The Lass Wore Black

by Karen Ranney

  “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.

  Dina 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

  True 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.

  Today she was even more attuned to his appearance, a fact that irritated her. What was there about him that interested her? He was a handsome man, but she’d known many handsome men.

  No doubt he knew his own appeal. However, men with an awareness of their own attractiveness tended to be selfish lovers.

  She almost asked him that question, then remembered that she was Miss Cameron, the poor unfortunate lady struck down in her youth by tragedy. Not Catriona Cameron, tiptoeing on the edge of shocking behavior.

  “Aren’t you going to speak?” she asked, turning to where he stood beside the window. “I believe the agreement was that you were goi
ng to leave me alone while I ate. I’ve eaten.”

  He turned his head and studied her as if he could see through the layer of lace shielding her face. What would he say if he could see her?

  Looking away was easier, toying with the hem of her veil much more preferable than wondering at the footman’s bedroom achievements, lack of them, or his thoughts.

  He stacked the dishes on the tray, still speechless, honoring the agreement they’d made. She’d made him promise to be silent, and silent he was.

  Why on earth had she insisted on that? She missed his conversation, and wished he would talk to her.

  Was she lonely enough to want to converse with a servant?

  Yes.

  He left, easily opening the door with one hand while supporting the tray with another.

  She heard voices and wondered if he’d engaged one of the maids in conversation. Was he flirting with one of them? Were they exchanging stories of their day? Was he as charming to them as she suspected he could be?

  Standing, she moved to the door, one hand raised, fingers resting against the wood. She opened the door to find the corridor empty.

  He was gone, and so was the opportunity to talk to him.

  Someone screamed, the noise so unexpected that she jerked in surprise. She walked as quickly as she could down the corridor to the servants’ stair.

  To her horror, Isobel lay crumpled at the foot of the steps, moaning.

  Artis stood above her, her face expressionless.

  “How did this happen?” she asked, passing Artis on the stairs. Because of her knee, she held on tightly to the banister, taking each of the steep curving steps with care until she reached the fallen maid.

  Because of the weakness in her leg, she couldn’t kneel, but she sat on the lowest step and reached out to the young girl.

  “What happened, Isobel?”

  The girl’s eyes flickered open. “I fell, miss, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

  She doubted the girl was telling the truth. Isobel was cradling her arm, evidently in pain.

  Looking up, she discovered that Artis had disappeared.

  She hated feeling helpless. She shouted for help, hoping her aunt heard. Instead of Aunt Dina, however, the footman suddenly appeared from around the corner. He took in the scene with a glance and knelt at Isobel’s side.

  “Where are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the girl said weakly. “My arm, I think.”

  “Did Artis do this to you?” Catriona asked.

  The footman sent her a swift look, and she bit back another question. When Isobel looked away, however, she knew the truth.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked.

  Isobel nodded.

  He gently helped her move until she was propped up against the wall. Carefully, he unbuttoned her cuff, then pushed the sleeve up to her elbow.

  Isobel cried out only once, when he touched a place on her arm that was rapidly swelling.

  “I’m afraid your arm is broken,” he said. “I can help you if you’ll let me.”

  Isobel nodded.

  “Charm only goes so far, footman,” she said, annoyed at the worshipful look Isobel was giving him. “She needs a doctor.”

  “Why?” he asked, glancing at her. “You won’t see a doctor.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t need one.”

  “I don’t need one either, miss,” Isobel said, smiling at the footman. “Mark will help me.”

  “Mark can hurt you,” she said. “What if your arm is not set properly? You won’t be able to use it.”

  “I’ll set it properly,” he said, standing.

  He bent and scooped Isobel up in his arms, her uninjured arm looped around his neck. Before Catriona could voice an objection, he’d disappeared around the corner with the maid.

  She sat there for a few moments, uncertain about what she felt. Despite her objections, the footman had taken charge. Isobel was at his mercy, and he arrogantly thought he could fix the girl’s arm. Add to that her suspicion that Artis had pushed Isobel down the stairs.

  The entire household was in a state of chaos. Things had to change immediately.

  She stood and went in search of Aunt Dina.

  “She wants you gone,” Dina said, sighing. “I’m afraid she was adamant about it.”

  “I don’t doubt she was,” Mark said.

  They sat in the drawing room, Mark nursing a sherry because Mrs. MacTavish thought he’d looked cold when he arrived from calling on a few patients. The room was blessedly warm, as opposed to the night outside. He was surprised his skin wasn’t a shade of blue, and he thought Brody must be near frozen as well.

  He paid his driver twice what he could make elsewhere, because of his odd schedule and constant travel, but money couldn’t make up for the miserable weather Brody had to endure.

  “How is dear Isobel?” Dina asked.

  “She’s doing fine,” he said, putting his glass on the doily on the table and leaning forward.

  He laced his hands together loosely, regarding Dina with intensity.

  “Her arm will heal quickly,” he said. “She’ll need to be put on light duty for a while, I’m afraid. A month, at least.”

  Dina nodded. “But that’s not what you meant to say,” she said, placing her cup of tea next to his glass. “What is it, Mark?”

  “I believe you have a viper in your nest of maids.”

  She nodded. “Catriona thinks Artis was responsible for Isobel’s accident.”

  “Isobel said that Artis was annoyed and pushed her. Whether the fall was intentional or an accident, the result is the same. Isobel was injured.”

  “I shall have to do something,” she said.

  He nodded. “Not everyone can be saved.”

  “Regrettably, you’re right,” Mrs. MacTavish said, sighing again. “I can’t send the girl back to Old Town, and I can’t advance her, either.”

  She picked up her cup again and took a delicate sip. She frowned at the fireplace, evidently in deep thought. “However, Isobel is a different matter. As soon as her arm has healed, I can go about finding another position for her.”

  “Kingairgen,” he said. “My grandfather’s house. They’re always looking for staff, and the housekeeper is a kindly woman.”

  He’d send her there with the proviso that the girl be warned about his grandfather’s lecherous impulses. He’d have a word with Isobel himself.

  “Are you certain, Mark?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

  He looked away, took a sip of his sherry, and fervently prayed she wouldn’t begin to weep.

  “Reverend Michaels will be glad to know the situation has a happy ending.”

  “I urge you not to tell him,” he said, concerned now.

  She looked surprised. “Why ever not?”

  Most of the relief given to the poor in Old Town was organized through churches. He’d managed to remain secular for the most part. A great many of his patients didn’t like being preached to as payment for a blanket or a hot meal. If Reverend Michaels believed he was a convert, the man would never leave him alone.

  “I’d prefer to be anonymous in this instance.”

  “You’re too modest,” she said.

  “I might say the same about you.”

  Mrs. MacTavish’s good works consisted of not only being excellent at soliciting donations, but in putting that money to the best use. A word to a friend over a pot of tea, and the coffers of a certain church were suddenly larger. A gathering of friends, and two maids had been hired, their prospects significantly better than a month earlier.

  She waved away his comments and said, “However, perhaps it was a blessing that Artis did come here.”

  At his quick glance, she smiled.

  “Don’t you see? It’s Catriona. A month ago she would not have noticed the maids, let alone Artis’s behavior. Nor would she have cared.” She tapped the tips of her fingers together. “She certainly would not have demanded that you be dism
issed.”

  “Will I be?”

  “On no account,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  The very reason he should leave as quickly as possible.

  Catriona couldn’t believe it.

  Not only had Aunt Dina refused to dismiss the footman, but the older woman laughed gaily when she insisted upon it.

  “Oh, my dear,” she’d said. “I couldn’t possibly dismiss Mark. He’s been too valuable.”

  Not only that, but she also refused to dismiss Artis.

  “If what you say is true,” Dina had said, “then I need to counsel the girl.”

  “You need to send her back where she came from,” Catriona told her.

  Dina looked shocked.

  “You can’t be serious, Catriona. That would be tantamount to a death sentence for the poor girl.”

  She doubted, frankly, that things would be so dire as that. But it seemed as if Dina was determined to retrain Artis.

  The maid’s new task was to inventory and clean the attic, a duty that evidently didn’t please her at all. One morning, she opened her door to find Artis arriving with her tray. The maid slammed it down on the sideboard, scowled at her, and stomped off.

  The footman had treated Isobel adequately enough. Her arm was bandaged well and she wore a sling made of soft yellow flannel. The girl spoke of him in a rapturous voice, her eyes misting and an otherworldly smile on her lips.

  It was exceedingly annoying, especially since the footman was still bringing her meals, but maintaining his silence. He wouldn’t even look at her, but left the moment she finished eating.

  Yes, it was exceedingly annoying.

  What a strange household they had—misfit maids, an arrogant footman, a too kind employer, and a woman who dressed in black from head to toe.

  Perhaps she was the oddest of all of them.

  Tonight, the trees stood stiffly beneath the mantle of snow like a forest of guards. The wind snapped at her veil and iced her face. Her lips were nearly numb, but she pressed on, intent on her walk. Her knee protested, stiff with cold, but she determinedly placed one foot in front of the other, wrapping her arms around her waist beneath the cloak.