The Lass Wore Black (14 page)

Today, he elevated his grandfather’s left foot back onto the stool and shook his head.

“It’s not gout,” Douglas said, waving a hand to forestall the lecture Mark had no intention of making. “It’s a sprain.”

“You don’t get gout on the Banting diet?” he asked. For years his grandfather had eschewed any other form of eating, and consequently ate meat and whiskey to the exclusion of most everything else.

“I do not. It’s a sprain,” his grandfather said.

“What were you doing to cause a sprain?”

The old man looked away, causing Mark to smile.

“Dancing again? Or more strenuous exercise?”

Douglas glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before resuming his far-off stare. “You and your mother. She’d have me be a monk.”

He laughed. “I doubt my mother knows anything about your proclivities,” he said. “Don’t tell her. But you are in your seventies, sir. Perhaps restraint wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Your mother is more worldly than you know, my boy. My son made a fine decision marrying her. She made the most of him.”

Since he’d heard a variation of that comment for most of his life, he remained silent. It wouldn’t be fair to call it enmity between father and son. Perhaps discord would be a better term. His grandfather believed in living life to the fullest, while his father was more circumspect in his actions. One didn’t care what the rest of the world thought, the other cared too much.

“Still,” he said, standing, “I can’t think it’s good for you to consume all that much whiskey.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” his grandfather said. “It thins my blood and heats it as well.” Douglas smiled, and wiggled one of his bushy white eyebrows at him. “I wouldn’t mind a nip of it now, as a matter of fact.”

“You expect me to dole out your poison?”

His grandfather shook his head at him. “It was just a country dance, my boy. A reel we were practicing. It would have gone fine if I hadn’t miscalculated Mary’s zeal.”

“Mary?”

Douglas frowned. “You’ll not be carrying that name back to Edinburgh.”

“Of course not. She’ll be a secret between you and me.” Despite his earlier words, he walked over to the credenza along one wall and pulled the door open on the lower cabinet. He’d never noticed before, but his grandfather’s choice of whiskey was MacCraig. Morgan MacCraig, Catriona’s brother-in-law, was the scion of the family.

A hint of Catriona, as if he needed to be reminded. Last night she’d cooked for him, and he couldn’t forget their amity, the moments that felt as if they were tinged by humor and friendship. Her sudden sadness still disturbed him. Or more properly, his ruse disturbed him as much as his curiosity.

She fascinated him.

He poured his grandfather a restrained measure, carrying the crystal glass back to him.

“To Mary,” he said.

Douglas took the glass, hoisted it in the air, and smiled. “To Mary,” he said, before drinking nearly all of the whiskey in one gulp. “You realize, of course, that she’s only a passing fancy of mine.”

The last thing he wanted to discuss was his grandfather’s mistress, but he remained silent. He learned a great many secrets being a physician, most of which he didn’t want to know.

“I’ll be joining my beloved Dorothy soon enough. Mary’s just a stop on the road.”

Mark sat on the adjoining chair, lifting his feet to share the ottoman. The day had been raw, the travel time extended because of the blustery storm and the icy roads. If it weren’t for his patients, he would have stayed overnight. But Mrs. MacAllister had a burn that wasn’t healing as well as it should. Tommy Sanderson had a nasty boil that he might need to lance again, and Fanny MacDougal was near term. She refused to be seen by anyone else, even a midwife, claiming that they didn’t offer nearly a pain-free delivery.

He was a great advocate of chloroform, having seen the difference in a woman fearing the onset of childbirth and one anticipating it.

Then there was Catriona.

“A woman is a confusing creature,” he said, staring at the portrait over the fireplace.

His grandmother had been thirty-three when her portrait was painted by Christina Robertson. She’d been smiling at the time, an expression he remembered often. Her face was, perhaps, not conventionally attractive, being pointed at the chin and wide at the brow, but her joy made anyone forget her appearance and concentrate on the feeling they experienced in her presence. People wanted to be around her.

From his earliest days she was one of his favorite people. As an infant he’d reached as often for her as for his mother. He’d confided his greatest dreams to her, and she, above anyone else, had believed in him.

When she’d fallen ill, she consulted her doctor, then came to him for a second opinion. He’d had no good words for her. At that moment he would have given up the practice of medicine in order to save her.

But he was not God, and his powerlessness was something he realized each day. Despite his desperate wish and deep need, there were some things he could not prevent or cure. Still, when she died, it seemed as if a light had gone out of the world for a while.

She’d left him a fortune, including his house in Edinburgh. Every day, he was grateful for the independence she’d given him.

He saluted the portrait, smiling up at his grandmother.

His grandfather had refused to have the portrait moved anywhere else. Instead, it remained above the mantel here in the library where Douglas Thorburn spent most of his day.

Each generation of his family, despite their individual idiosyncrasies, had been blessed by good marriages. His parents adored each other, and even years after her death—and despite his grandfather’s many bed partners—his grandmother was still mourned.

“I wouldn’t think that Anne would be all that confusing,” Douglas said now.

He pulled himself back to the present. “Anne?”

His grandfather sat back in his chair, eyeing him sharply. “If she’s not confusing you, who is?”

“A patient,” he answered. Not a patient, though, was she? He’d never examined her, never advised her. Nor had he ever told her he was a physician.

“Is she ill?”

He shook his head. “She’s recovering.”

“Yet she still troubles you? Why?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Are you going to offer for the girl? For Anne?”

Another question he hadn’t expected. Mark directed his attention to his grandfather and met the other man’s shrewd gaze. He could change the subject, pretend a need to return to Edinburgh this moment, or answer the question honestly.

“I don’t know,” he said, choosing the truth.

“Do you like her?”

“She’s a fine woman,” he said.

His grandfather only nodded.

“She’s beautiful.”

Another nod from his grandfather, this one accompanied by a slight smile.

The uncharacteristic silence from his grandfather annoyed him, made him feel as if he were taking his orals at university.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

“Well, you better damn well know,” his grandfather said, glaring at his empty glass. “Is what you feel for her strong enough to make it through the bad times? They’ll come, you know. You’ll lose a patient or a child. You’ll make poor decisions or bad judgments. You’ll need someone strong enough to stand by your side, someone who’ll push you when you need it, and pull you when you can’t move another inch.”

Before he could speak, his grandfather continued. “Don’t think you won’t be doing the same for her. You’ll hold her when she cries, and try like hell to understand why she’s angry. You’ll coax her and reason with her, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her. You better damn well like her, my boy, because love is ninety percent like and ten percent passion.”

“Is that how it was with you and Grandmother? You liked her first?”

“Hell no,” his grandfather said with a laugh. “It hit me, pure and simple. I had to have her. Reason didn’t have anything to do with it.”

He wasn’t going to lie to his grandfather, but he’d never felt overwhelmed by passion, at least not with Anne Ferguson. The closest he came to that feeling was the excitement he felt about medicine. Every day brought a new challenge, a new way of battling the odds. He pitted himself against sickness and disease. Romantic entanglements paled beneath the daily life and death struggle.

When he said as much to his grandfather, the older man laughed heartily.

“You haven’t met the right woman, my boy.”

Unbidden, the sight of a veiled figure came to mind, a woman who seemed to be coaxing him too close to the edge of impropriety. He should tell her who he was. He should demand that she allow him to examine her, instead of continuing this charade, one that had become strangely exciting.

He wasn’t about to tell his grandfather about Catriona. The older man would immediately assume there was more to their relationship than physician and patient. That’s all it was. If he liked picking at her temper, that was simply a character flaw of his. If he spent too much time wondering at her appearance, that was merely the curiosity that he’d been blessed with since birth.

“Have you heard about the new plan for the Glasgow factory?”

His grandfather hadn’t been actively concerned with the Thorburn business in many years. His father thought it beneath him. Consequently, he’d delegated the authority to a team of excellent managers. Because of them, the company was growing and expanding.

The newest plan, however, concocted by his father, was to put his brothers in charge of the factory.

His grandfather nodded, then stared at his empty glass again.

“I’ve often heard it said that a fortune will only last three generations,” he said. “If your father insists on your brothers taking their places at the factory, I would give it a year before we lose everything. Those fool brothers of yours will make us all bankrupt. I won’t be living to see it, thank God.”

On that cheery note, his grandfather thrust the empty glass at him. The physician in him measured the whiskey against his patient being seventy-two, and decided that his age alone deserved a celebration.

D
ina MacTavish stood in the doorway, staring out at Charlotte Square.

The wind had eased since the night before, creating a calm she didn’t trust. Although the air was cold, the day was bright and sparkling. However, the minute she believed winter was done, it was back with a vengeance.

Artis was late again. Where could she be?

Something must be done.

For the longest time, Artis considered herself above the other girls because of the length of her employment. Yet the other girls knew that Artis was no better than they and resented her bossiness. When Artis wasn’t complaining to her, the other two were, and the resultant discord among her servants gave her a constant headache.

In the last week, however, Artis had ceased being difficult and had, instead, become invisible. She spent too long on her errands and, worse, was absent from the house on two separate occasions.

When she’d demanded to know the reason, Artis only shrugged and claimed she needed air, that the house had been stifling and her head needed to be cleared. Nor had the girl purported to know why the man had stopped her several days earlier. When she asked what the man had wanted, Artis only shrugged again.

“I can’t remember what he said.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

When it was evident that was the only answer she would get, she excused the girl. Now, Artis was late again returning from her errand.

What was she going to do about her? She certainly couldn’t return her to Old Town. Nor could she recommend her to friends for employment. She was going to have to get answers from Artis.

The day was too busy to have another worry heaped on it.

She needed to fold all the donated clothes and apportion them for various stops throughout Old Town. She promised Reverend Michaels that she would put together a list of names for the newest campaign. She wanted to reserve her seat at the new symposium, a series of lectures on the evils of drink. In addition, she needed to plan for some time to attend to other relationships.

She also needed to write Jean and inform her about Catriona’s progress. But what on earth could she say? That things were odd in Edinburgh?

Dr. Thorburn was still masquerading as a footman.

Catriona was still wandering around in a full veil, when she wasn’t sneaking into the kitchen to cook at midnight. What on earth had prompted her to do that?

Perhaps it would be best if she waited to write Jean until there was something good to say. Or, if not something promising, then perhaps less strange.

Chapter 13

T
rue to his word, the footman left her alone. For a week he did exactly as he promised.

At lunch he entered the room, placed the tray on the table, and saluted her smartly before occupying her chair by the window. He opened the curtains, pretending an interest in the view of the carriage house and stables. He remained silent, which grew more onerous as the days passed.

She wanted to hear him talk. Or disturb the tenor of her thoughts, most of which were focused on him and how he looked in his plain white shirt and black trousers.