In the afternoon, Ian had the pleasure of watching from the morning room as Eloise and Agnes, accompanied by Mary, strolled in the garden. Agnes kept mostly with Mary, who was the only person at Roxholme Agnes seemed to fully trust. Ian noticed Eloise’s efforts at drawing the child out. At the moment they seemed to be busy watching birds and imitating their calls. He had already noted Eloise’s method with the child. Lessons came in the form of games or conversation, on any topic at all, giving Eloise an opportunity to introduce new words and model correct speech. He thought Agnes already easier to understand than only a few days previously. Eloise saw Ian through the French doors and walked up to speak to him, while Agnes and Mary continued towards a group of tall old spruces across the lawn. Ian opened the doors and stepped out onto the terrace so he could speak with Eloise and still keep an eye on Agnes.

“What is the lesson for today?” asked Ian.

“Oh, no set lessons yet,” answered Eloise. “It is too soon. When she has settled in and feels more comfortable, it will be soon enough. Are you concerned about her development?”

Ian opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment, a high-pitched scream came from the direction of the spruce trees. More screams, then a long wail. Before Eloise could even react, Ian was half-way across the lawn, running to the child who was fleeing towards the house, shrieking at the top of her lungs, with Mary in close pursuit. Ian got to Agnes first, swung her up into his arms and held her close. He had already seen that she was in no way injured, only frightened out of her mind. 

“Whisht, my little one. Shhhhh. Papa is here. Nothing can harm you.” 

Agnes, her current terror outweighing her fear of Papa, buried her face in his shirt front and sobbed. After a few moments, he began to make sense of her garbled words. 

“Black crows, Papa, coming to take me away. Grandpapa said.”

Ian looked towards the spruces where a dynasty of rooks had nested for many years. The rooks had been disturbed by the two girls and were setting up a racket. 

“The rooks, Agnes? They frightened you? They are rooks, not crows, but never mind that.”

She nodded, still crying. By now Ian had reached the terrace, where Eloise was waiting. She held out her arms for the child, but Ian would not let her go. He carried her into the morning room, still holding her close. There he stood, rocking her in his arms until she calmed a little. 

“Tell me what Grandpapa said, Agnes.” His voice was gentle and encouraging. “What did Grandpapa say about the crows?”

“Ga, gra, grandpapa said I am black like a crow because I am a blacker.” Agnes didn’t dare look at her father but kept her face firmly buried in the frill on his shirt front, now rapidly losing its elegant starched shape. 

“What is a blacker, darling?” Ian kept his voice low and soft still. 

“Black Kerr. Grandpapa said one day a black crow will come and take me away because I am a black Kerr, and Kerrs are worse than crows.”

It didn’t make any sense, but the intention was clear. Old Mr. Hume had let his resentment of Ian and his family overtake even the love he must have for his granddaughter. Ian stood very still and let the realization settle over him of exactly how much damage Luisa and her family had caused, not only to him but also to his innocent child. Eloise stood by, not wishing to interfere. This matter was for Ian to deal with. She only hoped he could keep his temper in check long enough to comfort the child. She would stand ready with counsel if he wanted it. 

A thousand thoughts rushed through Ian’s mind. How cruel to the child. How strange that these old schisms between families could still resonate down the ages to the modern day. How horrible and mad and wrong-headed. Finally, he had an idea that might help his little girl. 

“Agnes, I’m taking you upstairs to the gallery,” he said. “There is a painting there, no two paintings, that you need to see. Right now. Then you will understand that your Grandpapa was wrong.” 

Agnes had not lifted her face or said anything more. She seemed glued to Ian. As he spoke, he climbed the stairs with Eloise in tow. Mary was discreetly dismissed to the kitchen until called for. This was a private matter. 

In the gallery, Ian stopped before a full-length portrait of a young woman. The painter had captured her sideways with her face turned to the viewer. She was tall and slender, dressed in the fashion of the late 60s in a pale blue silk gown with small side hoops and an overskirt pulled back to reveal a matching ruched petticoat. Half-length sleeves widened into cascades of lace, and the front of her gown was decorated with fine transparent lace and satin bows. She wore her hair partly bound up, partly flowing down her back, a wealth of black, glossy curls falling over her shoulder and framing her face. Her full lips were almost smiling, enough to light the large blue eyes and give the whole face a merry expression. She was utterly beautiful, an ethereal, almost fragile, kind of beauty. 

“Look, Agnes,” said Ian, pointing at the portrait. “Do you know who that is? Does she remind you of anyone you know?”

The child shook her head, staring at the portrait, entranced. 

“She is your grandmother,” said Ian proudly. “Her name was Agnes. Agnes Randolph Kerr.” 

Little Agnes looked at her father in surprise and back at the portrait. “My grandmother? Not Grandmama?” 

“No, Agnes. Your Grandmama was your mother’s mother. This lady was my mother. Look at her hair.”

Agnes looked. “She has black hair. Like me.”

“Yes, she does. Do you think she looks like a crow?”

Agnes shook her head. 

“What do you think of her, Agnes?”

“She is beautiful, Papa.”

“And so are you. You look like her. When you are a grown lady, you will be beautiful like her.”

Agnes looked doubtfully at her father, then back up at the lady in the blue dress. 

Ian went on. “Look at me. What colour is my hair?”

“I don’t know, Papa.”

Ian pulled the lacing from his tight braid and loosed his hair. The black curls sprang up and formed a cloud around his head. Agnes smiled. 

“You have black hair, Papa. Like my grandmother. Like me.”

“Yes, my dear. And you and I and your grandmother are not crows. Besides, crows don’t come to get anybody. That is nonsense. Grandpapa told you nonsense. Never believe it. Now let me show you another painting.”

He walked a few steps along to another full-length portrait of a handsome fair-haired man with Ian’s nose and chin and his height and commanding appearance. 

“This is your grandfather. My father. Do you see? I look a little like him.”

Agnes looked from the painting to Ian and back. She nodded, a bit uncertainly. 

“His name was Duncan Alexander Kerr. And one day, when he was a very young man, Duncan went to Edinburgh to attend a ball. At the ball, he met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he fell in love with her. Not just because she was beautiful, but because she was merry, and kind, and clever. She could speak five languages, she could read Latin and Greek, and she fell in love with him too. And they married and came here to Roxholme, to his home, and they were very happy. They were your grandparents, and they were good and kind people.”

Agnes was still staring at the portraits of her grandparents, but she had taken in Ian’s little story, and she was calmer now. 

“Now, I want to show you one more painting of another Agnes, and then we will go downstairs, and you may have tea with Mama Eloise and me, and I will tell you the story of the first Agnes.”

Ian walked to the far end of the gallery, still carrying his daughter. There was a small square painting of a dark-eyed lady in a blue cotehardie and a transparent veil over her dark hair. 

“This lady is Agnes Randolph, Countess of Dunbar,” said Ian. “She was known as Black Agnes, and my mother is descended from her.”

Small Agnes stared at the severe face in the portrait, a bit afraid. “Was she a bad lady, Papa?”

“No, my dear. Black Agnes was a great heroine, and when I have had a cup of tea, I shall tell you what she did. But right now, my throat is dry from all these dusty paintings.” Ian gave his daughter a little conspiratorial grin and whispered, “Mama Eloise may allow you to have tea as well if we are both very well behaved.” 

When tea had been ordered and served in Eloise’s cozy sitting room, and Agnes had finally been set down to walk on her own, and Ian’s throat had been properly refreshed, he invited Agnes to come sit on his lap to hear the tale of Black Agnes. The little girl, however, had recovered some of her reserve and chose to sit by herself on the floor. Ian began.

“Agnes Randolph lived many hundreds of years ago. Her husband was the Duke of Dunbar and Marr, and her father was the Earl of Moray. One year, her husband had gone away for a long time, and while he was gone, the English soldiers came and wanted Agnes to give them Dunbar Castle, where she and her husband lived. But Agnes said no. She said you can’t have my castle. The English got angry and started a siege of the castle. That means they surrounded the castle and wouldn’t let anyone go in or out. They also brought in siege machines and threw great rocks at the castle walls all day to break them down so they could get in.” He glanced down at Agnes. Her eyes were as big as saucers. 

“Every morning, the English fired rocks at the walls, making big holes in them, but the walls were very strong, and the English could not destroy them. Every afternoon, Agnes and her ladies came out onto the battlements and dusted the battlements with their kerchiefs, as if to say that all the English had been able to do all day was make a little dust, which the ladies would soon clean away. Well, to make a long story short, Agnes kept her castle, and the English had to go away without gaining anything. After that, she was known as Black Agnes of Dunbar. You see, she was another Randolph with black hair, like your grandmother and your papa and yourself. You are descended from Black Agnes, who was a heroine, a brave lady and famous, too. That is something to be proud of, my dear.”

Small Agnes straightened her spine and did her best to look proud. Eloise went to the door to call for Mary and told Agnes to say goodnight to Papa, as it was time for her to go upstairs. Agnes went with Mary as far as the door where she hesitated for a moment. Then she ran to her father, stood in front of him and said, “Thank you for the story, Papa. Thank you for showing me my grandmother.” Ian opened his arms to embrace her, but she stepped back and ran to join Mary.

When the door had closed behind them, Eloise got up to bring Ian another cup of tea. “You were wonderful with her,” she said, handing him the cup. “You were absolutely perfect. How is it you have no experience with children, yet you knew exactly what to do and what to say?”

“I love children,” said Ian. “I did not know what to say to her. I just told her the story my mother told me. I thought that if I could make her see how she belongs here, in this house, in this family, if she can see herself as the latest member of an old and respected lineage, then all this evil-minded cant from old Hume would stop bothering her. As for that nonsense about crows, I will not have it. She is not to visit there ever again, nor will that madman be received here.” His voice was angry now and harsh. 

“I agree,” said Eloise. “That was a terrible thing to do to a child. But, Ian, tell me, what other magic tricks have you yet to unfold for us?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Ian, frowning. 

“Do you charm birds from the trees? Do you blow into the nostrils of a horse and have it follow you to the ends of the earth? Do you tame lions?” She laughed at his expression, a mixture of surprised and offended. “I do not begin to understand you,” he said, rather severely. 

“Then listen to me,” said Eloise, sitting down beside him on the sofa. Ian put his arm around her and she leaned into him. “Agnes was and is still afraid of you. Yet she stayed in your arms with her face buried in your shirt front for at least half an hour while you carried her to the house and up to the gallery, and in the end, she was perfectly calm, all fears forgotten. How did you do that?”

Ian shrugged. “I don’t know. I picked her up, and I held her and rocked her – as anyone would do.” At the mention of his shirt front, he looked down and brushed at the sodden mess Agnes had made of the formerly perfectly starched frill.

“Are you sure you don’t have a magic spell?” Eloise was only half joking. It really had been incredible to watch.

“If I had, she would not have run from me a minute ago,” said Ian ruefully. 

Eloise gave him a long speculative look, and decided to tell him. “You see, Ian, it doesn’t work only on little girls,” she said and laughed at his startled look. “The first time I saw you, you were coming through the door into my cell, and for a moment I was afraid it was Planchett come to kill me.”  

Ian tightened his hold on her. “Don’t remind me of that horror,” he said. 

“But after a few minutes, I started to feel calm. You made me feel quite safe, even comforted. Then when you left, the misery came back, and I forgot. The next time I saw you, it was the same. I felt safe, protected, somehow easy with you. So much so that I tried to keep you longer by asking silly questions about sandalwood and other such embarrassing things.” Eloise could still blush for her forwardness at that encounter. “And when you left, I sank back into despair and sadness. You see, my dear, you have tamed at least two females with your magic spell. So, what is it?”

“If I knew I would have used it long before,” said Ian. “It is nonsense. I comfort a crying woman or a frightened child, and you want to make some kind of magic trick of it.”

“I was making a joke,” said Eloise. “But I am quite serious in saying that you have a gift. Think for a moment. Has nobody ever mentioned it before?”

Ian looked at her in surprise. “My mother. She said once that I could gentle a horse better than anyone she knew. I was just a child then. My pony had been frightened. I cannot remember well, but I think I just went to the pony and talked to it and so on, and it let me ride it again.” Ian was lost in thought for a while. Then another memory came to him. “My colonel. He always sent me when there was trouble with the sepoys or with the villagers. I used to think he was punishing me by giving me extra work, but I suppose it was because I got results.”

“Well,” whispered Eloise. “I feel the need of a little calming magic just now. Will you rock me and tell me stories?” She snuggled into his arms, and he turned his head to kiss her. 

“Mmmmmmm, that is very calming,” she said and kissed him back. “I hope that is not how you sorted out the villagers.” 

“Witch woman!” said Ian and kissed her hard.