Legacy (19 page)

“I’ll bring a pot of tea into the sitting room and some freshly baked scones to go with it,” she said.

“Thank you. That sounds wonderful.” Mother laid her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll let you get started while Christina shows us where to go.”

For some reason Kate’s unusual servility bothered me. The woman was in my employ, and yet in the three weeks I’d known her, she had never treated me with anything close to the ingratiating submissiveness she had shown my mother.

“I thought you were tired,” I said as I led my parents through the hall into a room with comfortable furnishings and a well-laid fire.

“I am,” Mother replied, sinking into a chair with plump cushions. “But first, I have something to tell you. Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep at all.”

“And neither will I,” Dad groaned, stretching out on the couch.

“Christina,” Mother began and hesitated, biting her lip.

I was more than a little worried by this time. “Is it that bad?”

“Not really,” she answered. “It’s just very unexpected.” She sighed. “All right, Chris, here goes. After your phone call telling us you had inherited an eight-hundred-year-old house, Dad did some checking around. We both thought it extremely odd that someone we didn’t know would leave you something so valuable.” Her voice had risen to a high-pitched excitement. “Your father logically assumed, since Traquair was in Scotland, that your inheritance came from someone on his side of the family. But nothing turned up. That was when he spoke with my parents.” She sat up, her back very straight, her hands clasped tightly together. “I’m adopted, Christina. Ellen Maxwell’s husband, the late laird of Traquair, was my father.”

My heart stopped. The conditions of the prophecy pounded in my brain. A daughter bearing both Maxwell and Murray bloodlines. The room turned, and I heard a roaring in my ears. I know I must have spoken, but I couldn’t hear the words.

Apparently my mother did, because she answered me. “I don’t know who she was. My parents believe she was some unfortunate girl who became pregnant by a married nobleman, made her way to America, and gave me up for adoption.”

My father spoke for the first time. “The real question, as far as I’m concerned, is why Lord Maxwell left Traquair to you, Christina.”

I could have told him, then and there, and maybe I should have. But something held me back. Something more than my fear that they wouldn’t believe me, although that was a foregone conclusion.

Kate came in with the tea tray. We made polite conversation while she served and poured. Again, the tea was unusually spiced and delicious. After setting the tray on the table, she picked up two more embroidered pillows and placed them behind my mother’s back.

“If there is anything else you need, Mrs. Murray, just ring the bell.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that,” Mother answered. After Kate left the room, she lowered her voice and asked, “Is it my imagination or is she being overly solicitous to me?”

“It isn’t your imagination,” I said dryly. “She seems like a completely different person.”

“Maybe you resemble someone, Susan,” my father said. “After all, servants tend to stay with families for generations.”

I could feel my mouth drop open. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Kate had told me herself that her mother had been the housekeeper at Traquair before her death. If Lord Maxwell’s indiscretion had been with a servant, Kate’s mother would probably know. Maybe she’d even kept in contact with the woman. My thoughts came quickly, tumbling over each other in their hurry to materialize. Maybe that was the reason Kate was so resentful. Class differences were stringently maintained here in Scotland. Kate obviously resented working for a woman from the same social order as herself. I breathed a sigh of relief. That I could handle. It was ancient curses and death threats that bowled me over.

Mother loved the bedroom. Dad opted for a shower before his nap, while she stretched out on top of the high four-poster bed. “There’s more to tell you, Chris,” she said, “but the most important part is over with. I’m just too tired to go into it any further today. If I sleep through dinner, don’t wake me.”

It was early still, only a little past noon, but I was exhausted. Ian had called earlier to say he would give everyone a day to adjust to the time change before inflicting himself upon us. I was grateful that he wasn’t coming over. I didn’t think I had the strength or the enthusiasm to tell him about my mother’s startling revelation. He must have suspected the truth long ago. I thought back to our first conversation at the tearoom in Peebles, where he’d hinted at the rumor that I was the earl’s illegitimate daughter. I didn’t think he would be terribly surprised to learn I was his granddaughter.

There could no longer be any doubt. Like puzzle pieces, everything fell into place. Everything was there, exactly as it had been with the Murray women who came before me. My features, my Maxwell strain, my diabetes, everything except the most important factor.

I picked up my bedroom phone and dialed the Peebles operator. “I’d like the number of the medical clinic please.”

“I’ll connect you,” she said.

In less than a minute, a pleasant voice answered the phone. I started to explain what I needed when she interrupted me. “There’s no need for an appointment. Just come in and take your turn unless you have an emergency. This isn’t an emergency is it, dear?”

“No,” I replied, “no emergency at all. It’s just that—”

Her voice changed. “Is this Traquair House calling?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised.

“I recognized your voice, Miss Murray. It isn’t everyday one hears an American accent. Of course, I’ll make you an appointment. When would you like to come in?”

The sooner the better. “This afternoon if possible.”

“Will four o’clock be suitable?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Apparently privilege still had its advantages, even in modern-day Scotland. Fluffing my pillow, I buried my nose in the fragrant linen. I wasn’t used to sleeping in the middle of the day, but I couldn’t shake this unusual lethargy. I yawned. Four o’clock was hours away. If I closed my eyes for just a minute, there would be plenty of time to make the drive into Peebles.

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.