As they traveled farther west, the earth began to sprout green, turning from rock to undulating glen. In the distance was the glimmer of a lake surrounded by a forest of pine. For a time, the road followed a glistening silver river before the rolling hills hid it from view.
He liked Scotland, and it surprised him that he did. He liked the mountains surrounding him, the scent of the air, different from Virginia. His home was young and vibrant. A seed dropped in the ground would boast a budding plant within days. This ground was harder and older. Any coaxing would be done with oaths and threats.
They stopped for a drink a few hours later at what Donald, the coachman, told him was the Well of the Phantom Hand. The water was cold, crystal clear, and welcome, as was the respite from the silence in the carriage.
When they resumed their journey, it was with the information they’d arrive at Doncaster Hall within the hour.
The hills varied in shape and size, some large, some smaller, all in varying shades of green from olive to emerald. The far-off glint of water hinted at the river they’d followed for a time.
The slope of one hill ended where another began, almost like interlocking fingers. The packed-earth road, wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast, wound up and over each incline. Two deer looked out from behind a cluster of boulders, curious about the strangers.
“We’re nearly there,” Veronica said, as they crossed a wide planked bridge, the wood darkened to a rich umber.
A glen, shaped like an arrowhead, opened up before them. On either side, the tree-covered hills seemed to point the way to another hill, one carpeted in emerald grass and topped by a sprawling house. A river, now wide and placid, sat like an engorged snake beside the home of the Lords Fairfax of Doncaster.
The breath stilled in his chest.
Before him, as if it had been magically transported from Virginia, was Gleneagle. Two long red brick wings jutted from either side of a center structure boasting a tall pitched roof. White-framed windows glittered in the morning sun. The river flowing around the base of the hill might have been the James, and the mature trees, some looking to be well more than a hundred years old, might be those he’d played in as a boy.
He closed his eyes. For a long moment, he kept them closed, fighting against a spurt of longing so intense it threatened to unman him. Then he tested himself again and opened them to find the scene unchanged.
“What is it, Montgomery?”
He forced himself to glance over at Veronica.
“Nothing,” he said. How could he explain the rush of memory? Or the sudden awareness his grandfather had built Gleneagle as a reminder of all he’d loved in Scotland. How could he tell her that the ghost of the old man was beside him now, patting his shoulder in approbation?
He would sound as odd as she did when speaking of her Gift.
She remained silent, kindly allowing him his lie.
As they approached the house, the past surged up to welcome him. The circular drive to Doncaster Hall was the same as Gleneagle’s. He half expected, when the carriage stopped in front of the door, to see all the people he’d loved rushing outto greet him. His brothers, Caroline, ghosts who had never seen this place, and never walked this ground.
The silence remained unbroken for long moments.
Finally, he gripped the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped down. He half turned toward Doncaster Hall as the front door opened, the yawning cavern revealing nothing for a moment. In that second, he held his breath, waiting. Was this heaven? Had he somehow died on the voyage to England? Had God rewarded him for his minuscule good deeds by conveying him to this place, this mound of earth so resembling the home of his heart?
Instead of Magnus or James, Alisdair, or even Caroline, the man who opened the door was a stranger to him, followed immediately by Edmund Kerr, his solicitor.
He turned, extended a hand to Veronica, and clasped hers too hard as she stepped down from the carriage. His wife then did something odd. She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and kissed him on the cheek.
Before she pulled away, she whispered, “I’m here, Montgomery.”
He was startled to see a look of compassion on her face. Was he so transparent she could tell what he was feeling?
“Welcome to Doncaster Hall, Lord Fairfax,” Edmund said, striding to the carriage.
He turned to face his solicitor, conscious that Veronica had slipped her arm through his. Who was supporting whom?
“You made good time,” Edmund said, smiling widely.
How odd that his solicitor had lost his dour appearance and now appeared almost jocular.
He nodded, still uncertain if he could speak.
Edmund gestured with a hand toward the house. “As you can see, this is Doncaster Hall.”
Montgomery made a great show of patting Veronica’s hand and studying the gravel before following Edmund up the path.
