in my seat, I fingered Professor MacCleod’s envelope and looked out the window at the golden greens and bright russets of the countryside. “I don’t need to read anymore, Ian,” I said slowly. “She comes to me whenever I’m alone.”
His hands clenched, and the knuckles on the steering wheel whitened beneath his skin. “Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head. “I know what’s going to happen. So far the documents seem to be historically accurate. What terrifies me is the pain. I can feel her hurt and her joy. It’s only logical to assume that I should also be able to feel her pain.”
“Did you feel it when Katrine died at Culloden?”
“No,” I said. “I felt sorrow and compassion for another’s suffering. But this isn’t the same. The images of Jeanne Maxwell are much clearer. This time, I can feel textures and smell cooking from the kitchen. I feel her relief when she takes down her hair and the warmth of a fire after coming in from the cold. I can feel everything.” I leaned my head against the window, grateful for the coolness against my forehead. “Ian?” I whispered. “Am I losing my mind?”
He smiled reassuringly. “No one who asks such a question is ever in danger of that, darling. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and it isn’t over yet.” His hand reached out to cover mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it through this.”
And then what? I wondered. Would I be the next in line to fall victim to Grizelle Douglas’s curse, or would we solve it, Ian and I, and then go our separate ways? Suddenly, I wanted very much to be alone in the privacy of my own room at Traquair.
The first thing I did, after being kissed good-bye at the steps of Traquair House, was to search for Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait. Later, after Ian had returned, when I could think logically, I would find the stone.
Ignoring Kate’s curious stare, I brushed aside her questions and headed for the secret stairs. The halls were narrow here in the east wing, and every floorboard creaked under my feet. I wondered how the structure managed to survive the hordes of tourists that descended upon it every year.
The priests’ hidden chamber was long, with whitewashed walls and an uncarpeted floor of English oak, dark and stained with age. It was late afternoon and the room lay steeped in shadows. The air was still with a dank, musty smell reminiscent of mold and age and closed-up rooms that had outlasted their purpose. The furniture was sparse, and the only paintings on the walls were those of churches and village scenes. Where was Jeanne, and where was the entrance to the hidden stairs?
Baffled, I returned to the main hallway and walked down to the kitchen. Kate was basting a huge chicken with a clear liquid that could only be drawn butter. Thank goodness I wasn’t overly concerned with cholesterol. Diet drinks and aspartame had not yet made their way into Scotland. She looked up when I walked into the room. Was that a flicker of apprehension I saw in her eyes?
Her voice gave nothing away. “May I help you, Miss Murray?”
Why did I feel as if I were intruding in my own kitchen? “I was wondering if my father called again,” I said.
“Not yet.” She closed the oven door and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I would have told you if he had.”
For some reason, I didn’t want to broach the subject of Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait, but I was impossible at deception and I’d run out of conversation. “I’d like to see the hidden stairs,” I blurted out.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she gave me a long, searching look and removed a key from the large ring hanging on the wall. Removing her apron, she hung it on a hook. “Follow me,” she said. “You’ll never find it unless I take you there.”
Silently I followed her through the beautifully appointed rooms, up three flights of stairs, down the narrow hallway I’d seen in my dream to the priests’ room. There, she pushed at a panel hidden inside a tiny alcove. The wall swung open, revealing a hidden door.
“We keep this open when tourists visit,” she informed me. “The stairs have never been reinforced. It’s too dangerous for a large group to go up, but they can look past the rope up the stone stairs. I don’t think a slightly built person like yourself would come to any harm.” She looked at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I imagine it’s quite a sight for some, especially those whose history didn’t begin until George Washington.”
For a moment, the venom in her words didn’t register. When it did, I was coldly, furiously angry. But it was too late. She had already handed me the key and walked away. Her voice floated back into the room. “If you have any trouble locking up, call me.”
I didn’t move until the sound of her footsteps had faded away. If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. Kate Ferguson was no friend of mine. The awareness hurt me more than I thought possible. It was important enough that I considered going after her to be sure my impression was accurate, but on second thought, I decided against it. Confrontation had never been my style.
Instead, I peered up the narrow passageway at the curving steps. It didn’t look at all familiar. Cautiously, I climbed the first step and then the next and the one after that until I reached the top. Turning the corner into a tiny room crowded with antique furniture, I glanced at the walls looking for the portrait. There was nothing except a faded spot where a large floor-length frame must once have hung. It was an unusual place for such a large painting. Curious, I stared at the naked wall for a long time before I turned to walk back down the stairs. It was then that I saw it. A cloth-covered object the size of a door balanced against the opposite wall. Quickly, I crossed the room and pulled away the covering. I could feel a loud roaring in my ears and the sledgehammer slamming of my heart against my rib cage. Here, at last, was Jeanne Maxwell exactly as I’d seen her in my dreams. The artist commissioned to paint her had broken with tradition and eschewed the dark colors typical of the sixteenth century. Instead, he’d painted her as she was, a tall slender figure in a gown of deep rose set against a colorful backdrop of heather and gorse.
I knew now why Ellen Maxwell’s heart had failed after taking one look at my face. Of the three women who were my ancestors, Jeanne Maxwell was most like me. From the night-dark hair and wistful mouth to the hurt expression in her pale gray eyes, looking at this woman was like facing a mirror image. Here was no confident girl like Katrine Murray or lady of legend like Mairi of Shiels. This was a woman unsure of herself, a woman who had suffered agonies of uncertainty.
I studied the portrait for the familiar signs of anguish. They were all there; the bitten-down fingernails, the bluish shadows around the eyes, the aloof smile and too-pale skin, the prominent collarbones rising from the rose material of her gown. My heart ached for her. What could have caused a woman of birth and beauty, a woman who had married the man she loved, to experience such heartbreak?
I thought I knew, but I couldn’t be certain. The light was poor. I pulled the painting, frame and all, across the room and leaned it against the wall beneath the tiny window. It was in remarkable condition for its age. Carefully, I studied the delicate lines of Jeanne’s gown, from the square bodice to the sweeping train of the skirt where it lay in folds around her feet. There could be no mistake. The skirt was full, gathered beneath the bodice with a ribbon instead of hugging the hips in the fashion of the day. I glanced at her left hand. A ring encircled the third finger. Jeanne was married, and if I knew anything about sixteenth-century clothing, she was also most definitely pregnant. Despite what Ian had told me, I knew that by the time this portrait was commissioned she’d either had the first of the nightmares or something else was very wrong.
After pulling the painting back to where I’d found it, I wrapped it in the concealing cloth and started down the stairs, deep in thought. Why was a valuable sixteenth-century painting hidden away in a tiny attic room where no one would ever see it? And how had Professor MacCleod found it? More importantly, where was the passageway Katrine Murray and I had seen in our dreams? Running my hands over the walls, I could detect no indentation, no hidden panel or alcove, nothing that would lead me to believe this room held the secret of the tunnel.
Kate was nowhere in sight when I replaced the key. I thought about keeping it in my room and decided against it. There was no reason to assume that my housekeeper couldn’t be trusted to open the door in the morning for tourists and lock it up at night. She probably had no idea that the portrait even existed.
Back in my room, I pulled on a robe and began brushing out my hair when a thought stopped me. Professor MacCleod said he had first seen the portrait over ten years ago hanging at the top of the secret stairs. Kate had lived at Traquair all of her life. She must have seen it. Why, then, hadn’t she reacted when she saw my face for the first time? She must have noticed. The resemblance was unmistakable.
In the hall, the phone rang. I tensed, waiting for the second ring. Then and there, I decided that the first thing I would do with Ellen Maxwell’s money would be to install a telephone in my bedroom. It rang a third time. Tossing the brush aside, I walked into the hall and picked up the phone before the fourth ring.
“Hello.”
“Christina,” a familiar voice said.
“Dad.” Relief flowed through me, weakening my knees. I had to sit down. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”
“I’m not sure.”
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Is there something wrong with your phone, Chris? It sounds as if someone else is on the line.”
Immediately there was a telltale click. “I think we’re all right now,” I said dryly.
“Never mind. I’d planned on telling you the news personally.”
The muscles in my back tensed. “Is anything wrong? It isn’t Mom, is it?”
“There’s nothing wrong, honey. Your mother’s had quite a shock, and strangely enough, it has to do with the house you’ve inherited.”
“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.
“No, of course not. We’re coming there the week after next. I’ll call you when we reach Edinburgh. Don’t change your plans. If we can’t track you down, we’ll rent a car.”
What could possibly be shocking enough to convince my thrifty father to buy two plane tickets to Edinburgh during the peak of the tourist season?
I hung up the phone, tightened the sash of my robe, and walked downstairs. There was a phone in the kitchen and another in the library. I unplugged the cords and stuffed them into my pocket. It was a futile gesture, really. Kate probably had a phone in her suite. But she would know why I’d done it, and she would know that I wouldn’t stand for her interference. There were other housekeepers in Scotland, and even if the position proved hard to fill, middle-class American women weren’t as helpless as British ladies. If the situation called for it, I wasn’t above scrubbing out a toilet or two myself.
The next morning I arranged for my own private phone line to be installed in my room. Two men came out that afternoon. I answered the door myself. Ushering them past a white-faced Kate, I led the way up the stairs to my bedroom. Thirty minutes later they were gone, and I walked back downstairs for the confrontation I knew would come.
Kate sat on a chair, her hands folded in her lap. I sat on the sofa across from her and picked up a magazine. I didn’t have long to wait.
“Are you unhappy with my services, Miss Murray?” she asked, her lips tight and angry.
“Not at all.” I closed the magazine and placed it on the table. “Why do you ask?”
Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “In the past, it has been my responsibility to arrange for all services necessary here at Traquair.”
“What services are you speaking of?” I asked, meeting her gaze across the coffee table.
“Repairs, utilities, ordering supplies, paying the invoices for utilities.” She waved her hand in a nebulous arc. “Everything.”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said steadily, “but I’m neither elderly nor an invalid. You will be paid your customary salary, but I’ll approve and pay all other expenses at Traquair myself. If that arrangement isn’t satisfactory to you, I’ll understand if you choose to give your notice.”
“You mean leave Traquair?” Her voice cracked. “Why, I’ve lived here all my life.”
“The choice is yours,” I said gently. “You’re a wonderful housekeeper; however, I am not Ellen Maxwell. You must learn to take direction from me or else find another position.”
The eyes that stared at me were black with rage. A flash of memory awoke inside me. Once again, she reminded me of someone. Who was it? For a moment I wondered if my decision allowing her to stay was wise. Kate Ferguson looked dangerous. Immediately I dismissed the thought. Naturally, she was resentful. It wasn’t easy to lose an employer of twenty years. Kate would need time to acclimate. With a firm smile, I rose and looked down at her. “Take the rest of the evening off to think about it,” I told her. “Let me know what you intend to do as soon as possible.”
The kitchen was warm and dark. The only light came from the smoldering peat logs in the fireplace. After turning on the flame under the teakettle, I pulled up a chair near its delicious warmth. A fireplace in the kitchen was a lovely idea.
Hundreds of years ago, when Traquair was first built, the kitchen had been a structure separate from the rest of the house. A large hearth was necessary for both cooking and heat. With the advent of gas and electricity and the fear of burning down the main house nearly obsolete, a kitchen fire was no longer practical. Whoever had ordered the renovation of Traquair had chosen to leave the original chimney structure alone and I was grateful. Slipping off my loafers, I held my feet toward the flames. The heat, through my woolen socks, was sheer bliss.
I stayed there a long time, warming my feet and sipping tea. In hindsight, the conversation with Kate seemed almost unbelievable. I was not a woman who welcomed confrontation. In my experience, a conciliatory approach reaped far more reward. I couldn’t explain the stand I had taken. It was almost as if I’d assumed another identity, stepped into a stronger, more confident woman’s shoes. Maybe it was Traquair that changed me. Traquair and the essence of Mairi of Shiels that lingered everywhere around me.
Seven hundred years ago she had walked these floors, climbed these same stairs, overseen the making of perfume and candles in this very kitchen. She had prayed in the chapel and ridden on the moors, picked gorse and heather in the fields, and laughed and played and loved in the room I now occupied upstairs. Her blood flowed through my veins. She had passed down to me her eyes, her hair, her skin, and the long, loose-limbed elegance of fine bones and straight teeth. With such a heritage, how could I not, in some small way, try to measure up.
I knew that having words with my housekeeper could not be compared to what Mairi had done, but it was no small thing for a woman who had given up everything she owned in an uncontested divorce settlement for the sake of keeping the peace. If it turned out that I was unsuccessful, if the location of the stone remained a mystery, I did not want another Murray woman two hundred years from now to look at my picture and feel only disappointment.
In the darkened room, the fire glowed, blue tipped and orange. I felt as if I’d been awake for a long time, and when my head began to ache and the strange, unsettling dizziness washed over me, I wasn’t at all surprised. My last conscious memory before I drifted off was the figure of Jeanne Maxwell beckoning me from the flames.