The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

snapped back to his present surroundings, startled by Mrs. MacC.’s voice.

      He sat down at the table and thought of India, with her exotic name, her high-bred British accent and her green eyes that changed constantly, like a kaleidoscope. She’d seemed so vulnerable perched on that tree stump, with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at him warily and wrinkling her nose at the whiskey. She’d made him think of a woodland elf, yet that same instant, he’d envisioned her draped on a sofa in a black evening dress, diamonds around her throat and a glass of champagne in her hand.

      The differences between India and Serena were really quite striking. But Serena’s oblique references to her half sister’s background had left him curious, and he wondered if Mrs. MacClean could be induced to shed some light on the matter.

      He knew Dunbar was very special. His intuition never failed him when it came to choosing sites for hotels. In his history as a hotelier he’d made only one mistake, and that was ten years ago, when he was twenty-four and just beginning. Even then he’d salvaged his money.

      The possibility of perhaps acquiring Dunbar was increasingly enticing, and he looked forward to getting his hands on the specs and an in-depth look at the property. Of course, the place would need a tremendous overhaul if anything did materialize, but the advantages far outweighed any drawbacks of that nature. Being so near the airport, a half hour’s drive at most, made it easy to include in luxury packages to London.

      He wondered if Peter, who was involved in local politics, might think it was too close to home. The locals might be sticky about a hotel. Worst-case scenario, he could go it alone. But it seemed a great fit with everything they already had going, including the Buenos Aires project.

      “Here ye go, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. MacClean said, whisking the roast onto the table. “Have yer supper afore it chills. There’s nothing worse than half-cold food. I brought ye the bottle of Burgundy Sir Peter opened. He says it does the wine good te’ be open fer a wee while.”

      Jack snapped out of his reverie, picking up the white linen napkin from the old pine table, its patina softened by years of elbows and beeswax. “Sir Peter’s right,” he said, picking up the bottle, reading the label, impressed. “Good red wines usually do benefit from being uncorked for a few hours before they’re consumed.”

      “Well, that’s what Sir Peter always says.” Mrs. MacClean looked pleased as she padded back and forth with different items. “Now, are ye all set?” Her small eyes scanned the table critically from above ruddy, weather-beaten cheeks.

      “Yeah, thanks, this looks great.” Jack carved a large portion of lamb and poured himself a glass of the Chambertin ’61, raising it reverently to his nostrils, appreciating the strong body yet delicate bouquet. “Sir Peter sure chose a fine bottle, Mrs. MacClean.”

      “Och aye, just like his father afore him. Old Sir Peter was one fer knowing the wines.”

      Jack toyed with his glass appreciatively. He’d acquired a taste for good wines, and his wine cellar in Miami held some interesting acquisitions, mostly bottles and lots picked up at auction. He hoped when the time came to consume them they would still be drinkable. The bottles were supposed to have been recorked at the château of origin before maturing to twenty-five, but you could never really be certain.

      Remembering his objective, he cut to the chase. “Mrs. MacC., tell me about the lady who died over at Dunbar House. The Dunbars sound like an interesting family.”

      She held a dishcloth in midair and looked thoughtful. “Aye, I suppose they are, in their ain way. Poor Lady Elspeth, they say she had a lovely death.” She sighed dreamily, folding the cloth and laying it down. “She was arranging the roses in a vase—och, she was a beautiful flower arranger, Lady Elspeth was—when Mrs. Walker, she’s the housekeeper at Dunbar, came to bring her the secateurs. And what did she find but poor Lady Elspeth lying dead on the floor next to the table.”

      “She must have had a massive heart attack.”

      “Aye, that’s what Dr. MacDuff said when he came from the village. Gone before she knew it, he said. It was a terrible shock for poor Mrs. Walker, her wi’ her heart an’ all,” she added, shaking her head.

      “Was Lady Elspeth married?”

      “Twice widowed, poor soul. Her first husband, Lord Henry Hamilton died, oh…over thirty years ago. Then she married a Mr. Duncan Moncrieff.” She lowered her voice and pursed her lips. “The family was most upset, him not being of the same ilk, if ye know what I mean.”

      Jack pricked up his ears. “No, actually I don’t. What was wrong with the guy?”

      “It wasna’ anything wrong exactly, he just wasna’ from their world. He was a wealthy shipbuilder from Glasgow—not at all what the family was used to,” she added with a conclusive shake of her head. “He and old Sir Thomas had words, and Mr. Moncrieff wouldna’ set foot at Dunbar after the quarrel. Old Sir Thomas told him he wasna’ good enough for the likes of his sister, and Mr. Moncrieff left very angry. ’Twas a good thing they went te’ live abroad. People were talking, and it would have been awf’y tricky. When old Sir Thomas died a bachelor and Lady Elspeth inherited Dunbar, she was already widowed for the second time. My, how time flies.” She sighed, pouring some thick, butter-colored cream for Jack’s apple pie into a jug. “It seems as if it were only yesterday.”

      “Yes, it does fly,” he agreed wistfully, thinking how the years had flown. If Lucy and the baby had lived—He banished the thought, having learned long ago to discipline his mind.

      “Did they have children?”

      “Aye, a wee girl. Miss India.”

      “India. That’s a strange name.”

      “Aye, but ye see, that’s where Lady Elspeth was born. Old Sir William, her father, was in India wi’ the Scots Guards, ye know. She must be twenty-five or -six by now.”

      Jack reflected on this as he savored the succulent lamb, beginning to better understand the roots of Serena’s contemptuous attitude toward her half sister. So this was why the Dunbar inheritance had been left the way it had. No wonder those boys back in 1776 had taken the reins into their own hands—and a damn good thing, too.

      To him, an American, earning money and rising from poverty to riches was commendable. It seemed absurd that India’s father had been ostracized merely because he wasn’t born into the same social class as her mother.

      Surely things couldn’t be as old-fashioned as that. This was the ’90s after all. He wondered if this was the general attitude, or if perhaps Mrs. MacC. was part of a dying breed. Diana and Peter certainly didn’t come across as being in the least bit snobbish or narrow-minded. Maybe they would be, though, if one of their daughters wanted to marry out of the mold.

      “Tell me more about the Dunbars. They’ve lived there forever, haven’t they?”

      “Och aye. The Dunbars have been in these parts fer as long as anybody can remember. So have the Kinnairds, mind ye. Now they say that Sir Jamie Kinnaird—”

      “But haven’t the Dunbars been here even longer?” He interrupted, regretting it the minute he’d spoken.

      Mrs. MacClean drew herself up to her full four foot nine and looked him straight in the eye. “The Kinnairds, Mr. Jack, are the oldest family in these parts. It’s a known fact that Sir Peter’s ancestor fought wi’ Robert the Bruce himsel’, and they were here long, long afore that,” she said, waving the dishcloth and making the Battle of Falkirk sound like a recent event.

      “Of course. I remember Peter telling me that,” Jack lied.

      “As for Lady Diana’s family,” she continued, warming to the theme, “it goes sae far back they canna’ even tell nae more. The Dunbars have been here almost as long, but the Kinnairds were definitely here first.” Her tone left no room for contradiction. “There’s the legend of Rob Dunbar, of course—that was back in the rebellion in ’45. He went to fight fer Bonnie Prince Charlie, although most