very natural holding his black-haired children close to his heart.
Then there are Eileen and John, my children. Twin miracles. It was still hard to believe that I’d given birth to them. Eileen was six months old before I noticed her resemblance to me and even then I probably wouldn’t have recognized it if Mother hadn’t sent my baby pictures. The likeness between us was uncanny and I suspected that, like her ancestress so many years before, she saw what her brother couldn’t.
For hours she would sit in her carrier and watch light play against the shadows, laughing and cooing for no apparent reason. Occasionally, and only for an instant, I thought I saw what she did. A woman with long braided hair and a red gown walking through the heather, creating shapes with her fingers, tickling bare baby toes, and smiling with love. Sometimes, before the children were mobile, I would fall asleep in the garden, stretched out on the grass, the babies beside me, bees droning overhead, knowing that an unseen presence watched over us, guarding us from harm. It was Mairi’s gift to us, the only one she had to give. But it was more than enough. Because of her, we would go on.
If there was an emptiness in my life, if my heart stopped for the briefest of seconds whenever I spotted a tall blond man on the streets of Peebles, I never spoke of it. After all, I had chosen the path I’d taken.
Most of the time, I ignored the ringing door chimes at Traquair House. Curious tourists were always pulling the bell, saying they didn’t mean to be a bother but could they please look around. Usually, I instructed the housekeeper to say no. My privacy had become very important to me in the past year. The house was open in the spring and summer for tourists, but the blazing beauty of autumn and the bleak stillness of winter belonged only to me and my children.
Today, however, I anticipated the bell-like sound. The Maxwell family solicitor was due any time. After nearly two years, probate on Ellen Maxwell’s estate was over. Although seeing the title in my name was only a formality, it made me feel more official somehow, as if I could move forward with certainty knowing that the house and I belonged together.
I dressed carefully for the occasion in a short, slim-fitting skirt of heather blue with matching tights and pumps, a feminine white blouse, and blue sweater. Waving Mrs. Aames, the housekeeper, back to the kitchen, I smoothed my skirt, walked to the door, and opened it.
Ian Douglas, in all his blond magnificence, stood on the threshold looking down on me. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said formally.
“I am expecting someone.” I looked past him to the small compact coming through the gate. “Is anything wrong?” It wasn’t like Ian to stop by without calling first.
“There is something I’d like to discuss with you,” he admitted, “but it can wait.” He hesitated. “May I see the children?”
“Of course.” I moved back to allow him inside. “They’re in the nursery.”
He climbed the stairs, stopping at the landing to call down. “Will you be long?”
“Are you in a hurry?”
Ian watched the lean, athletic-looking figure of the solicitor climb out of his car. “No. Take your time.” His voice sounded strangely hollow.
I held the door open. The lawyer was tall and narrow hipped, a man of about forty with black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He held out his hand. “I’m James Murray, with MacDougall and Finney of Edinburgh.” His handshake lasted longer than was normal for mere courtesy.
I led the way into the sitting room. He sat on a long sofa in front of the coffee table. I took the arm chair across from him. “Where is Mr. MacDougall?” I asked.
The man raised one eyebrow in a quizzical arc. “He retired three months ago for medical reasons. I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all,” I replied, leaning back in the chair. “What did you say your name was?”
“James Murray.”
“Are you related to me, Mr. Murray?”
A shock of black hair fell over his forehead. He was busy pulling papers from his briefcase and replied without looking up. “Not that I know of. Murray is a common name in Scotland.”
“I suppose so.”
He organized the papers into two stacks. “These will need your signature,” he said, pointing to one of the piles. “The others are your copies to keep. Take your time reading. If you don’t