Chapter 24 #2
At the top of a small hill, scarcely taller than a knoll and nowhere near the mountain he’d wished for, Douglas stopped, planted his feet apart, and surveyed Kilmarin and the surrounding countryside.
This was Scotland, his land, his home. Here, he’d played as a boy, dreamed of being more than he was even when he was hungry and cold.
He looked to the left, where grayish blue hills gave way to rolling glens, the braes carpeted with lush green grass.
To the right was the River Tay, sparkling in the morning sunlight, the sight of it bringing a lump to his throat.
He’d wanted so much as that small boy—to be bigger and stronger, to be able to protect himself. He’d achieved every one of his dreams and even more.
He loved.
That single emotion seemed a miracle in itself.
Having never felt it from his parents, he hadn’t known how to accept it from others.
Alano’s kindness to an angry young man had been initially rebuffed.
Only later, many months later, had Douglas realized that some people didn’t need to hit the defenseless to prove they were stronger.
He’d begun by respecting Alano, and from that respect had come friendship.
Because he’d been able to feel friendship for another person, he’d learned to love.
A frightening emotion, love. Far more frightening and powerful than anything he’d ever experienced, including fear. Perhaps love was what made heroes of simple men.
He would do anything for Sarah. He would climb mountains and swim the River Tay for her. He would lay bare his soul, and stand in wait, naked and defenseless, for her scorn.
Perhaps he could become someone braver than he was, someone magnificent and capable of great and wondrous acts. All for love.
He would open the envelope of time and show her who he’d been, reveal the boy filled with rage and determination and the man overflowing with curiosity and passion.
For her, and in deference to what he felt for her.
Toward the end of the day, Sarah and her cousin were walking through the corridor belonging to the family rooms when Linda suddenly stopped in front of one of the doors.
“This was your mother’s chamber when she was a girl. Would you like to see it?”
Surprised, Sarah turned toward the door. Kilmarin was evidently so large bedrooms could be set aside and never used again. She nodded, and Linda withdrew a key from the ring she carried, inserted it into the lock, and stepped back.
Sarah walked forward, turned the latch, and entered the room.
The curtains were shut against an afternoon sun, but light streamed between the panels.
She’d thought her mother’s chamber at Chavensworth was lovely, but it was nothing compared to this room.
A four-poster bed decorated with stunning ivory and red panels sat against one wall.
Adjacent to it was a large armoire, and on the opposite side of the room were both a vanity and a small desk.
There was no dust anywhere. Neither was there a musty scent, as if the room had often been aired.
As if the room were readied for Morna’s return.
“Do you know how to get back to your own room?” Linda asked softly.
She nodded.
“Then I shall leave you.” She came to Sarah’s side and pressed a key into her hands. “If you would lock the door when you’re finished. Grandfather does not like the room disturbed. He keeps it just as it was before your mother went to England.”
“Like a shrine,” Sarah said softly.
Linda didn’t answer, only turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Sarah stood motionless, wondering at the scent in the air. Something that smelled of roses, or perhaps lilies. Something lighter than the perfume her mother had worn at Chavensworth. A girl’s perfume, perhaps.
Slowly, Sarah walked toward the vanity. On the wooden top was an array of crystal bottles, some of them still revealing traces of perfume. A long silver comb sat beside a silver-backed brush. To the left of the vanity, and reflected in the oval mirror, was a small oil lamp.
Had her mother sat here as a girl, wondering about her future? Dreaming about it, in the way that young girls are wont to do?
Sarah thought her heart would break.
Sarah opened the right-hand drawer of the vanity, startled to find that it was filled with jars and bottles, some of whose contents had long since evaporated.
One or two, she was surprised to find, were still full, like the container of talc, and the jar of pomade.
Had Morna left for England, then, without any of her personal possessions?
Instead of feeling as if she were a trespasser, someone rifling through her mother’s things, Sarah felt as if her mother would approve. Even more than that, she felt as if her mother were in the room here and now, the first time she’d truly felt Morna’s presence at Kilmarin.
Here was the girl Sarah had never known. A child who’d evidently been cherished and treated as a princess. Had it been difficult for her, leaving Kilmarin and never once returning?
She thought about what it would be like for her if she had to leave Chavensworth. What if circumstances decreed that she live somewhere far away? For now, her father was content to have her manage the estate, but perhaps he would remarry and bring another woman home. Would she grieve?
Sarah looked at her reflection in the oval mirror of the vanity.
She’d never before thought of leaving Chavensworth, and as Sarah did so now, she felt no sense of deep pain.
The memories she had of her home were those involving people.
Her early recollections of her father before she’d learned to avoid his presence.
The joy of her days with her mother, her governess, the servants she’d grown to love.
Without its inhabitants, a house was just a structure, however beautiful it might be.
Was that what her mother had felt about Kilmarin?
All these years, she’d thought she knew her mother, not strictly as a parent, but as a friend, a confidante. As she stared at herself in the mirror, Sarah realized that she didn’t know Morna Tulloch Herridge at all.
She opened the left-hand door, deeper than the one on the right-hand side. Here, the drawer was nearly empty, except for an ornate inlaid box, the dark wood hinting at its age. She placed it on top of the vanity and opened the top.
Inside was a hand mirror, crafted of gold, its handle heavily incised with trailing roses. She turned it over to see that the glass was brown with age.
Something was written on the back, in a language she thought at first was Gaelic, but then recognized as Latin. Her governess had insisted she learn Latin, but it had been years since she’d done any declinations of verbs.
Animadverto vestri, visum posterus. Either the words meant to see the truth of the future, or to view your future, she wasn’t sure which.
Slowly, she turned the mirror and held the brown glass up in front of her face, raising her eyes to her own reflection. The dark surface of the mirror was no doubt due to its age. Behind her, she could see nothing. The only reflection was her face, and it was her but not her at the same time.
The eyes of the woman who faced her were filled with grief, but not the sorrow she still felt, and would probably always feel, for her mother.
This was a living, clawing emotion comprised of rage, denial, torment, and loss.
As she watched, clouds boiled around her, as if her reflection were in the middle of a storm.
Her eyes seemed to be windows into a pain she could not bear to witness.
She lowered the mirror to the dressing table’s surface and placed both hands over the back of it, as if to keep the reflection within the glass.
If such anguish was truly her fate, she didn’t want to know the future.