by Karen Ranney
The square was draped in a blanket of cold and silence. A quiet winter night that echoed only her footsteps. The sky wasn’t truly black, but a strange gray, illuminated by the streetlamps. A snow sky, perhaps, with hints of more storms to come.
Two of the gas lamps had been extinguished by the wind. She walked, staying away from the remaining lamps when she could, keeping to the deep shadows around the trees.
At first she limped, but that was to be expected. She’d done nothing more today than sit in place or walk around her rooms. If the weather held, she would walk around the square four times, as usual. This midnight regimen gave her something to do and perhaps even extended her life by one more night.
When her mother died, she’d wanted to curl up in a ball and simply sleep the day away. Her sister, Jean, pelted her with sayings of a positive nature, until she had no choice but to rouse herself. Her sister always believed in good outcomes, even in the midst of dire circumstances.
Perhaps she ought to adopt Jean’s attitude. After all, her sister had acquired an earl for a husband.
What would Jean do in her situation?
Your beauty is not all you have to offer the world, Catriona.
She recalled what Jean had said a month earlier, on her arrival in Edinburgh. She hadn’t bothered to comment, because doing so might hurt her sister’s feelings.
Ever since she was a child, people had come up to her mother and said such wondrous things. “Oh, isn’t she a beautiful little girl!” “What bright color hair she has!” “What an exquisite face!” “She’ll melt the lads’ hearts, she will.”
How could Jean understand? Her sister had always been plain. People had never gasped aloud at her appearance in a doorway. Nor had men danced attendance on her, in hopes of winning a smile or more.
Yet marriage had somehow enhanced Jean’s looks. Her smile was always present and her eyes sparkled, no doubt because Jean was with child.
She was going to be an aunt, Catriona thought.
If they trained the child from birth, perhaps he or she might not scream at the sight of her.
Should she be grateful she’d survived? Why, to spend her days in seclusion? To be nothing more than the odd woman down the street, the one about whom they warned their children: “You’ll be good, Robbie, or the monster will get you.”
To go from Catriona Cameron, beautiful girl and daring temptress, to someone swathed in black, was a journey everyone seemed to think she should travel without difficulty. But the abyss between who she’d been and the person she was now was too large and empty. It left her flailing alone in the dark, just like now, a solitary figure looking for answers on a winter midnight.
Mark instructed his driver to pull to the curb. The MacTavish home was out of his way, but the minute he saw the movement on the other side of the square, he knew why he’d returned. He sat in the darkness, watching the solitary parade of a shrouded female, all the while calling himself a fool.
Why was he so curious about Catriona? Because he remembered the girl he’d seen years ago? A girl with dancing blue eyes the shade of the Mediterranean Sea. A face as beautiful as any ever painted or sculpted, and hair so brightly blond it seemed to mimic the sun.
He’d known it was her, from her voice. A voice didn’t change all that much. Not even hers, overlaid with anger and sorrow.
Curiosity niggled at him and made him wonder how injured she’d been in the accident.
Why had she refused to see another physician? Earlier, he’d acquired the address of the London physician who’d treated her. He would write the man and discover what he could about her condition.
When she walked below the overhanging branches of a tree, he lost sight of her and waited for her to emerge on the other side. When she did, he felt oddly relieved. Her progress was slow. She evidently had some damage to her left leg, because she favored it when she walked. She also held her arm oddly, but it might be simply the swath of material around her.
Would she have agreed to see him as a physician if he’d told her the truth?
I knew your father. A confession he should have made. I visited him on more than one occasion. You never paid me any attention, which was just as well. He might’ve become besotted, and there had been no time with his studies.
Perhaps that’s why he was here, after all, in gratitude to the man who’d spent time with him. From Catriona’s father, a popular physician in Inverness, he’d received encouragement and approbation, more than he ever received from his own father. There, that explanation sounded as reasonable as any. He felt as if he owed her father a debt, and treating his daughter would be one way of repaying him beyond the grave.
More likely it was simply his curiosity again and the memory of a shining smile and a quick, mischievous look. The woman was not the girl. But who was the woman?
He realized he wanted to know.
Chapter 5
As Catriona placed her breakfast tray back on the sideboard, she heard the sound of weeping.
“Stupid girl!”
A muffled scream held her immobile, both hands clenching the fabric of her skirt. She turned in that direction, hearing Artis’s low voice.
“Shut up now and do as I say.”
That command only generated more crying.
She frowned, took a few steps down the corridor, then stopped. Whatever was happening was no business of hers.
Artis suddenly appeared at the end of the corridor. Everyone else skittered out of her way. The maid stared straight at her then, as if able to see through her heavy veil.
“You done?” she asked, stomping toward her.
Artis had a face like a horse, long and narrow with a wide-bridged nose. Between her brows were twin frown lines, even though she was a young woman. Nothing in her flat brown gaze revealed appreciation, gratitude, or that she even liked what she saw.
Catriona reflected that if Artis was acting as housekeeper, Aunt Dina had evidently given her the power to do so. Yet it was entirely possible that Aunt Dina didn’t know that Artis was terrorizing the other maids.
And then there was the footman she’d hired. Look at his behavior.
Could someone be too kind? Dina was forever rescuing people, giving them opportunities they didn’t deserve. Had the footman been destined to a life of drunkenness? Had he beaten his wife? Was he a thief?
“Are you acting as housekeeper now?” she asked Artis. “Does Aunt Dina know you’re punishing the other maids?”
Artis didn’t answer, but her mouth turned up in one corner in an expression of contempt.
“I’ll be taking the tray,” she said, circling her. She grabbed it, and without another word walked down the corridor.
“I’m going to tell her.”
Artis stopped. Slowly, the maid turned and walked back to her, the tray in front of her like a weapon.
“Are you now?”
She nodded. Artis didn’t have the power to intimidate her. No one did.
“I’d not be doing that if I were you.”
“Leave the maids alone,” she said.
“Who are you to be telling me my business?”
Whatever happened with the maids was not her concern. The same was true of the footman, as long as he didn’t enter her rooms.
Why did she even care? Perhaps because she’d once been a maid herself. However, she’d never been defenseless or subjected to bullying.
The memory of what she’d done once to another girl had her face turn warm.
“You’ll leave them alone,” she said to Artis. “Else I’ll be reporting you to Dina. I’ll have you dismissed.”
Artis walked so close, the tray bumped her in the arm. Was the maid going to strike her?
“I think you should go back to your room and stay there, miss.”
All her life she’d charmed people. Artis was the first person who actively disliked her, and it was such a disconcerting experience that she almost backed down.
Doing so would give the maid the impre
ssion she’d won this skirmish.
Perhaps Artis had, because she turned and walked away, leaving her to return to her room, closing off the rest of the world when she shut the door.
Mark stood at the doorway of the servant’s room on the third floor of Mrs. MacTavish’s house. The room was so small that if he extended his arms on either side, he’d be able to touch two walls. The bed, with its sagging mattress, looked barely long enough to fit the petite Mrs. MacTavish. He was certain that his feet would drape over the end if he ever chanced to sleep here.
The miniature window, set up high in the wall, barely allowed in the morning light. Of course, if he were a real footman, he wouldn’t be returning to his chamber for anything but sleep.
The air smelled strongly of starch. No doubt the residue from a previous occupant. Either that or the pillowcase and sheet were starched, which couldn’t mean a restful night’s sleep.
He was a fool to consider doing this.
The picture of Catriona walking alone at midnight disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t rationalize that image with the laughing girl in his memory.
If he was going to play a part in order to get closer to her, he needed the trappings of a servant, and this room was merely a prop. If he didn’t have quarters in Mrs. MacTavish’s home, the other servants would know something was amiss. Yet even though he wouldn’t be sleeping here, he couldn’t tolerate this space. He could barely breathe, and hadn’t yet stepped inside the room.
“This won’t do,” he said. “Haven’t you anything . . .” His words trailed off. What was he going to ask? Anything larger? Anything more spacious? Anything less stifling?
He turned to Dina MacTavish and said, “Do you have anything closer to your niece?”
“Closer?” she asked.
“You said yourself that your niece was not amenable to strangers. I merely wish to observe her comings and goings.”
“There’s a room over the carriage house,” she said. “My driver doesn’t use it, but has lodgings in town. It has a view of Catriona’s window. Will that suffice?”
“Is it larger than this room?”
She nodded.
“Then I’m sure it will be fine,” he said.
“I’ll see to it, Dr. Thorburn.”
“Another thing,” he said. “You shall have to call me Mark. After all, I’m your servant.”
Another nod.
“I’ll show up every afternoon,” he said. “I can at least monitor Catriona’s lunch and perhaps her dinner. In that way I might be able to gain her trust by seeing her each day.”
Mrs. MacTavish nodded. “I appreciate this more than I can tell you, Dr. Thorburn. Mark. To give up your practice so.”
“I haven’t given up my practice, Mrs. MacTavish. I’ve just abbreviated it by an hour or two each day. Of course, there are times when I’ll be gone, but you can always say that I’ve been sent on an errand.”
She nodded once more. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days. Don’t you think, Doctor? Mark?”
He only smiled at her, knowing from previous experience that it was best not to limit treatment to a certain period of time. Healing happened when it would, and not when doctors wished it.
Was he engaged in healing, though? Or simply assuaging his curiosity?
“I pity her so, Mark. She was such a beautiful girl.”
“Pity will not do her any good, Mrs. MacTavish.”
“No, you’re right, of course.” She sighed. “Catriona won’t be happy about my interference, Mark.”
“We aren’t here to please Catriona,” he said. “She’s been entirely too willful as it is.”
That, at least, hadn’t changed.
He smiled. He’d declared war on Catriona Cameron, only she didn’t yet know it.
“What do you mean he’ll oversee my meals?”
Catriona sat in her usual chair beside the window. Dina stood facing her, arms wrapped around her waist, her expression lost in the dark of the room. She would have offered to open the curtains on the window, but it was not yet evening.
The veil shielded her, an article of fashion that had become a shroud. Her heart still beat, her breath still caused her chest to rise and fall. She was without excitement, or fear or any emotion at all except, perhaps, acceptance. A placid and endless acceptance that was now being burned away by anger.
“If I promise I’ll eat, will you keep that odious footman from my door?”
To her amazement, Aunt Dina shook her head.
“No, Catriona,” she said in a firm tone. “I’m afraid it’s gone too far for that.”
“You don’t trust my word?”
“Oh, my dear, I do. But my concern for your well-being is greater than my concern for your feelings. I’m afraid I will be more reassured when . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then abruptly reasserted itself. “. . . when the footman reports to me.”
“Is he going to watch me eat?”
Dina’s chortle of laughter had a surprised edge to it. “I wouldn’t be the least surprised if that’s exactly what he did, my dear.”
“He wasn’t here this morning,” she said.
Dina nodded. “You can eat your breakfast alone, but he’ll be here to monitor your lunch and dinner. Beginning tomorrow, Catriona.”
“I’ll eat what I wish to eat when I wish to eat it, Aunt,” she said.
“No longer, Catriona. He is to report to me each day. I shall not be swayed on this.”
Aunt Dina’s voice trembled just the slightest bit, enough that Catriona suspected the older woman was near tears. She didn’t want to witness Dina crying yet again.
“What does it matter?” she asked.
“It matters because there are people who care about you,” Aunt Dina said. “Jean writes me every week, wanting to know how you are. I haven’t told her the truth, but I’ve decided to do so now.”
Irritated, Catriona sat back in the chair and folded her arms, staring at the other woman. For the first time in a long time, she wished the lamps had been lit. She wanted to see if Dina was bluffing or not.
“My sister is with child, she isn’t to be bothered.”
“You think your death would not concern her?”
She almost smiled at that comment. “I’m not close to death, Aunt Dina.” She was hale and hearty and would, no doubt, live to be an old woman.
“If you don’t start eating more, you’ll grow increasingly weaker, Catriona.”
“Then set your footman on me, Aunt Dina,” she said. “But you’ll not write Jean and bother her, especially now. Do I have your promise?”
To her surprise, Dina stepped away, walking back to the door. There, the older woman turned and faced her again.
“We shall see,” she said. “If I have good reports, perhaps I won’t tell your sister the truth.”
When the door closed behind Dina, Catriona grabbed the arms of the chair, squeezing so tightly her left hand hurt.
After seeing his last patient of the day, Mark entered his carriage, giving Brody instructions to return home.
The house where he lived had been his grandmother’s family home and part of his inheritance. Located near the edge of Old Town, it was too large for only one person, but was ably managed by his housekeeper. Sarah Donnelly also occasionally served as his nurse and welcomed those patients who called on him at home.
He had two distinct groups of patients. The city paid for him to care for thousands of patients in Old Town, ostensibly on a part-time basis. In addition, he had hundreds of society patients.
What made him think he could spare the time for Catriona Cameron?
On arriving home, he said good night to Brody and made his way through the house to his apothecary, where he unpacked his bag. Each night, he performed an inventory before restocking his supply of medicines, most of which he mixed himself.
He’d read once—either a philosopher’s teachings or something he picked up from a physician with whom he’d studied—that
a man who works at what he enjoys never truly tires. Ever since he was a child, he’d wanted to be a doctor. He’d wanted to know, to understand, to explore the mysteries inherent in the human body. Because he loved medicine, he only rarely felt fatigue, even after twenty-hour days.
Today, however, was proving to be an exception.
He heard a sound, glanced toward the door, but returned his attention to the task at hand.
By her look, Sarah was evidently annoyed at him.
Access to this room was restricted. Besides himself, only Sarah was allowed in, due to the danger of the medications stored here. As it was, his staff only numbered three: Brody, a young stable boy, and Sarah, along with a woman who came in twice a year to help with the heavy cleaning.
He finished corking the bottles and put them in the bottom of his bag. Only then did he turn and face his housekeeper’s wrath.
“You’re late,” Sarah said, both hands fisted on her hips, a frown transforming her genial face. Her white hair gleamed in the lamplight, looking like a halo. She was short and nearly child-size, but filled with such energy that he rarely noticed her stature. Lines crisscrossed her face, mapping the toll of poverty and suffering of her early years.
However, her brown eyes were warm and filled with good humor. Not unexpected, since she was one of the most generous and compassionate people he knew.
Sarah had been one of his patients in Old Town, and when he’d moved here, he offered her the position. Not once had he regretted it. In addition to keeping him in clean clothes and a tidy house, she also advised him of his Old Town patients, having kept in touch with her former neighbors and relatives.
“Did I miss dinner?” he asked, knowing he had.
“You’re forever missing dinner. I’ve learned to put it back.” She folded her arms, studying him. “You’re tired,” she said.
“I am at that.”
“You work too hard.”
He only shrugged. They’d had this conversation before, many times.
“I might be missing dinner in the next few days,” he said. “I’m about to do something foolish.” It was better to be honest with Sarah from the beginning.
