Give me but one hour of Scotland,
Let me see it ere I die.
WILLIAM AYTOUN
SCOTLAND
MAY 1851
There was an echo of Kentucky in these hills, the same wild beauty she’d been born to. Walking hand in hand with James down a ribbon of road that curled and dipped amid bracken and heather and wandering sheep, Wren pondered why it held no strangeness. No doubt it was the man beside her who had made all the difference to her homesick heart.
She looked back over her shoulder to their honeymoon retreat with a sigh. After a three-month idyll, the Ballantynes’ country estate felt like home, inhabited by a skeleton staff of servants who called them a pair of turtledoves and left them mostly alone. Pearl-white and nested in all the greens of spring, the Ballantyne mansion was far younger than Blair Castle with its stony grandeur farther down the road but retained a charm all its own.
“I wish Grandfather was here.” She couldn’t help but think of him. Scotland was full of reminders of the Ballantynes and their beginnings. “Granny too.”
With a small smile James clasped her hands, helping her over a stone dike. “They’re on their way.”
“What?” She fastened surprised eyes on him as her boots sank into loamy ground.
“Silas wants to see Scotland again and hear you play the Guarneri. They should arrive in time for your concert at the castle.”
She studied him, still disbelieving. “That’s not till Lammas, the first of August.” Would his health hold? Would Granny’s? On a strange ship with few comforts? It had taken her and James forty days to reach Glasgow from New Orleans, much of it spent leaning over a basin or the ship’s railing. Once on land she was little better, though she had a better excuse.
“The doctors are against his traveling but he’s determined. Your father and Mina are coming with them.”
She expelled a relieved breath. “I’m glad.” She was just getting used to the fact that Papa and Mina were engaged, further tying the Ballantyne and Cameron and Turlock clans into an inseparable knot. “And Bennett?” She spoke the name with trepidation, having forgiven him the theft of the Nightingale if she’d not forgotten.
“Silas sent him to California in hopes to make a man of him.” At her raised brows, he winked. “His words, not mine.”
She smiled. “Grandfather is coming for more than the concert, surely.”
“Great-grandchildren are a great motivator to cross an ocean.”
Her heart lifted, thinking of the joys to come. Izannah’s first child was expected in autumn, and she and Malachi had taken up residence in Edinburgh till then. The Caledonian Railway often took Wren and James to the Camerons’ elegant townhouse. They’d agreed to be godparents when the time came.
Looking down, Wren touched her rounded waist with gentle hands. “It’s a race to see who’ll be born first—a Sackett or a Cameron.”
“We’ll be settled in our own house by then.”
She looked up at him, rocked by the second surprise in as many minutes.
Bending down, he plucked a bluebell and tucked it into her flyaway braid. “I’ve just purchased the old abandoned property near the kirk we’ve been attending. You said it reminded you of Cane Run.”
“The Duncan place?” Overcome, she threw her arms around him, the wool of his coat scratching her cheek. “Ours for keeps?”
He gathered her closer, his jaw resting atop her head. “It’s not large as country houses go, but it has a music room and a connecting study where I can work on Ballantyne business abroad.”
“And a nursery?”
“A nursery large enough for a dozen Sacketts.”
With a joyful laugh she started away from him, the fringe of her shawl teased by the Highland wind.
“Where are you going, Wren?”
“Home, Jamie.” She held out both hands to him. “Home at last.”