by Karen Ranney
“I would have hired anyone who was your match in temperament,” Dina said. Another surprise. “Mark is your equal in stubbornness, I think.”
“Mark?”
“I believe you simply call him Footman.”
Abruptly, she was on the other side of the door, staring at it.
For a few long minutes she didn’t move. Should she argue her point more vigorously? Or simply admit that Aunt Dina had won that battle?
The footman didn’t look like a Mark. He looked like an Alistair, Hamish, or Douglas. A name that matched his stern jaw and blue eyes that were the equal of hers in shade. Had she ever looked at anyone with such a penetrating gaze?
She didn’t trust Aunt Dina’s assertion that she had Mark doing other duties first thing in the morning. Her aunt was protective of her servants, only reluctantly divulging their backgrounds.
What was Mark’s secret?
Aunt Dina had looked away when she’d spoken, a habit she had when she didn’t wish to discuss a matter. She would be the last person to call Dina MacTavish a liar, but the other woman had a way of skirting the truth, avoiding it, or simply ignoring it at times.
What was she hiding about Mark, the footman?
When the odious man arrived with her noon meal, Catriona refused to leave her bedroom.
“Just place it on the table,” she said through the door. “You can come back later for the empty dishes.”
“Must we discuss this again, Princess? You know my orders.”
“What do you think I’m going to do with the food? Place it in the bottom of the armoire? Hide it in one of the fern pots?”
“There are enough of them,” he said.
How dare he discuss Aunt Dina’s decorating? She frowned at the door.
“I can eat easier without an audience.”
She hadn’t meant to tell him the truth, and from the resultant silence, he evidently hadn’t expected to hear it.
“Because of your veil?” he said. “You don’t have to wear it.”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Then I’ll turn my back.”
“Why not just leave the room?”
When he didn’t answer, she sighed. What an exceedingly stubborn man. Was he being loyal to Aunt Dina? Or was he simply intransigent by nature?
She rearranged her veil and slowly opened the door. Gripping her hands tight, she willed herself into composure.
“You’re a bad footman,” she said. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Perhaps you could teach me how to be a more proper servant.”
“What does that mean?” Did he know that she’d once been a maid? If so, was that comment his not-so-veiled attempt at sarcasm?
“You seem to know a great deal about what I’m not doing correctly,” he said, after setting the tray on the table, sitting down and leaning back in his chair. “Is there anything I’m doing right?”
Sunlight stole in on either side of the draperies, casting a gray, pearly light over the room. He sat at his customary place at the table, his right ankle resting on his left knee, relaxed and at ease. A man who was supremely confident in himself. His white shirt was open at the collar; his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing strong, muscular forearms.
All her life people had turned to look at her, commenting on her blond hair or the color of her eyes. But this footman had blue eyes that were even more striking.
She wanted to sit and study them for a moment, in order to discover what it was about him that was so arresting. Maybe it was the jaw hinting at stubbornness, or his mouth, quirked even now in a half smile. He sat with nonchalance, one arm resting on the table, the other at his side.
At an earlier time, she might have lusted after him. She might have even taken him to her bed and enjoyed him.
She’d had three lovers in her life. The first, a footman like this man, had offered comfort at a time when she needed it. Although he had been more excited than skilled, she still felt some affection for him. The second was a coachman, an older and much more experienced lover. But for all his talent on the mattress, she’d left him after one night. He’d smelled of something sour.
Andrew Prender had been her third and last lover.
A question occurred to her as she studied the footman. Would she ever have another lover?
Aunt Dina said she was grieving. If she was, this grief was nothing like the mourning she’d felt for her parents. What had she learned from that? How to endure, perhaps. Time hadn’t lessened the sense of loss, only rendered it bearable.
How, then, did she learn to live with no face? Or with a body that didn’t work as it should?
She folded her hands before her, wishing she weren’t so warm in her veil. Her face had begun to itch, a discomfort she normally tolerated. Now, it seemed to abrade on her nerves. Or perhaps it was just the footman doing that.
“Where were you yesterday?”
Instead of responding to that question, he said, “Have I nothing to recommend me? Isn’t there anything I do correctly?”
“No.”
“Surely there’s something.”
She inspected him. “You’re always dressed neatly and cleanly,” she said. “You don’t smell of the stable.” In fact, he smelled good, something reminiscent of sandalwood or spices.
“You speak well, perhaps too well for a footman. Hold up your hands.”
“My hands?”
“Another thing, you dispute me entirely too much. You should never question your betters.”
“Are you one of my betters?”
“See? You’re doing it again. You should simply accept what I have to say as the truth.”
“You are a princess, aren’t you?” he asked, holding both hands up, palms toward her.
She couldn’t see from where she stood. Impatiently, she motioned him toward her. He stood, walked around the table and held out his hands.
To her surprise, they were hard, not soft. The hands of a working man. Still, she shook her head.
“You don’t have the hands of a footman.”
“Oh? If I’m not a footman, what am I?”
“One of my aunt’s causes, I think. A confidence man, perhaps, one she wants to see lead a more honest life. Or a gambler.”
“A gambler? I’ve never been considered a gambler.”
“But you have been considered a confidence man?”
“I suppose I have, in a great many ways.”
“I will not allow you to take advantage of her.”
“Are we talking of your aunt? I can assure you, I have no intention of taking advantage of the dear woman. I have a great deal of fondness for her, as a matter of fact. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here now, talking to you.”
He returned to his chair, reprising his earlier indolent pose.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m doing a favor for her, you might say.”
“By being an irritant?”
He startled her by laughing, such an alien sound in this room that she frowned at him.
“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, “Th
ere, 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.
“How 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?
Andrew 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.
&nb
sp; She stared down at his card and nodded once. Enough to let him know that he’d trapped the crow.
Dina 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
Instead of the footman Catriona had been expecting, Aunt Dina arrived at her door with dinner, Isobel behind her holding a second tray.
