The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

from one of the paintings on the stair. They belonged to a little boy of about seven or eight, with thick dark hair and a mischievous curve to his mouth. He stood in a satin outfit—resembling the Blue Boy—next to a fair, rather pudgy child, who appeared older. There was something oddly familiar about him.

      For a moment India stood perfectly still, experiencing the same electrifying sensation she had felt yesterday by the oak tree. She tried to identify it, to capture it in some shape or form. She glanced at the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. The date read 1730. Once again she could have sworn that she wasn’t alone, and that she knew that face.

      For an instant she listened intently, but the only sounds were the muted voices of the guests mingling in the oak room. Deciding it must just be her imagination, she continued down the stairs, bracing herself for the hours ahead. But the feeling lingered, warm and reassuring, and she reached the hall strangely comforted.

      The funeral service began at two o’clock sharp. The guests stood silently round Lady Elspeth’s coffin, which was lying, covered in wreaths, in the center of the vast stucco hall.

      India listened to the ceremony in a daze, soothed by the beauty of the flowers Lady Elspeth had loved so dearly. She felt her mother’s presence, as though Lady Elspeth had come to say her final goodbyes, her spirit hovering above, giving India a feeling of peace.

      Serena had returned and made an effort to be polite during lunch, although she seemed uninterested in the proceedings.

      “It’s an awf’y sad day, Miss India, but the flowers do her proud. That one in the middle came from Edinburgh this morning,” Mrs. Walker said, pointing to a particularly lovely wreath standing before the coffin.

      Chloë, who was standing next to her, stepped forward. White lilies intertwined with baby’s breath were set delicately within the foliage, but the gold lettering on the white satin ribbon was hard to distinguish.

      “India, look,” she said in a hushed whisper. India stepped forward and read the inscription.

      Thinking of you. Jack Buchanan.

      She felt her heart quicken. He’d remembered. She looked around, as though expecting to see him, but of course he wasn’t there. It was a private service. Perhaps the wreath wasn’t even meant for her, but for Serena’s benefit. She took a surreptitious glance at her sister, wondering if she’d seen it.

      “He didn’t say anything to me last night or this morning,” Chloë whispered.

      India’s eyes wandered back to the wreath, and she was reminded suddenly of her father’s funeral, and of how lonely she’d felt. But today was different. Here people lived and died watched over by their ancestors, each generation assuming the responsibility of preserving and bettering that which was bequeathed them, and which they, in turn, would pass down to their heirs.

      Yet if Dunbar fell into the hands of strangers, almost eight hundred years of history would end. She remembered Jack’s words—It would make a fabulous hotel—and shuddered inwardly. The mere thought of Dunbar becoming some sort of hotel or institution was unbearable.

      She took a last glance at the wreath. There was definitely something appealing about Jack. Perhaps it was his air of self-assurance, or his devil-may-care look, as though he was accustomed to wielding power without abusing it. Whether or not it was meant for her, the wreath had been a thoughtful gesture and his kindness touched her.

      The mourners stepped back to allow the pallbearers through. They raised the coffin to their shoulders and carried it reverently down the wide stone steps, following the piper who had begun his lonely Highland lament.

      Chloë took India’s arm and together they followed in silence to where the family and other friends were getting into their cars. The funeral cortege made its way sedately down the drive. They would accompany Lady El on her last journey, through the Midlothian countryside, past the hills and meadows she had loved so well, to the small graveyard on the hill where she would finally be put to rest.

      The day was sunny but cold. A wintry nip could already be felt in the air, and the trees were fast losing the last of their wilting foliage. Small gusts of wind scattered the dead leaves across the patched remains of last night’s snowfall.

      Then they were walking, the piper leading them down the narrow cemetery path, his tartan plaid blowing in the blustery wind, the mournful lament bringing hot tears to the mourners’ eyes. Then, with Kathleen, Ian and Serena, India lowered the coffin into the ground in a medieval act of ritualistic finality.

      Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From this earth they had come and to it they would return. And sudden loneliness gripped her as the rope went limp in her hand.

      After a while they made their way back among the ancient moss-covered tombstones, India grateful for Chloë’s support, knowing it would have been so much worse without her.

      It was then she saw him. A tall dark figure in a black cashmere coat standing at the cemetery gates.

      India hesitated, thinking perhaps he’d come for Serena. But as she approached and he walked toward her, she knew why he was there.

      He was there for her.

      As Chloë and she passed through the wrought-iron gates, he reached silently for her hands.

      “Are you okay?” His voice was low and concerned, his thick dark hair ruffled by the wind, his tan incongruous among the pale British faces surrounding them.

      “I’m fine. Thanks for coming,” she whispered, keeping a grip on herself.

      “I wanted to.”

      She realized that Ian and his wife, Francesca, were watching, uncertain whether to approach. But Chloë smiled at them.

      “Let me introduce you to Jack Buchanan, Peter’s partner.”

      “Nice to meet you. Sorry it’s on such a sad occasion.” Ian shook hands with Jack. “I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again. India, are you coming with us or are you—”

      “Yes, I’m coming with you,” she replied, glancing at Jack.

      “I’ll walk you to the car.” He drew her arm into his. India was bewildered, her thoughts as muddled as her feelings. Here she was, at her mother’s burial, her pulse racing because of a man she barely knew. It was almost sacrilegious.

      The others had moved away but Jack’s eyes never left hers.

      “I’m on my way to the airport, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

      “Thanks, it was awfully kind of you.”

      “Take care of yourself,” he said, leading her to the car where Ian, Chloë and Francesca were waiting. He opened the door and for a moment they faced each other, eyes locked.

      Then India felt her throat constricting. “Thanks for coming, Jack, I—Thanks.” She tried to smile, not knowing what else to say, and got quickly inside.

      Slowly the cars began the return journey, followed by the haunting strain of the pipes. India could still feel the warmth of Jack’s comforting grasp. Suddenly the tears she’d been holding back fell silently down her cheeks, loss and loneliness overwhelming her as she gazed blindly through the window. The vehicles moved gently down the country lane, off toward Dunbar.

      Jack watched the rain streaming down against the plane’s windows, drenching the tarmac as the Gulfstream readied for takeoff. He’d removed his coat and taken out the papers he’d be working on. As usual, Jonathan, his steward, had brought him a Glenfiddich on the rocks.

      He stretched his legs as the plane picked up speed, reflecting upon what could have prompted him to go there this afternoon. Why had he gone to a cemetery—a place he avoided on principle—to see a woman he barely knew, and whom he might never see again? He smiled to himself. It was rare that he acted out of sheer impulse. Would they ever meet again? Possibly. There were a number of places their paths could cross. He might even be in Buenos Aires at the same time she was. But that didn’t necessarily mean