Page 52 of Cottage in the Mist
“American?” Mr. Comyn frowned.
Lily nodded.
“And he died recently,” his wife added. “Oh dear, your mother, too.” She was a statuesque woman, elegant and refined. Not, Lily suspected, one given to emotional outbursts. Yet there was a quick flash of sympathy. “I read about it in the magazines.”
Mrs. Abernathy harrumphed, but didn’t say anything more.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Mr. Comyn said. “But you must understand that your arrival here, looking as you do, is a bit of a shock for us. And we can’t help but wonder how you fit into our family tree, so to speak. I mean, your friend is right. The portrait is like a bloody mirror.” He smiled then, his gaze softening. “I’m afraid we’ve most likely given you a fright.”
“But you did request the interview with us,” Mrs. Comyn said. “So you must have suspected something.”
Oh God, faced with the two of them, clearly dying of curiosity, Lily suddenly found herself at a loss for words. How in the hell was she supposed to explain to these people what had happened to her? And worst of all, if the woman in the portrait was indeed a Comyn then that meant she, too, carried Comyn blood. Which meant that she and Bram… it was beyond belief. His mortal enemies were her kin.
In modern day terms it might mean nothing, but in his day—in his time—family was everything. And if the worst were true, her family was responsible for his father’s death. And at this very moment, in some other plane of time, Bram was about to attack her ancestor.
She closed her eyes, cold sweat breaking across her brow.
“Lily, are you all right?” Mrs. Abernathy’s hand closed over hers. “Breathe, lamb. Just breathe.”
She nodded, concentrating on the simple act of inhaling and exhaling. Then opened her eyes slowly, the room swaying a little and then coming clear. “I’m fine. It’s just that all of this—“ She waved a hand towards the portrait. “—is a bit much.”
“So you’d no notion that you were our kin?” Mr. Comyn asked.
“No, sir. I had no idea. In fact, I’m still not certain how we’re connected.”
“Call me Reginald,” the man insisted, leaning forward earnestly in his chair. “We are family after all.”
“And I’m Tildy.” Mrs. Comyn smiled, the gesture lighting her blue eyes. “Short for Matilda. I always thought it was an overpowering name.”
They were trying to set her at ease, which made her heart swell. Good lord, if they were right, she had family. Living family. On the wrong side of a blood feud. She sucked in another breath.
“Best to start at the beginning, I always say.” Mrs. Abernathy smiled at all of them. “Your last name is Chastain. Clearly not a Scottish name.”
“No. My father’s family was originally from Provence. His grandfather was French.”
“He could have married someone Scottish,” Tildy suggested.
“It’s possible, but my great-grandmother’s given name was Lily. Like mine. Only she spelled it with an ‘i’.”
“What about your mother?” Mrs. Abernathy queried.
Lily forced herself to focus on the conversation, ignoring her rioting thoughts. “She was a Mandel. German, I think. But her father was like fifth generation American. Made his money in steel.” She closed her eyes, thinking back on her mother’s stories. “I don’t know much about my grandmother, Lydia. She died before I was born. But I remember my mother saying she was originally from South Africa…” She scrunched up her nose. “I remember my mother showing me a letter. And then going to look the address up on a map once to see if I could find it.”
“Well, that would seem a dead end,” Tildy said on a sigh.
“Not necessarily,” her husband interjected. “A lot of Scottish people immigrated to South Africa. Where did she live?”
Again Lily had to rake her memory. “It was outside the city of Constantia. A place called Airlie.”
“But Airlie is a Gaelic name,” Mrs. Abernathy protested.
“Aye, and as with most immigrants, people named their new homes after their old ones.” Reginald frowned, tapping a finger against his chin as he thought. “There’s an Airlie in Aberdeenshire. Near to Cuminstown.”
“Named for your family?” Lily asked.
“Aye, that it is.” Reginald was smiling now. “Can you remember your great-grandmother’s name perchance?”
“That I do know. Her name was Niven. Like the actor. David. Only her first name was Jeanne.” Lily smiled triumphantly at the assembled company. “Jeanne Niven. I remember because we had an old quilt her Sunday School class embroidered one year when she was sick. It had all of their names and hers as well. Now that I think on it, it would have had to have been before she was married. My great-grandfather’s last name was Balog. But it doesn’t matter. Niven is an English name, surely.”
