The Lass Wore Black (13 page)

C
atriona heard the crunch of his boots on snow and knew he was following her. She opened the door, turned to the left and entered the darkened kitchen. He would insist on light. Indeed, she would need it. But she would dictate how and where. Instead of lighting one of the gaslights on the wall, she went to the pantry and withdrew a lamp, placing it on the end of the table.

She motioned to one of the chairs. “Please sit there,” she said.

“Would you like me to light the lamp?”

“Yes,” she said, “but keep the wick low.”

“You’re going to make bread?”

He sounded so surprised that she remained silent for a moment.

“I’m not sure I remember how,” she said. “I made it when I lived at home with my parents, but it’s been a few years.”

She couldn’t believe she was considering cooking for him. No man had ever suggested such a thing.

As if he knew she was wavering, he said, “I haven’t eaten dinner, and on my salary, I can’t afford a meal at a tavern.”

“Bread is not enough for dinner.”

“It will do for now.” He smiled at her. “If I could make it myself, I would, but I doubt I could eat the result.”

She felt a burbling gathering in her stomach, a feeling so akin to amusement that it startled her.

After locating the flour and sugar without much difficulty, she was stumped when it came to finding the muriatic acid. When she said as much to him, he sat back in the chair, his forearms on the table.

“Muriatic acid?”

She nodded. “That’s what my mother used. It helps the dough to rise.”

“Must we wait for that?” he asked. “Isn’t there some bread you can make that’s faster?”

She turned to look at him. By the soft lamplight he was a study of shadows. He’d removed his coat, revealing a jacket and a vest over his white shirt.

“Where were you, to be dressed so fine?” she asked.

How much did Aunt Dina pay him? If he couldn’t afford a meal, then why was he wearing a silken vest?

He only shrugged, but his gaze didn’t move from her, as if he could see beneath her veil.

She’d removed her own cloak, draping it over the bench closest to her. Now she turned back to the pantry.

“I can make bannocks,” she said, studying the shelves, then glancing back at him.

“That’ll do,” he said, smiling like a mischievous boy.
“Bannocks ar better nor nae kin o breid.
”

She turned at that comment, surprised. How thick his burr sounded at times, while at others he sounded English.

“Are you sure you’re from Edinburgh?” she asked.

“Did I say?” He looked toward the storeroom. “There’ll be jam and butter, won’t there?”

She glanced at the stove, grateful that it was never allowed to grow cold. The heat was such that it would cook the bannocks in no time at all. A few minutes later she’d located two bowls, pumping water into the first while she filled the second with oats. Reaching into the cupboard, she located a saucer.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s a template,” she said, not turning toward him. The less she looked at him, the better. “I like my bannocks to be the same size.”

“Do you like to cook, Catriona?”

There was his use of her name again. Instead of correcting him, however, she simply let it pass without remark. Perhaps if she didn’t allow him to upset her, he would revert to more proper behavior.

How proper was it to be cooking for him?

Yet it was the first improper thing she’d done in over a year, and with it came a curious sense of freedom.

“I haven’t cooked that much,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve made bannocks in three years.”

“Then I sincerely hope you remember how,” he said. “I’m very hungry.”

She patted the oatmeal mixture between both hands, wishing she could fully straighten the fingers of her left hand. Still, she made do without him noticing. Using the saucer as a guide, she shaped the bannocks, placed them on the griddle and then into the oven.

For the next few minutes she checked them often to ensure they weren’t browning too much.

The smell of cooking oats brought back memories of her childhood, days laced with joy, now remembered in a haze that made them appear as if they weren’t memories at all, but dreams.

“What duties do you have that make you so hungry?” she asked, preferring to discuss the footman than think of her past.

“I have a great many duties,” he said.

“I haven’t seen you perform one of them,” she said. “Other than ensuring I eat.”

“Curiosity again?”

She placed a jar of butter and one of jam on the table, then returned to the stove.

“Should I not be curious?” she asked, carefully withdrawing the bannocks from the oven. “You certainly ask enough questions of me.” She placed the pot holder to the side, took a fork and gently peeled the first bannock from the griddle. She’d always been good at bannocks and was pleased that her efforts had been successful.

She withdrew a plate from the cupboard, put the bannocks on it, and placed it on the table before the footman. An exchange of roles so easily done she marveled at it.

“I wasn’t always the sister-in-law of an earl,” she said, sitting opposite him. “Once, I was a maid, employed at Ballindair.”

The moment she said the words, she wondered why she’d confessed such a thing to him, especially since she’d kept the knowledge carefully hidden for nearly a year.

Perhaps because it was late and she had just cooked for him, or because he had such an expression of bliss on his face as he took the first bite of her bannocks. She propped her elbows on the table and watched him, wishing she could remove the veil to see him more clearly.

“I’d heard that,” he said after his first rapturous bite.

Now, that was a surprise.

“I didn’t think anyone here knew it,” she said. “Other than Aunt Dina, of course.”

“I don’t remember who told me,” he said. “But I think it’s common knowledge.”

She nodded. That would explain the antipathy of the maids toward her, especially Artis.

He was making noises as he ate, little sounds of enjoyment that made her smile. She couldn’t remember cooking for anyone before tonight. Even as a child she’d been more concerned with her own appetite than anyone else’s. The act of doing so was oddly intimate, as if she’d performed a personal service for him.

He finished off all four of the bannocks, a compliment to her cooking that kept her smile in place.

“You’ve never been a servant before, have you?” she asked.

His smile abruptly disappeared. “Why would you say that?”

“You don’t have the demeanor of a servant.”

“What is that?”

She didn’t know, because she’d always been told that she didn’t have the demeanor of a servant, either. But she made it up as she spoke.

“A subservient air, I think. You should never look at me directly, but always avoid my gaze. It’s a mark of respect. You should most definitely accede to my every wish.”

“You don’t want a servant, Princess,” he said. “You want a lackey. Or a beaten down dog.”

What a pity he couldn’t see her frown through the veil.

“What would you say,” he asked, as if he knew she was annoyed, “if I said that I hadn’t always been of service, that I’ve fallen on hard times?”

“Is that the truth?”

“No,” he said. “So you needn’t try to find the right words to soothe me.”

She bit her lip. How could he take her from amusement to irritation and back to amusement again so easily?

“My sister used to say I was lacking in empathy for others.”

“Are you?”

She sighed. “Perhaps I am. My aunt says I should accompany her to Old Town. She does a lot of good works there. She distributes clothes and food, and counsels women on the evils of alcohol.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Even though I don’t go with her, I’m not devoid of compassion. If that truly had been your story, I would’ve been sorry for you, but I would also have been surprised.”

“Surprised? Why?”

“You don’t seem to be the type of person who would allow something like that to happen to you. You’re too determined. Too stubborn. Besides, I suspect the only reason you would tell me a story like that would be to solicit my sympathy, and I don’t see you doing that, either.”

“Is that why you never talk about your injuries? Because you don’t want to solicit anyone’s sympathy?”

The question startled her.

She decided that it would be best not to answer that question. Instead, she said, “I can see you becoming a majordomo in a household much larger than this one. Perhaps even working for an earl.”

He smiled. “I could see myself doing the same,” he said, as if they were in perfect accord.

What a strange meal. What a strange man.

“Is that why you wear a veil?” he asked.

Had he returned to that subject again?

“I think it is,” he said, not waiting for her to answer. “I think it’s because you don’t want anyone’s pity.”

“Perhaps it’s because I can’t bear the sight of myself,” she said softly.

“Does wearing a veil help to pretend? I think that it would be a constant reminder.”

“It doesn’t matter if I wear a veil or not,” she said. “I’m constantly reminded.”

“I wouldn’t say anything if you dispensed with it.”

“Why are you so eager to see me?”

He shrugged, a curiously insouciant gesture that didn’t match the intensity of his look.

“Curiosity?” she asked. “You’d be better served to be curious about something else. Your science, perhaps. Or your gardening.”

He smiled, such a charming expression that it hurt to witness it.

Somehow, remarkably, insanely, this footman’s smile seemed to bring forth the feelings she’d not had for a great many months. She felt warm, heated inside.

If the accident hadn’t happened, she might have gone over to him, sat on his lap and intertwined her arms around his neck, smiling up at him with a coquettish look. The idea of her doing that now was not as shocking as it was simply impossible.

She grieved for the girl she had been, unwise and improvident. Had she somehow realized that she quickly needed to taste all that life had to offer, because it would one day be cut short?

She’d never be a lover again. She would never be a wife. She would never be a mother. Laughter would be beyond her. Joy would be felt only through memories.

“Could you leave now?” she said, her voice raspy from unshed tears.

He glanced at her.

“Please,” she said. One word she’d not expected to say. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, her fingers drawn up into fists, knuckles pressing into the wood.

If you have any compassion, leave me. By all that’s holy, leave me
.

She, who had never wanted pity, who had eschewed it, who had known nothing but contempt for it, wanted it now from this man, someone who’d annoyed her and irritated her from the beginning.

She forced herself to look at him. He was standing and coming around the table.

Please do not touch me. Don’t let your hand linger on the sleeve of my dress so that I can feel the warmth of you. Please do not say anything kind or gentle, because I will begin to weep.

Once, she would have enthralled him. She would have caused him to dream of her. She would have teased him and toyed with him and left him needing her. Now, he was doing the same to her yet without a word spoken, without a gesture, and without a touch.

Did he know? Is that why he suddenly left the room without saying anything? She heard the click of the door latch and only then carefully pushed away the dish, lay her head on her folded arms, and cried.

Chapter 12

A
hundred years ago Mark’s ancestor, a man known for his idiosyncrasies, developed and manufactured bleaching powder. The formulation was so inventive and popular that Mr. Thorburn was made an earl in dutiful appreciation of his expertise, not to mention making his fortune. From that day forward the Thorburn family was exceptionally grateful for the first earl’s chemical genius and ignored rumors of his personal oddities.

Mark’s grandfather was as much a character as the founder of Thorburn’s Bleaching Powder. As his father would have said, “The damn fool doesn’t have the sense God gave an ass. He’s spending a fortune.”

The fact that it was his grandfather’s fortune to spend never occurred to Mark’s father. Nor did it register that most of his purchases would ultimately benefit the family in some way.

Take this house, for example, some five miles from Edinburgh. His grandfather had purchased it from the original family after his wife died. In the intervening three years, he’d spent what his father would have called “a bloody fortune” on the initial restoration. Kingairgen was a reddish brick house with numerous turrets and walls, reminding him of a tumor that had grown amok.

His mother was kinder. “Kingairgen is a house that thinks it’s a castle,” was how she had put it.

His parents, along with his two brothers, rarely made the trip from Edinburgh to visit his grandfather. He did often, because he admired and liked the old man. In addition, he served as Douglas Thorburn’s doctor, since the Earl of Caithnern refused to see anyone else.