Cottage in the Mist

by Dee Davis

  "You wanted to protect her. There's nothing wrong in that."

  "Except that she'll no' understand. She'll see it as a betrayal. And I canna help but think she willna want to come back here again."

  "I think you're judging her too harshly. She'll be angry, I'm certain. And perhaps at first she'll see what you did as a betrayal. But I'm also sure that once she has a chance to think on it, she'll understand that you did what you did because you love her."

  "I do," he said, the thought making him ache inside. "Love her, I mean. Ach, Katherine, what have I done?"

  "You've made a choice. And now you just have to have faith that it will all come out right in the end."

  "Like it did for you and Iain."

  She laid her hand on his arm. "It wasn't easy for us either, Bram. There was far more than just the eight years of separation. We had enemies to fight as well. One of them almost destroyed me in the process. Which meant that when it mattered most, Iain had to let me go. He had to send me back to my own time."

  "Aye, and it was the hardest decision I've ever had to make." Iain's deep voice echoed over the battlements as he came to stand behind his wife. His arms circled her waist and Katherine leaned back against him. "But even though I thought I'd lost her forever, I knew I'd chosen true."

  "And he moped around here like there was no tomorrow despite all his blustering." Ranald laughed as he joined the group at the wall.

  "Well, what did you expect, man? I'd lost my own true love." Iain wagged his eyebrows at his cousin, and Katherine's eyes sparkled with laughter.

  Bram felt a wave of jealousy. He'd held his love in his arms and now he'd lost her. Possibly forever.

  "Faith, Bram," Katherine repeated. "No one said it would be easy. But believe me, it's worth the effort."

  He nodded, staring off into the distance, then with a sharp exhale of breath turned to his kin, forcing himself to face his greatest fear. "I went back."

  The others waited in silence.

  "In the end I couldna do it. I couldna walk away. So I went back." He closed his eyes, fists clenched as he remembered. "But I was too late. The cottage was empty. Lily was gone."

  "Perhaps for the best?" Ranald queried. "We do have a battle to fight."

  Katherine tensed in Iain's arms.

  "No worries, my love," he said, his arms tightening around her. "We've fought in worse battles and won."

  "I know." Katherine sighed, then squared her shoulders and lifted her head to kiss her husband's cheek. "And the sooner we get the lot of you on your way, the sooner you'll all come back to me." Her words included Ranald and Bram, but her eyes were only for Iain.

  He bent to kiss her. "All will be well, I promise."

  "See that it is," she admonished, pushing away the fear that had surfaced momentarily in her eyes. "And you," she added, turning to Bram, "as I said, have a little faith. What's to be is meant to be. But as a dear friend of mine used to say, everything happens in its own time. If your Lily truly loves you, she'll understand why you left her behind. And somehow the two of you will find a way back to each other. You just have to believe it's possible."

  Which was the crux of the matter, really.

  With a nod, Bram squeezed Katherine's hand, then turned to follow Ranald as he made his way down to the forecourt and the waiting men.

  The battle was at hand.

  *****

  After Duncreag and Dunbrae, the Comyn manor house was a disappointment. Not that it wasn't amazing in its own right, but it lacked the ancient appeal of the two holdings, the one nothing but ruins, the other surviving almost intact.

  Like most homes in this part of the world, it spoke to the generations, the harsh Georgian façade giving way to Elizabethan wings running both to the east and the west. Although Lily doubted the Scottish forbears would have described their homes based on English monarchs and their inspired architecture.

  Ivy and small pink roses curled around the pillars set on both sides of the entrance, the ivy having jumped from column to wall, its fan of dark green plumage climbing upward, spreading until it covered a large part of the right side of the manor. It should have softened the sharp lines of the stone edifice, but somehow it only managed to add to the house's grandeur.

  "There's nothing left of the original tower?" Lily asked as they walked up the steps to the massive front door. "I'd hoped…" She trailed off, not sure really what it was she wanted. Another flash of the past perhaps. Something to let her know with certainty that Bram was all right.

  Despite her anger, she couldn't stand the thought that he could be hurt. Or worse. She shook her head, the illogic of her thoughts threatening to swamp her emotions. Bram was dead. Alec was dead. All of them were dead.

  She shivered, and Mrs. Abernathy laid a warm hand on her shoulder. "It's going to be all right, lamb. You just have to keep going. One step at a time. We need to find the truth of what happened and once that's accomplished, you'll know what to do."

  Lily nodded, squeezing the older woman's hand as Mrs. Abernathy pounded on the door. Lily fingered her father's ring nervously. She'd left Bram's brooch at Duncreag, fearful that even after all this time something so blatantly Macgillivray would hinder any connection she might establish with these modern day Comyns.

  The ancient door swung open on surprisingly silent hinges. A small woman with graying hair and a cheerful smile ushered them both inside. "Good afternoon. I'm the housekeeper. Mrs. Potter. The mistress is expecting you," she told Mrs. Abernathy, pausing to look back as Lily stepped across the threshold.

  For a moment the woman stood, stunned, eyes wide as her gaze locked on Lily. She swallowed once, her hand clutching her throat, and then with a shake of her head, she looked away, motioning them forward. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect…" She trailed off on a sigh. "It's just down the hallway. Second door on the right."

  "What in heaven's name do you think that was all about?" Mrs. Abernathy asked.

  "Maybe she's seen pictures of me in the tabloids." Lily shook her head. "My parents' death and the subsequent discovery that they were insolvent has been fodder for weeks."

  "I suppose it's possible." Mrs. Abernathy nodded, her frown indicating that she wasn't convinced. "Perhaps Mrs. Comyn will shed some light on the matter."

  The parlor was both elegant and comfortable, a combination not always easy to achieve. A graceful marble fireplace was centered on the far wall, a cheerful blaze in the grate. Ceramic figurines, Wedgewood and Limoges, were displayed at either end of the mantel, and a large oil painting that looked very much to be an original Gainsborough hung above it. Two wingbacks sat to one side of the fire with a graceful sofa across from them.

  It was from the sofa that the lady of the manor, Mrs. Comyn, rose, her welcoming smile fading as Lily and Mrs. Abernathy stepped into the light.

  "Oh my," she whispered, her hand rising to her throat in the same manner as her housekeeper's. "I had no idea. I mean… dear God." For a moment she too seemed to be held in thrall, and then on the quick release of a breath, she forced a smile. "Please forgive my manners. I didn't mean to stare." She moved her gaze to Mrs. Abernathy. "It's just that when you called, you didn't say that your friend was… well, I wasn't expecting her to be... well, to be… family."

  "I don't understand," Lily said, frowning at the woman and her obvious distress. "We're not related."

  "Well, no of course not. At least not by blood. But you're most definitely related to my husband." She nodded, her smile more genuine now. "Come, I'd thought to visit with you on my own. I know a fair bit about the family lore. But under the circumstances, you'll want to meet Reginald. And I've no doubt that he'll want to meet you."

  Lily turned to Mrs. Abernathy, tilting her head in silent question as Mrs. Comyn led the way from the room.

  "I've no idea," Mrs. Abernathy said with a shrug. "But I've a feeling we're about to find out."

  Mrs. Comyn led them farther down the hallway, pausing to rap on a door to the left of the staircase. Afte
r a murmured "Come," she ushered the two of them through the doors.

  This room was larger than the parlor, more elegant and slightly more daunting. Like the parlor, there was an ornate fireplace with a fire burning in the grate. But unlike the smaller, more intimate room, this one boasted a mural on the high ceiling and portraits displayed in clusters on almost every inch of wall space.

  Settees and chairs were arranged artfully throughout. And to Lily's eye, the room held an essence of time gone by, of elegance and artfulness that were often missing from today's more relaxed existence.

  In the far corner, a large gentleman strode around the end of a desk that had been placed to take advantage of both the grandeur of the room and the beauty of the gardens on the other side of the windows that lined the far wall.

  The light held him in silhouette for a moment, and then he stepped forward, brows raised in obvious question.

  It was Lily's turn to gasp. Although his dark hair was peppered with gray, he walked with an assured grace that belied his age. And his eyes glittered green as his gaze slowly raked her from head to toe.

  "Good God," he said, his shock echoing both his wife and his housekeeper's. "You look just like her."

  "Her who?" Lily managed, her gaze still captured by Mr. Comyn's. "I look just like you."

  "Aye, that you do." The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But then I suppose that comes as no surprise. With us both being Comyns."

  "But I'm not…" Lily began.

  "Oh, but you most assuredly are," the man informed her, taking her arm and leading her across the room to one of the groupings of portraits. "See for yourself." He gestured at a small painting in the center of the group. "If that's not the spitting image of you, then Bonnie Prince Charlie won his war and his kin are now sitting on the throne of England."

  "Merciful heaven," Mrs. Abernathy croaked as she moved to study the painting. "Except for the difference in your dress, the thing could be a mirror."

  The woman in the painting smiled at them from her canvas. From across time. Her green eyes were glittering and bright—her gaze strong and direct. Her dark hair was woven into an intricate braid, but even with the attempt to tame it, her curls had escaped confinement, twining around her neck and shoulders.

  Lily touched her own rioting curls, her gaze riveted on the woman in the gilded frame. This was a strong woman. A true lady. And Mrs. Abernathy was right; the portrait was like a mirror. The lines of her nose, the curve of her lips, even the tilt of her eyes was the same. And even if all of that could have been ignored, there was the finely wrought chain around the woman's neck, the filigreed links dropping to reveal the intricate silver of the ring strung upon it.

  A wedding ring. The same as Lily's father's.

  The same as the one that she too wore around her neck.

  CHAPTER 17

  "WHO IS SHE?" Lily asked as she whirled around to face the Comyns.

  "We don't know actually," Reginald Comyn said, gesturing toward a group of chairs and a small sofa.

  "But we think we do," Mrs. Comyn put in helpfully. "At least the painting has been dated to the right time."

  "Aye," Reginald acknowledged. "But we canna be certain. It isn't much more than a legend, really. And for me at least, I think the more pertinent question is who are you?"

  The silver of the ring seemed to burn the skin between her breasts, but Lily wasn't ready to share her treasure with the Comyns. At least not yet. There were too many other questions. Questions she hoped they could answer. "My name is Lily Chastain. My father was an entrepreneur. A quite infamous one, actually. You might have heard of him."

  She waited for a moment, watching the Comyns as they settled in the chairs across from the sofa she and Mrs. Abernathy were seated upon.

  "American?" Mr. Comyn frowned.

  Lily nodded.

  "And he died recently," his wife added. "Oh dear, your mother, too." She was a statuesque woman, elegant and refined. Not, Lily suspected, one given to emotional outbursts. Yet there was a quick flash of sympathy. "I read about it in the magazines."

  Mrs. Abernathy harrumphed, but didn't say anything more.

  "I'm so sorry, my dear," Mr. Comyn said. "But you must understand that your arrival here, looking as you do, is a bit of a shock for us. And we can't help but wonder how you fit into our family tree, so to speak. I mean, your friend is right. The portrait is like a bloody mirror." He smiled then, his gaze softening. "I'm afraid we've most likely given you a fright."

  "But you did request the interview with us," Mrs. Comyn said. "So you must have suspected something."

  Oh God, faced with the two of them, clearly dying of curiosity, Lily suddenly found herself at a loss for words. How in the hell was she supposed to explain to these people what had happened to her? And worst of all, if the woman in the portrait was indeed a Comyn then that meant she, too, carried Comyn blood. Which meant that she and Bram… it was beyond belief. His mortal enemies were her kin.

  In modern day terms it might mean nothing, but in his day—in his time—family was everything. And if the worst were true, her family was responsible for his father's death. And at this very moment, in some other plane of time, Bram was about to attack her ancestor.

  She closed her eyes, cold sweat breaking across her brow.

  "Lily, are you all right?" Mrs. Abernathy's hand closed over hers. "Breathe, lamb. Just breathe."

  She nodded, concentrating on the simple act of inhaling and exhaling. Then opened her eyes slowly, the room swaying a little and then coming clear. "I'm fine. It's just that all of this—" She waved a hand towards the portrait. "—is a bit much."

  "So you'd no notion that you were our kin?" Mr. Comyn asked.

  "No, sir. I had no idea. In fact, I'm still not certain how we're connected."

  "Call me Reginald," the man insisted, leaning forward earnestly in his chair. "We are family after all."

  "And I'm Tildy." Mrs. Comyn smiled, the gesture lighting her blue eyes. "Short for Matilda. I always thought it was an overpowering name."

  They were trying to set her at ease, which made her heart swell. Good lord, if they were right, she had family. Living family. On the wrong side of a blood feud. She sucked in another breath.

  "Best to start at the beginning, I always say." Mrs. Abernathy smiled at all of them. "Your last name is Chastain. Clearly not a Scottish name."

  "No. My father's family was originally from Provence. His grandfather was French."

  "He could have married someone Scottish," Tildy suggested.

  "It's possible, but my great-grandmother's given name was Lily. Like mine. Only she spelled it with an 'i'."

  "What about your mother?" Mrs. Abernathy queried.

  Lily forced herself to focus on the conversation, ignoring her rioting thoughts. "She was a Mandel. German, I think. But her father was like fifth generation American. Made his money in steel." She closed her eyes, thinking back on her mother's stories. "I don't know much about my grandmother, Lydia. She died before I was born. But I remember my mother saying she was originally from South Africa…" She scrunched up her nose. "I remember my mother showing me a letter. And then going to look the address up on a map once to see if I could find it."

  "Well, that would seem a dead end," Tildy said on a sigh.

  "Not necessarily," her husband interjected. "A lot of Scottish people immigrated to South Africa. Where did she live?"

  Again Lily had to rake her memory. "It was outside the city of Constantia. A place called Airlie."

  "But Airlie is a Gaelic name," Mrs. Abernathy protested.

  "Aye, and as with most immigrants, people named their new homes after their old ones." Reginald frowned, tapping a finger against his chin as he thought. "There's an Airlie in Aberdeenshire. Near to Cuminstown."

  "Named for your family?" Lily asked.

  "Aye, that it is." Reginald was smiling now. "Can you remember your great-grandmother's name perchance?"

  "That I do know. Her name was
Niven. Like the actor. David. Only her first name was Jeanne." Lily smiled triumphantly at the assembled company. "Jeanne Niven. I remember because we had an old quilt her Sunday School class embroidered one year when she was sick. It had all of their names and hers as well. Now that I think on it, it would have had to have been before she was married. My great-grandfather's last name was Balog. But it doesn't matter. Niven is an English name, surely."

  "It is," Reginald said, exchanging a glance with his wife. "But it's an Anglicized version of a Scottish name. Macniven."

  "And," Tildy added, "Macniven is a sept of the Comyns."

  Lily shook her head, not familiar with the term.

  "A related clan. Often by blood," Mrs. Abernathy explained. "Which means your great-grandmother's family was most likely from Scotland. Perhaps near Ailie. And given the resemblance you and Reginald share, not to mention the lady—" She tipped her head toward the portrait. "—I'd say you most definitely carry Comyn blood."

  "But this is awful," Lily gasped without thinking.

  "I beg your pardon?" Reginald's gaze hardened.

  "Oh God, I didn't mean it like that. In fact, it's marvelous to have found family just after I've lost all of mine. It's just that it complicates things a great deal."

  "Such is life, I'm afraid." Tildy shrugged with a smile. "I'd never thought to see the lady come to life in such a way. I'll admit you gave me a turn when you walked into the parlor."

  "Mrs. Potter too if I had to call it," Mrs. Abernathy said. "The puir wee woman was as white as a banshee."

  "I think we can all agree that this, err, development, took us all by surprise."

  Lily's gaze was drawn again to the portrait. "Tell me what you know of the lady. You said something about a legend."

  "It's just a story. There's nothing to substantiate it. Not even the portrait."

  "But the timing is right. The art historian said it was probably painted sometime between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries. Which means she could be Tyra."