as important as Jeanne. To stay away from her willing young body just when he’d learned the art of pleasing her would be a fate worse than death.
In the entry at the bottom of the stairs, a woman waited. Her shawl covered her head, but John knew instantly who she was. “Welcome, Grania,” he said gently. “’Tis a long way for a woman of your years and affliction.”
“I ha’ to come,” she said, nervously fingering the brooch on her bodice. “Last night I ha’ the vision. Yer lass must be told.”
John frowned. “What did you see?”
“No, no,” Grania shook her head. “I canno’ tell ye. ’Tis Jeanne, I must see.”
“Jeanne sleeps,” explained John. “The birth was hard.”
“Aye,” the old woman nodded. “I saw it. Two bairns for Traquair.”
John took a step forward and took Grania’s arm in a warning grip. “My lady bears you great affection, Grania Douglas, and for that you are welcome here. But know this, if you disturb her with tales of woe, your life will be worthless.”
“I would ne’er harm the lass,” Grania whispered. “’Tis only wha’ I see.”
“Tell her nothing of what you see,” ordered John.
Grania’s eyes bore through him, and he swore he saw pity in their sightless depths. “Do ye no’ know yer own wife, lad? She will see whe’er I tell her or no’.”
“I want you to leave my house,” he said through clenched teeth.
Grania nodded. “Aye, I shall for now. But ye canno’ keep her from me forever. She will come t’ me.”
He watched as the old woman felt her way toward the door, the gnarled old hand guiding her past the paneled wall, down the stone steps, and into the courtyard. Instantly John was ashamed of himself. She couldn’t see, and he had made no move to help her. Jeanne wouldn’t thank him for treating her guest so shabbily.
“Grania,” he shouted, following her out the door. “Granny, wait.” A thick concealing fog swirled around his head, muffling his voice and hiding from view everything farther than an arm’s length away. The old woman shouldn’t be out on a night like this. The borders were dangerous at this hour. Then he remembered that Grania was blind. All nights, fog laden or clear, were the same for her.
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
I jackknifed to a sitting position in bed, consumed with an urgency so great it woke me immediately. My heart pounded as I attempted to calm myself and concentrate. According to the professor, Jeanne Maxwell gave birth to a son. There was no reference to twins. Was it possible that such a thing could have been overlooked? I discounted it immediately. In medieval Scotland, women of high birth were prized for their dowries. The daughter of an earl was too important to be ignored. Somewhere, there must be a reference to Jeanne’s daughter.
I looked at my watch. It was early afternoon, plenty of time to tear apart the library. Pulling a sweatshirt over my leggings and turtleneck, I slipped into comfortable loafers and made my way downstairs. As I’d expected, the vents in the library were closed, a concession to Kate’s notions of conservation. I lit the fire and warmed my hands before beginning what I knew would be a lengthy search. The number of books was enormous.
Luck was with me. Two hours later, I found what I was looking for. A Bible, handwritten in ancient Latin script, the spine cracked and dusty with age, had the entry I needed.
On the third page, halfway down, written in a firm, masculine hand, was a birth entry that could only refer to Jeanne Maxwell’s twins. “On the twenty-fifth day of May, in the year of our Lord 1510 a son and daughter were born to John Maxwell, Earl of Traquair, and his wife.”
My fingers shook as I traced the thin, delicate parchment and ancient binding. The people I saw in my dreams had actually existed. They weren’t myths or figments of my imagination. Here, in this very house, they had lived and walked and eaten and slept. In the hushed quiet of the library, it seemed as if their spirits surrounded me, urging me on, encouraging me to complete their story.
Curious to know more of my Maxwell ancestors, I read farther down the page. The next line stopped me cold, like the shock of ice water on bare skin. It was an obituary. “Isobel Maxwell, beloved daughter of the Earl of Traquair and his wife, died in her fourth year, on the thirtieth day of July,