light closer. There was an etching of some sort on the windowpane. As she looked closely, she saw that it read, “Malcolm and Kettie M’Cuick, 1753.”
There were etchings on other panes, too, all names and dates, spanning some two hundred years. Libby stood and read through them all, captivated by this remarkable piece of history. Some had etched just their names, others had etched lines of poetry. But it was one pane in particular, high above the others, that had her stopping and catching her breath.
Matilde Donn, 1959.
Libby touched a fingertip to the glass where her mother’s name had been scribbled as the swell of tears filled her eyes.
Matilde had been there after all.
Libby turned, seized with a feeling of gleeful validation. Other than that birth record, this was the first tangible proof that her mother had lived in the village, grown up there. Libby wanted to shout out loud—
Yes!
She wanted to high-five something. She wanted to tell someone this incredibly good news. Instead, all she found was an empty room.
And the only person she could possibly talk to quite obviously wanted nothing to do with her.
Back in the den, she was too keyed up to even think about going to sleep. She couldn’t watch television or listen to the radio, so instead she headed for the shelf of books she’d spotted earlier, partly out of occupational curiosity, but also from a sheer desire for something to read.
She wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Mackenzie, in fact, had impeccable taste in reading material, from both a substance and an investment standpoint. And his library revealed a lot about him.
He liked poetry, and historical literature, and also had a thing for contemporary thrillers. The
Culpeper’s Herbal
was a bit unexpected, especially such an early edition, professionally rebound in tooled and gilt leather with some of the pages closely trimmed to the text. The book looked as if it had been well utilized, with some pages containing handwritten notations. On the market it would fetch easily into the thousands. A rare find, indeed.
As she scanned the other titles, her gaze fell on one book in particular. The gilt lettering on its spine read simply
The Book of the Mackay.
Libby removed it from its place on the shelf, turning it in her hands as she quickly assessed it with the eye of a collector.
Leather-covered boards. Raised bands on the spine. She opened the book and held one page up to the light. Laid paper. Late eighteenth century, she suspected. She turned to the title page, did a quick translation of the line of Roman numerals printed at the bottom: 1774. It was a rare edition, but what made it unique was the realization that it had been written by a woman.
Libby stared at the name printed in blocked letters across the title page.
“Lady Isabella Mackay of Wrath.”
Had she been lady of this same castle? Women had rarely achieved publication at that time in history, and if they did, it was typically in poetry, more seldom in fiction, but rarely, if ever, in nonfiction.
Libby turned to the first page, and began to read:
What follows on these pages is an account of great history about a clan of profound importance in the annals of Scotland. In chronicling the generations, this author humbly hopes to impart not only the events of the past, but the lives of those who witnessed them. It is my hope that perhaps, God willing, my own descendant might one day continue this endeavor in a subsequent volume, setting down the lives and history of those who will follow after me.
The heartfelt message, so beautifully written, immediately captivated her. Libby took the blanket and curled up on one end of the sofa where the light of the candle burned brightest.
Snuggling in, she began to read.
Chapter Seven
It was near two in the morning when the storm finally slackened, moving off to sea. Graeme knew, because he’d been lying in his bed, listening to the ebbing sound of it for the past several hours.
He hadn’t
There were etchings on other panes, too, all names and dates, spanning some two hundred years. Libby stood and read through them all, captivated by this remarkable piece of history. Some had etched just their names, others had etched lines of poetry. But it was one pane in particular, high above the others, that had her stopping and catching her breath.
Matilde Donn, 1959.
Libby touched a fingertip to the glass where her mother’s name had been scribbled as the swell of tears filled her eyes.
Matilde had been there after all.
Libby turned, seized with a feeling of gleeful validation. Other than that birth record, this was the first tangible proof that her mother had lived in the village, grown up there. Libby wanted to shout out loud—
Yes!
She wanted to high-five something. She wanted to tell someone this incredibly good news. Instead, all she found was an empty room.
And the only person she could possibly talk to quite obviously wanted nothing to do with her.
Back in the den, she was too keyed up to even think about going to sleep. She couldn’t watch television or listen to the radio, so instead she headed for the shelf of books she’d spotted earlier, partly out of occupational curiosity, but also from a sheer desire for something to read.
She wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Mackenzie, in fact, had impeccable taste in reading material, from both a substance and an investment standpoint. And his library revealed a lot about him.
He liked poetry, and historical literature, and also had a thing for contemporary thrillers. The
Culpeper’s Herbal
was a bit unexpected, especially such an early edition, professionally rebound in tooled and gilt leather with some of the pages closely trimmed to the text. The book looked as if it had been well utilized, with some pages containing handwritten notations. On the market it would fetch easily into the thousands. A rare find, indeed.
As she scanned the other titles, her gaze fell on one book in particular. The gilt lettering on its spine read simply
The Book of the Mackay.
Libby removed it from its place on the shelf, turning it in her hands as she quickly assessed it with the eye of a collector.
Leather-covered boards. Raised bands on the spine. She opened the book and held one page up to the light. Laid paper. Late eighteenth century, she suspected. She turned to the title page, did a quick translation of the line of Roman numerals printed at the bottom: 1774. It was a rare edition, but what made it unique was the realization that it had been written by a woman.
Libby stared at the name printed in blocked letters across the title page.
“Lady Isabella Mackay of Wrath.”
Had she been lady of this same castle? Women had rarely achieved publication at that time in history, and if they did, it was typically in poetry, more seldom in fiction, but rarely, if ever, in nonfiction.
Libby turned to the first page, and began to read:
What follows on these pages is an account of great history about a clan of profound importance in the annals of Scotland. In chronicling the generations, this author humbly hopes to impart not only the events of the past, but the lives of those who witnessed them. It is my hope that perhaps, God willing, my own descendant might one day continue this endeavor in a subsequent volume, setting down the lives and history of those who will follow after me.
The heartfelt message, so beautifully written, immediately captivated her. Libby took the blanket and curled up on one end of the sofa where the light of the candle burned brightest.
Snuggling in, she began to read.
Chapter Seven
It was near two in the morning when the storm finally slackened, moving off to sea. Graeme knew, because he’d been lying in his bed, listening to the ebbing sound of it for the past several hours.
He hadn’t
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