The Journey Home

“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 of the Dunbars were loyal te’ Wee German Geordie.”

“Most interesting, Mrs. MacClean. You know, this pie is fit for Bonnie Prince Charlie himself!” He grinned at her in a shameless bid to return to her good graces.

“Och, yer a flatterer, Mr. Jack. I’m sure ye’ve eaten much finer dishes in those fancy hotels ye and Sir Peter are forever running around in. It seems to me neither of ye ever sit doon te’ breathe.”

“Fancier perhaps, Mrs. MacC., but certainly not finer.”

She shook with laughter and then stood still, listening. “Is that a car I hear? Who the de’il could be coming here at this hour?”

The dogs were barking near the door. “I’d better gae and see. You get on wi’ yer pudding.”

“I’ll come with you. I’ve just about finished anyway,” he said, laying the napkin aside, not liking the idea of her going alone.

Mrs. MacClean laughed. “Och, dinna’ worry, I’ll be fine. There’s nae criminals in these parts, Mr. Jack. This isna’ America.”

A knock sounded at the side door. Whisking off her apron, she hurried to answer.

“I’ll be off, then. Good night, Mrs. MacC., and thanks. That was one great dinner.”

Jack headed down the corridor to Peter’s study. He pushed aside some papers and brochures on the desk, making space for himself. His eyes wandered around the busy room filled with old relics, faded photographs and ancient weapons that lay strewn amongst the paraphernalia and stacks of books. Peter was a hoarder, he remarked, smiling to himself as he watched Felix, the older of the three retrievers, scratching the threadbare hem of the drapes. “Hey, don’t do that, Felix, that’s destruction of property,” he chided. Felix paid no attention.

He suddenly remembered that evening five years ago, in Hong Kong, when he’d sat with Peter at the bar of the Penn, celebrating their partnership. The two men had liked each other from the start. There was something frank and straightforward in Peter’s ruddy face. The man stood straight as a ramrod when he was on the job, his military days in the Black Watch not forgotten. Jack’s instinct had told him he was dealing with a straight shooter, and time had proved him right. Both their business and friendship had prospered.

Jack rose and poured himself a brandy from the decanter before selecting a Cohiba from the humidor. He gently rolled the tip in the amber liquid, Cuban style, before lighting it. The smoke spiraled up, climbing slowly on its narrow path toward the ceiling as he recalled their dinner at Gaddi’s and the strange atmosphere of the evening. Both men had been subdued rather than elated, as though aware they were stepping into a new era. Suddenly Peter had turned to him and said, “Why don’t you visit us at Dalkirk, Jack. I think you’d enjoy Scotland. We’ve some fairly decent shooting and fishing, and I’d like you to meet my wife, Diana, and the girls.”

Jack’s thoughts were brusquely interrupted when the door burst open and Chloë entered, wrapped, like a snow queen, in a three-quarter-length sable coat and hat.

“Hello, Yank. I didn’t know you were here.” Diana’s lovely young sister threw her Vuitton tote on the leather armchair, and removed her coat, then came over and gave him a hug.

“What brings you here out of the blue?” he asked, watching, amused, as she slowly wound down. Chloë was like a fashionable pixie, short and dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that sparkled mischievously in a pert face. It always surprised him how someone so small could have so much energy. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Oh lovely! G and T please, I’m exhausted. I’m here on an emergency,” she added, her expression suddenly sad. “Where are Peter and Di?”

“At your mother’s for the girls’ half-term break.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Why didn’t you go?” She eyed him curiously.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“Sorry, I just asked. I had a rotten journey by the way. There were no taxis at Turnhouse, so finally I rented a car, which I’ll have to leave at the airport on the way back. But I had to come.” She gave a heavy sigh.

“I’ve gathered that, but you still haven’t told me why,” Jack said patiently, handing her the drink before retreating once more behind the voluminous desk.

“Funeral.” She grimaced, looking distressed. “My best friend’s mother died. We’ve always been there for each other since boarding school. I popped up on the shuttle, and I’ll leave tomorrow night or early the next day.”

“Do you mean India’s mom?”

“Yes…but how do you know that?” Chloë asked in astonishment.

“We’ve met.”

“You didn’t!” She laid the glass of gin and tonic down and leaned forward, herself once more. “You must tell me all about it.”