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everything happening in Ireland. And Iverclaire.”
    Oh, dear, that would be a tale, wouldn’t it?

 
    C HAPTER T HREE
    T o her great surprise, her valises were taken to a guest chamber at the end of the hall on the second floor. A brass plaque on the door was inscribed with her name.
    As her fingertips traced the letters, she turned to Virginia. “Have I always had my own guest room?”
    Virginia smiled. “A suite. It’s one thing Macrath has always insisted on. All his family is welcome at Drumvagen. Mairi has one, as does Fenella,” she added, referring to the cousin who’d come to live with them as a child.
    â€œI never knew. He is the very best brother.”
    â€œAnd the very best husband, except some of the time,” Virginia said, smiling. She reached past Ceana to open the door.
    Ever since she was a little girl, she had loved the color yellow. Macrath had evidently remembered.
    The room was like a burst of sunshine when she entered. The settee was upholstered in a pale yellow with flowers embroidered on the skirt. The footstool was adorned with flowers as well, and so, too, the pale yellow carpet on the gleaming mahogany floor. Even the view of the ocean was magnificent.
    â€œI don’t know what to say,” she said.
    â€œYou don’t have to say a word. You’re family.”
    Instead of leaving her, Virginia pulled her out of the room and down the corridor to the Rose Parlor, the name inscribed with another brass plaque.
    The rose parlor, no doubt named for its view of Drumvagen’s massive rose garden, was a thoroughly enjoyable room, one Virginia claimed as hers. This was evidenced by her very calmly locking the door so they couldn’t be disturbed.
    â€œI adore my progeny,” she said, turning to Ceana. “But there are times when I need to be less their mother and more just me.”
    She moved to a wing chair beside the window and motioned to its companion.
    â€œBesides, we need to talk. What has made you so upset you’ve come all the way from Ireland? But first, I must ask, why has Brianag declared war on you?”
    She sat, watched as Virginia opened a tin of biscuits and offered it to her. Taking one, she sank her teeth into one of the most delicious chocolate biscuits she’d ever tasted.
    â€œDo not tell me she made this,” Ceana said. “I might have to reconsider how I feel about your housekeeper.”
    Virginia studied her for a moment, a ghost of a smile curving her lips. “Did anyone ever tell you that you sound strange? I say that as an American raised by an English nurse who’s married to a Scot. I know a little about strange accents. Is it all those years living in Ireland?”
    â€œI suspect it is.”
    â€œBrianag didn’t make them,” Virginia said, smiling. “They’re made by a firm in Edinburgh.”
    Ceana reached for another biscuit. At this rate she would be waddling by the time she returned to Ireland.
    She relayed the circumstances of her arrival to Virginia, including her words to Brianag. “I wasn’t the least bit polite and I apologize. But she had no right to frighten Fiona. The poor child was shaking.”
    Virginia’s face had remained very still during her recitation, but now she said, “I think it’s time Brianag retired to her cottage in the village. Until recently she’s always been a part of Drumvagen, but she’s changed of late.”
    â€œI could be entirely wrong in my assessment,” Ceana said. “Ask Fiona and Alistair. He seems to be very mature for his age.
    Virginia smiled. “Logan thinks he’s a born politician. One with the ability to say the most difficult things in the most pleasant way possible. Plus, he seems inordinately interested in all the news from Parliament.”
    Ceana’s sister, Mairi, was married to Logan Harrison, the former Lord Provost of Edinburgh. The two of them had gone on to be