Legacy (9 page)

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.”