tea. “Shall I plan on breakfast this early every day?” she asked, tilting her head until it almost rested on her shoulder.
I couldn’t help smiling. She looked like a small, inquisitive bird waiting expectantly for the next bread crumb. “I don’t usually get up so early,” I answered. “But I just couldn’t sleep. Yesterday was quite a day.”
“I can imagine.” She blew on her tea before sipping it. “If Ian Douglas should ever take me to dinner, I don’t believe I’d sleep either. Not that he would, of course,” she said hurriedly. “We’re not so relaxed about our class differences as they are in the bigger cities.”
Not knowing quite how to reply, I changed the subject. “Would it be possible to look at Janet Murray’s diary?”
She threw me a sharp, questioning look. “Why on earth would you want to look at that?”
I bit back the urge to tell her everything. Self-disclosure was a problem of mine. Stephen had reminded me of it often enough. Instead, I strived for the correct degree of calm professionalism, enough information not to be rude, but not so much as to be overly familiar. “I’m a historian,” I explained. “An eighteenth-century diary of someone who might be my ancestor is something I can’t ignore.”
She stood without answering and pulled the scones from the oven. Dishing out two, she arranged them on a clean plate and set it before me. “I’ll bring out the butter if you like, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”
I bit into the hot, flaky bread and sighed. “Don’t bother with the butter.”
The uncertain look on her face vanished. She smiled and reached into the pocket of her apron. Handing me a large ring she pointed to the single skeleton key. “This one will open all the cases in the museum. The others are for doors and closets throughout the house. I’ll show you where they fit if you like.”
I hedged. “That may be a bit premature.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Miss Murray. We’ve all known for a long time that you’re to take Lady Maxwell’s place. Traquair House and all that’s in it is yours.”
There was no appropriate answer to such a statement. If I stopped to think about it, the odds against something like this happening were as overwhelming as winning the lottery. I was sure there would be some catch that the Maxwell family lawyer would reveal soon enough.
I retraced my steps back to the museum and unlocked the glass case. My hand shook as I reached inside to take out the ancient leather-bound book. It fit comfortably in my hand. I looked at the sturdy spine and the careful stitching of the dark leather. It was beautifully preserved. I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought. There was just enough time to change before breakfast. The diary would have to wait.
Dressed in a straight, calf-length maroon skirt, gray blazer, and flat shoes, I made my way to the cheerful breakfast room on the eastern side of the house. Morning sunlight filtered through the sparkling windows and reflected off the silver-covered dishes on the sideboard. Mr. MacDougall, a small, friendly looking man with thick eyeglasses, was seated in a comfortable chair, reading the paper. He stood when I entered the room and pulled out a chair beside his own.
“Good morning, Miss Murray. I hope you slept well.”
“Fine, thank you,” I replied, reaching for the coffee pot. I saw no need to go into the details of my sleepless night. “I hope your drive was pleasant.” The road from Edinburgh was virtually empty at this time of the morning, but the Scots were fond of polite formalities.
“Very nice, thank you. Your housekeeper has a lovely breakfast for us. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat first and then we can discuss Lady Maxwell’s affairs in the library.”
I was conscious of a flash of disappointment. If the man didn’t want to talk during breakfast, why hadn’t he eaten at home? If the rumors were true and I was the new mistress of
I couldn’t help smiling. She looked like a small, inquisitive bird waiting expectantly for the next bread crumb. “I don’t usually get up so early,” I answered. “But I just couldn’t sleep. Yesterday was quite a day.”
“I can imagine.” She blew on her tea before sipping it. “If Ian Douglas should ever take me to dinner, I don’t believe I’d sleep either. Not that he would, of course,” she said hurriedly. “We’re not so relaxed about our class differences as they are in the bigger cities.”
Not knowing quite how to reply, I changed the subject. “Would it be possible to look at Janet Murray’s diary?”
She threw me a sharp, questioning look. “Why on earth would you want to look at that?”
I bit back the urge to tell her everything. Self-disclosure was a problem of mine. Stephen had reminded me of it often enough. Instead, I strived for the correct degree of calm professionalism, enough information not to be rude, but not so much as to be overly familiar. “I’m a historian,” I explained. “An eighteenth-century diary of someone who might be my ancestor is something I can’t ignore.”
She stood without answering and pulled the scones from the oven. Dishing out two, she arranged them on a clean plate and set it before me. “I’ll bring out the butter if you like, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”
I bit into the hot, flaky bread and sighed. “Don’t bother with the butter.”
The uncertain look on her face vanished. She smiled and reached into the pocket of her apron. Handing me a large ring she pointed to the single skeleton key. “This one will open all the cases in the museum. The others are for doors and closets throughout the house. I’ll show you where they fit if you like.”
I hedged. “That may be a bit premature.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Miss Murray. We’ve all known for a long time that you’re to take Lady Maxwell’s place. Traquair House and all that’s in it is yours.”
There was no appropriate answer to such a statement. If I stopped to think about it, the odds against something like this happening were as overwhelming as winning the lottery. I was sure there would be some catch that the Maxwell family lawyer would reveal soon enough.
I retraced my steps back to the museum and unlocked the glass case. My hand shook as I reached inside to take out the ancient leather-bound book. It fit comfortably in my hand. I looked at the sturdy spine and the careful stitching of the dark leather. It was beautifully preserved. I looked at my watch. It was later than I thought. There was just enough time to change before breakfast. The diary would have to wait.
Dressed in a straight, calf-length maroon skirt, gray blazer, and flat shoes, I made my way to the cheerful breakfast room on the eastern side of the house. Morning sunlight filtered through the sparkling windows and reflected off the silver-covered dishes on the sideboard. Mr. MacDougall, a small, friendly looking man with thick eyeglasses, was seated in a comfortable chair, reading the paper. He stood when I entered the room and pulled out a chair beside his own.
“Good morning, Miss Murray. I hope you slept well.”
“Fine, thank you,” I replied, reaching for the coffee pot. I saw no need to go into the details of my sleepless night. “I hope your drive was pleasant.” The road from Edinburgh was virtually empty at this time of the morning, but the Scots were fond of polite formalities.
“Very nice, thank you. Your housekeeper has a lovely breakfast for us. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat first and then we can discuss Lady Maxwell’s affairs in the library.”
I was conscious of a flash of disappointment. If the man didn’t want to talk during breakfast, why hadn’t he eaten at home? If the rumors were true and I was the new mistress of
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