The Lass Wore Black

by Karen Ranney

  “I thought we’d eat together, my dear,” Dina said, placing the dishes on the table and directing the maid to do likewise.

  After Isobel left, Catriona lit the lamp, placing it in the middle of the table. Because she had few secrets from the older woman, she removed her veil.

  For the next hour they engaged in a pleasurable meal. Aunt Dina kept her entertained with stories of her friends.

  Not once did she ask Dina about the footman. Not once did she complain about him.

  Only one time did the conversation become uncomfortable, and that was when Dina insisted on talking about the future as if nothing had changed. As if she had only taken these months as a time of reflection.

  “You cannot remain in these rooms for the rest of your life, my dear. You must choose what you mean to do, and continue on that path.”

  She put her fork down, folded her hands together, and looked at the other woman. It was all too obvious that she had become Dina’s good works project.

  “I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life,” she said, feeling helpless in the face of Dina’s insistent good cheer. She and Jean would be great good friends. Both of them had a penchant for looking at the best in any situation.

  Aunt Dina nodded. “Which is to be expected, I think, given that you’ve been a hermit for months.”

  “Hardly months,” Catriona said.

  “Five weeks since we returned to Edinburgh,” Dina countered.

  “What would you have me do, join you in Old Town?”

  Dina sighed. “You should, you know. Your own plight might be a great deal more acceptable if you knew how other people lived.”

  How on earth could a ruined face and body be more acceptable?

  She stared without speaking at the older woman. Aunt Dina looked away.

  “If you do nothing else, then cease wearing nothing but black. You’re entirely too young to be in mourning. No,” Dina added, waving a hand at her, “don’t tell me you’re in mourning for your lost youth or your beauty. We all know that. You can grieve without being dressed like the Grim Reaper.”

  “What would you have me wear?” she asked.

  “Blue,” Aunt Dina said without hesitating. “You’d look good in blue. A dark blue if you must. If you insist on wearing a veil, we can dye the lace a beautiful blue.”

  “If I wear blue instead of black, will you be happy?”

  “Enough to stop haranguing you?” Aunt Dina smiled. “Absolutely not. I haven’t decided what your life will be like yet, child, but I know you were not destined to be a hermit. I miss your laughter. You had such a sparkling laugh, as well as a great wit.”

  She wished she hadn’t removed her veil. She blinked rapidly, willing herself not to cry. The tears weren’t for herself, but in gratitude to the lovely woman who’d been as kind as a mother to her.

  For a long time she hadn’t wanted to live, having lost herself in those agonizing months in London. First, the pain had stripped the humanity from her. Secondly, without being herself, without having a face she recognized, she was left floundering for an identity.

  Dina had held fast to her, refusing to let go.

  She cleared her throat. “Very well, Aunt Dina, I’ll wear your blue.”

  “Excellent,” the other woman said, smiling brightly. “I’ll summon the seamstress tomorrow.”

  She hadn’t considered a seamstress. But looking at the happiness on Aunt Dina’s face, she knew she’d have to suffer another person’s invasion of her sanctuary.

  Once Dina left, she occupied herself with straightening her rooms, reviewing her wardrobe, and repairing the lace on her shift.

  Jean would laugh to see her chores, each and every one of them tasks she’d managed to avoid at Inverness and Ballindair. She’d grown accustomed to people caring for her, taking up the duties she’d not wanted to do. Jean had been her greatest defender, loyal and caring even when she’d not returned the emotion.

  Not having walked the night before, her legs felt even stiffer than usual, particularly her left knee. The pain was a constant reminder that however optimistic Aunt Dina was, she still had physical limitations.

  Catriona dressed and readied herself for her walk. A few minutes later she stood atop the kitchen steps, looking out over the alley. Even with her heavy veil, her eyes stung with the cold and the tip of her nose tingled.

  She stepped out onto the snow.

  Tonight, she limped badly. Her body, in all its separate parts, was making its displeasure known. You think yourself above pain, Catriona? Here, a headache to make even blinking a chore. Nothing is beyond you? Let’s see how well you do in boots and a knee that refuses to bend. You are above such petty things as loneliness? Here’s a memory for you, of sitting and laughing with other girls. Or being kissed until your body feels on fire and your heart beats so hard you can barely breathe.

  Try and forget those memories. Try not to long for those days.

  Mark was tired after a full afternoon and evening of calling on his patients. For some reason, tonight he’d been stopped by relatives. Mr. MacNeil’s wife wanted the truth about her husband’s difficulty swallowing. A mother needed to be given guidance about her son’s vision. Two sisters listened with intense regard and barely subdued grief when he told them their father would probably not live to see the end of the week.

  Why, then, was he here? Why was he standing in the shadows on a cold winter night, watching for a woman who didn’t need his help, didn’t want his help, and rejected him at every turn?

  Because she wasn’t his patient. Because she made him forget his worry and his care. Because she made him smile when so much of his day—especially today—made him want to imbibe too much whiskey and forget about the despair he sometimes witnessed.

  The night was bitterly cold, so much so that his eyes stung. He was wrapped in his greatcoat, a garment more luxurious than a footman could afford, but since he was draped in night, he doubted she would see him.

  How strange that she was part of his past, but only because she was Dr. Cameron’s daughter, a man he’d greatly respected. She didn’t know him, didn’t remember him, and had never truly seen him.

  What he’d learned at her father’s side had augmented his university education. He’d called on patients with Dr. Cameron, learning something each time. The advice he received had made him a better doctor.

  “The patient will always know more than we do,” Dr, Cameron had once said. “They don’t know that they know, but listen to their complaints. That will tell you as much as your examination.”

  Dr. Cameron had also insisted, unlike some of his peers, that he write out his notes within minutes of visiting a patient.

  “Don’t wait until the next day. You won’t remember the details that can make the difference between life and death. Write down the patient’s color, his demeanor, whether he talks about other things or only his health. Is his aspect good, or do lines form on his face? Are his pupils expanded? Is the sclera white or gray? Are there dark circles beneath his eyes? Is his breath foul? Your words might prove invaluable to a physician who comes after you.”

  He attempted to write his notes after each visit. Some nights, like tonight, he was forced to write them in the carriage, using the carriage lamp as his only illumination. Now, Brody waited patiently around the corner, no doubt freezing like he was, and wondering as to his sanity.

  Dr. Cameron had not been the only physician with whom he’d studied, but he was the most memorable. Not because of his daughter, although Catriona had remained fixed in his mind for a long time, but because of what happened to him later.

  Mrs. Cameron had developed a cancer of the breast. Her dying had been by inches, and when he could no longer ease her pain, Dr. Cameron had simply administered an overdose of morphine. He’d heard that the man went cheerfully to the gallows, not attempting to rationalize his decision or his act.

  Had he ever thought of his daughters? Only Dr. Cameron could answer that.

 
The man was a great believer in the human mind being responsible for many illnesses. He’d recounted a tale of more than one matron who, once her children were grown and gone from home, became sickly.

  “Women, especially, need to feel useful,” Dr. Cameron said.

  He’d found that true as well in his own practice.

  What would Dr. Cameron have said about his own daughter? He could imagine the man’s words: She needs a purpose, a place in the world, somewhere to belong.

  That sentiment could be applied to his own life. Other than Sarah, he had no friends, unless he could count his grandfather among them. He was too busy to form relationships. Even his friendship with Anne was one more of convenience than a genuine melding of minds. He and his brothers didn’t live similar lives, and his father would never understand his need to be a physician.

  His purpose was solid and immutable: medicine. He had to heal or at least try. Sometimes his intentions were blocked by the patient. Sometimes he lost the battle no matter how arduously he fought.

  But where did he belong? He’d asked himself that question for years.

  His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d missed dinner again.

  The sleet had increased in the last hour or so, seemingly intent on peeling the skin from every poor soul abroad tonight. He spared more than one thought to his patients in Old Town.

  He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, watching as Catriona, swathed in black, emerged from the house and slowly descended the kitchen steps. She turned right, heading for the square.

  The night was silent but for the wind, carrying the bitter cold to his face and neck. The tall oak trees lining the square did so in military precision, their ice-bedecked branches throwing dancing shadows on the snow.

  Catriona slowly walked along the square, obviously favoring her left leg.

  Strange, that he’d never heard her complain.

  He knew too many young women who thought a bruise was a reason for whining and a turned ankle cause for histrionics.

  Catriona hadn’t mentioned her leg or arm, and had attempted to hide her injuries from him. Her determination, witness her walking at midnight, was another surprise.

  The snow started again, the slow descent of the snowflakes lit by the gas lamps. The only living creature in this midnight landscape was Catriona, limping around the square, half hidden by the trees and the darkness.

  Did the night sadden her? Did it somehow mirror her mood?

  He stayed where he was, thrusting his gloved hands into his coat in order to stay warm as he waited for her. He sincerely hoped that what she wore was substantial enough.

  She turned back toward the town house, her footsteps slowing as if she were reluctant to come home. He watched as she walked down the alley, her limp less pronounced than when she’d began.

  Just when he thought she was ready to climb the stairs to the kitchen, she turned and faced the carriage house.

  “Why are you spying on me?”

  “Do you have eyes like a cat?” he asked through lips that were cold and numb.

  “Isn’t it enough that you make my mealtimes miserable? Must you spoil my walks as well?”

  “You interest me,” he said, unwittingly giving her the truth.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea why,” she said. “I’d prefer you showed more interest for your duties.”

  “You are one of my duties,” he said. “My most important one.”

  For a moment she didn’t say anything. Just when he thought her rejoinder would be cutting and sarcastic, she shook her head.

  “You mustn’t say things like that, even if it’s true. It implies too much intimacy.”

  “Are you training me in my duties as a footman?” he asked, smiling.

  “Someone needs to,” she said.

  “Have you always been so dictatorial?”

  She made a dismissive movement with her right hand. “I’m not at all,” she said. “Everyone knows that footmen don’t lurk in carriage houses at midnight.”

  “Do they?” he asked, amused.

  She folded her arms on the outside of her cloak.

  “My sister always said that, too. As if she doubted what I said.”

  He’d heard of her sister from Mrs. MacTavish, but she’d never mentioned her before now.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “With all my heart,” she said, surprising him. “She’s a much better person than I am.” Another bit of honesty he hadn’t expected. “Being around Jean was like having the voice of a conscience always near.”

  “That sounds miserable. No one wants to be reminded of their failings.”

  “Have you no one better than you in your family? Or are you the most perfect one of them all?”

  He smiled again. “I have two brothers,” he said.

  “Are they paragons of virtue, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. They don’t spend their time in worthwhile endeavors.”

  “So you are the most perfect one.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, either. But why waste your time in drunkenness?”

  “It’s a problem in Scotland,” she said. “If the newspaper accounts are to be believed.”

  “So you read the newspaper.”

  She studied him, and he wished the damnable veil didn’t hide her expression.

  “Do you think me stupid?”

  “No, just insular,” he said. “Not caring about the world outside this house.”

  “ ‘The world is too much with us,’ ” she murmured.

  “Wordsworth?”

  “I’ve been reading books, too, footman. Are you doubly surprised?”

  More than he would admit.

  “It’s cold tonight,” he said. “Are you warm enough?”

  “My nose is cold,” she said. “Although, I suppose my veil keeps me warmer than wearing nothing. You, however, should be frozen. Have you been watching me the whole time?”

  He didn’t want to answer, but he nodded.

  “Have you no other interests than me?”

  “Scientific pursuit,” he said, treading too close to the truth. “Perhaps politics, and you?”

  That question startled a chuckle from her. “I have no interest in either,” she said.

  “Gardening?”

  “Are you trying to say you’ve an interest in gardening? I don’t believe it.”

  “I could have,” he said. “How do you know what a footman is interested in?”

  “Very well, scientific pursuit, politics, and gardening. What else?”

  “Bread,” he said.

  “Bread?”

  “I think bread is miraculous.”

  “Miraculous?” she asked, sounding bemused.

  “It grows. It swells. Yes, I’d most definitely add bread to the list of things that interest me.”

  “Could it be because you’re hungry?”

  “I am, by the way. Very hungry. I’ve missed dinner. Do you make bread?”

  “I have, yes,” she said slowly. She turned and looked at the darkened kitchen. “Are you asking me to make bread for you?”

  “If I knew how,” he said, “I would, but I haven’t been allowed access to the kitchen.”

  The idea of her cooking for him was intriguing. Would she do it?

  He should leave, wait in the darkness until she’d reached her room, then go in search of Brody. Sarah would have left a filling dinner for him. Instead, the singularly implausible idea of Catriona baking for him kept him motionless.

  “I can’t bake bread for you,” she said, glancing back at the kitchen again.

  “Why not? Perhaps if you bake bread for me,” he said, “I’ll remain in the corridor while you eat your lunch. Or take a walk while you eat dinner.”

  “You won’t sit at the table and watch me as if you’re a hungry jackal?”

  He laughed. “What do you know of hungry jackals, Catriona?”

  “You shouldn’t address me as Catriona.”

  “Another lesson
in my footman duties? Perhaps I won’t do that, either.”

  “There shouldn’t be a price for your propriety.”

  He didn’t comment, merely waited for her to make up her mind. Would she surprise him and say yes? Or do what he expected, leave in a huff, with a threat to have him dismissed yet again?

  “If I do,” she said, “do you promise to not speak to me? You won’t badger me or tease me or ridicule me.”

  “I don’t think I’ve teased or ridiculed you,” he said in his own defense. “Perhaps I have badgered you. I promise to remain silent.”

  She turned and walked toward the house.

  “Well, come on, then,” she said, neatly surprising him. “It’s too cold to argue the point out here.”

  Chapter 11

  Catriona 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.