Legacy (17 page)

I studied the portrait for the familiar signs of anguish. They were all there; the bitten-down fingernails, the bluish shadows around the eyes, the aloof smile and too-pale skin, the prominent collarbones rising from the rose material of her gown. My heart ached for her. What could have caused a woman of birth and beauty, a woman who had married the man she loved, to experience such heartbreak?

I thought I knew, but I couldn’t be certain. The light was poor. I pulled the painting, frame and all, across the room and leaned it against the wall beneath the tiny window. It was in remarkable condition for its age. Carefully, I studied the delicate lines of Jeanne’s gown, from the square bodice to the sweeping train of the skirt where it lay in folds around her feet. There could be no mistake. The skirt was full, gathered beneath the bodice with a ribbon instead of hugging the hips in the fashion of the day. I glanced at her left hand. A ring encircled the third finger. Jeanne was married, and if I knew anything about sixteenth-century clothing, she was also most definitely pregnant. Despite what Ian had told me, I knew that by the time this portrait was commissioned she’d either had the first of the nightmares or something else was very wrong.

After pulling the painting back to where I’d found it, I wrapped it in the concealing cloth and started down the stairs, deep in thought. Why was a valuable sixteenth-century painting hidden away in a tiny attic room where no one would ever see it? And how had Professor MacCleod found it? More importantly, where was the passageway Katrine Murray and I had seen in our dreams? Running my hands over the walls, I could detect no indentation, no hidden panel or alcove, nothing that would lead me to believe this room held the secret of the tunnel.

Kate was nowhere in sight when I replaced the key. I thought about keeping it in my room and decided against it. There was no reason to assume that my housekeeper couldn’t be trusted to open the door in the morning for tourists and lock it up at night. She probably had no idea that the portrait even existed.

Back in my room, I pulled on a robe and began brushing out my hair when a thought stopped me. Professor MacCleod said he had first seen the portrait over ten years ago hanging at the top of the secret stairs. Kate had lived at Traquair all of her life. She must have seen it. Why, then, hadn’t she reacted when she saw my face for the first time? She must have noticed. The resemblance was unmistakable.

In the hall, the phone rang. I tensed, waiting for the second ring. Then and there, I decided that the first thing I would do with Ellen Maxwell’s money would be to install a telephone in my bedroom. It rang a third time. Tossing the brush aside, I walked into the hall and picked up the phone before the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

“Christina,” a familiar voice said.

“Dad.” Relief flowed through me, weakening my knees. I had to sit down. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Is there something wrong with your phone, Chris? It sounds as if someone else is on the line.”

Immediately there was a telltale click. “I think we’re all right now,” I said dryly.

“Never mind. I’d planned on telling you the news personally.”

The muscles in my back tensed. “Is anything wrong? It isn’t Mom, is it?”

“There’s nothing wrong, honey. Your mother’s had quite a shock, and strangely enough, it has to do with the house you’ve inherited.”

“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.

“No, of course not. We’re coming there the week after next. I’ll call you when we reach Edinburgh. Don’t change your plans. If we can’t track you down, we’ll rent a car.”

What could possibly be shocking enough to convince my thrifty father to buy two plane tickets to Edinburgh during the peak of the tourist season?

I hung up the phone, tightened the sash of my robe, and walked downstairs. There was a phone in the kitchen and another in the library. I unplugged the cords and stuffed them into my pocket. It was a futile gesture, really. Kate probably had a phone in her suite. But she would know why I’d done it, and she would know that I wouldn’t stand for her interference. There were other housekeepers in Scotland, and even if the position proved hard to fill, middle-class American women weren’t as helpless as British ladies. If the situation called for it, I wasn’t above scrubbing out a toilet or two myself.

The next morning I arranged for my own private phone line to be installed in my room. Two men came out that afternoon. I answered the door myself. Ushering them past a white-faced Kate, I led the way up the stairs to my bedroom. Thirty minutes later they were gone, and I walked back downstairs for the confrontation I knew would come.

Kate sat on a chair, her hands folded in her lap. I sat on the sofa across from her and picked up a magazine. I didn’t have long to wait.

“Are you unhappy with my services, Miss Murray?” she asked, her lips tight and angry.

“Not at all.” I closed the magazine and placed it on the table. “Why do you ask?”

Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “In the past, it has been my responsibility to arrange for all services necessary here at Traquair.”

“What services are you speaking of?” I asked, meeting her gaze across the coffee table.

“Repairs, utilities, ordering supplies, paying the invoices for utilities.” She waved her hand in a nebulous arc. “Everything.”

“I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said steadily, “but I’m neither elderly nor an invalid. You will be paid your customary salary, but I’ll approve and pay all other expenses at Traquair myself. If that arrangement isn’t satisfactory to you, I’ll understand if you choose to give your notice.”

“You mean leave Traquair?” Her voice cracked. “Why, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“The choice is yours,” I said gently. “You’re a wonderful housekeeper; however, I am not Ellen Maxwell. You must learn to take direction from me or else find another position.”

The eyes that stared at me were black with rage. A flash of memory awoke inside me. Once again, she reminded me of someone. Who was it? For a moment I wondered if my decision allowing her to stay was wise. Kate Ferguson looked dangerous. Immediately I dismissed the thought. Naturally, she was resentful. It wasn’t easy to lose an employer of twenty years. Kate would need time to acclimate. With a firm smile, I rose and looked down at her. “Take the rest of the evening off to think about it,” I told her. “Let me know what you intend to do as soon as possible.”

The kitchen was warm and dark. The only light came from the smoldering peat logs in the fireplace. After turning on the flame under the teakettle, I pulled up a chair near its delicious warmth. A fireplace in the kitchen was a lovely idea.

Hundreds of years ago, when Traquair was first built, the kitchen had been a structure separate from the rest of the house. A large hearth was necessary for both cooking and heat. With the advent of gas and electricity and the fear of burning down the main house nearly obsolete, a kitchen fire was no longer practical. Whoever had ordered the renovation of Traquair had chosen to leave the original chimney structure alone and I was grateful. Slipping off my loafers, I held my feet toward the flames. The heat, through my woolen socks, was sheer bliss.

I stayed there a long time, warming my feet and sipping tea. In hindsight, the conversation with Kate seemed almost unbelievable. I was not a woman who welcomed confrontation. In my experience, a conciliatory approach reaped far more reward. I couldn’t explain the stand I had taken. It was almost as if I’d assumed another identity, stepped into a stronger, more confident woman’s shoes. Maybe it was Traquair that changed me. Traquair and the essence of Mairi of Shiels that lingered everywhere around me.

Seven hundred years ago she had walked these floors, climbed these same stairs, overseen the making of perfume and candles in this very kitchen. She had prayed in the chapel and ridden on the moors, picked gorse and heather in the fields, and laughed and played and loved in the room I now occupied upstairs. Her blood flowed through my veins. She had passed down to me her eyes, her hair, her skin, and the long, loose-limbed elegance of fine bones and straight teeth. With such a heritage, how could I not, in some small way, try to measure up.

I knew that having words with my housekeeper could not be compared to what Mairi had done, but it was no small thing for a woman who had given up everything she owned in an uncontested divorce settlement for the sake of keeping the peace. If it turned out that I was unsuccessful, if the location of the stone remained a mystery, I did not want another Murray woman two hundred years from now to look at my picture and feel only disappointment.

In the darkened room, the fire glowed, blue tipped and orange. I felt as if I’d been awake for a long time, and when my head began to ache and the strange, unsettling dizziness washed over me, I wasn’t at all surprised. My last conscious memory before I drifted off was the figure of Jeanne Maxwell beckoning me from the flames.

Traquair House

1509

Flora Maxwell stared at the two of them standing hand in hand before her. She was not surprised to hear their news. Few could resist John Maxwell’s appeal once he made up his mind. Just now, he appeared lit from within with such happiness that it was difficult to look at his face. She turned to Jeanne. Her obstinate, defiant daughter actually looked pleased. Holding out both hands, Flora smiled. “You’ve made me very happy. I congratulate you both.”

With the generosity typical of his nature, John reached out immediately, clasping Flora’s hand to bring her into the circle of his warmth, but Jeanne hesitated. When her mother would have gathered her into an embrace, she pulled away, searching Flora’s face for signs that the match did not meet with her approval. She found none.

John frowned. He had not missed his betrothed’s withdrawal. She carried more resentment toward her mother than he thought. He only hoped it would not extend to him.

“I suppose Jamie’s approval is a mere formality,” Flora continued, brushing aside her daughter’s rejection.

“Jamie owes me a favor,” John replied with a grin. “I made sure of his approval before I left Edinburgh.”

Jeanne’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? George Gordon said Jamie had not yet made a decision on a match between us.”

“George is presumptuous.” John coolly dismissed his rival. “He should know that the king dislikes committing himself unless ’tis to his own advantage.”

Jeanne smiled mischievously. Forgetting her audience, she slipped her arms around John’s neck. “What hold do you have over our liege, m’lord, that he so willing granted your heart’s desire?” She spoke very near his ear, punctuating each word with a tiny breath of air.

His eyes narrowed, and the skin across his cheekbones, already dark from the sun, reddened. Sliding his arms around her waist, he spoke gruffly. “Perhaps ’tis because Jamie understands what it is for a man to lose his heart’s desire.”

Flora looked away, overcome with need and ashamed of her jealousy. The mood was no longer teasing. Jeanne was too young to remember the love affair between Maggie Drummond and the boy-king Jamie Stewart, but Flora knew that Masses were still purchased for Maggie’s soul and, on winter nights, just before dusk, the king could be seen kneeling at her grave.

“I’ll leave you alone,” she interrupted, moving toward the door. For Jeanne’s sake, she would pretend only pleasure, but it was too much to watch the man she burned for make love to her daughter before her very eyes. At the door, curiosity overcame her. She turned back one last time. Intent only on each other, neither one noticed her departure. With a sad smile, Flora left the room.

***

A bright summer sky and warm winds heavy with the scent of heather heralded Jeanne’s wedding day. She woke early, with the first streaks of dawn, but made no motion to rise. The ceremony would begin at ten. It was good to lie back on her pillows and do nothing. For the first time in six weeks, she had a moment to herself. John had insisted on marrying as soon as possible, and the preparations had taken every waking hour.

Jeanne grudgingly admitted that her mother had been wonderful. Perhaps she had misjudged her after all. Could a woman in love with a man marrying another enter into his wedding preparations with such enthusiasm? Could she debate the benefits of serving ale or spiced wine for the banquet? Would she sigh over the ermine-bordered wedding dress or giggle like a girl when she saw the nearly transparent gown designed specifically for the wedding night. Jeanne flushed. She owed her mother an apology. But not today. Nothing would spoil today.

A knock sounded on the door. She sat up, propping herself on her elbow. Her hair, black and shining, spilled over the mattress and onto the floor. “Enter,” she called out.

Four servants carrying a wooden tub entered the room and placed it near the fire. Four more carrying buckets of hot water followed. Jeanne watched as they poured the steaming liquid into the tub and scattered rose petals across the surface.

Kicking aside the bedclothes, she stood, pulled off her nightshift, and stepped into the heated bath. She would have liked to lie back and let the warmth seep into her bones, but her hair needed washing. Brushing it dry would take most of the morning.

Leaning forward, Jeanne felt a rush of warm liquid through her hair. Water dripped over her forehead and into her eyes and ears. When she had only caught her breath, another pitcher was poured and then another until her entire head and fall of hair was soaked completely through. She breathed in the familiar scent of roses and felt the slick, perfumed soap on her forehead, around her ears, and at the back of her neck. A soft moan escaped her lips as the competent, familiar fingers of the maid rubbed her scalp.

More water was poured and still more until every strand of hair, pulled between two fingers, vibrated like the strings of a lyre. A maid dragged the ornamental screen from across the room, shielding her mistress from the eyes of the servants. When it was securely in place, Jeanne stood and rubbed the soap over her entire body, concentrating on her ankles and the backs of her knees. After rinsing herself with more bathwater, she picked up a towel from the floor and wrapped it around her. As if on cue, the maid appeared from behind the screen to wrap another towel around her hair.

Jeanne stepped out of the tub and slipped her arms into the sable-lined robe held out before her. Tying the sash, she sat on a low stool facing the glass while the same maid worked at her hair with a comb. It was pleasant sitting here, feeling the gentle tug of the comb, lapping up the warmth of the fire like a cat who has had more than her share of stable mice and cream. When every tangle had been combed free, her hair was brushed dry until it hung straight and thick to her knees. The entire process had taken over two hours.

She noted the time and shivered with delicious anticipation. After today she would no longer be a maid. Her hair would never again hang unbound to her knees. Thoughts of the night to come consumed her. Despite the stories she had heard, sharing the marriage bed with John Maxwell did not frighten her. In fact, she welcomed it.

Jeanne was not completely ignorant of sexual matters. She had grown up in the country, and the habits of animals were familiar to her. She had also come of age during the reign of Jamie Stewart. It was impossible to visit the royal court without acquiring a rudimentary knowledge of sex. However, the act itself had never been explained to her satisfaction, and when she stopped to consider it, it seemed physically impossible. She was anxious to see for herself how it was done. Instinct and of course the rumors told her that John would be an excellent teacher.

A soft murmur interrupted her thoughts. The maid was holding out her shift. Jeanne stood and untied the robe. It fell to her feet, and the cloth was pulled gently over her head. The material was of the finest linen, thin and so tightly woven it felt like air when she moved. Then her dress was eased over her shoulders, the tight busk adjusted across her breasts, and the soft folds were gathered around her waist with a diamond-studded girdle. A train, with a foot wide border of snowy white ermine, flowed out behind her.

Pulling the sleeves off her shoulders, Jeanne turned to the glass, and her eyes widened. Staring back at her was a woman, tall and willowy slim, with hair that glowed like black fire where the sun touched it. Her chin was up, and her cheekbones were very pronounced beneath eyes that flashed as clear as the diamonds at her throat. For the first time Jeanne realized that she was beautiful. She smiled triumphantly. John Maxwell would not be disappointed in his bride.

A hint of color was applied to her lips and perfume touched to her throat and wrists. Slipping her feet into soft-soled shoes, she turned toward the door. It opened unexpectedly, and her mother stepped into the room. Jeanne stiffened.

“Please wait outside,” Flora ordered the servants.

They were quick to obey.

Her eyes were misty as she looked at her daughter. “You are the loveliest bride Traquair has ever seen.”

Jeanne relaxed.

“I came to tell you—” Flora stopped. The tears rose in her throat. “Never mind,” she said, “’tis time.”

“Mother.” Jeanne placed her hand on Flora’s arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for everything.”

Tears welled up in Flora Maxwell’s eyes, streaking through the rouge and rice powder so artfully applied to her face. Breathing a prayer of thanks, she gathered her daughter into her arms. The soft kiss pressing against her cheek more than made up for her pain. Finally, she pulled away. “Come,” she said, “the archbishop waits.”

Moving aside, she watched Jeanne walk down the stairs. Four servants carrying the heavy train accompanied her to the landing. From there, she went on alone, down the stairs and across the wide courtyard to the chapel.

John stood at the altar, his face very serious and terribly handsome in its gravity. Jeanne’s heart nearly failed her. The distance she must walk to reach his side seemed insurmountable. Her step faltered. She couldn’t do it. Then, as if he knew her troubled thoughts, John’s eyes met hers. Across the long, carpeted aisle, she felt him reach out. Smiling tentatively, she moved forward again, her eyes riveted to the lifeline he held out to her. Just as she reached his side, he winked and grinned broadly. A bubble of mirth welled up in her chest.
Dear God,
she prayed silently,
keep me from disgracing myself in the presence of an archbishop
.

Her prayer was answered. The Mass seemed incredibly short. In almost no time at all, they exchanged their vows in low, solemn voices. The air inside the chapel was very still. The sun rising into the sky hovered for a moment outside the small, etched windows. At the very moment John slipped his ring on Jeanne’s finger, a shaft of light penetrated the glass and found the diamonds in the pendant at her throat and waist. A collective gasp swept through the congregation as it split into a thousand colors, surrounding the couple in a gleaming arc of netherworld light.

Murmurs circulated through the crowd. “Surely, ’tis a sign,” they whispered. “The union is blessed by God, the Holy Virgin, and all the saints.”

Flora Maxwell closed her eyes as John bent his head and briefly kissed her daughter’s mouth. With a firm shake of her head, she opened them again and looked back at the altar. Jeanne was married and, from the looks of it, happily so. There would be children at Traquair again. Flora imagined herself bending over the cradle of a black-haired baby, a baby the image of John. The bairn would be doubly dear because it would be Jeanne’s child as well. She smiled and disregarded the idea of going away. Jeanne would need her, and the feel of a sweetly scented bairn against her breast after so many years was a temptation too great to withstand. Fate had decreed that she would never marry John Maxwell, but she could still love his child.

The wedding couple sat in the banquet hall on a raised dais. It was almost evening. Serving the food had taken a long time. For hours to come, wine would flow and the merrymaking continue until none the length of Scotland would forget this day. There were dancing girls from France and trained bears restrained by leather leashes. Musicians played and troubadours sang ballads honoring the beauty of the bride, the courage of the groom, and the loyalty of the entire House of Maxwell. There was braised fowl and roasted mutton and enough fiery
usquebaugh
to keep every man drunk for days to come. Men and women alike, their faces flushed, mouths smeared with grease, and lips stained with wine, dropped to the floor in exhausted stupors. Beside their alcohol-dazed bodies, dogs growled and fought for bones dropped on the rush-strewn floor.

The food was superb. The cooks of Traquair had outdone themselves. By decree, the first of every course was served to the king. Jamie waved his knife and lifted his trencher in approval. As each new dish passed inspection, the crowd roared and the music played on.

Jeanne stared at the uneaten food on her plate. The torches had been lit hours ago, and on the cloth-covered tables, candlewicks drowned in wells of melted wax. A curious numbness invaded her body. Despite her intentions and her curiosity, she was suddenly afraid. Soon the door of the laird’s bedchamber would close and she would be alone with her husband. For the first time in her life, she would share a man’s bed. That the man was dearly loved and had been her friend and childhood companion for every conscious moment of her life mattered not at all. Her hands were icy cold, and the food tasted like ashes in her mouth. Even the music and the dancers seemed very far away. Jeanne closed her eyes, alone in her own private terror.

John lifted the heavy goblet emblazoned with the Maxwell creed,
Reviresco
, “I deliver,” to his lips. He was truly enjoying himself. The entertainment was marvelous and the food better than anything he had tasted in England. He turned to compliment Jeanne, and his eyes narrowed. Her skin was paler than the ermine-bordered sleeves of her gown, and her eyes were closed. He could see the fluttering of her pulse in the delicate skin at her temple. His lips turned up in a tender smile. Poor lass. She was terrified.

John Maxwell was not an arrogant man, and he had never before bedded a virgin, but he was confident of his ability to arouse his young wife’s deeply passionate nature. After all, she loved him. He was sure of that. And although his experience would never rival either Jamie Stewart’s or Henry Tudor’s, the women who had shared his bed seemed anxious to return, sometimes embarrassingly so.

Jeanne’s hand rested on the table. He placed his own over it. Startled by the contact, she opened her eyes and looked at him. What she saw in his expression caused her to tremble. Wetting her lips, she whispered, “How long?”

“An hour.”

She nodded, and together they stood. A hush fell over the banquet hall. He slid his arm around her waist, and a great cheer rose from the crowd.

“Our bridegroom grows impatient,” Jamie called out from the dance floor.

John acknowledged his words with a grin. “Go now,” he whispered to Jeanne. “Perhaps I can hold them off for a while.”