Legacy (4 page)

With intense relief, I watched the first pale fingers of dawn streak the sky. Breakfast with Ellen Maxwell’s solicitor was hours away. Pulling on a pair of gray leggings and a black, oversized sweatshirt, I tied my tennis shoes and started out in search of the family archives.

They weren’t difficult to find. Traquair wasn’t a castle with endless, twisting stairways and massive staterooms. It was a manor house, extremely large by American standards, but a house all the same. Common sense told me that the archives would be in the public rooms. Sure enough, that’s where I found them, locked behind glass.

Disappointed, I turned back to my room and surprised a maid dusting the picture frames in the hallway. She smiled shyly and spoke. “We didn’t realize you were such an early riser, Miss Murray. If you’re hungry, the housekeeper will see to it that you have a bite of something before breakfast.”

“Thank you,” I replied gratefully. “I am hungry.”

She nodded. “You’ll find her in the kitchen.”

The housekeeper turned out to be Kate. Again, I had the unsettling feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before, or at least someone very like her. Her figure was rounded, almost matronly, but her skin was smooth and unlined. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty, although I guessed the former. She was the perfect age for a British housekeeper. I sat down at the table, chin in hand. “I didn’t realize you were the housekeeper here at Traquair, Kate. Why is it that everyone calls you by your first name?”

She smiled. “We’re not so formal here at Traquair as in some houses. My position is a hereditary one. My mother was the housekeeper at Traquair before she died, and my grandmother before her. I grew up here. Lady Maxwell began calling me Kate when I was a little girl. She couldn’t quite get used to using a more formal address. Everyone just followed her lead.” She opened the oven and peered inside. “The scones are almost done. Is there something you needed?”

“Something to eat,” I replied. “Those look delicious. I don’t think I can last until eight o’clock.”

“Would you like some coffee or tea to go with them? I thought I’d have a cup myself.”

“Tea please.” I watched her measure the leaves into a delicate teapot. While they steeped, she set two cups and saucers, two spoons, and a pitcher of milk on the scrubbed oak table.

“Do you take lemon?”

“No, thank you. Just milk.”

Kate nodded and poured a small amount of milk into each cup before adding the tea. “Shall I plan on breakfast this early every day?” she asked, tilting her head until it almost rested on her shoulder.

I couldn’t help smiling. She looked like a small, inquisitive bird waiting expectantly for the next bread crumb. “I don’t usually get up so early,” I answered. “But I just couldn’t sleep. Yesterday was quite a day.”

“I can imagine.” She blew on her tea before sipping it. “If Ian Douglas should ever take me to dinner, I don’t believe I’d sleep either. Not that he would, of course,” she said hurriedly. “We’re not so relaxed about our class differences as they are in the bigger cities.”

Not knowing quite how to reply, I changed the subject. “Would it be possible to look at Janet Murray’s diary?”

She threw me a sharp, questioning look. “Why on earth would you want to look at that?”

I bit back the urge to tell her everything. Self-disclosure was a problem of mine. Stephen had reminded me of it often enough. Instead, I strived for the correct degree of calm professionalism, enough information not to be rude, but not so much as to be overly familiar. “I’m a historian,” I explained. “An eighteenth-century diary of someone who might be my ancestor is something I can’t ignore.”

She stood without answering and pulled the scones from the oven. Dishing out two, she arranged them on a clean plate and set it before me. “I’ll bring out the butter if you like, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”

I bit into the hot, flaky bread and sighed. “Don’t bother with the butter.”

The uncertain look on her face vanished. She smiled and reached into the pocket of her apron. Handing me a large ring she pointed to the single skeleton key. “This one will open all the cases in the museum. The others are for doors and closets throughout the house. I’ll show you where they fit if you like.”

I hedged. “That may be a bit premature.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Miss Murray. We’ve all known for a long time that you’re to take Lady Maxwell’s place. Traquair House and all that’s in it is yours.”

There was no appropriate answer to such a statement. If I stopped to think about it, the odds against something like this happening were as overwhelming as winning the lottery. I was sure there would be some catch that the Maxwell family lawyer would reveal soon enough.

I retraced my steps back to the museum and unlocked the glass case. My hand shook as I reached inside to take out the ancient leather-bound book. It fit comfortably in my hand. I looked at the sturdy spine and the careful stitching of the dark leather. It was beautifully preserved. I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought. There was just enough time to change before breakfast. The diary would have to wait.

Dressed in a straight, calf-length maroon skirt, gray blazer, and flat shoes, I made my way to the cheerful breakfast room on the eastern side of the house. Morning sunlight filtered through the sparkling windows and reflected off the silver-covered dishes on the sideboard. Mr. MacDougall, a small, friendly looking man with thick eyeglasses, was seated in a comfortable chair, reading the paper. He stood when I entered the room and pulled out a chair beside his own.

“Good morning, Miss Murray. I hope you slept well.”

“Fine, thank you,” I replied, reaching for the coffee pot. I saw no need to go into the details of my sleepless night. “I hope your drive was pleasant.” The road from Edinburgh was virtually empty at this time of the morning, but the Scots were fond of polite formalities.

“Very nice, thank you. Your housekeeper has a lovely breakfast for us. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat first and then we can discuss Lady Maxwell’s affairs in the library.”

I was conscious of a flash of disappointment. If the man didn’t want to talk during breakfast, why hadn’t he eaten at home? If the rumors were true and I was the new mistress of Traquair House, a great many people worked for me, and Mr. MacDougall was one of them. Maybe he needed a gentle reminder. “There are a few things I’m curious about, Mr. MacDougall,” I said, testing the waters. “It will give us something to talk about while we’re eating.”

“An excellent suggestion, Miss Murray,” he replied. “May I interest you in some of this ham?”

“Please.” I held out my plate, my mouth watering at the generous helpings of scrambled egg, ham, haggis, and stewed tomatoes he’d ladled out. The two buttery scones I’d eaten earlier seemed very far away.

“What is it you would like to know?” asked the man between mouthfuls.

“I’ve heard that Ellen Maxwell left the entire estate to me. Is that true?”

He nodded and swallowed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Quite true. Or rather, her husband did. Lady Maxwell never owned Traquair House. For the last twenty years she has been a mere tenant.”

So, it was true. Irrefutable. I still couldn’t believe it. “Do you have any idea why he left it to me?”

“I can’t answer that one,” said Mr. MacDougall. “All I know is that my firm has handled the affairs of the Maxwells since long before I came aboard. Lord Maxwell had the papers drawn up once he found you.” He tilted his head back and squinted at an imaginary calendar on the ceiling. “That would have been approximately thirty years ago. When he died, Lady Maxwell, unaware of the terms of the will, tried to sell Traquair. When she found that she couldn’t, she asked us to provide her with information about you. She’s kept track of your whereabouts since you were a little girl.”

I felt the embarrassing color flood my face.

“Everything was very legal, of course,” he hurried to assure me. “All that we knew was a matter of public record. Your academic awards, your parents, your course of study, your marriage and divorce.” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “I want you to know I’m very sorry about that, Miss Murray. We’ve never attempted to interfere with you in any way. If you hadn’t accepted Lady Maxwell’s invitation to come to Scotland, that would have been the end of it. You would have been notified of your inheritance, that’s all.” He drained his coffee cup and placed it back in the saucer. “Still, it is interesting that you chose such an unusual course of study. Perhaps, subconsciously, you were preparing yourself for Traquair House.”

I decided at that moment that I liked him. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. MacDougall. I expected someone extremely logical and pragmatic. Don’t tell me you believe in the
sight?
”

He smiled, a full smile that showed his bottom teeth and all of his gums. “Not at all, Miss Murray. What I am is a proper Calvinist. We believe that one’s fate is inescapable.”

***

The eighteenth-century library contained over three thousand books and all of them belonged to me. The priceless paintings, the elegant faded carpets, the tapestries, the cellars, the grounds and tearoom, the brewhouse, the gates, it was all mine. Along with enough money to keep anyone comfortable for a lifetime.

In a daze, I wandered through the house, coming upon a group of tourists led by a gray-haired woman in a serviceable tweed suit. They were in the King’s Room, staring at the bed said to have been used by Mary, Queen of Scots, when she visited Traquair. I was impatient for them to leave. Now that I knew the house belonged to me, I wanted to explore every corner, climb every step, run my fingers over every piece of wood, every painting, every lace curtain and embroidered tapestry, without interruption.

It was impossible, of course. Traquair was on the list of tours, and it was open to visitors until the last day of September. Only after that would it be mine without interruptions. Through all the gray, damp darkness of late fall and winter, I could roam the rooms in selfish privacy. The servants would be here and the craftspeople, but ultimately, I would be alone. Until then I would concentrate on solving the mystery of my connection to the Maxwells. There was also the diary and my uncanny likeness to Katrine Murray and the woman in my dream, Mairi of Shiels. I hurried to my room in search of the diary.

Now that my official status as the lady of Traquair had been confirmed beyond all doubt, I no longer felt like a guest. I decided to read Janet’s diary in the library. Making my way down the long hallway, I entered the room, pulled a winged-back chair close to the peat fire, and opened the book.

Janet Murray’s handwriting was lovely, clear, and consistent, with the letters artistically crafted in the style of the day. She was also amazingly articulate with the thoughtful analogies and colorful descriptions of a born writer. Once I acclimated myself to the ancient script and spelling, I was able to read with satisfactory fluency. Hours passed, but I never noticed. Kate came in to leave a pot of tea. It was delicious, sweet, flavored with honey and an unusual spice I couldn’t place. I emptied two cups without realizing it.

Caught up in the richness of the words and the personal story of Janet’s daughter, I didn’t realize, until the names and events became familiar, that I was reading what would be a veritable treasure to any historian, a first-person account of the horrifying months leading up to the single most tragic event in the history of Scotland. The fact that it was undoubtedly written by my direct ancestor was staggering.

The dull headache that had bothered me since I sat down to read had increased in intensity. The pain was now severe. I lifted a hand to rub my aching temple and closed my eyes. A log snapped inside the fireplace, and a soft summer rain drummed against the windows. The day had been long and exciting, and I was in that state of numbness beyond tired. Resting my head against the back of the chair, I tried to open my eyes, but the lids were too heavy to lift. It didn’t matter. The picture in my mind was as clear as a movie screen.

Edinburgh

May 3, 1745

The royal palace of Holyrood was alight with the blaze of ten thousand candles. At the other end of High Street, one mile from the primitive grandeur of Edinburgh Castle, the nobility of Scotland gathered in the sophisticated splendor of the reception room. The duke of Mansfield was there with his brother, George Murray of Atholl, Angus MacIan of Ardnamurchan, MacDonald of Lochaber, and Campbell of Inveraray.

Lord Richard Wolfe, heir to the earldom of Manchester and a major in the King’s Regiment, rested his shoulders against the mantel and frowned into his champagne. It looked as if the entire cohort of Jacobite supporters was assembled under one roof.

Richard didn’t believe for one moment that the rumored rebellion would come to pass. The Scots were absurdly sentimental, but they weren’t fools. Even if Charles Stuart gathered a few French regiments and rallied the Highland clans, he would be no match for the might of the English militia. His mouth twisted in amusement. James Murray, Lord Mansfield of Scone, his friend and host, was as harmless as a lapdog and dangerously free with his information. What could have possessed the duke of Cumberland to send Richard on such a fruitless mission? The Scots were the same as they had always been: loquacious, argumentative, fiercely patriotic, and loyal to their ‘King over the Water.’ But that was the end of it. There would be no uprising.

Richard drained his glass and placed it on the mantel. The ball had just begun, and he was already bored. More than one young lady had been attracted to the lazy grace of his lean, wide-shouldered frame and the stern, austerely handsome features under his shockingly light, unpowdered hair. Not once was he tempted to respond. For the last nine of his thirty years, Lord Wolfe, heir to an immense fortune and ancient earldom, had dodged the determined efforts of matchmaking mamas. He would marry when he pleased and not before.

Consciously, with painstaking care, he made it his practice to seek out comfortable women, phlegmatic and slightly used, with opulent charms and habits. Richard had spent a lifetime observing the soul-wrenching arguments between his quick-witted, silver-tongued mother and equally verbal, fiercely political father. He wanted nothing to do with a woman who harbored a brain.