Page 53 of Cottage in the Mist
“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.”
“Or any other of a thousand Comyn women long dead and gone.”
Lily shivered, her gut tightening as she stared up at the woman.
“But surely there’s no harm in sharing the legend,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “I mean, in light of the fact that Lily is clearly the lady’s descendent.”
Reginald shrugged, and nodded to his wife. “Tildy tells the tale far better than I.”
“How much do you know about the Comyns?” Tildy asked.
“Not much.” Nothing except what a five-hundred-year-old Macgillivray had told her. “Just that they were a powerful clan. And that there was some kind of blood feud between the Comyns and a rival clan. The Macgillivrays.”
“Well, that’s the heart of it really.” Tildy nodded her approval. “And the legend is the source, I’m sad to say, of thatvery feud. Many years ago, when David was king of all Scotland, the Comyn clan was already very old and powerful. And because of that, they’d made their share of enemies along the way, the most virulent of those, the Macgillivrays. The initial cause of the two clans’ dislike is lost in time, but doubtless it stemmed from their rivalry for positions of power.
“But their animosity toward one another was no more or less than that between any powerful opposing clans. Until Graeme Macgillivray fell in love with Tyra Comyn.”
“And the portrait?” Lily interrupted. “You think she’s Tyra Comyn?”
“There’s no proof, lass,” Reginald said. “But family lore has it as true. The portrait has been handed down through the centuries. And no matter what befalls the family, the portrait always manages to survive.”
“The woman was known as the light of the valley. And as such, was supposed to have been uncommonly lovely.” Tildy smiled, shooting a glance in Lily’s direction. “As are you, my dear.”
Lily blushed and shivered, her feelings at odds with each other, something almost approaching memory teasing at the corners of her mind. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on Mrs. Comyn and her story.
“Anyway, as you can imagine, a love between the two clans would have been forbidden. And so our lovers, Graeme and Tyra, hid their burgeoning relationship from their respective families until the day that Tyra told Graeme that she was with child.
“Overjoyed at the news, Graeme pledged his love, and begged her to marry him. And they did so, in secret, fearing for the wee bairn’s life. But Graeme also believed that he could convince his father to accept his bride. His father, a great laird, ’twas no’ happy with the news, but could see that his son would ne’er beconvinced to leave the lass. So he agreed to accept the union and invited all of Tyra’s clan to a great feast to celebrate the nuptials.”
“The Red Wedding,” Lily whispered, her stomaching quaking with the image.
“I’m sorry?” Tildy responded, her brows furrowing in question.
“It’s from a book. By George R.R. Martin. It’s not important.” She waved a hand for Tildy to continue.
