Traquair House, a great many people worked for me, and Mr. MacDougall was one of them. Maybe he needed a gentle reminder. “There are a few things I’m curious about, Mr. MacDougall,” I said, testing the waters. “It will give us something to talk about while we’re eating.”
“An excellent suggestion, Miss Murray,” he replied. “May I interest you in some of this ham?”
“Please.” I held out my plate, my mouth watering at the generous helpings of scrambled egg, ham, haggis, and stewed tomatoes he’d ladled out. The two buttery scones I’d eaten earlier seemed very far away.
“What is it you would like to know?” asked the man between mouthfuls.
“I’ve heard that Ellen Maxwell left the entire estate to me. Is that true?”
He nodded and swallowed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Quite true. Or rather, her husband did. Lady Maxwell never owned Traquair House. For the last twenty years she has been a mere tenant.”
So, it was true. Irrefutable. I still couldn’t believe it. “Do you have any idea why he left it to me?”
“I can’t answer that one,” said Mr. MacDougall. “All I know is that my firm has handled the affairs of the Maxwells since long before I came aboard. Lord Maxwell had the papers drawn up once he found you.” He tilted his head back and squinted at an imaginary calendar on the ceiling. “That would have been approximately thirty years ago. When he died, Lady Maxwell, unaware of the terms of the will, tried to sell Traquair. When she found that she couldn’t, she asked us to provide her with information about you. She’s kept track of your whereabouts since you were a little girl.”
I felt the embarrassing color flood my face.
“Everything was very legal, of course,” he hurried to assure me. “All that we knew was a matter of public record. Your academic awards, your parents, your course of study, your marriage and divorce.” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “I want you to know I’m very sorry about that, Miss Murray. We’ve never attempted to interfere with you in any way. If you hadn’t accepted Lady Maxwell’s invitation to come to Scotland, that would have been the end of it. You would have been notified of your inheritance, that’s all.” He drained his coffee cup and placed it back in the saucer. “Still, it is interesting that you chose such an unusual course of study. Perhaps, subconsciously, you were preparing yourself for Traquair House.”
I decided at that moment that I liked him. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. MacDougall. I expected someone extremely logical and pragmatic. Don’t tell me you believe in the sight? ”
He smiled, a full smile that showed his bottom teeth and all of his gums. “Not at all, Miss Murray. What I am is a proper Calvinist. We believe that one’s fate is inescapable.”
***
The eighteenth-century library contained over three thousand books and all of them belonged to me. The priceless paintings, the elegant faded carpets, the tapestries, the cellars, the grounds and tearoom, the brewhouse, the gates, it was all mine. Along with enough money to keep anyone comfortable for a lifetime.
In a daze, I wandered through the house, coming upon a group of tourists led by a gray-haired woman in a serviceable tweed suit. They were in the King’s Room, staring at the bed said to have been used by Mary, Queen of Scots, when she visited Traquair. I was impatient for them to leave. Now that I knew the house belonged to me, I wanted to explore every corner, climb every step, run my fingers over every piece of wood, every painting, every lace curtain and embroidered tapestry, without interruption.
It was impossible, of course. Traquair was on the list of tours, and it was open to visitors until the last day of September. Only after that would it be mine without interruptions. Through all the gray, damp darkness of late fall and winter, I could roam the rooms in selfish privacy. The servants would be here and
“An excellent suggestion, Miss Murray,” he replied. “May I interest you in some of this ham?”
“Please.” I held out my plate, my mouth watering at the generous helpings of scrambled egg, ham, haggis, and stewed tomatoes he’d ladled out. The two buttery scones I’d eaten earlier seemed very far away.
“What is it you would like to know?” asked the man between mouthfuls.
“I’ve heard that Ellen Maxwell left the entire estate to me. Is that true?”
He nodded and swallowed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Quite true. Or rather, her husband did. Lady Maxwell never owned Traquair House. For the last twenty years she has been a mere tenant.”
So, it was true. Irrefutable. I still couldn’t believe it. “Do you have any idea why he left it to me?”
“I can’t answer that one,” said Mr. MacDougall. “All I know is that my firm has handled the affairs of the Maxwells since long before I came aboard. Lord Maxwell had the papers drawn up once he found you.” He tilted his head back and squinted at an imaginary calendar on the ceiling. “That would have been approximately thirty years ago. When he died, Lady Maxwell, unaware of the terms of the will, tried to sell Traquair. When she found that she couldn’t, she asked us to provide her with information about you. She’s kept track of your whereabouts since you were a little girl.”
I felt the embarrassing color flood my face.
“Everything was very legal, of course,” he hurried to assure me. “All that we knew was a matter of public record. Your academic awards, your parents, your course of study, your marriage and divorce.” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “I want you to know I’m very sorry about that, Miss Murray. We’ve never attempted to interfere with you in any way. If you hadn’t accepted Lady Maxwell’s invitation to come to Scotland, that would have been the end of it. You would have been notified of your inheritance, that’s all.” He drained his coffee cup and placed it back in the saucer. “Still, it is interesting that you chose such an unusual course of study. Perhaps, subconsciously, you were preparing yourself for Traquair House.”
I decided at that moment that I liked him. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. MacDougall. I expected someone extremely logical and pragmatic. Don’t tell me you believe in the sight? ”
He smiled, a full smile that showed his bottom teeth and all of his gums. “Not at all, Miss Murray. What I am is a proper Calvinist. We believe that one’s fate is inescapable.”
***
The eighteenth-century library contained over three thousand books and all of them belonged to me. The priceless paintings, the elegant faded carpets, the tapestries, the cellars, the grounds and tearoom, the brewhouse, the gates, it was all mine. Along with enough money to keep anyone comfortable for a lifetime.
In a daze, I wandered through the house, coming upon a group of tourists led by a gray-haired woman in a serviceable tweed suit. They were in the King’s Room, staring at the bed said to have been used by Mary, Queen of Scots, when she visited Traquair. I was impatient for them to leave. Now that I knew the house belonged to me, I wanted to explore every corner, climb every step, run my fingers over every piece of wood, every painting, every lace curtain and embroidered tapestry, without interruption.
It was impossible, of course. Traquair was on the list of tours, and it was open to visitors until the last day of September. Only after that would it be mine without interruptions. Through all the gray, damp darkness of late fall and winter, I could roam the rooms in selfish privacy. The servants would be here and
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