Silently I followed her through the beautifully appointed rooms, up three flights of stairs, down the narrow hallway I’d seen in my dream to the priests’ room. There, she pushed at a panel hidden inside a tiny alcove. The wall swung open, revealing a hidden door.
“We keep this open when tourists visit,” she informed me. “The stairs have never been reinforced. It’s too dangerous for a large group to go up, but they can look past the rope up the stone stairs. I don’t think a slightly built person like yourself would come to any harm.” She looked at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I imagine it’s quite a sight for some, especially those whose history didn’t begin until George Washington.”
For a moment, the venom in her words didn’t register. When it did, I was coldly, furiously angry. But it was too late. She had already handed me the key and walked away. Her voice floated back into the room. “If you have any trouble locking up, call me.”
I didn’t move until the sound of her footsteps had faded away. If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. Kate Ferguson was no friend of mine. The awareness hurt me more than I thought possible. It was important enough that I considered going after her to be sure my impression was accurate, but on second thought, I decided against it. Confrontation had never been my style.
Instead, I peered up the narrow passageway at the curving steps. It didn’t look at all familiar. Cautiously, I climbed the first step and then the next and the one after that until I reached the top. Turning the corner into a tiny room crowded with antique furniture, I glanced at the walls looking for the portrait. There was nothing except a faded spot where a large floor-length frame must once have hung. It was an unusual place for such a large painting. Curious, I stared at the naked wall for a long time before I turned to walk back down the stairs. It was then that I saw it. A cloth-covered object the size of a door balanced against the opposite wall. Quickly, I crossed the room and pulled away the covering. I could feel a loud roaring in my ears and the sledgehammer slamming of my heart against my rib cage. Here, at last, was Jeanne Maxwell exactly as I’d seen her in my dreams. The artist commissioned to paint her had broken with tradition and eschewed the dark colors typical of the sixteenth century. Instead, he’d painted her as she was, a tall slender figure in a gown of deep rose set against a colorful backdrop of heather and gorse.
I knew now why Ellen Maxwell’s heart had failed after taking one look at my face. Of the three women who were my ancestors, Jeanne Maxwell was most like me. From the night-dark hair and wistful mouth to the hurt expression in her pale gray eyes, looking at this woman was like facing a mirror image. Here was no confident girl like Katrine Murray or lady of legend like Mairi of Shiels. This was a woman unsure of herself, a woman who had suffered agonies of uncertainty.
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