was instantly ashamed. The poor woman was bedridden and old, and despite the fact that she had money, no one, no matter how indigent, would willingly exchange places with her.
The nurse entered the room, smiled at me, and leaned over the bed. “Lady Maxwell,” she said in the precise, clipped tone of London’s Mayfair district, “Miss Murray is here all the way from America to see you. Don’t be stubborn now. She’s been traveling a long time.”
Like birds’ wings, Ellen Maxwell’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. With great effort, the lids lifted, and eyes, foggy from their drug-induced sleep, stared up at me. Several minutes passed as she struggled to focus.
“She’ll be fine now,” the nurse said. “You may speak to her if you like. Only her body is paralyzed. Her mind is sharp as a tack.” She nodded and patted my shoulder before leaving the room.
Ellen’s dark eyes, now lucid with intelligence, moved over my face, carefully analyzing each feature. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. Never before or since have I been so calculatingly scrutinized. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I stared out the window, allowing the old woman to look her fill. I was about to speak when the atmosphere in the room changed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Perplexed, I looked down at the aged face and felt the smile freeze on my lips.
Ellen Maxwell was terrified. There could be no mistake. Her body was rigid, her hands curled into claws. Every muscle in her too-thin face was strained by a hideous contortion. Her forehead was knotted, her nostrils flared. Her lips were pulled back, exposing teeth clenched in a feral grimace. Violent tremors rocked her frame, and her breath came in harsh, laboring gasps. A wrenching moan escaped from deep within her chest, a sound so primitive and guttural, so completely filled with despair, that it shattered what was left of my fragile control. I knew with terrifying certainty that Ellen Maxwell’s agony had everything to do with me.
“What is it?” I managed to whisper, bending over the bed. “What’s wrong?”
The anguished eyes fixed on my face pleaded for mercy. I backed away and then turned and ran to the door, throwing it open. “Help!” I shouted down the empty hallway. Where was the nurse? Why had she left us alone? The inevitable tears I had never been able to control welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. “Someone please help me,” I begged.
Behind me, a door opened. The nurse’s sturdy, white-clad figure crossed the threshold where I stood and walked quickly to the bed. She placed expert fingers on the sick woman’s wrist and then against her throat. Frowning, she leaned her head against those lips still frozen in their snarling grimace. Finally she stood, shook her head, and pulled the sheet over Ellen Maxwell’s head. “Poor dear,” she said softly. “The strain was too much for her. We’ve been expecting this for quite a while. I’m sure the diagnosis will be heart attack.”
“Do you mean she’s dead?” My voice cracked. “Just like that?” Visions of Hollywood emergency room scenes and frenzied doctors shouting for digitalis, while heart monitors bleeped their reassuring vertical lines, signaling the victim’s return to life, flashed through my mind.
“I’m afraid so, miss,” the nurse said regretfully. “It was only a matter of time. She didn’t want to be kept on with life support. It was her last wish that she meet you before she died.”
“But why? I didn’t even know her.”
“I couldn’t say. Perhaps your questions will be answered by her solicitor.”
Desperate for fresh air, I found my way down the stairs, past a maze of rooms, to the front door. A soft Scots brogue stopped me.
“Can I help you find anything, miss?”
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I recognized the stone-faced maid who’d ushered me inside when I’d first arrived. I considered telling her about Lady Maxwell but decided against it. It certainly wasn’t a stranger’s place to break the news of an employer’s death. “I needed some air and thought I’d take a walk,” I answered instead.
“I don’t blame you. The weather is lovely. Why don’t you take the path toward the Bear Gates. It’s a charming walk, and maybe you’ll find a docent who can give you a tour.”
“A docent?”
“Traquair House must make a living, Miss Murray. There’s a small restaurant and gift shop around the corner. In the summer, the company rooms are open all week for tourists.” She looked at me strangely. “Have you never