Eight
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
The sun slanted through the window and rested on my face at exactly the same moment I heard the pounding at my bedroom door. I managed to open my eyes and look at the clock. It was well after nine. I had slept more than twelve hours. My body cried out for insulin. Dragging myself out of bed, I walked to the door and unlocked it. Holding a tray of tea and scones, Kate stared at me anxiously.
“I thought something happened to you,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for hours. Why have you locked your door, Miss Murray?”
I covered my mouth and yawned. Apparently living with other people carried its own set of responsibilities. The woman really did look concerned. “I’m sorry for worrying you,” I apologized. “I’ve lived alone for quite a while. Everyone locks doors in Boston. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“I suppose.” She nodded and watched me while I removed insulin from the cooler, assembled my syringe, and injected it into my hip. “Your father called,” she said. “He sounded concerned when I told him you were still sleeping. I offered to wake you, but he wouldn’t allow it.”
Knowing my father, the words wouldn’t allow seemed out of character. More than likely, Kate had decided I shouldn’t be disturbed. “Did he say when he would call again?” I asked.
“Tonight or tomorrow morning.” She poured the tea and buttered the scones after arranging them on the plate. “He said not to change your plans.”
“Kate,” I asked curiously, “if you wouldn’t wake me for my father, why did you wake me now?”
“Mr. Douglas called,” she said. “He wanted to know if you were available to drive into Edinburgh at ten.” She looked pointedly at the clock. “It’s nearly that now.”
I sat down on the bed, tucked one leg under the other, and bit into the hot bread. “What did you tell him?” I asked, reconciling myself to the fact that this woman I barely knew had taken it upon herself to manage my social calendar.
“I told him I would check with you first,” she replied primly.
She had told him no such thing, and I knew it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been roused from a sound sleep to have breakfast in bed and Kate wouldn’t be opening the armoire to inspect my wardrobe.
“I’m finished,” I said quickly, brushing the crumbs from my lap. “Give Mr. Douglas some tea when he arrives and tell him I’ll be down soon.” I handed her the tray. “You can take this with you.”
She frowned. “You didn’t eat much, Miss Murray. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Quite sure,” I said firmly. Taking her arm, I led her to the door and closed it behind her. I stared at the lock for several seconds before deciding against it. Replacing the olive green jacket and slacks she had pulled from the closet, I chose a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a navy turtleneck sweater, and a camel-colored blazer. After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I looked critically at my complexion in the mirror. I definitely wouldn’t pass for twenty but still not bad.
For a long time now, I’d subscribed to the old adage that “less is better as one gets older.” Keeping that in mind, I decided on nothing more than lipstick and a brush or two of mascara. “Thank goodness for a good haircut,” I said out loud to the mirror as I brushed my shoulder-length hair into a smooth curve. Grabbing my purse, I reached for the blazer and headed for the stairs.
Ian was already seated in the drawing room with a pot of tea when I walked into the room. He stood immediately and, to my surprise and delight, closed the door behind me and pulled me into his arms. His kiss was hungry and demanding, and then his lips softened, moving gently against mine, expertly coaxing a response. When he lifted his head, my knees gave out, and I stumbled against him.
He steadied me with a hand at my waist. “Easy, Christina.” His voice shook. “We’d better leave or Mrs. Ferguson will lambast me for compromising your reputation.”
“Mrs. Ferguson?” I concentrated on the movement of his mouth, barely hearing the words.
“Your housekeeper.”
“Oh, you mean Kate.” I was suddenly embarrassed. “It never occurred to me to call her by anything other than her first name. Do you think I’ve offended her?”
He brushed my cheek with his hand. “She would have told you if you had. In case you haven’t noticed, Kate Ferguson isn’t reticent about speaking her mind.”
“I wonder,” I said slowly. Kate certainly ran things her own way, but she was extremely careful about expressing an opinion that conflicted with mine. Perhaps that was normal. Unemployment was high in Scotland. She was probably safeguarding her position.
Ian was speaking, and this time I listened. “I contacted Professor MacCleod,” he said. “He’s delighted that you’re in Scotland again. I mentioned that you were interested in the inhabitants of Traquair, and he promised to tell you all he knew over lunch.”
“He’s a wonderful old man,” I said warmly. “I can’t wait to see him.”
Ian held out his hand and I took it. “Shall we go?” he asked.
I was relieved that we didn’t encounter Kate on the way out, although why it should matter that Ian held my hand, I couldn’t explain. For some reason, I didn’t want her to speculate on something I was not yet sure of.
We took the picturesque, single-laned road that was once a medieval pony path to the connecting A7 Highway leading into Edinburgh. It had been several years since I’d visited Scotland’s capital, but the evidence of its history in the silent, brooding castle that hovered over the city never failed to stop my breath. Occupied since the sixth century, the castle site with its forbidding walls, formed by the core of an ancient volcano and wrought by glaciers moving east and west, claimed by Pictish, Celtic, and Saxon monarchs, had seen the rise and fall of countless dynasties.
The modern citizens of Edinburgh hurrying down High Street and the Royal Mile, past Lawnmarket and Canongate to the shops and restaurants, the pubs, offices, and teahouses of Princes Street, rarely gave a thought to the fact that they lived in the shadow of a proud and tragic history. It was left to the tourists of the world, the Americans, Canadians, and Australians, those whose nations began less than two centuries before, to marvel and gape, to pay exorbitant fees and brave stifling crowds, to stand at the grave sites and worship the effigies of men and women who had long since vanished into the shadows of time.
Long before we reached the outskirts of the capital, I could see the nearly vertical north face of the castle foundations. This, with the south side a close second, was my favorite view. It looked more natural, more terrifying somehow, than the gradual western slope and the descending eastern ridge.
This was how an enemy coming up from England or down from the isles must have seen it, craggy cliffs slippery with ocean spray, primitive jutting rocks, biting winds whistling through the battlements. How they must have shuddered at the thought of scaling those granite walls. Those who were foolish attacked. The wise prayed for mercy and retreated. Every man with eyes in his head and the smallest claim to battle experience knew that laying siege to Edinburgh Castle was folly. As wonderful and mystical as it would always be for me, it wasn’t the castle I wanted to explore today.
“You’re awfully quiet,” remarked Ian as he shifted to stop at a light.
“Ian.” I clutched his shoulder. “Do you have to be back tonight?”
He gave me a long, assessing look before the light changed. “What did you have in mind?”
“I want to see Blair-Atholl,” I said quickly. “It’s the Murray’s castle, and it was Katrine’s childhood home. I’ve got to see it.”
“I might have known,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
I could see the red creep up under his tan. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m surprised you haven’t visited it before this.”
“I have, but it’s not the same.” I reached into my shoulder bag and took out the leather-bound book. “Now I have Janet’s diary. I want to be where she wrote it.”
A worried frown appeared between his eyes. “Let’s talk to the professor first, shall we?”
“Why?” I demanded. “What has he got to do with Blair-Atholl?”
Ian sighed. “I’d prefer to let Professor MacCleod explain, Christina. He knows as much about the Maxwells and Murrays as anyone. It really will seem less absurd that way.”
I settled back into the seat, resigned to yet another wait, to more polite greetings, the catching up on a two-year absence, the ordering of meals, the serving of drinks, the pouring of tea, and finally, when there was nothing left to discuss, the answers for which we had come. It was much more than my own curiosity about Traquair House that needed satisfying. Somewhere, in the last twenty-four hours, the stakes had changed. There was a connection between the three of us, Katrine Murray, Mairi Maxwell, and myself. And, somehow, that connection included Ian Douglas.
Turning down Giles Street into the Leith section of Edinburgh, Ian parked the car across from a restaurant I had never seen before. In the past, because I was often alone and on a limited budget, my tastes ran toward inexpensive, family-style pubs in the center of town. I could see immediately that the Vintner’s Room was of a different caliber entirely. I looked down at my jeans and scuffed loafers and swallowed nervously. When the proprietor ushered us into a warm, sunlit room with tasteful plasterwork and wooden tables and chairs, I relaxed. The setting was definitely informal.
Professor MacCleod was already seated. When he saw us, he stood immediately and held out his hand. “How are you, my dear?” he said, his fingers closing around mine in a bone-crunching clasp.
“I’m fine, sir,” I replied, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” It really was. The professor was the epitome of an English scholar with his rosy cheeks, patched tweed jacket, and thick white hair. I was relieved to see that the last few years hadn’t changed him at all.
He pulled out my chair. “Ian tells me you’ve inherited a substantial piece of property. I had an idea you might be related to the Maxwells, but one can never be sure.”
“That hasn’t really been established yet,” I said, pleased that he’d come right to the point. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the Maxwells and the Murrays.”
“I thought so.” The professor beamed and patted the briefcase beside his chair. “I’ll be happy to tell you all that I know, but I printed a copy of my notes for you in case I leave anything out. The two families have a fascinating history.”
“So I understand,” I murmured, glancing sideways at Ian.
His face was smooth, revealing nothing. “Shall we order first?” he suggested.
“A capital idea,” said the professor. “The grilled oysters with bacon and hollandaise are wonderful,” he said. “Have you eaten here before, Christina?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m not really familiar with Edinburgh’s finer restaurants. I usually eat in the pubs with friends or, if I’m staying longer, I cook something in my flat.”
“I don’t think anything with sauces is a good idea for Christina, Professor,” Ian said. “She has diabetes.”
Frowning, I glanced at Ian. Why had he pointed that out? I didn’t ordinarily include my medical condition over luncheon conversation. I opened my mouth, ready to explain that diabetes wasn’t the debilitating illness most people thought it was, when I saw the professor’s face. His ruddy complexion had paled and his water glass hung precariously in his hand halfway between the table and his mouth.
“Professor.” I touched his arm. “It’s all right. Really it is. I’ve had it all my life. You would never even have noticed if Ian hadn’t told you.”
“All of your life?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
He raised the water glass to his lips with a shaking hand. When he placed it on the table, he appeared much calmer. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. Ian’s announcement shocked me, you see.”
“But why?” I was determined to leave the restaurant with answers.
The waiter arrived, and once again I chose the salmon. Boston has its own wonderful seafood, oysters, scallops, and quahogs, a type of large clam they serve fried in batter and sell in paper bags from concession stands all over the Cape. But there is nothing in the entire United States to compare with salmon caught fresh from the glassy waters of the River Tay.
Ian was content to drink his stout and let the professor dominate the conversation.
“Seven hundred years ago, Mairi Maxwell became the mistress of Edward I of England.” He smiled. “I don’t have to explain the difficulties of such a union to an expert in Gaelic history. Historians tell us that when the king tired of her, she became the wife of David, earl of Murray. David was a proponent of independence for Scotland and followed Robert the Bruce. Meanwhile, Edward became a strong king. For years he held off the Bruce. It wasn’t until his death that Robert was allowed to take his throne.” Professor MacCleod shook his head. “One can’t help but wonder how the history of Scotland would have changed if Robert had died before Edward.”
“What does this have to do with the Maxwells and Traquair House?” I asked, watching the waiter set the mouthwatering plates in front of us.
Ian was already sampling his scallops. For all his teasing about my eating habits, he didn’t have what anyone would call a small appetite either.
The professor continued. “Don’t forget that Robert the Bruce was once Edward’s loyal vassal. When Robert was crowned king of Scotland at Moot Hill, Edward was furious. He rode into Scone, the Murray stronghold, with the intention of removing Scotland’s Coronation Stone. It was his right, as overlord of Scotland, to remove the Coronation Stone of Scottish kings. When he learned that Mairi had taken it to Traquair, he followed her there. Most likely he was furiously angry to be thwarted by a woman, especially a woman who had once been his. David Murray was away with Robert, but Mairi was there. To save her life and the life of her child, she gave up the stone to Edward. There was nothing else she could do.”
“No,” I whispered. “She wouldn’t have done that.”
“I’m afraid she did, Christina,” the professor said grimly, “and in the end, she paid a terrible price for her defection. David’s mother, Lady Douglas, claimed she witnessed Mairi’s removing the stone from Moot Hill. She told Robert, and he had her pressed to death before an angry mob of peasants.”
The food tasted like chalk in my mouth. I knew for a fact that I had never before come across the story of Mairi of Shiels in my research. I was equally sure that this was the first time anyone had spoken of it to me. How, then, could the events of my nightmare at Traquair House so closely parallel the professor’s story? Obviously, it was a tale he was very familiar with. But it wasn’t exactly the way I remembered it. Had Professor MacCleod left anything out or was he relaying the facts as modern historians knew of them? I was willing to wager that they didn’t have the same version of the story I did.
“Is there anything else?” I prompted him.
He sipped his tea and peered intently at me over his old-fashioned spectacles. “There is. Lady Douglas placed a curse on the Murrays descended from Mairi Maxwell. We have no record of the nature of her curse, but in my research, I found some interesting similarities in the Murray women who died early.” He laughed self-consciously and took out a handkerchief. Blowing long and hard into the worn linen, he wiped his nose and replaced it in his coat pocket. “This will seem absurd to you, Christina. It certainly did to me, but Ian insisted I tell you. In the entire line descended from Mairi Maxwell, only two women have died tragically and before their time. They were Katrine Murray of Blair-Atholl and Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair. Both, in addition to their descendancy from Mairi and their Murray blood, had another Maxwell ancestor on their mothers’ side of the family. Both were susceptible to terrifying nightmares that didn’t begin until after they became pregnant.”
Katrine Murray. The lovely girl who looked like me had died tragically. There was more. I knew it. There had to be. Why else would I feel a strange chill creep up my spine? Why would the hair stand up on the back of my neck and an eerie sense of inevitability temper my reactions, giving me this outward appearance of calm?
The professor reached out and covered my hand with his own. “Bear in mind that you’re an American and that this is the twentieth century.”
I laughed with a false bravado that fooled neither of the two men at the table. “Don’t worry about me. If there is anything else, I’d like to know.”
He drew a deep breath. “Katrine Murray and Jeanne Maxwell were afflicted with a disease that had all the symptoms of what we now call juvenile diabetes.”
“Dear God!” I didn’t realize I had whispered the words out loud until Ian leaned forward and gripped my wrist with his hand.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Christina,” he asserted fiercely. “It’s absurd to even consider it. Your circumstances and those of the Murray women are nothing alike.”
Just hearing the words and seeing his face settled my nerves. I turned toward the professor. “My mother is Irish,” I explained. “I haven’t any Maxwell ancestors, and it appears that I can’t have children.”
“But you do have nightmares?” he persisted.
I considered his question carefully before speaking. “They aren’t exactly nightmares, Professor MacCleod. You see, I’m not in any of them.”
“Who is?”
I inhaled deeply. Not for the world could I have turned away from his piercing, hypnotic gaze. “Katrine Murray and Mairi of Shiels,” I said at last.
“Ah.” He nodded as if satisfied. “I thought so.”
“You did not!” Ian was visibly upset. “You knew nothing about Christina’s association with the curse until I told you about her.”
“That isn’t true, Ian.” The old man’s voice was very soft. “I knew from the first moment I met Christina Murray ten years ago at the university that there was a strong possibility she would be part of this legacy.”
“How?” Ian demanded.
“Traquair is a marvelous old house,” MacCleod explained. “You really must explore it some time. Take the visitor’s tour. It’s really the best way to view the house. In the priests’ room at the top of stairwell called the hidden stairs is a portrait of Jeanne Maxwell. It was painted at the beginning of the sixteenth century just before her death.” His eyes were moving across my face, as if committing my features to memory. “You really must look at it, Ian. It’s a haunting experience.” Somehow I expected what was coming next. The professor’s words only confirmed what I already knew. “Jeanne Maxwell looks exactly like Christina.”
“There is something else,” I said.
The glow of discovery illuminated his face. “Tell me.”
“I know the nature of Grizelle Douglas’s curse.”
“You also know her first name,” he observed. “I didn’t and neither does anyone else alive today. Please go on.”
“It has to do with the stone.” I closed my eyes, trying to remember the words from my dream. “For your treachery the Maxwell women through David’s line will never rest,” I recited. “Their sleep will be haunted by ghosts of the dead who walk the earth until they die by foul and tragic means. Only when Scotland’s Stone of Destiny is found and returned to Scotland, will the curse be lifted.”
“Good God.” The professor sighed. “We have about as much chance of lifting the curse as we have of going back in time to change the course of history.”
“But Christina isn’t a Maxwell,” interrupted Ian. “Christ, MacCleod, she isn’t even a Scot on her mother’s side. Even if this preposterous theory is true, the Maxwell strain should be stronger. And what of the dreams? They came to Jeanne and Katrine while they were pregnant. Christina isn’t able to have children.”
Professor MacCleod looked at me and stroked his chin. “He’s right, of course. Only your diabetes and your face links you to these women, unless—”
“Unless what?” I was having difficulty breathing.
He looked at the white ridge around Ian’s lips and the hand that held my wrist in a desperate grip. “I don’t wish to make this any more painful for you, Christina, but was your infertility diagnosed?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I had all the tests, but the doctors couldn’t come up with any reason for Stephen and I not to have a child. It just didn’t happen.”
He smiled wisely. “I see. What about your family? Are you sure your mother has no Scottish blood?”
“Very sure.” Susan Donnally Murray was as proud of her German-Irish ancestry as if she’d arranged the genotype herself.
“Well then, perhaps the reason for your dreams is that you have an da shelladh, ‘the sight.’ It’s not uncommon in Scotland.” He smiled at us both. “Shall I pick up the check?”
When Ian and I were back in the car and on our way to Blair Castle, I realized that I still didn’t know the answer to the question that had been bothering me since we sat down to lunch with Professor MacCleod. “Ian,” I said tentatively. He didn’t really look like he was in the mood for conversation.
“What is it?”
“Grizelle Douglas was your ancestor too, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Does any of this have to do with you?”
He looked at me, and I could see the beginnings of fine lines etched into the skin around his eyes.
“Apparently so,” he replied with a lightness that belied his expression. “I haven’t sorted it out yet, love. But when I do, I’ll tell you.”
Love. He’d called me love. I closed my eyes, lingering over the word, repeating it silently to myself.
***
Two hours later, following the A9 into Perthshire, eight miles northwest of Pitlochry, we came to the Vale of Atholl and Blair Castle. I had seen it before and been impressed with the pristine whiteness of the castle walls, the magnificent parklands, and what surely must be one of the largest private historical collections on display in all of Great Britain.
Because I was a Murray, I knew that my ancestors had come from this area of Scotland. I had always assumed that my people were peasants forced to leave Scotland because of the clearances, hoping for a better life in a land of greater opportunity. Now, I wasn’t so sure. If Katrine Murray and Mairi Maxwell were direct ancestors, some of my past was here in the castle of the duke of Atholl. I could feel my heart pound with excitement. It was already after four and the last tour left at five. I didn’t want to rush this visit.
“Shouldn’t we find a hotel first?” I asked. “It’s too late to get a good look around.”
Ian shook his head. “We aren’t staying at a hotel.”
“Why not?”
He drove past the coach park into a private road with a carport. Setting the emergency brake, he turned to face me, sliding his hand across the back of my seat to rest lightly on my shoulder. “George Murray and I shared a room at Harrow when we were children. We attended Oxford together before I left for America. I have a standing invitation to stay at Blair whenever I visit the Highlands.”
“The tenth duke of Atholl is your friend?” He couldn’t miss the incredulous wonder in my voice.
“His son is my friend. The duke is seventy-two years old.”
For the first time I realized the differences in our backgrounds. He was a British gentleman, untitled, but still brought up with money and privilege to a lifestyle that was completely foreign to my middle-class American values. He was no longer wealthy, of course, and between the two of us, I had more formal education, but there was a chasm a mile wide separating us. Was I in for more heartache? Chewing my lip, I stared at Ian’s handsome, slightly worried face.
“Christina.” His voice had a breathless, husky quality.
“Hmm?”
“This is your family home, not mine. George Murray, the man you are descended from, was the younger brother of the duke of Atholl. You have more right to be here than I do.”
I looked around at the acres of green parklands, at the mile-long driveway, at the hundreds of windows and the towering turrets where the standard of the House of Murray waved proudly in the wind. Blair Castle had welcomed visitors for more than seven hundred years.
Closing my eyes, I pictured a girl in a beautiful evening gown, a girl with black hair and gray eyes. That girl had ridden across these parklands. She had danced in the ballroom, played in the nursery, learned her lessons in the wonderful old library, and drawn the cocooning curtains around her at night in a bedchamber somewhere above the curving staircase. I was Katrine’s legacy. I was also a Murray. Opening the door, I smiled across the chasm at Ian. “Shall we go inside?”
The family wasn’t in residence, but it didn’t seem to matter. Ian and I were treated like honored guests. We were ushered into the drawing room for afternoon tea. In direct view of family portraits and armor, exquisite furniture, moldings, and a china collection my mother would have swum the Atlantic to possess, we were served cucumber sandwiches, scones, and tea.
My bedroom was something out of a Georgette Heyer novel. Elegant stucco scrollwork in the curving rococo style was evident in the mantel. Painted wallpaper decorated with flowers and brightly colored birds covered the walls. The furniture was Georgian with delicate Chippendale carvings in the bedposters and canopy. A commode in one corner of the room had ivory fittings and covered urns. The fender, grate, and fire irons were copied from Chinese designs, reminiscent of the Oriental craze dominating the middle of the seventeenth century. When I opened a door at the end of the room, I was relieved to see a modern bathroom, complete with a state-of-the-art showerhead, thick towels, and creamy rugs. There was another door at the opposite end of the bathroom. I opened it and found Ian in the next room, sprawled out on the bed, asleep. Closing the door carefully, I retreated to my own room.
It might be hours before he awoke, and I desperately wanted to get back to Janet’s diary. Pulling up a comfortable chair to one of the floor-length windows, I looked out over the hills of Perthshire. There was something gracious and comforting and familiar inside these medieval stone walls of Blair Castle. They welcomed me just as Traquair had welcomed me. I opened the diary and began to read, but I couldn’t focus on the words. My head ached and I felt dizzy. Suddenly the pain increased. I dropped the journal and let my head fall back against the chair. A terrifying wave of blackness engulfed me, and then, as before, the visions came.