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I looked at Grace. “Is this your way of breaking up with me?”
She tossed her head back, laughing. “No, don’t worry. And even if they did have kids, we’d be so far removed it wouldn’t matter.”
“They didn’t have kids? How did the line continue?”
“Technically, they had a little girl,” Grace explained. “It’s all quite sad, if interesting to look back at now.”
“Aye,” Grandpa repeated. “The bairn was stillborn, and Winnie suffered a haemorrhage after her birth. They didn’t have the medical tools necessary to save her, and she passed away.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s a shame.”
“The eighth duke, Angus, went on to marry his younger brother’s mistress and had three sons,” Grace continued. “By all accounts, it seems like it was quite the scandal at the time because there was a dispute over who the father of the eldest boy was.”
“I remember reading about that but couldn’t remember which duke. Is that why the dukedom went to the second son?”
“Yes and no,” Grandpa replied. “It was argued that even if the eldest son—John—wasn’t the duke’s son, he was still of the male line, and technically able to inherit.”
“That was the duke’s brother’s argument, anyway. Unsurprisingly,” Grace added.
Grandpa chuckled. “Sadly, he passed away shortly before the duke himself, so we never found out whose son he was, and Bruce never declared it either way.”
“But the ninth duke was definitely Angus’ son?”
“Yes. Bruce was born two years after John when they were already married.”
“Your family history is really more colourful than I believed,” Grace said, skimming the book on her lap. “I might never leave this library.”
Grandpa chuckled and handed her another book. “Here. This one is the closest thing we have to an autobiography of Bruce, the ninth duke. He was heavily involved in the abolition of slavery in the United Kingdom, and I think the diary extracts from his son, James, might prove to be more than useful for your studies.”
Grace’s face lit up like she’d been handed a puppy. “James’ diary extracts? Are you serious? I’ve been trying to find a reliable source for first-hand Scottish accounts for a year.”
Grandpa smiled. “You’re welcome to take that one home with you and return it to William when you’re done.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, staring at the book. “I—I’ll take pictures or something.”
“I insist.”
“I can’t!”
“Take the book,” I said, lowering my mouth to her ear. “He’ll keep arguing with you until you give in.”
“I heard that,” Grandpa said.
“I’m on your side here, Grandpa,” I pointed out.
Grace clutched the book to her chest tightly. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this will help me.”
“I think I have a couple more books here somewhere,” he said, wiggling his finger as he looked around. “Remind me not to let you leave without them. Let’s get this wedding out of the way, then I’ll dig them out.”
“One book is too many!” Grace insisted. “I ca—”
I covered her mouth with my hand. “She says thank you.”
Grace glared up at me as Grandpa patted his leg. Bruce—the dog, not the ghost of the ninth Duke of Glenroch—trotted over from an invisible spot in the library and followed Grandpa out of the room.
I removed my hand from Grace’s mouth. “I cut the argument short. You’re welcome.”
“I can’t take his books,” she argued, looking up at me.
