Seventeen
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
May 1510
John Maxwell stared at the twin bundles in his wife’s arms. ���Two of them?”
Jeanne, her face framed by two neat plaits of black hair, glowed like a Byzantine Madonna. “They are wonderful, are they not?”
“By God, ’tis you who are wonderful, Jeannie. However did you manage it?”
She smiled demurely, but her eyes danced with mischief. “I had a bit of help, m’lord. You were not exactly lax in your duty.” To Jeanne’s delight, her husband’s face reddened. At night, with the candles dimmed, John was creatively uninhibited when it came to sexual matters, but speaking of them by day embarrassed him. Jeanne had quickly discovered this unusual personality trait and teased him unmercifully.
As for herself, circumstances had turned out better than she could possibly have imagined. Whoever would have guessed after her disastrous wedding night that she would acclimate so quickly to the pleasures of the marriage bed? For in truth, she could think of no greater joy than having the lean muscular length of her husband’s body stretched out beside her own. The touch of his lips, the feel of his strong narrow hands on her skin, the whispered urgency of his words, ignited a fire in her that could only be quenched by the age-old ritual of possession. She sighed and looked down at the babies in her arms. It had been too long already.
John interrupted her thoughts. “Are they boys or girls?”
“Both.” Jeanne indicated the bairn on her left. “This one is the boy.
John reached for the infant on her right. “A man has a lifetime with a son, but only a few short years with his daughter.” Gingerly he held the precious bundle. “Hello, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Have you a smile for your sire?”
A tiny fist butted his chin. John laughed and unbelievably, the baby opened her eyes. Small, as an infant born three weeks early inevitably is, the features of her face were already clearly defined. The lines of what would one day be brows were sweeping arcs against the fairness of her skin. Her nose was firm, her chin determined, and her cheekbones high and ridged, proclaiming her Maxwell ancestry. The hair on her head grew counterclockwise in a black whorl on the delicate skull. Her eyes were already the clear winter gray of her mother’s.
“Good Lord,” exclaimed John. “She looks exactly like you, Jeannie.”
“I know.” Jeanne frowned. “There are those who say all the Maxwells resemble one another, but that isn’t true, is it? I can see it here, in their faces. Our son has the same hair and eyes, but he looks nothing like me.”
John bent over his son. It was true. The bairn’s hair was black, and although his eyes were closed, John knew they would be the same clear gray as his sister’s. But there, all resemblance to the women in his family ended.
John felt his chest swell with pride. This was his son, a child created in the image of himself. He could see it in the squareness of the miniscule jaw, in the set of the mouth and the flare of thin, aquiline nostrils. There was the promise of strength in the tiny hand clenched around his mother’s finger. In this determined mite, born after two grueling days of childbirth, John Maxwell had a worthy heir.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Jeannie.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Two healthy children and you look as if you’ve done nothing more than gather heather on the hill.”
Jeanne knew she looked nothing of the sort. She was more tired than she’d ever been in her life, and her glass told her the dark circles under her eyes made her look ten years older. Thank God for John, she thought gratefully. He had never once, not even in the screaming throes of childbirth, found her anything less than perfect. “What have I done to deserve you?” she asked quietly.
Their eyes met over the heads of their children. “’Tis I who should be asking that question, lass. Whatever it is, I’m very glad of it.”
There was a soft scratching at the door. “Enter,” Jeanne called out.
Flora Maxwell peeked into the room. “There is someone at the door to see you, John,” she said in a hushed voice. “She wishes to pay her respects to Jeanne and the bairns.”
“I’m very tired,” Jeanne protested. “Please tell her tomorrow would be better.”
John leaned over the bed to kiss his wife. Handing her the blanketed infant, he walked to the door. “I’ll speak to her, love. Give the bairns to your mother and try to rest.”
With a grateful sigh, Jeanne did as she was told.
John walked down the stairs with a light heart. Two babes and Jeanne was well. Surely it was a fortuitous beginning. The birth had been hard, but the midwife assured him that with rest, Jeannie could have a dozen more children. He thought of the clear, austere beauty of his wife’s face, and a huge weight lifted from his heart. Children were important to a man, but nothing was as important as Jeanne. To stay away from her willing young body just when he’d learned the art of pleasing her would be a fate worse than death.
In the entry at the bottom of the stairs, a woman waited. Her shawl covered her head, but John knew instantly who she was. “Welcome, Grania,” he said gently. “’Tis a long way for a woman of your years and affliction.”
“I ha’ to come,” she said, nervously fingering the brooch on her bodice. “Last night I ha’ the vision. Yer lass must be told.”
John frowned. “What did you see?”
“No, no,” Grania shook her head. “I canno’ tell ye. ’Tis Jeanne, I must see.”
“Jeanne sleeps,” explained John. “The birth was hard.”
“Aye,” the old woman nodded. “I saw it. Two bairns for Traquair.”
John took a step forward and took Grania’s arm in a warning grip. “My lady bears you great affection, Grania Douglas, and for that you are welcome here. But know this, if you disturb her with tales of woe, your life will be worthless.”
“I would ne’er harm the lass,” Grania whispered. “’Tis only wha’ I see.”
“Tell her nothing of what you see,” ordered John.
Grania’s eyes bore through him, and he swore he saw pity in their sightless depths. “Do ye no’ know yer own wife, lad? She will see whe’er I tell her or no’.”
“I want you to leave my house,” he said through clenched teeth.
Grania nodded. “Aye, I shall for now. But ye canno’ keep her from me forever. She will come t’ me.”
He watched as the old woman felt her way toward the door, the gnarled old hand guiding her past the paneled wall, down the stone steps, and into the courtyard. Instantly John was ashamed of himself. She couldn’t see, and he had made no move to help her. Jeanne wouldn’t thank him for treating her guest so shabbily.
“Grania,” he shouted, following her out the door. “Granny, wait.” A thick concealing fog swirled around his head, muffling his voice and hiding from view everything farther than an arm’s length away. The old woman shouldn’t be out on a night like this. The borders were dangerous at this hour. Then he remembered that Grania was blind. All nights, fog laden or clear, were the same for her.
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
I jackknifed to a sitting position in bed, consumed with an urgency so great it woke me immediately. My heart pounded as I attempted to calm myself and concentrate. According to the professor, Jeanne Maxwell gave birth to a son. There was no reference to twins. Was it possible that such a thing could have been overlooked? I discounted it immediately. In medieval Scotland, women of high birth were prized for their dowries. The daughter of an earl was too important to be ignored. Somewhere, there must be a reference to Jeanne’s daughter.
I looked at my watch. It was early afternoon, plenty of time to tear apart the library. Pulling a sweatshirt over my leggings and turtleneck, I slipped into comfortable loafers and made my way downstairs. As I’d expected, the vents in the library were closed, a concession to Kate’s notions of conservation. I lit the fire and warmed my hands before beginning what I knew would be a lengthy search. The number of books was enormous.
Luck was with me. Two hours later, I found what I was looking for. A Bible, handwritten in ancient Latin script, the spine cracked and dusty with age, had the entry I needed.
On the third page, halfway down, written in a firm, masculine hand, was a birth entry that could only refer to Jeanne Maxwell’s twins. “On the twenty-fifth day of May, in the year of our Lord 1510 a son and daughter were born to John Maxwell, Earl of Traquair, and his wife.”
My fingers shook as I traced the thin, delicate parchment and ancient binding. The people I saw in my dreams had actually existed. They weren’t myths or figments of my imagination. Here, in this very house, they had lived and walked and eaten and slept. In the hushed quiet of the library, it seemed as if their spirits surrounded me, urging me on, encouraging me to complete their story.
Curious to know more of my Maxwell ancestors, I read farther down the page. The next line stopped me cold, like the shock of ice water on bare skin. It was an obituary. “Isobel Maxwell, beloved daughter of the Earl of Traquair and his wife, died in her fourth year, on the thirtieth day of July, 1513.”
I remembered the look of wonder on John Maxwell’s face as he held his infant daughter for the first time. The words on the page blurred, and tears gathered in my throat. Pressing my fingers against my eyelids, I managed to control myself. Isobel Maxwell had died nearly five hundred years ago, and there were other, much more important issues at hand. I still had no idea how the curse had affected Jeanne or if she even realized that she had a connection to Mairi of Shiels. Another thought occurred to me. Was it possible that Jeanne’s small daughter, by her death, had lifted the curse from her mother?
Quickly my finger slid down the page, searching for Jeanne Maxwell’s name. Nothing. There were no other entries at all until fifty years later. What could have happened to Jeanne’s family?
There was only one way to find out. I swallowed, and in spite of the cold, perspiration gathered in the hollow of my throat. Slowly I closed the book and climbed the ladder to replace it carefully on the shelf. Hugging myself against the chill, I walked back to my room and sat down on the bed. The ticking of the clock disturbed me. Without thinking, I reached over to pick it up and noticed the time. Disappointment washed over me. It was nearly four. If I left immediately, I would just make my doctor’s appointment. The mystery of Jeanne and her family would have to wait.
Conscious of the time, I hurriedly changed into a sweater and skirt, pulled a blazer from the armoire, and started down the stairs.
The doctor’s office was just off the main street, near the post office. I pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car. As I turned the key in the lock, I felt a hand on my shoulder. A familiar voice spoke. “It appears that wishes sometimes come true,” Ian murmured into my ear. “I was just thinking of you.”
I laughed nervously, wondering how I could escape and slip into the office unobserved.
“What are you doing here?” Ian asked. “I thought you would be up to your ears in a family reunion, or are your parents tired of you already?”
“They are tired but not of me. I decided to let them rest while I came into town.” The post office loomed before me. “For stamps,” I announced, pleased with my sudden inspiration. “I need stamps.”
Ian looked at me thoughtfully. “That shouldn’t take long. Will you join me for tea after I’ve made my purchases?”
“Of course.” I hoped my relief didn’t show. “When will you be finished?”
“A half hour should do it. Shall we meet here, at your car?”
I nodded and watched to make sure he crossed the street and disappeared into the hardware store.
Hurrying to my appointment, I opened the door into a cozy sitting room, complete with fireplace, large bay windows, and a rolltop desk. Seated behind the desk was a cheerful-looking woman with gray hair and round cheeks. She peered at me over the rims of her glasses.
“Miss Murray?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Come right in. The doctor is expecting you.”
Apparently, I was the only patient. The apple-cheeked woman ushered me into an immaculate examining room and handed me a cotton gown. “Remove your clothing, dear. The doctor will be in shortly.”
I shed my skirt and sweater as quickly as possible and perched on top of the table, holding the back of the gown closed. Sooner than I’d expected, the door opened and a man walked in.
My mouth dropped open, and I felt the hot, humiliating flood of color start at my chest and move up. I recognized him immediately. He was the doctor from Traquair House, the same one who gave me insulin the day of Ellen Maxwell’s funeral. Inching forward until my feet touched the floor, I slid off the table and stood before him.
“I must have dialed the wrong number,” I stammered. “I wanted a gynecologist.” He looked very young in spite of his gray hair.
“I am a gynecologist. I’m also every other type of physician you can think of. That’s what general practitioners are, Miss Murray, jacks-of-all-trades. This is a clinic, and it happens to be the only one in Peebles.”
I backed up to the chair where I’d draped my clothes. My face flamed with embarrassment. “I think I should make an appointment in Edinburgh.”
He smiled. “Don’t you trust me?”
“It isn’t that,” I assured him.
“Why don’t you tell me why you came.”
I thought of the friendly banter exchanged between Ian and the doctor at the foot of my bed in Traquair House. Shaking my head, I said, “It isn’t important.”
“Are you ill, Miss Murray?”
There was genuine concern in his eyes. Miserably, I shook my head.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. “In Scotland as well as in the United States, doctors are required to honor patient confidences. I take my profession very seriously. Nothing that happens here will ever leave this room.”
Had he guessed? I looked directly at him. There was nothing but compassion in the thin face that looked back at me. What difference did it make? If it were true, everyone would know soon enough.
“I came for a pregnancy test,” I confessed.
“Shall I take a look and tell you for sure?” That was all. No look of surprise, no judgmental flaring of the nostrils or pursing of the lips. No look of censure. Just a simple question and a friendly smile.
I smiled back and walked over to the examining table.
Twenty minutes later I was dressed and on my way back to Traquair. Somehow, my mind registered road signs and traffic lights. Otherwise I would never have made it home safely. The impossible had happened. I, Christina Murray, a thirty-seven-year-old divorcée, was going to be a mother for the first time. All those miserable years of thermometers and mechanical sex, the bitter arguments and cold silences, the harsh accusations and bruised egos, had resulted in nothing more than the dissolution of a fifteen-year marriage. And now, in less than a month, the few magical, frantic couplings of unprotected intercourse between Ian and myself had accomplished this miracle.
Ian! I’d forgotten all about him. There were no other cars in sight. I swerved to the left, made a U-turn, and accelerated considerably over the speed limit back to Peebles. He was gone, of course. I thought that he would be, but I had to be sure. He would understand my absentmindedness once he heard the news.
There was no question that Ian would insist on marriage. He was born into a culture and tradition that assumed gentlemanly behavior long after the age of chivalry had been reduced to a brief salute consigned to the pages of ancient history books. But I had already been through one bad marriage, and although I was sure there would never be anyone else like Ian Douglas for me, I also knew that my judgment where men were concerned wasn’t always the best. This time I had choices. I didn’t have to be married although I desperately wanted to be. But more than that, I wanted Ian to ask me to be his wife without pressure or ulterior motive. But if he didn’t, I’d waited half my life to have a baby. Nothing was going to spoil it for me.
On a more practical note, I needed Ian. It was more important than ever to solve the mystery of the stone. Any last, lingering doubts about coincidence and the possibility that my fertile imagination had taken control of my mind disappeared at the confirmation of my condition. Everything was finally in place for the fulfillment of the legacy. But now I wasn’t alone. I knew without a doubt that besides Ian and myself three women who had transcended the portals of time, shared their lives, their hopes, their innermost secrets, were also with me.
Before today, I had been anxious to see justice done, to reveal that Mairi of Shiels was not a traitor to her country. The threat of danger to me, Christina Murray, a twentieth-century woman, seemed too incredible to believe. Now it was different, more personal. Now everything was possible. This Murray of Traquair was determined to watch her child grow up.
“Miss Murray,” Kate called after me as I started up the stairs to my room, “Mr. Douglas called. When I told him you had just arrived, he said to tell you he was on his way over. Shall I serve tea in the sitting room?”
I looked at my watch. It was after five. “I suppose so,” I replied. The sooner I told him, the better it would be for all of us. “Kate,” I said, stopping her as she started to walk away, “are my parents still resting?”
“I believe so,” she answered. “I’ve seen no sign of either one since shortly after their arrival.”
I muttered a grateful “Thank goodness” under my breath. The last thing I needed was an audience. “Did Ian say when he would be arriving?”
“He called from Peebles, but I believe he meant to stop off at home to drop off his purchases. I’ll have tea ready at five-thirty. That should give him plenty of time.”
Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to collect my thoughts and plan how I was going to tell him about the baby without sounding desperate for a wedding ring. I knew not to underestimate Ian. He could be very persuasive when he wanted something and I was the last person to withstand his personal appeal especially when it was something I very much wanted myself.
In the bathroom, I pulled back my hair, secured it with a barrette, and splashed water on my face. The hollows under my eyes looked like giant bruises against my skin. I frowned and studied my reflection in the mirror. Fatigue had done its worst. Where was the glow pregnant women were supposed to radiate? I looked every bit of my thirty-seven years. Releasing the clip, I finger-combed my hair into its usual neat bob. How was I going to make it through the next hour?
Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had ten minutes. Ian was never late. I debated between changing my clothes or putting my feet up. As always, comfort prevailed over ego. With a sigh of relief, I climbed up on the high bed and pulled the pillows into a comfortable position behind my head.
Almost immediately I felt it, the aching temples, the dizziness, the pull of the past. Across the centuries, Jeanne Maxwell called to me. Her thoughts, her words, her laugh, were so like mine, she no longer appeared as an apparition. The dreamlike quality of my earlier visions had completely disappeared. I saw and heard and smelled and touched with the brilliant, diamond-edged clarity of a never-to-be-forgotten moment in time.