the craftspeople, but ultimately, I would be alone. Until then I would concentrate on solving the mystery of my connection to the Maxwells. There was also the diary and my uncanny likeness to Katrine Murray and the woman in my dream, Mairi of Shiels. I hurried to my room in search of the diary.
Now that my official status as the lady of Traquair had been confirmed beyond all doubt, I no longer felt like a guest. I decided to read Janet’s diary in the library. Making my way down the long hallway, I entered the room, pulled a winged-back chair close to the peat fire, and opened the book.
Janet Murray’s handwriting was lovely, clear, and consistent, with the letters artistically crafted in the style of the day. She was also amazingly articulate with the thoughtful analogies and colorful descriptions of a born writer. Once I acclimated myself to the ancient script and spelling, I was able to read with satisfactory fluency. Hours passed, but I never noticed. Kate came in to leave a pot of tea. It was delicious, sweet, flavored with honey and an unusual spice I couldn’t place. I emptied two cups without realizing it.
Caught up in the richness of the words and the personal story of Janet’s daughter, I didn’t realize, until the names and events became familiar, that I was reading what would be a veritable treasure to any historian, a first-person account of the horrifying months leading up to the single most tragic event in the history of Scotland. The fact that it was undoubtedly written by my direct ancestor was staggering.
The dull headache that had bothered me since I sat down to read had increased in intensity. The pain was now severe. I lifted a hand to rub my aching temple and closed my eyes. A log snapped inside the fireplace, and a soft summer rain drummed against the windows. The day had been long and exciting, and I was in that state of numbness beyond tired. Resting my head against the back of the chair, I tried to open my eyes, but the lids were too heavy to lift. It didn’t matter. The picture in my mind was as clear as a movie screen.
Edinburgh
May 3, 1745
The royal palace of Holyrood was alight with the blaze of ten thousand candles. At the other end of High Street, one mile from the primitive grandeur of Edinburgh Castle, the nobility of Scotland gathered in the sophisticated splendor of the reception room. The duke of Mansfield was there with his brother, George Murray of Atholl, Angus MacIan of Ardnamurchan, MacDonald of Lochaber, and Campbell of Inveraray.
Lord Richard Wolfe, heir to the earldom of Manchester and a major in the King’s Regiment, rested his shoulders against the mantel and frowned into his champagne. It looked as if the entire cohort of Jacobite supporters was assembled under one roof.
Richard didn’t believe for one moment that the rumored rebellion would come to pass. The Scots were absurdly sentimental, but they weren’t fools. Even if Charles Stuart gathered a few French regiments and rallied the Highland clans, he would be no match for the might of the English militia. His mouth twisted in amusement. James Murray, Lord Mansfield of Scone, his friend and host, was as harmless as a lapdog and dangerously free with his information. What could have possessed the duke of Cumberland to send Richard on such a fruitless mission? The Scots were the same as they had always been: loquacious, argumentative, fiercely patriotic, and loyal to their ‘King over the Water.’ But that was the end of it. There would be no uprising.
Richard drained his glass and placed it on the mantel. The ball had just begun, and he was already bored. More than one young lady had been attracted to the lazy grace of his lean, wide-shouldered frame and the stern, austerely handsome features under his shockingly light, unpowdered hair. Not once was he tempted to respond. For the last nine of his thirty years, Lord Wolfe, heir to an immense fortune and ancient earldom, had dodged the determined efforts of
Now that my official status as the lady of Traquair had been confirmed beyond all doubt, I no longer felt like a guest. I decided to read Janet’s diary in the library. Making my way down the long hallway, I entered the room, pulled a winged-back chair close to the peat fire, and opened the book.
Janet Murray’s handwriting was lovely, clear, and consistent, with the letters artistically crafted in the style of the day. She was also amazingly articulate with the thoughtful analogies and colorful descriptions of a born writer. Once I acclimated myself to the ancient script and spelling, I was able to read with satisfactory fluency. Hours passed, but I never noticed. Kate came in to leave a pot of tea. It was delicious, sweet, flavored with honey and an unusual spice I couldn’t place. I emptied two cups without realizing it.
Caught up in the richness of the words and the personal story of Janet’s daughter, I didn’t realize, until the names and events became familiar, that I was reading what would be a veritable treasure to any historian, a first-person account of the horrifying months leading up to the single most tragic event in the history of Scotland. The fact that it was undoubtedly written by my direct ancestor was staggering.
The dull headache that had bothered me since I sat down to read had increased in intensity. The pain was now severe. I lifted a hand to rub my aching temple and closed my eyes. A log snapped inside the fireplace, and a soft summer rain drummed against the windows. The day had been long and exciting, and I was in that state of numbness beyond tired. Resting my head against the back of the chair, I tried to open my eyes, but the lids were too heavy to lift. It didn’t matter. The picture in my mind was as clear as a movie screen.
Edinburgh
May 3, 1745
The royal palace of Holyrood was alight with the blaze of ten thousand candles. At the other end of High Street, one mile from the primitive grandeur of Edinburgh Castle, the nobility of Scotland gathered in the sophisticated splendor of the reception room. The duke of Mansfield was there with his brother, George Murray of Atholl, Angus MacIan of Ardnamurchan, MacDonald of Lochaber, and Campbell of Inveraray.
Lord Richard Wolfe, heir to the earldom of Manchester and a major in the King’s Regiment, rested his shoulders against the mantel and frowned into his champagne. It looked as if the entire cohort of Jacobite supporters was assembled under one roof.
Richard didn’t believe for one moment that the rumored rebellion would come to pass. The Scots were absurdly sentimental, but they weren’t fools. Even if Charles Stuart gathered a few French regiments and rallied the Highland clans, he would be no match for the might of the English militia. His mouth twisted in amusement. James Murray, Lord Mansfield of Scone, his friend and host, was as harmless as a lapdog and dangerously free with his information. What could have possessed the duke of Cumberland to send Richard on such a fruitless mission? The Scots were the same as they had always been: loquacious, argumentative, fiercely patriotic, and loyal to their ‘King over the Water.’ But that was the end of it. There would be no uprising.
Richard drained his glass and placed it on the mantel. The ball had just begun, and he was already bored. More than one young lady had been attracted to the lazy grace of his lean, wide-shouldered frame and the stern, austerely handsome features under his shockingly light, unpowdered hair. Not once was he tempted to respond. For the last nine of his thirty years, Lord Wolfe, heir to an immense fortune and ancient earldom, had dodged the determined efforts of
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