Murray house. My mother’s idea of healthful cuisine was a can of fruit cocktail poured over cottage cheese. Exercise and water cured all illnesses. I was eight years old before I saw the inside of a dentist’s office and that was only because I had fallen on the cement and knocked out a tooth.
It was a delightful childhood, free of all expectations and most restrictions. Nothing was censured. I had grown up on Shakespeare, D. H. Lawrence, and William Faulkner. Before the age of twelve I’d read The Virgin and the Gypsy, Lady Chatterly’s Lover, and A Streetcar Named Desire with full awareness of their contents. Sometimes I wondered if my unconventional roots and impossible expectations weren’t the cause of major problems in my marriage.
“Hi, hon. How are you?” My father’s familiar voice, soft on r’s, interrupted my thoughts. I loved that voice, and so did everyone who listened to it. Donald Murray was a slightly famous trial lawyer. Or at least he had been before he retired. In his last twenty years of practice, he hadn’t lost a case. I still maintain, as I always have, that his enormous success lay in the exceptional quality of his voice. It was low and clearly pitched, every syllable enunciated, a New Englander’s voice, informal, thick with vowels and bare of consonants. That voice never let me down.
“It appears that I’m due to inherit an eight-hundred-year-old house,” I told him.
He laughed. “Is it still standing?”
“I’m serious. And yes, it is still standing. It’s really more of a mansion than a regular home. Have you ever heard of Traquair House?”
There was silence at the end of the line.
“Dad? Can you hear me?”
“I’m here, Chris. Tell me more about Traquair House.”
“I don’t know anything yet. The lawyers will be here tomorrow. Do me a favor. See if you can locate any information on entailed estates and rights of survivorship. I’d like to know what I’m up against here. And if you can find out anything about our family tree, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll do that. Be careful, Chris.”
It wasn’t until I’d hung up the phone that I realized he hadn’t said that to me in years.
***
The car that Ian parked at the entrance to Traquair that evening was not the small compact that we had ridden in before. It was a lovely old Jaguar sedan of deep forest green with leather seats. The camel sports jacket and wool trousers he wore confirmed what I’d already assumed. Dinner in Scotland, even in the small town of Innerleithen, was a dress-up affair. I was grateful that I’d thought to include in my travel wardrobe a form-fitting dress of fine wool with a v neck. I’d been told the deep cherry color with its white border was flattering to my hair and eyes. The look on Ian Douglas’s face when I came down the stairs was worth every minute of the time I’d spent in preparation.
“You look lovely, Miss Murray.”
His old-world formality was endearing, but I was ready to do away with it. The man had kissed me, for heaven’s sake. “Please call me Christina.”
“All right, Christina. We’ve reservations for seven-thirty.”
We were the only ones patronizing the restaurant that evening. The conversation remained light as the proprietor ushered us into what looked like a formal drawing room where large comfortable chairs were arranged around the fireplace. Ian ordered a drink while I looked over the menu.
“I recommend the salmon,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. “There is enough of it to satisfy even your appetite.”
“Well then,” I replied, determined to remain as cool as possible, “I’ll take it.”
“Two poached salmon dinners with dill sauce, Angus. Have you any criachan today?” Ian asked the waiter.
“Kirstie was here first thing in the morning making it, sir. It’s the best of the lot, if I do say so myself.”
“We’ll have some of that as well. Miss Murray loves sweets.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Three raspberry scones gave me a small hint.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
“Surely you know I’m teasing, Christina?” His eyes were clear and contrite. “I admire the fact that you don’t pick at your food. There isn’t anything more aggravating than buying an expensive meal for a woman, only to have her eat two bites and push it away.”
It was obvious that he spoke from experience. “I’ll try not to disappoint you,” I said.
His gaze swept over my figure, lingering on my legs, crossed and visible below the hem of my skirt. “I don’t think