One
INNERLEITHEN, SCOTLAND
1993
I had never heard of Traquair House until the spring of my thirty-eighth year. Looking back with the clarity hindsight so often brings, I now realize my oversight had more to do with fate than timing. For an ordinary tourist, the lapse wouldn’t have been unusual. But I was Christina Murray. By no stretch of the imagination could I be considered an ordinary tourist.
For nearly eight hundred years the hills surrounding the Innerleithen Valley have shielded Traquair House from the world. Fifty minutes from Edinburgh, off Highway 709, between Selkirk and Peebles, the turn is easy to miss. Most travelers, intent on reaching the sites of the capital, pass by the poorly marked detour with barely a second glance. For me, there is no such excuse. For me, to have missed Traquair House borders on the absurd.
For fifteen years Gaelic antiquity has consumed my life. Even now, in moments of depression, when I seriously entertain the notion of giving it all up and opening a gourmet coffeehouse or a used bookstore, I have only to close my eyes and relive that first semester at the University of Edinburgh.
I was nineteen years old, a student in the foreign exchange program on my way to visit Holyrood House, when I stopped in at the museum on the Royal Mile. It was such a small out-of-the-way place, I didn’t expect to find anything important. But Scotland, I was to learn, is filled with surprises.
Reverently I ran my hands over the protective glass containing the Scots’ Covenant where the bold scrolling signatures of Montrose and Argyll leaped out at me from the aging parchment. A sword from Philiphaugh stood propped against the wall, and a well-leafed prayer book said to have been used by John Knox sat forgotten on a corner bookshelf.
Farther down the street, in the graveyard of Saint Giles Cathedral, I traced fifteenth-century death masks with trembling fingers and watched angry clouds gather above my head. For the first time I knew what it was to taste rain on the wind, to see the Grampians, gateway to the Highlands, and, in the distance, the clear light-struck waters of the Firth of Forth pooling silver blue into Leith Harbor. My eyes burned from holding back tears. The cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh welcomed me as if I had come home for the first time after a long and empty journey.
That was the beginning. After that first trip, I returned to Scotland once a year. My knowledge of British landmarks became second to none. I learned to navigate every twisting country road between Stonehenge and Dunnet Mead better than I could the streets where I was born, and my driving time from Heathrow to Edinburgh, at night without streetlights, was clocked at just under six hours.
Now, after twelve years of teaching at Boston College and five more of coursework, I was ready to begin my dissertation. My academic reputation was at its peak and my personal life just beginning to rebound from its downward spiral when Ellen Maxwell’s letter arrived. The incredible realization that, in all my years of research, I’d never even heard of Scotland’s oldest manor house made her invitation appealing. Someone like myself did not just overlook an eight-hundred-year-old manor house.
From the moment I climbed the gravel path to the top of the hill and looked down on Traquair House, it became my obsession. If any of it had happened differently, if the plane ticket from Ellen Maxwell’s solicitor had come at another time, if Stephen and I hadn’t gone through with the divorce, if I’d taken the grant or answered the summer school advertisement, the whole confusing tangle of the Maxwell-Murrays and the Stone of Scone might have remained unsolved for all eternity.
My introduction to Traquair bordered on the macabre. After a brief word of welcome, a servant ushered me up the stairs to an enormous bedroom and then disappeared. It was my first and only meeting with Lady Ellen Maxwell.
She lay still as death, stretched out under the sheets of an enormous four-poster. I moved closer to the bed, prepared for the worst. It wouldn’t be the first time I had seen a corpse. There is something about the absence of life that can’t be mistaken. It’s the fundamental missing piece, that mysterious primal core of the human condition that no scientific laboratory or skilled mortician can successfully reproduce. The nuns at Mount Holyoake would have labeled it a spirit or, better yet, a soul. Life force is the best I could come up with. Looking down into Ellen Maxwell’s face, I knew she wasn’t there yet.
Beside the bed, IVs attached to tubes led to her frail wrists. A pitcher with a glass straw sat on the nightstand near a bouquet of sage and purple heather. It had all the elements of a hospital room except for the smell. It didn’t smell like a sickroom. This room smelled of pine and spice and the moors near Jedburgh. Who was Ellen Maxwell and why had she summoned me, so peremptorily, to her sickbed?
I frowned and felt the skin between my eyebrows fold into accordion pleats. Consciously, I relaxed, forcing the muscles back into smoothness. Lately, since the divorce, I’d become critical of my appearance. There was nothing more damaging to a woman approaching middle age than frown lines.
The sound of soft breathing reclaimed my attention. I stared down at her face. Despite her age, vestiges of beauty still showed in her features. Her skin was smooth and paper thin. The veins in her temples stood out like blue lines against a white road map. Her hands were immaculate and surprisingly youthful, with long, thin fingers and raised oval nails. Patrician hands.
Somehow I knew that those hands had never felt the sting of cleanser against an open cut. They had never wielded a broom, scoured a pot, scrubbed a floor, or pushed a vacuum. Looking down at that haughty, aristocratic face, I felt a flash of resentment and was instantly ashamed. The poor woman was bedridden and old, and despite the fact that she had money, no one, no matter how indigent, would willingly exchange places with her.
The nurse entered the room, smiled at me, and leaned over the bed. “Lady Maxwell,” she said in the precise, clipped tone of London’s Mayfair district, “Miss Murray is here all the way from America to see you. Don’t be stubborn now. She’s been traveling a long time.”
Like birds’ wings, Ellen Maxwell’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. With great effort, the lids lifted, and eyes, foggy from their drug-induced sleep, stared up at me. Several minutes passed as she struggled to focus.
“She’ll be fine now,” the nurse said. “You may speak to her if you like. Only her body is paralyzed. Her mind is sharp as a tack.” She nodded and patted my shoulder before leaving the room.
Ellen’s dark eyes, now lucid with intelligence, moved over my face, carefully analyzing each feature. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. Never before or since have I been so calculatingly scrutinized. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I stared out the window, allowing the old woman to look her fill. I was about to speak when the atmosphere in the room changed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Perplexed, I looked down at the aged face and felt the smile freeze on my lips.
Ellen Maxwell was terrified. There could be no mistake. Her body was rigid, her hands curled into claws. Every muscle in her too-thin face was strained by a hideous contortion. Her forehead was knotted, her nostrils flared. Her lips were pulled back, exposing teeth clenched in a feral grimace. Violent tremors rocked her frame, and her breath came in harsh, laboring gasps. A wrenching moan escaped from deep within her chest, a sound so primitive and guttural, so completely filled with despair, that it shattered what was left of my fragile control. I knew with terrifying certainty that Ellen Maxwell’s agony had everything to do with me.
“What is it?” I managed to whisper, bending over the bed. “What’s wrong?”
The anguished eyes fixed on my face pleaded for mercy. I backed away and then turned and ran to the door, throwing it open. “Help!” I shouted down the empty hallway. Where was the nurse? Why had she left us alone? The inevitable tears I had never been able to control welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. “Someone please help me,” I begged.
Behind me, a door opened. The nurse’s sturdy, white-clad figure crossed the threshold where I stood and walked quickly to the bed. She placed expert fingers on the sick woman’s wrist and then against her throat. Frowning, she leaned her head against those lips still frozen in their snarling grimace. Finally she stood, shook her head, and pulled the sheet over Ellen Maxwell’s head. “Poor dear,” she said softly. “The strain was too much for her. We’ve been expecting this for quite a while. I’m sure the diagnosis will be heart attack.”
“Do you mean she’s dead?” My voice cracked. “Just like that?” Visions of Hollywood emergency room scenes and frenzied doctors shouting for digitalis, while heart monitors bleeped their reassuring vertical lines, signaling the victim’s return to life, flashed through my mind.
“I’m afraid so, miss,” the nurse said regretfully. “It was only a matter of time. She didn’t want to be kept on with life support. It was her last wish that she meet you before she died.”
“But why? I didn’t even know her.”
“I couldn’t say. Perhaps your questions will be answered by her solicitor.”
Desperate for fresh air, I found my way down the stairs, past a maze of rooms, to the front door. A soft Scots brogue stopped me.
“Can I help you find anything, miss?”
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I recognized the stone-faced maid who’d ushered me inside when I’d first arrived. I considered telling her about Lady Maxwell but decided against it. It certainly wasn’t a stranger’s place to break the news of an employer’s death. “I needed some air and thought I’d take a walk,” I answered instead.
“I don’t blame you. The weather is lovely. Why don’t you take the path toward the Bear Gates. It’s a charming walk, and maybe you’ll find a docent who can give you a tour.”
“A docent?”
“Traquair House must make a living, Miss Murray. There’s a small restaurant and gift shop around the corner. In the summer, the company rooms are open all week for tourists.” She looked at me strangely. “Have you never been to Scotland before, miss?”
“Many times,” I replied. “I can’t imagine how I could have missed Traquair House.”
“Perhaps it was meant to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“We Scots believe in the sight. Some things are best left to the hand of fate.”
I almost smiled, then thought better of it. “If I meet anyone, who shall I say sent me?” I asked instead.
“Kate, miss.”
“I’d be grateful if you would point me in the direction of the Bear Gates, Kate.”
“Just walk the path, and you’ll find them. Enjoy your day, Miss Murray.”
I stared at her back as she walked away. For an instant, she’d reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t recall who it was.
The late afternoon sun warmed my head and calmed my frayed nerves. Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, I walked up the hill to the end of the gravel path. From there I turned back to look at the house. Never, in all my travels through Scotland, had I seen anything quite like Traquair House. It was as if time had rolled back, and I, Christina Murray, an unwelcome stranger, had intruded on the ancient fief of Maxwell.
The grounds were steeped in a halo of welcoming light. Four stories high with a gabled roof and rounded towers, Traquair looked more like a large manor house than a fortress. I knew from reading the brochures Ellen had sent that the original structure dated back over eight hundred years when Alexander the First signed a charter in the common room and that the modern wings weren’t completed until 1680.
In times of peace, Traquair had been a pleasure ground for royalty, in war, a place of refuge for Catholic priests. The lairds of Traquair had remained loyal to Mary, Queen of Scots, and the Jacobite cause without counting their personal cost. Imprisoned, fined, and banished for their beliefs, their home still stood, a sentinel to a nobler, more gallant age.
Something moved on one side of the far tower. A workman climbed down the scaffolding and disappeared behind the house. So much for romanticizing. In spite of all my efforts to the contrary, practicality had its own insidious way of invading my fantasies. Living in a home over eight hundred years old had some disadvantages after all. Traquair’s repair bills were probably stupendous.
It was obvious that the house had been well maintained. Stucco covered the original stone and mortar, but the dozens of rectangular, small-paned windows looked like the real thing. The grounds were exquisite with acres of manicured green lawns reaching past the gates to a forest of pine and black oak. A maze with shrubbery over twelve feet high grew in the back garden, and everywhere I looked squirrels and cotton-tailed rabbits stared at me from a healthy margin of safety.
Traquair House had been home to the Maxwells since the beginning of Scottish history. Once again I marveled at how I could have bypassed such a wonderful relic from the past. A simple diversion of ten miles on the way to Edinburgh would have brought me directly to the front gates.
My nose felt numb. Grateful for my wool pants and lined jacket, I slipped my hands into my pockets and increased my pace. Scotland was always cold. While the rest of the world celebrated the advent of summer, the first green shoots of spring were barely visible in glens north of the Firth of Forth. Even here in the borders where the temperature was ten degrees warmer, winds blew with the promise of snow and ice-covered lochs showed no inclination to thaw.
With my shoulders hunched and my head buried in the collar of my jacket, I would have walked right past the gates if Ian Douglas’s voice hadn’t stopped me.
Years later, I would recall the timing of that moment with pristine clarity. I would remember the crisp air and the leaden late-afternoon sky. I would smell the clean scent of pine, taste snow on the wind, and see stalks of gorse, golden and russet, growing wild beyond the tilled fields of Traquair. I would speculate on the odds of our meeting at all. What would have happened to the two of us if I’d explored the garden maze or the brewhouse instead of the gates? What if I’d taken a wrong turn or walked in the opposite direction?
I always shudder with grateful relief that none of those things happened. One small moment in time had determined my destiny. Or had it? Was it really such a coincidence or had fate woven its tapestry, capturing Ian and me with silken fingers, forever entwining our lives in the mystery of the stone?
“Hello, there.” Firm hands gripped my shoulders. “At that pace you’ll miss the gates altogether.”
I blinked and then stared. Could this apparition possibly be real? He came from nowhere, a man legends are made of. He was dark from the sun, with dramatic bone structure, a high-bridged curving nose and piercing blue eyes. Thick, sun-streaked hair fell across his forehead. The look on his face was flattering. I’m not the kind of woman men follow with their eyes, or anything else for that matter. I’m attractive enough, I suppose, slim and tall with a talent for wearing whatever is currently in style. I’ve got thick hair and good bones and teeth, a blend, someone once said, between wholesome and elegant. But I’d been told more than once there’s a reserve about me, an old-world standoffishness, that puts men off. It had certainly put one off, even after fifteen years of marriage. I swallowed the lump in my throat that thinking of Stephen never failed to bring up.
“That is what you came to see, isn’t it, the Bear Gates?” He smiled and dropped his hands to his sides. Tiny lines around his eyes and mouth deepened.
I swallowed. “Yes, it is. I mean, they are.” I laughed, flustered by an unfamiliar awkwardness. He laughed with me, amused by my obvious embarrassment. He was older than I first thought, somewhere in his mid-thirties, a man with a sense of humor, a man comfortable with himself and with women.
“I can’t place your accent,” he said. “You’re not English?”
“American.”
He looked thoughtfully at me. “You don’t sound like an American.”
“I’m from Boston. We speak a different sort of English in eastern Massachusetts.”
“Perhaps that explains it.” His eyes moved over my hair and face. “You don’t look like an American and you certainly don’t act like one either.”
Startled, I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “That makes two of us.”
The flicker of interest in his blue eyes increased. “How so?”
“You’re not like any Scot I’ve ever met,” I explained slowly. “They’re usually much more reserved.”
He laughed. “Touché. Let me redeem myself. My name is Ian Douglas, and I live nearby. Do you know the story of the Bear Gates?”
“Not yet.”
He reached out and pulled me down on the grass so that we sat facing the gates. “Traquair is the oldest inhabited house in Scotland,” he began. “The Maxwell Stuarts were cousins of the royal Stuarts, and even though the families didn’t visit regularly, the familial bonds remained strong. During the Jacobite rebellion, Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed at Traquair. There are some who believe that he planned his strategy here with the earl.” His speech was very clear, the brogue nearly unrecognizable. “When he rode out of the gates for Drumossie Moor in 1746, and news of the defeat filtered back, the old earl closed the gates and vowed never to open them until a Stuart king sat on the throne of Scotland once again. They remain closed to this day. The family, out of respect for the earl’s wishes, installed another entrance, which you probably entered when you arrived.”
“How tragic.” Blinking back tears, I stared at the ferocious twin statues positioned on the pilings. “All this time to live on false hopes.”
“You are a romantic, aren’t you?” he teased. “I’m quite sure Ellen Maxwell doesn’t hope for anything of the sort. She’s English to the core.”
Of course he couldn’t know the woman was dead. “Do you know Lady Maxwell?” I asked.
“Everyone knows her, although she’s been bedridden for a number of years now.” He stood and extended his hand to pull me up.
“Have you seen everything you wanted to see?” he asked.
I nodded.
“If you’re agreeable, I’ll walk you to your car. Peebles is only about five kilometers from here. I’d like to buy you tea.”
“I don’t have a car. Lady Maxwell’s driver picked me up from the airport.”
The blue eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Christina Murray.”
“Ah, of course. I should have known.” His mouth twisted up at the corner.
“Excuse me?”
“I thought you were a tourist.” The warmth had left his voice. “And to think I was telling you the legend of the gates.”
The cold was painful. It was definitely affecting my hearing. “I came to Traquair because it’s the one place in Scotland I’ve never seen. Ellen Maxwell sent me an airline ticket.”
He stared at me as if he were trying to remember something important. I knew he hadn’t listened to a word of what I said.
“I know we’ve never met before, but there is something familiar about you,” he said slowly. “One doesn’t often see hair so black paired with those eyes. I just can’t place where I’ve seen your face.”
My bones ached, and I couldn’t feel my hands. It was time for a bold step, even if it was out of character. “If you don’t mind,” I said politely, “I’d really like to get out of the cold. It’s freezing out here, and tea sounds wonderful.”
He smiled, and I forgot to breathe. The pain of my divorce was very far away. “Have you tasted raspberry scones, Miss Murray?”
An hour later he watched as I worked my way through my third buttery scone piled high with cream and raspberry jam. The waitress paused by our table. “Anything else today?”
Ian shook his head and grinned. “Not for me, thanks.” He motioned toward my plate. “The lady might like something else. She has an unusually healthy appetite.”
I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Do you always eat as if there were no tomorrow?” he teased.
“I was hungry.”
“To say the least.” He laughed. “I would never have believed it if I hadn’t watched you fill that plate twice. You might have warned me before I offered to pay.”
At a loss for words, I wiped my mouth and crumbled the napkin on my plate. “Thank you for the tea,” I managed. “Everything was delicious.” I leaned forward, chin in my hand, and took a deep breath. If I didn’t ask, I’d never know. “Will you please explain to me why you were surprised when I told you my name?”
He studied me carefully. “You mean you really don’t know?” he asked at last.
“No.”
“It appears, Miss Murray, that the late Lord Maxwell left Traquair House to you.”
I felt cold all over again as if I had never eaten the sweet desserts nor drunk copious amounts of sustaining tea. “You must be mistaken,” I whispered. “I don’t even know the Maxwells.”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, considering your background?”
“What do you know about me?”
Ian frowned. “Ellen Maxwell hasn’t been an invalid forever. Once she was an active woman with friends throughout the entire valley. Everyone knew her quite well. When the terms of her husband’s will were revealed, she was curious enough about you to do some investigating of her own. After all, it’s a bit unusual for a man to leave everything to a child he’s never seen. People gossip.”
Suddenly I realized what he was implying. I was furious. My voice sounded thin and tight. “I’d like to go home now.”
“Back to Traquair or to Boston?”
Without a word, I walked out of the restaurant. Ian caught up with me near the car. “I’m sorry, Christina. I didn’t mean to offend you. Of course, none of this is your fault.”
I pulled away, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat.
We were nearly at the gates of Traquair when I couldn’t stand it any longer. Of course, I believed the whole thing was a misunderstanding that could be chalked up to a case of mistaken identity, but it wasn’t in my nature to speculate when I could know for sure. “Where do you fit into this, Ian? Is it just my imagination, or does the idea of someone inheriting Traquair bother you more than it should?”
A thin, white line appeared around his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing to me who inherits Traquair House.”
“Are you sure?”
He sighed and pulled up to the gate. It was after dark, and the gas lanterns guarding the entrance to Traquair flickered wildly inside their shades. “You are persistent, aren’t you?”
Embarrassed, I stared out of the window. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”
Ian frowned and reached out to touch my shoulder. Something changed his mind. When I looked again, both hands were on the steering wheel, and he was staring at me with a curious expression on his face. “I wonder why I seem to be spending most of my time apologizing to you when I’d much rather be doing something else.”
“What’s that?” I whispered at the same time his mouth closed over mine. I’m ashamed to say that the details of that first kiss dissolved, lost forever, in a wave of pure sensation. My only clear recollections are the incredible warmth of his lips, the feel of soft wool under my hands, and the clean, waxy smell of soap that I was to associate with him from that moment on. But it was enough. Enough to know I had never, in all my thirty-seven years, experienced anything like it. After a long time, he lifted his head.
“Do you believe in déjà vu?” he asked.
“No,” I lied. “Tell me why you don’t want me at Traquair House.”
His fingers were warm against my neck. “It isn’t like that at all. In fact, it has nothing to do with you. I’m an agricultural engineer, Christina. The improvements in farming over the last ten years have been phenomenal. If I appear a bit resentful, it’s only because my ancestors, unlike the earls of Traquair, didn’t take advantage of new methods and machinery. I hope you appreciate what you’ve been given.”
“Are you having financial difficulties, Ian?”
He stared down at me, an expression of exasperation and amusement on his face. “You do get right to the heart of the matter. Didn’t your mother tell you never to ask a person’s age, his politics, or the extent of his bank account?”
He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and I was behaving completely unlike myself. “I’m an American,” I told him. “My mother gave up on me long ago. Have you considered a loan?”
“I have,” he replied. “The bank wants my land as collateral. I’m not ready to take that risk yet.” He smiled his bone-weakening smile. “You have an unusual effect on me, Christina Murray. I don’t believe I’ve shared this much with a stranger in a very long time.”
I felt the color rise to my cheeks and was grateful for the darkness. “How old are you?” I asked abruptly.
He grinned. “Thirty-five and Church of Scotland. How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven and Catholic.” I didn’t bother to explain that my membership in the Roman Catholic Church had lapsed years ago.
“The Murrays have always been Catholic,” he murmured and leaned toward me again.
I pulled away. “You haven’t asked the most important question of all.”
“What might that be?”
“Aren’t you curious as to whether or not I’m married? Most women my age are, and I am wearing a ring.” I held out my hand displaying the delicate gold band engraved with the Murray crest. It was an unusual piece of jewelry. He couldn’t have missed it.
The silence between us lasted for a long time. I was uncomfortable and then embarrassed. We’d shared nothing more than raspberry scones and one incredible kiss. I stared at his chest, his mouth, at the sharp line of his cheek, the blade of his nose, the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat, everywhere but into his eyes.
Under his breath, I heard him curse softly in Gaelic. Startled, I looked up, meeting his gaze. He laughed, cupped my cheek, and uttered the short, unbelievable words. “You’re not married, Christina, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if you were.”
The tension inside the compact was thick and cloying. I needed air immediately. Fumbling with the handle, I opened the door and jumped out. By the time Ian walked around the car, I was composed again.
“Have Americans introduced a new fashion or is it my company you’re in such a hurry to leave?” His face was expressionless, his eyes veiled against me. My teasing companion of the gates was again a remote stranger.
“Neither,” I answered. “It’s just very late. I went for a short walk hours ago. They must be wondering where I am.”
“Ellen isn’t in any condition to wonder about anyone.”
I considered not telling him at all and then changed my mind. He would know soon enough anyway. “Ellen Maxwell died this afternoon. I’m sorry.”
“I see.” There was no mistaking the coldness of his voice. “May I offer you my congratulations, Miss Murray. You are a very wealthy woman.” With a brief smile he turned away.
“Ian?” I couldn’t stop myself.
He turned, an impatient look on his face.
“I suppose I’ll see you at the funeral.”
“Of course.” He stayed where he was, waiting for something I couldn’t begin to imagine.
I rang the doorbell. Unexpectedly, tears gathered in my throat. Horrified that I would lose control before someone opened the door, I turned away. Let him think I’m rude, I thought, pressing my fingers against my eyelids to staunch the flow. Better that than the alternative.
“Christina.” He was directly behind me, his voice warm and compassionate, the friend of the gates once again. “Pay no attention to me. I’ll see you at the funeral.”
I didn’t turn around, and he didn’t touch me. The car door slammed, and the engine roared. Kate opened the door and stared at me curiously. Then she looked at the taillights disappearing down the road and smiled. On the way to my room, I didn’t stop to consider, after everything I’d experienced that day, how odd it was that Traquair felt much more like home than any other I’d ever known.