Epilogue
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
January 1995
Everything fell into place after that. I never did go back to Boston. Kate Ferguson was committed to a psychiatric hospital. My parents stayed until after the birth of my children and then left for home. Ian was reconciled to my decision to have the babies alone. Out of consideration for me, he had spent much of the last year in Edinburgh with the exception of a short period after the twins were born. His visits were brief but regular, and I had to admit, for a man who knew nothing about babies, he looked very natural holding his black-haired children close to his heart.
Then there are Eileen and John, my children. Twin miracles. It was still hard to believe that I’d given birth to them. Eileen was six months old before I noticed her resemblance to me and even then I probably wouldn’t have recognized it if Mother hadn’t sent my baby pictures. The likeness between us was uncanny and I suspected that, like her ancestress so many years before, she saw what her brother couldn’t.
For hours she would sit in her carrier and watch light play against the shadows, laughing and cooing for no apparent reason. Occasionally, and only for an instant, I thought I saw what she did. A woman with long braided hair and a red gown walking through the heather, creating shapes with her fingers, tickling bare baby toes, and smiling with love. Sometimes, before the children were mobile, I would fall asleep in the garden, stretched out on the grass, the babies beside me, bees droning overhead, knowing that an unseen presence watched over us, guarding us from harm. It was Mairi’s gift to us, the only one she had to give. But it was more than enough. Because of her, we would go on.
If there was an emptiness in my life, if my heart stopped for the briefest of seconds whenever I spotted a tall blond man on the streets of Peebles, I never spoke of it. After all, I had chosen the path I’d taken.
Most of the time, I ignored the ringing door chimes at Traquair House. Curious tourists were always pulling the bell, saying they didn’t mean to be a bother but could they please look around. Usually, I instructed the housekeeper to say no. My privacy had become very important to me in the past year. The house was open in the spring and summer for tourists, but the blazing beauty of autumn and the bleak stillness of winter belonged only to me and my children.
Today, however, I anticipated the bell-like sound. The Maxwell family solicitor was due any time. After nearly two years, probate on Ellen Maxwell’s estate was over. Although seeing the title in my name was only a formality, it made me feel more official somehow, as if I could move forward with certainty knowing that the house and I belonged together.
I dressed carefully for the occasion in a short, slim-fitting skirt of heather blue with matching tights and pumps, a feminine white blouse, and blue sweater. Waving Mrs. Aames, the housekeeper, back to the kitchen, I smoothed my skirt, walked to the door, and opened it.
Ian Douglas, in all his blond magnificence, stood on the threshold looking down on me. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said formally.
“I am expecting someone.” I looked past him to the small compact coming through the gate. “Is anything wrong?” It wasn’t like Ian to stop by without calling first.
“There is something I’d like to discuss with you,” he admitted, “but it can wait.” He hesitated. “May I see the children?”
“Of course.” I moved back to allow him inside. “They’re in the nursery.”
He climbed the stairs, stopping at the landing to call down. “Will you be long?”
“Are you in a hurry?”
Ian watched the lean, athletic-looking figure of the solicitor climb out of his car. “No. Take your time.” His voice sounded strangely hollow.
I held the door open. The lawyer was tall and narrow hipped, a man of about forty with black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He held out his hand. “I’m James Murray, with MacDougall and Finney of Edinburgh.” His handshake lasted longer than was normal for mere courtesy.
I led the way into the sitting room. He sat on a long sofa in front of the coffee table. I took the arm chair across from him. “Where is Mr. MacDougall?” I asked.
The man raised one eyebrow in a quizzical arc. “He retired three months ago for medical reasons. I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all,” I replied, leaning back in the chair. “What did you say your name was?”
“James Murray.”
“Are you related to me, Mr. Murray?”
A shock of black hair fell over his forehead. He was busy pulling papers from his briefcase and replied without looking up. “Not that I know of. Murray is a common name in Scotland.”
“I suppose so.”
He organized the papers into two stacks. “These will need your signature,” he said, pointing to one of the piles. “The others are your copies to keep. Take your time reading. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wander around and look at your magnificent portraits.” He nodded toward the painting of Jeanne Maxwell above the mantel. “That one is incredible. Fifteenth century, isn’t it?”
“Early sixteenth,” I corrected him. “I wouldn’t have expected a lawyer to know art.”
He turned to look at me, surprise etched into the lines around his mouth. “Solicitors aren’t cretins, Miss Murray, and I know what I like.” He looked at my legs, very visible beneath the brevity of my skirt.
The blood rose in my face. It had been a long time since a man had noticed that I was attractive.
“I apologize if I sounded patronizing,” I said hurriedly. “The portrait is a likeness of my ancestor, Jeanne Maxwell. She married her distant cousin and was mistress of Traquair House in the early sixteenth century.” I placed the pen beside the unsigned papers. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Murray?”
“Yes, please.” He had a charming smile. “I’d like that very much.”
I could have asked Mrs. Aames for the tea, but I needed an excuse to leave the room. My composure was nearly gone. There was something about James Murray that disturbed me. It wasn’t an unpleasant disturbance exactly. It was something else, a kind of tension that I’d felt before but couldn’t remember the circumstances.
Armed with tea and biscuits, I took a deep breath and walked back into the sitting room. He was standing by the mantel, looking up at Jeanne Maxwell. His coat was off, his tie loosened and shirt rolled up to expose strong wrists and forearms. He turned to look at me. His glasses lay on the table, and from across the room I saw the color of his eyes. They were midnight dark, framed with thick black lashes—legacy of David Murray.
My legs felt like jelly. I was close to losing my grip on the tea tray. Quickly, he crossed the room and rescued the tray from my hands. “Are you unwell, Miss Murray? You look pale.”
I stared at him, unable to speak. Without the glasses and formal coat, the likeness was very pronounced. I wondered if he’d ever heard of David Murray. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that he was here, and because of him, I knew what it was that I’d been waiting for.
I wet my lips. “Will you excuse me, Mr. Murray? I’d like to look over the papers before I sign. I’ll drive them back to your office in the morning.”
He frowned. “Is anything wrong?”
My heart was pounding so loudly I could barely hear him. “No, nothing. At least, I don’t really know yet. Please. Drink your tea. There is something I need to do immediately.”
Leaving the solicitor alone and confused, I hurried up the stairs. A peel of low masculine laughter came from the nursery. I hesitated. It was one thing to reach a conclusion in one’s own mind but quite another to act on it. Bracing myself, I opened the door and stepped inside.
Ian sat on the floor with a baby on each arm. A musical jack-in-the-box lay on the rug in front of him. He looked up. “Finished already?”
What is it, I wondered, that makes a woman recognize one man as different from all the others? What is it that allows the two of them to travel a thousand dusty roads before they pass each other, and for a single moment, time is suspended while they glance first and then smile and touch and finally one changes direction and falls in step with the other?
It was that way with Ian and me. James Murray knew nothing of his heritage, but his presence had awakened something lying dormant within me for over a year. Like Mairi of Shiels, I had been given a choice. I had seen it in the eyes of the man downstairs and again in the one staring at me from across the room with my children in his arms. But I would choose differently than Mairi, for I knew now that Ian was my destiny.
He must have seen what I did for his face changed. “Christina?” There was reverence and awe and more than a little hope in the question that came out as my name.
I smiled and heard the quick, involuntary catch of his breath. Confidence surged through me as I watched him stand and walk across the room to stand before me, the babies still in his arms. I reached out to him and was clasped tightly against a chest that was deep and strong enough to hold the three of us.
When he spoke, his voice wasn’t entirely steady. “This last year has been hell for me, Christina. Marry me. Marry me now, please.”
I thought of my parents and what they would say if I married without them. I thought of a gray-eyed woman, dead for seven hundred years, who would never hear those words from the man she loved and the regret in the heart of a king because he could never say them. “Thank you, Mairi,” I whispered, “for making this possible for me.”
I looked into Ian’s eyes. Enough time had been wasted already. “Is tomorrow soon enough?”
The expression on his face was answer enough. There would be questions, of course, and the need for explanations. But that would come later. For now, it was enough just to know that the Maxwell-Murrays had come full circle and that everything would be well.
Author’s Note
Traquair House does exist and is still inhabited by the Maxwell Stuarts. The geographic location of the house, the descriptions and significance of the rooms are all historically accurate. Mairi of Shiels and her descendents are pure fabrication.
For story purposes, I have condensed Scottish history and changed the ages of several of the characters. Edward Longshank, Hammer of the Scots, was born in 1239. He would have been fifty-nine years old at the time this story begins. I chose to make him closer to Mairi’s age. Eleanor of Castile was twelve years old when she left Spain to become Queen of England. The marriage remained unconsummated for several years. Eleanor bore Edward four sons, three of whom died in infancy.
In Scotland, there is a legend, maintained by more than a few, that the stone which sat under the Coronation Chair at Westminster Abbey is a fraud. Loyal Scots believe that while Edward was en route to Moot Hill to claim the real stone, monks learned of his coming and replaced the stone with another.
Acknowledgments
It is with heartfelt appreciation that I thank Patricia Perry and Jean Stewart for their unfaltering faith, their insightful suggestions, and most of all, their friendship and love. Without them, this book would never have gone beyond a character and an idea.
About the Author
Jeanette Baker is a sixth grade teacher in Lake Forest, California. She graduated from the University of California at Irvine, and later earned her master’s degree in education.