would do as she pleased. Isobel’s weight in her lap felt heavy. Peeking around the black hair framing the child’s face, Jeanne saw that her eyes were closed. Carefully, so as not wake her, she carried her to the crib and laid her beside her brother. She looked down on her children and smiled. They were so alike in appearance and yet so different in temperament, much like John and herself, she admitted.
Andrew was a child of light and laughter. His moods were predictable, his temper even. He ate and slept as he did everything, with great gusto and total appreciation. Isobel was completely different. Wraithlike and delicate, she moved with an instinctive grace that was unlike any child Jeanne had ever seen. Her quicksilver moods and frequent bouts of temper kept the entire household in a state of nervous anticipation. Difficult as it was to admit, there were times when Jeanne did not enjoy caring for her only daughter. Those nights when Isobel screamed relentlessly in her arms, she would pace the nursery floor, teeth clenched, nerves stretched taut like the strings of a lyre, believing she would never know the comfort of a full night’s sleep again.
Only John could calm the child. He would take her in his arms and kiss the tears on her small, contorted face and whisper soothing words into her ear. Jeanne would creep away for a few hours of much-needed rest, grateful for his tolerance, yet resentful at the same time. When she questioned him, begging to know the secret of his skill, his eyes would dance with amused laughter. He would stroke her cheek and say, “I am adept at handling Maxwell women, Jeannie. As I recall, you were very like Isobel when you were small.”
Her eyes softened as she looked at her sleeping daughter. Isobel Maxwell was a lovely child. She tucked the blanket around her daughter’s body and bent down to kiss her cheek.
A gurgle of laughter interrupted her. Jeanne looked at her son. Andrew was awake. She held her finger warningly against her lips. Andrew rolled over to look at his sister. Satisfied that she slept, he held out his arms to his mother. Sighing, Jeanne lifted him over her daughter. Andrew was much heavier than the slender, small-boned Isobel. Why had no one ever told her that rest was a forgotten luxury for mothers?
“’Tis a lovely day, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Would you like to pick some flowers?”
The child nodded and squirmed to escape from her arms. Hastily, Jeanne set him on the floor and took hold of his hand. “’Tis a warm afternoon, Granny,” she said, careful to pitch her voice low so as not to disturb her daughter. “I’ll take the horse and walk Andrew down to the burn. Isobel should sleep for now.”
Grania smiled and nodded as they walked out the door. The sun was warm on Jeanne’s head as she lifted her son to the saddle of her mare. Andrew clutched the leather of the pommel and looked around delightedly. It wasn’t often that he was allowed to ride without the restraining arms of an adult around him.
Andrew Maxwell was three years old, but already he knew the measure of his own importance. As heir to the earldom of Traquair, his very existence was the beacon upon which his household revolved. He had only to thrust out his lower lip or stamp an insistent, sturdy foot and whatever he wished for was instantly realized. Oddly enough, the knowledge of his power made him reluctant to use it. The servants, his nurse, his mother, even his father, were like dry leaves before the storm of his strong-willed, yet personable charm. The only one to ever thwart him was Isobel. As is often the case with those who have everything, knowing that he could not control his tiny, imperious sister made her all the more appealing to him.
Intuitively, Andrew knew that she was not as important to Traquair House as he was, and his sensitive heart ached for her. By the time the twins were two years old, it was not unusual to see the small boy offer his smaller sister the use of a toy or a choice bit of sweetmeat. He preferred her company over everyone else’s. The two of them could often be found digging in the garden or mounding hay in the barn. Andrew’s face lit with joy at the sight of a smile on his sister’s small, serious face.
Although he did not