The Lass Wore Black

by Karen Ranney

  She moved aside, leading the way to the front sitting room.

  “She’s not actually my niece,” she said, taking her place on the settee and gesturing to an adjacent chair. “However, I’ve come to think of her as one. Or even my daughter, if I had been blessed enough to have children.”

  My recalcitrant and troubled daughter.

  That part, however, she kept to herself for the time being. If this meeting followed the tenor of the other ones, Mark Thorburn would find out just what kind of patient Catriona was soon enough.

  She was running out of physicians. She’d consulted the most famous ones in Edinburgh and none of them had been willing to treat Catriona. If the girl hadn’t been so badly injured, she would’ve lost patience with her weeks ago. As it was, she could only offer Catriona her pity, along with a determination that matched the girl’s own.

  Catriona would get her treatment, even if she objected every hour of every day. Yet that’s exactly what the girl was doing, and effectively.

  Dr. Thorburn’s stubbornness might help him succeed where others had failed.

  “Catriona was in an accident in London,” Dina said. “She was grievously wounded,” she added, staring into the distance. “My maid, Millicent, was killed in the accident.”

  She looked over at him.

  “For a few days I was not even certain that Catriona would survive. She had lost a great deal of blood, you see.” The explanation had taken longer and been framed in more delicate terms with the other physicians. She knew Mark, however, and had even served as his assistant on more than one occasion in Old Town. Besides, she was a contemporary of his mother’s. If he couldn’t deal with plain speaking from a woman, she’d selected the wrong candidate for this task.

  “But she didn’t die,” he said, urging her along.

  “No,” she said. “She didn’t die. We convalesced in London until Catriona was well enough to travel. The journey home was done in stages, in a conveyance suitably fitted to accommodate a patient.”

  Once again, her nephew, Morgan, had provided the funds, if not the emotional energy, to bring Catriona back to Edinburgh. He’d been all set to take her home to Ballindair, where she would have been cared for by her sister, but Catriona abruptly and unexpectedly refused. Instead, she’d remained for a month in her suite of rooms upstairs, transforming them into a luxurious hermitage.

  When Dina explained that to Mark, his mobile brow arched upward.

  “I don’t think it’s out of the ordinary, Mrs. MacTavish, that she not want to see visitors while she is recuperating.”

  “She has been recuperating for five months, Dr. Thorburn.”

  The brow stayed in place. “In all that time, has she not had the care of a doctor?”

  “In London, yes, but not since we returned to Edinburgh. In fact, the only person she has agreed to see is her sister, and Jean, being in the family way”—another indelicacy there—“will not be able to visit her for at least several months.”

  “Yet something has happened to make you summon me,” he said.

  She sat back and folded her hands on her lap. He was an intelligent young man.

  “I’m concerned about her,” she admitted. “She doesn’t seem to be improving.”

  “I’m not the only physician you’ve summoned, am I, Mrs. MacTavish?”

  Yes, he was an intelligent young man.

  “You are the sixth, Dr. Thorburn. Everyone else was summarily dismissed.”

  In actuality, Catriona had threatened them with bodily harm.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t question her, simply waited, a patience she would have admired if it hadn’t been directed toward her.

  “She throws things,” she said after a suitable moment of silence.

  “She’s spoiled, then.”

  Dina shook her head. “Not spoiled. Troubled. She does come out of the room, but only at midnight. She takes the back stairs to the kitchen and out to the courtyard and walks the square. I’ve seen her myself.”

  “I don’t know how you want me to help her,” he said.

  “She was badly injured, Dr. Thorburn. Her face was cut by shattered glass. The physicians in London said there was nothing they could do.”

  “She was scarred, then.”

  She nodded. “Would you not look at her and see if there’s anything to be done?”

  Somehow, she needed to give Catriona hope. Perhaps, then, the girl wouldn’t just sit at the window and stare out at the world like a prisoner trapped in her own body.

  The tears came abruptly, but not entirely unexpectedly. Whenever she thought of Catriona, she became weepy.

  “She was such a beautiful girl,” she said. “But she’ll never be beautiful again.” She composed herself, then frowned down at her clasped hands. “The first time I saw her face, I recoiled. To go from what she looked like to what she looks like now would be a difficult journey for anyone.”

  “I cannot perform miracles, Mrs. MacTavish.”

  His voice had altered, taken on a stern tone, as if she were one of those Old Town mothers guilty of drinking too much and neglecting her children.

  She tapped her foot against the carpet.

  “You have always struck me as an intense young man,” she said. “Someone who would not accept a barrier. You crawl over it, or walk around it, or perhaps you would even break through it.”

  Still, he remained silent, that look in his eyes warning her that she had only a few minutes to convince him. Otherwise, he would claim the press of his social obligations and leave.

  “Will you not at least try, Dr. Thorburn?”

  “I have never had to convince a patient to allow me to treat them, Mrs. MacTavish.”

  She nodded. “Ordinarily, I would agree with you. However, Catriona has always been extraordinarily stubborn. Both of the Cameron girls are, I daresay, each in her own way.”

  “Catriona Cameron?”

  She nodded. “No doubt you’ve heard of her. She was renowned for her beauty. Quite popular in London, as well. A duke was about to make an offer.” She sighed, bit back that thought and concentrated on the present. It was never good to weep over what could not be changed.

  For a moment he sat there, frowning at the floor, his hands loosely joined between his open legs. He made her substantial chairs look tiny, as if he sat in a dollhouse of her making.

  “Very well,” he said, and stood.

  Surprised, she stood as well, looking up at him. “You’ll see her, then?”

  “I will attempt to see her,” he said. “I can promise nothing, especially if five other doctors have tried and failed.”

  “Oh, but you are not like the others, Dr. Thorburn,” she said. Less a compliment than the truth, but he waved off her comment impatiently.

  A few moments later they were outside Catriona’s suite, a lovely set of rooms comprised of a sitting room, bedroom, and a small bathing chamber. Her nephew had ordered it refurbished for Catriona’s stay.

  Beside the door was a long sideboard, and on it a tray with Catriona’s evening meal, still untouched.

  “Does she take her meals in her room?”

  Had he not been listening?

  “She doesn’t leave her room, Dr. Thorburn. Not during the day, at least. She will not even allow the maids into her room. We have to leave her tray outside the door. If she’s hungry, she’ll eat. If not, she won’t.”

  “She hasn’t been eating?”

  Dina shook her head. “Another worry,” she said, and then told him the truth, the reason she’d asked him to call. “I’m afraid she’s willing herself to die.”

  This time his expression of concern was the mirror of hers.

  Chapter 3

  Mark knocked firmly on the door, but received no response.

  He glanced at Mrs. MacTavish. The woman made no effort to conceal her worry. She bit at the knuckles of one hand, the other supporting her elbow. The foot that had tapped so impatiently in the sitting room was now beating a rhythm on the
green runner before the door.

  “Are you certain she’s inside?”

  The woman nodded.

  He knocked a third time and heard movement on the other side of the door. Was Catriona standing there, listening to their discussion?

  “I wish to see you, Miss Cameron,” he said.

  His voice carried well enough, but he might as well have been whispering, for all the response he received.

  If Catriona meant to annoy him, she was succeeding. He was expected at his parents’ home in a quarter hour. Even if he didn’t attend his grandfather’s birthday ball, he could always find something to do that was a damn sight better than standing here waiting for a spoiled miss to answer the door.

  “Miss Cameron,” he said, “I must insist. I’m not leaving.”

  “Go away.” The voice sounded husky, as if she didn’t often speak. He pressed his fingers against the wood of the door and turned to Mrs. MacTavish.

  “Does she admit any of the servants?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Even to clean her room?”

  “Only for her earth closet and chamber pot,” she said, looking away. “She cleans her room by herself.”

  “What does she do during the day?”

  Surprisingly, she sent him an irritated look. “My dear Dr. Thorburn, I don’t know. She won’t even admit me. The moment we returned to Edinburgh, she decided that she was going to be a hermit, and a hermit she has been.”

  “She can’t be allowed to continue such behavior,” he said. A comment that earned him another annoyed look.

  He removed his coat, handing it to her without a word. She looked startled, but not as much as when he removed his vest, cravat, bib, and collar. She stood there blinking down at her armful of his clothing, then back up at him.

  “Do I look the part of footman?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  Ignoring her, he moved to the sideboard, peered beneath the napkin, then put it back into place. Hefting it in one hand, he knocked on the door with the other.

  “Miss Cameron,” he said. “You need to eat.”

  “Go away.” This time the already resolute voice was stronger.

  He sent Mrs. MacTavish a look of apology, drew back his right leg and slammed his foot into the door beneath the latch.

  The door swung open, bouncing against the wall. He’d have to send a workman over tomorrow to repair the door frame. But for now, still hoisting the tray in his left hand, he entered the room.

  When Mrs. MacTavish would have followed him, he shook his head slightly, stepping into the darkness alone.

  Immediately overwhelmed, he took a step back toward the open door. As he did whenever he was reminded of his intolerance for small spaces, he made himself stop, look over his surroundings, and take a deep breath. The room wasn’t that small. The darkness merely made it feel suffocating. Another deep breath, another step away from the doorway, and he’d mastered the sensation.

  The room smelled of potpourri, something like apples and cinnamon, but it was much too cold in there, as if she’d recently closed the window.

  Was she trying to freeze herself to death as well?

  “Get out.”

  He turned his head toward the voice. In the corner of the sitting room sat a shadow, darker than the gloom. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he moved to the window.

  “If you open the curtains,” Catriona Cameron said, “I shall scream.”

  That was unexpected.

  “I doubt you have the strength to scream,” he said. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “Get out.”

  He made his way carefully to a large circular table in the middle of the room and placed the tray in front of a chair.

  “Would you like me to light a lamp?” he asked.

  “Get out.”

  “Or a candle, perhaps?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the new footman,” he said, wondering if she’d believe him.

  “I’ll have you dismissed.”

  “I’ve just begun this position.”

  “You’ve just ended it,” she said. “Get out.”

  “Are the other servants afraid of you?”

  She didn’t answer. Nor did she move. No doubt she was glaring at him from her position in the corner.

  “I was hired for my tenacity,” he said, a true statement, if she only knew it.

  “Get out.”

  “You should find another command. That one is growing old. You need to eat.”

  “Get out.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “After you’ve eaten, I’ll take my leave. Your dinner is cold, but perhaps something is still edible.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I find I don’t care,” he said. “You still need to eat something.”

  “Is that why you’ve been hired? To be obnoxious and irritating? If so, you’ve done your duty,” she said. “You can leave. Tell my aunt you did everything within your power to get me to eat. Including violating my wishes. If nothing else, perhaps she’ll give you a bonus.”

  “Are you angry at her?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not punishing her by refusing to eat?”

  “Why should I answer a footman?”

  “Because I’m curious,” he said. “Because I genuinely want to know why you intend to starve yourself.”

  “Whatever I do,” she said, “it’s none of your concern. Now leave.”

  “One bite,” he said. “One bite and I’ll leave.”

  “I’m close enough to the bellpull,” she said. “I’ll summon my aunt.”

  “She’s right outside the door. Shall I call her?”

  “I doubt if Aunt Dina would allow you to break down my door.”

  “Shall we ask her?”

  She remained silent.

  “No doubt it’s hunger that’s making you so quarrelsome,” he said.

  He removed the napkin from the tray, placing it beside the plate, and picked up a pastie.

  “One bite and I’ll leave.”

  “What I eat or don’t eat is none of your concern.”

  “I’m new here,” he said. “I’ve been put in charge of your eating. It seems to be my only task. You wouldn’t want me to fail at it, would you?”

  A pause stretched between them. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said, “I don’t care if you lose your position or not.”

  What was he doing here? Why was he catering to a woman’s moods? In his practice, he saw many hysterical females, a variety of wealthy women sent to him by his mother. Women who were too intent on the slightest ailment. Was the irritation on her finger a cancer? Was her spring cough a sign of consumption?

  Each of these irritating patients was surrounded by luxury, servants, and wealth. If they’d had to endure only a few of the conditions he found in Old Town, they’d spend every day on their knees in thanks to God for their blessings.

  Catriona Cameron had turned into one of those.

  Besides, what recourse did he have against a woman’s stubbornness? Most of his patients agreed to listen to his advice. They didn’t require that he carry trays and pretend to be a servant.

  He turned and was at the door before realizing he still had the pastie in his hand. He turned back and retraced his steps, continuing on to the corner where she sat. She was draped in a widow’s veil, or perhaps more than one. How did she see?

  He held out the pastie.

  “One bite,” he coaxed. “Only one.”

  “If I do, will you leave and never return?”

  “I’ll leave,” he said. Beyond that, he wouldn’t promise.

  A gloved hand slowly emerged from beneath the veil.

  He put the pastie on her palm and watched as her hand retreated. In the confusion of shadows, he wasn’t certain if she took a bite or simply dropped the pastie to the floor.

  When he turned, intent on the
door, her voice called after him.

  “Go away and don’t come back.”

  “When are you going to return?” Elizabeth asked her husband.

  Andrew Prender looked up from his notes, facing his wife of a dozen years or more. The time spent being married hadn’t concerned him. Until this moment, Elizabeth had been a conformable spouse, a biddable woman.

  She’d never asked him about his schedule.

  “You’re leaving tomorrow. When will you return?”

  “Soon enough,” he said.

  “When is soon enough, Andrew?”

  He was surprised at her tone if not the question itself. In all these years, she’d never said a word about his living arrangements. Not once had she demanded that he spend more time with her and the children.

  He studied her, wondering at her daring.

  Her narrow face was nearly gaunt and her nose long. If she would have listened to his advice, he would have suggested that she not scrape her black hair back in such a severe bun. The style did not flatter her nor give any softness to the severity of her face.

  She was not, however, given to any type of fashion advice, or she would have padded her flat bosom or done something to spare him the sight of her angular hips.

  Elizabeth had never been beautiful, but the expression she wore now made her ugly. As a rule he preferred to surround himself with attractive people.

  She’d borne five children, and for that he was suitably grateful, especially since all of them were hale and hearty and seemed to take after him in appearance more than after their mother.

  Now, however, she was being remarkably grasping, and at the worst time.

  “Why do you suddenly care, my dear?”

  “It’s a Scottish bitch, isn’t it?” she asked, taking a few steps toward him. “You’ve been different ever since you came back from Scotland. What happened, did a woman reject your advances?”

  He’d been known for his flying visits to his country house periodically to inspect the children, all five of whom were growing at an alarming rate. But he’d erred when returning from Scotland. Instead of nursing his wounds in London, he’d come home. Evidently, his actions gave his wife the impression that she had the right to comment on his behavior.