“He’s right, of course. Only your diabetes and your face links you to these women, unless—”
“Unless what?” I was having difficulty breathing.
He looked at the white ridge around Ian’s lips and the hand that held my wrist in a desperate grip. “I don’t wish to make this any more painful for you, Christina, but was your infertility diagnosed?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I had all the tests, but the doctors couldn’t come up with any reason for Stephen and I not to have a child. It just didn’t happen.”
He smiled wisely. “I see. What about your family? Are you sure your mother has no Scottish blood?”
“Very sure.” Susan Donnally Murray was as proud of her German-Irish ancestry as if she’d arranged the genotype herself.
“Well then, perhaps the reason for your dreams is that you have an da shelladh, ‘the sight.’ It’s not uncommon in Scotland.” He smiled at us both. “Shall I pick up the check?”
When Ian and I were back in the car and on our way to Blair Castle, I realized that I still didn’t know the answer to the question that had been bothering me since we sat down to lunch with Professor MacCleod. “Ian,” I said tentatively. He didn’t really look like he was in the mood for conversation.
“What is it?”
“Grizelle Douglas was your ancestor too, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Does any of this have to do with you?”
He looked at me, and I could see the beginnings of fine lines etched into the skin around his eyes.
“Apparently so,” he replied with a lightness that belied his expression. “I haven’t sorted it out yet, love. But when I do, I’ll tell you.”
Love. He’d called me love. I closed my eyes, lingering over the word, repeating it silently to myself.
***
Two hours later, following the A9 into Perthshire, eight miles northwest of Pitlochry, we came to the Vale of Atholl and Blair Castle. I had seen it before and been impressed with the pristine whiteness of the castle walls, the magnificent parklands, and what surely must be one of the largest private historical collections on display in all of Great Britain.
Because I was a Murray, I knew that my ancestors had come from this area of Scotland. I had always assumed that my people were peasants forced to leave Scotland because of the clearances, hoping for a better life in a land of greater opportunity. Now, I wasn’t so sure. If Katrine Murray and Mairi Maxwell were direct ancestors, some of my past was here in the castle of the duke of Atholl. I could feel my heart pound with excitement. It was already after four and the last tour left at five. I didn’t want to rush this visit.
“Shouldn’t we find a hotel first?” I asked. “It’s too late to get a good look around.”
Ian shook his head. “We aren’t staying at a hotel.”
“Why not?”
He drove past the coach park into a private road with a carport. Setting the emergency brake, he turned to face me, sliding his hand across the back of my seat to rest lightly on my shoulder. “George Murray and I shared a room at Harrow when we were children. We attended Oxford together before I left for America. I have a standing invitation to stay at Blair whenever I visit the Highlands.”
“The tenth duke of Atholl is your friend?” He couldn’t miss the incredulous wonder in my voice.
“His son is my friend. The duke is seventy-two years old.”
For the first time I realized the differences in our backgrounds. He was a British gentleman, untitled, but still brought up with money and privilege to a lifestyle that was completely foreign to my middle-class American values. He was no longer wealthy, of course, and between the two of us, I had more formal education, but there was a chasm a mile wide separating us. Was I in for more heartache? Chewing my lip, I stared at Ian’s handsome, slightly worried face.
“Christina.” His voice had a breathless, husky quality.
“Hmm?”
“This is your family home, not mine. George Murray, the man you are descended from, was the younger brother of the duke of Atholl. You have more right to be here than I do.”
I looked around at the acres of green parklands, at the mile-long driveway, at the hundreds of windows and the towering turrets where the standard of the House of Murray waved proudly in the wind. Blair Castle had welcomed visitors for more than seven hundred years.
Closing my eyes, I pictured a girl in a beautiful evening