The Lass Wore Black (11 page)

“I don’t believe I said anything that amusing,” she said.

“Oh, Princess, you are the first truly amusing thing that has happened to me all day. Perhaps for two days, actually.”

She didn’t know what to say to that comment, so she remained silent, walked to the table, and sat in the other chair. When he would have stood, she waved him back into his seat.

“Don’t try being polite now. I’m afraid it’s too late. I know your true nature.”

“I do apologize, Princess. I usually do not foist my true nature on people until after they’ve gotten to know me better.”

“I can assure you,” she said, picking up her fork, “I have no intention of getting to know you better.”

Alone, she would have dispensed with the veil. Because he was there, she had to use one hand to lift the bottom of the veil away from her face so that she could accommodate the fork.

When she was done with her meal, she said, “There, you can tell my aunt that I’ve eaten. There’s no need to remain here.”

“Why deny myself the pleasure of your company?”

His voice held a note of humor. Was he ridiculing her?

“You can leave now,” she said. “You’ve done your duty.”

Surreptitiously, she raised her hand beneath the veil and gently patted her cheeks. The itching was nearly unbearable. Once he left, she’d raise the veil enough to cool her face.

“I’ll build up your fire before I leave,” he said.

She was adept at maintaining a fire herself, as well as being skilled at blacking the bricks, but she didn’t tell him that.

“It looks like snow again today,” he said, tending to the fire.

Once again she patted her face. Would he please hurry?

“What about the fireplace in your bedroom?”

“Leave it.”

“It’s a raw day. Don’t princesses ever get cold?”

“Would you please go?”

He stood, walking back to the table, stopping beside her chair.

“What is it, Catriona? Is something wrong?”

She wouldn’t tolerate this. She pushed back the chair and stood, making her way to the door. Because she was conscious of his gaze on her, she tried not to limp.

She held the door open, gripping the edge of it tightly with her right hand.

“Get out,” she said.

If he didn’t leave now, she would take the poker and use it as a weapon against him.

He went to the table, gathered up the dishes, and placed them on the tray.

“Leave them,” she said.

“I’m trying to be a good footman,” he said.

“Leave them,” she repeated. She made a fist of her left hand, concentrating on the pain in her fingers.

He stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her. The expression on his face was one she couldn’t decipher: a combination of interest, compassion, and something else that reminded her, oddly enough, of her father.

“Shall I call your aunt?” he asked. “Would you tell her what’s wrong?”

“No,” she said.

He nodded, as if unsurprised. “Why not tell me? I’ll swear myself to secrecy. No one need know.”

“Tell any of my secrets to a confidence man? No.”

She waited, impatient and near to screaming, as he walked to the door.

“Perhaps I can help.”

“I don’t think so.” Did he have the power to roll back time itself? Could he prevent an accident? Or change that hideous night?

“Please, just leave.”

Her face felt as if it was on fire, each scar burning into her skin.

She closed the door after him, then jerked the veil off, threw it on the table, and walked to the window, opening the sash a few inches. The bitterly cold air cooled her skin, easing the discomfort. A cold compress would help as well. Then there was the laudanum if the pain increased. But she tried not to use it, keeping it for a time she might need the whole bottle.

“H
ow do you find her, Dr. Thorburn?”

Mark closed the door on Catriona’s suite and faced Mrs. MacTavish.

Her brown hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck, her dark brown dress properly somber, given her status as a widow. She held her hands tightly clasped together in front of her. But it was her eyes that gave her away. Large, warm, and brown, they held a world of compassion.

“I wish I could say that she’s fine,” he said. “But the truth is that I don’t know how she is, Mrs. MacTavish. She seems to have taken a dislike to me. I’m no closer to examining her than I was at the beginning.”

She exhaled a sigh. “I’m so glad,” she said.

“Glad?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, don’t you see, Doctor? If Catriona hates you, at least it’s some emotion. It’s better than what she’s been like all these months. She’s never expressed a dislike about anything, not even tomato aspic, and she hates that. She doesn’t dislike anything, but she doesn’t like anything, either. But she hates you. Don’t you think that’s a good sign?”

His not wanting Catriona to hate him was as disturbing as the realization that he’d given her every reason to do so.

He’d never known a woman who confounded him as much as Catriona Cameron. But then, perhaps he’d been incorrect in his assumptions about her from the beginning. He’d only seen her a few times in Inverness. On those occasions, he’d developed an impression of a girl of exquisite beauty, one who was aware of it as well. She flirted with impunity, laughed with abandon, and wasn’t as demure or proper as she should have been.

Once, she’d come into her father’s office, a flurry of skirts and lace-trimmed petticoats. She’d flown to where her father sat behind his desk and hugged him, leaving as quickly as she arrived, never once sparing a glance to where he sat facing the desk.

That’s how he thought of Catriona, never noticing anyone but herself.

Except something was missing.

Something was there he should have seen or understood. He was a scientist; he sought answers when most men were satisfied with the questions.

Why did he have the feeling that he was watching a play, one in which he was being led to believe one thing while something else was happening?

What, exactly, was he not seeing?

A
ndrew watched the house for several days before making a decision. The minute that one particular maid closed the door, bundled against the weather and holding a basket, he approached her.

“Miss,” he said, stepping out from around the corner.

She jumped, startled, then immediately gained her composure and frowned at him.

He tipped his hat and smiled in his most charming manner. “I apologize for frightening you.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

She didn’t possess a servant’s demeanor, but that could prove to be advantageous.

“Do you work for Mrs. MacTavish?” he asked, knowing the answer before he asked the question.

“Why would you want to know?”

She adjusted the handle of the basket on her wrist but didn’t move away.

A good sign, one he rewarded with another smile.

“Is she a good employer?”

“Again, I’ll be asking why you want to know my business?”

“An attractive woman such as yourself deserves to have a fair employer.”

She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps he’d overdone it.

“Does she pay well?”

A flash of interest proved he’d adopted the right course of action. She was evidently more greedy than vain.

“Why would you want to know that?”

“I have a proposition for you, if you’d like to earn more money. If you’re not interested, I apologize again for waylaying you, miss.”

He tipped his hat again, bowed, and stepped back. He turned, smiling to himself and counted the steps. He wasn’t a gambler, considering it a waste of time and money, but he bet himself that she would stop him before he was ten paces away.

“Wait!”

She’d waited for seven steps, which indicated a stubborn personality. He could deal with stubbornness. But if she was also stupid, that might prove to be a hindrance. Time would have to tell.

“Are you interested?” he asked, turning.

She nodded.

“Finish your errands, then,” he said, pulling out his card and approaching her. “That’s my address. It’s across the square. Come and see me before you return to the house.”

“You’re not a slaver?”

He shook his head, allowing himself a warm, reassuring smile.

“Or a murderer?”

Since Burke and Hare had made themselves infamous in Edinburgh, he understood the question and smiled fully. Fool that she was, she looked reassured. Why would a simple expression assure her she wasn’t going to be murdered for her body parts?

Perhaps she was stupid, after all.

She stared down at his card and nodded once. Enough to let him know that he’d trapped the crow.

D
ina MacTavish stood in the parlor, watching as Dr. Thorburn left the house. His coachman had parked the carriage around the corner, and he was forced to brave the cold and walk the block because of her.

Still, she wouldn’t change anything she’d done.

A movement to her left caught her attention. She moved to the side of the window, frowning at the sight of Artis standing at the end of the alley. What on earth was the girl doing?

Dina walked through the house to the kitchen door. She hesitated, hand on the handle, about to call Artis when a stranger approached the maid, handed her something, then tipped his hat to her. Artis preened, silly girl, and watched as the man walked away and out of sight.

Artis was one of her trials. Not everyone wanted to be saved. Sometimes, she came up against a stubbornness that made charity difficult. Artis had once been an unfortunate woman as well as a pickpocket, and God knew what else. Life in Old Town had not been easy for her. The girl had been mistreated and beaten nearly to death.

Most of the women who came into her home did so with gratitude, knowing it might well be their last chance at a happy life. Each was trained well for her position, enough to advance to another, larger, establishment.

Artis had been different from the beginning. She wasn’t adverse to communicating her dislike of a certain chore with a roll of her eyes or a sneer. Because of her attitude, she’d not recommended Artis for any other job or advancement.

In the two years that Artis had been with her, she had never once said thank you. Gratitude, however, was not necessary. Obeying the rules was.

Male visitors were not allowed in the house. Only on her half day off was a girl allowed to see a suitor, but the relationship must be serious, and destined for the altar.

When Artis returned, she’d question her about the stranger. Until then she would occupy herself by writing her nephew and his wife, telling them about the exciting developments in Catriona’s care.

The girl was becoming angry, and wasn’t that a lovely sign?

Chapter 10

I
nstead of the footman Catriona had been expecting, Aunt Dina arrived at her door with dinner, Isobel behind her holding a second tray.

“I thought we’d eat together, my dear,” Dina said, placing the dishes on the table and directing the maid to do likewise.

After Isobel left, Catriona lit the lamp, placing it in the middle of the table. Because she had few secrets from the older woman, she removed her veil.

For the next hour they engaged in a pleasurable meal. Aunt Dina kept her entertained with stories of her friends.

Not once did she ask Dina about the footman. Not once did she complain about him.

Only one time did the conversation become uncomfortable, and that was when Dina insisted on talking about the future as if nothing had changed. As if she had only taken these months as a time of reflection.

“You cannot remain in these rooms for the rest of your life, my dear. You must choose what you mean to do, and continue on that path.”

She put her fork down, folded her hands together, and looked at the other woman. It was all too obvious that she had become Dina’s good works project.

“I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life,” she said, feeling helpless in the face of Dina’s insistent good cheer. She and Jean would be great good friends. Both of them had a penchant for looking at the best in any situation.

Aunt Dina nodded. “Which is to be expected, I think, given that you’ve been a hermit for months.”

“Hardly months,” Catriona said.

“Five weeks since we returned to Edinburgh,” Dina countered.

“What would you have me do, join you in Old Town?”

Dina sighed. “You should, you know. Your own plight might be a great deal more acceptable if you knew how other people lived.”

How on earth could a ruined face and body be more acceptable?

She stared without speaking at the older woman. Aunt Dina looked away.

“If you do nothing else, then cease wearing nothing but black. You’re entirely too young to be in mourning. No,” Dina added, waving a hand at her, “don’t tell me you’re in mourning for your lost youth or your beauty. We all know that. You can grieve without being dressed like the Grim Reaper.”

“What would you have me wear?” she asked.

“Blue,” Aunt Dina said without hesitating. “You’d look good in blue. A dark blue if you must. If you insist on wearing a veil, we can dye the lace a beautiful blue.”