Page 31 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)

“Who is she?” Lily asked as she whirled around to face the Comyns.

“We don’t know actually,” Reginald Comyn said, gesturing toward a group of chairs and a small sofa.

“But we think we do,” Mrs. Comyn put in helpfully. “At least the painting has been dated to the right time.”

“Aye,” Reginald acknowledged. “But we canna be certain. It isn’t much more than a legend, really. And for me at least, I think the more pertinent question is who are you?”

The silver of the ring seemed to burn the skin between her breasts, but Lily wasn’t ready to share her treasure with the Comyns.

At least not yet. There were too many other questions.

Questions she hoped they could answer. “My name is Lily Chastain. My father was an entrepreneur. A quite infamous one, actually. You might have heard of him.”

She waited for a moment, watching the Comyns as they settled in the chairs across from the sofa she and Mrs. Abernathy were seated upon.

“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. ”

“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 that very 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.