by Karen Ranney
He opened the window to the right of him, moving closer to ease the tightness in his chest. The curtain was raised, yet the watery sun provided little illumination.
“Do you work for someone else? Is this their carriage?”
Instead of answering her, he asked, “Why do you dislike physicians so much?”
He hated the veil and the fact that he couldn’t read her expression.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked.
“Call it my inveterate curiosity.”
“You seem to have a great deal of curiosity about me,” she said. “I would have thought you knew everything about me.”
“I haven’t even begun to know you,” he said. “I believe there are many layers to Catriona Cameron, most of which are hidden from the casual observer.”
“Do you think yourself a casual observer?” she asked, making an impatient movement with her hands.
Had he annoyed her?
If he had, he was glad of it. The entire situation was an irritant. He’d been a fool, shortsighted and optimistic. The word didn’t exist that adequately described his stupidity.
Yet if he hadn’t pretended to be a footman, he would never have gotten to know her. He wouldn’t have bedded her. Nor would he find himself at odds with his conscience now.
He didn’t want to tell her who he was, but he’d already waited too long.
“We’re going to see a woman with two children in Old Town,” he said. There, the start of his confession.
“Does my aunt have you doing good works?”
He smiled. “No, this is my own doing.”
“I’ve no wish to go to Old Town. I know about poverty, Mark. There’s no need for me to wallow in it.”
“Do you?” Surprised, his gaze never left her veil.
What had Mrs. MacDonald told him? That Jean and Catriona had come to Ballindair after their parents’ death. He hadn’t questioned the woman further, and he should have. One moment they were the beloved daughters of a physician, the next they were employed as maids.
Another layer of Catriona exposed.
Once again he wished that damnable veil wasn’t in place.
She turned her head from one side of the carriage to the other as if measuring the interior dimensions. Did she think his vehicle lacking?
“This is the first time I’ve been in a carriage since the accident,” she said.
How stupid of him not to have realized.
“Except for the one bringing me home, of course, but I think the doctor gave me something to make me sleep.” She glanced at him. “That’s why I don’t like doctors,” she said. “Because of the accident.”
“Tell me about it,” he said.
What would she say if he reached over and pulled her into his arms? Not a sensuous impulse as much as one of comfort. He wanted to hold her, press his lips against her hair, soothe her as she trembled. Now, she sat with her gloved hands tightly clasped, her voice thin and frail.
When had she stolen his heart along with his mind?
“They all said I was fortunate to have survived. They never told me how I was to live with this new face. They told me that the experience was to be endured, that it would strengthen my character. I didn’t want character. I wanted to escape the pain.”
She looked over at him again. “Time was the best doctor. Either the pain eased or I found a way of coping with it.”
Glancing out of the window, she continued. “The physicians told me that there was nothing they could do for the scarring. Nothing they could do for the loss of feeling in my hand. Nothing they could do to cure the damage to my knee. They conferred in covens, and took my brother-in-law’s money, but they never did anything except give me laudanum and tell me about the grace of God.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s why I dislike physicians.”
“The reason we’re going to Old Town is to see my patient,” he said.
The truth, stark and unremarkable, except that the interior of the carriage became a bubble of silence.
“I’m a physician.”
“You’re a physician,” she repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“That would explain why you’re a lamentable footman.”
For long moments she didn’t say anything further. Should he try to explain? What could he say?
He’d been curious, then intrigued, then entranced. He’d been amused, interested, and too fascinated. What excuse could he give for being physically enthralled, for forgetting his ruse, for being intoxicated by her?
“Why?” she asked. “Why masquerade as a footman?”
“Would you have allowed me to treat you if I hadn’t?”
“A spy, then. I thought better of Aunt Dina.”
She made no movement, and to another observer her voice might seem calm and without inflection. He knew her well enough, however, that he caught the edge to her words, a faint hone to them as if they sliced as they were spoken.
“She was worried about you. So was your sister.”
“Do you know Jean, too?”
“Yes,” he said, deciding not to tell her about his visit to Ballindair yet.
“Are there any more secrets you wish me to know? Are you certain that woman wasn’t your wife?”
“I’m not married,” he said. “The woman was Sarah, my housekeeper.”
“Was bedding me part of your treatment?”
He looked away. Was it the question or the confines of the carriage that disturbed him the most? He’d become accustomed to his dislike of closed spaces, enough to recognize the gnawing anxiety he felt. This, however, was more than that. Perhaps a touch of shame mixed in, along with regret.
“Being your lover was the worst thing I could have done as a physician.”
She turned her head to study him.
“Yet as unwise as it was, I can’t regret it,” he said. “I don’t regret it. Do you?”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t answer that question,” she said. “You’ve lost the right to hear any of my confidences.”
He couldn’t fault her reaction. Hadn’t he expected it?
Her shoulders were squared and her hands clasped tightly over the hem of her veil.
“I want to go home,” she said.
“To your suite of rooms,” he said. “Avoiding the world, and pretending it doesn’t exist. Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“I think the danger is venturing too much in society,” she said.
“Will you forever measure your life against the carriage accident? Will you never get beyond it?”
She deliberately turned away, looking out the window.
“What has ever happened to you?” she asked. “Something so major that your life stopped because of it? Tell me what’s happened to you, Dr. Mark . . .” Her words trailed off. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“Thorburn,” he said. “Dr. Mark Thorburn.”
“Very well, Dr. Mark Thorburn. What happened to you that was so bad that you had to stop yourself from thinking about it? Or have you led a charmed life? I suspect you have.”
“My tutor used to lock me in the closet,” he said. “I used to scream for hours to be let out. Once, when my father caught him, the tutor told him that he was trying to strengthen my character. My father allowed the punishment to continue.”
She turned her head.
“What did you do that was so bad you were locked in a closet?”
“The first time, I didn’t know the capital of Greece. It’s Athens, by the way. I don’t remember what I did all those other times.”
“Your father allowed it?”
“My father was all for strengthening my character,” he said calmly. “I was to be an example for my younger brothers. Besides, it was a way to discourage me from speaking of medicine.” He glanced over at her. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor ever since I could remember.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I know it wasn’t as physically taxing as yo
ur carriage accident,” he said. “Nor the equal in trauma. But my life hasn’t been charmed.”
“So you test yourself by riding in a carriage with the window open?”
She’d noticed.
“A carriage is the easiest form of transportation, especially in the winter,” he said. “Besides, it’s something I need to overcome.”
“What a paragon of virtue you are, Dr. Thorburn.”
Her voice had become more cutting. At least it wasn’t that calm demeanor she’d assumed sometimes, one socially acceptable but patently false.
What could he say to exonerate himself?
I was a fool, Catriona. He’d wanted her, and still wanted her, and wasn’t that confession?
Chapter 23
The carriage rolled to a stop.
Catriona forced her hands to relax. Nothing was going to happen to her. Nothing had happened.
Only a betrayal so deep it felt carved into her bones.
He reached over and opened the door, leaving the carriage. For a moment she thought he meant to leave her there. She wasn’t eager to venture out into the Old Town, but she wasn’t going to remain here waiting to be robbed or worse.
“Wait,” she said, slapping her hand against the door frame.
He turned back to look at her.
“Still giving orders, Princess?”
“As either a footman or a physician, you’re insufferable.”
He smiled, and she looked away. He shouldn’t smile at her in such a way on a public street. Truly, he shouldn’t smile at her at all after his deception.
“Will you not take me home?”
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “It won’t be that much time out of your life.”
He surprised her by reaching under the seat for a bag. After retrieving several bottles from it, he placed them in his pockets, then left the carriage.
When he held out his hand, she stared at it, debated remaining behind again, and allowed him to help her down the steps.
“We’re going to see Edeen and the children, Brody,” he said, handing up his watch.
The driver nodded, barely visible in the layers of his wool.
The streets were narrow and dark. Only Mark’s hand on her arm steadied her.
She’d heard of Old Town from Aunt Dina. From her words, she’d pictured the place as a labyrinth, a corkscrew of streets and alleys that led down into Hell. She hadn’t considered that it might be worse than she’d imagined.
Twice, she wanted to turn and flee. Twice, she almost pleaded with Mark to take her back to the carriage. Pride and anger kept her silent, however, even as he led her down the steps, stopping before the dark rectangle of a door.
“We’re descending into the vault,” he said.
“We’re going lower?” Were they truly going to Hell, then? Was this her punishment for all the selfish acts she’d ever committed?
She nodded, gathering up her courage.
“It would be easier for you if you removed your veil.”
“Like I did last night?” she asked, hearing the bitterness of her voice. “When you continued to lie to me?”
He didn’t answer, merely tightened his hand on her arm.
The steps were canted downward, narrow and slippery with something. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t investigate exactly what it was too closely. The smell of rotting vegetables and dank water hit the back of her throat and made her grateful for her veil. At least the heavy lace filtered the worst of the odors.
Thank God that Aunt Mary had saved her from a place like this. She hadn’t liked being a maid, but at least she wasn’t forced to live in a subterranean warren like a rat. But did Inverness have a section like Old Town?
The worst thing about Inverness was that the breeze blew over the river, bringing the scent of the sea with it. The smell of brine and fish was overpowering at times, but she’d gladly take that to what she was smelling now.
They traveled a good distance from the base of the steps, until the darkness was absolute. Just when she thought that this truly was Hell, a faint light gave her hope.
“What’s that?”
“A fire,” he said.
Suddenly, a redheaded lad with an engaging grin popped out of the darkness.
She jumped, startled.
“Doctor! I have a tiger!”
“A tiger, James?” Mark asked.
“Mam said I could keep her because she eats rats. Otherwise, she’d just be another mouth to feed.” He grabbed Mark’s hand and pulled him toward the firelight. “Come and see her.”
Mark glanced back at her, then left to follow the boy.
She stood at the opening of the space, noting the shadowed vault above her. How could people live here, without sunlight or fresh air?
“A fine tiger, indeed,” she heard Mark say as a striped cat emerged from beneath a pile of blankets, yawning and stretching. James immediately grabbed the cat and cradled her in his arms.
“How is your sister?”
“Better,” a woman said, stepping into the light. “She’s been coughing less this last week.”
The woman was utterly beautiful, her red hair a flame in the shadows. Her eyes were tilted at the corners, giving her an exotic air. Her mouth, lush and inviting, was curved in a half smile as she looked at Mark.
”This is Edeen, Catriona,” he said to her.
Jealousy cut through her.
The force of the emotion was so great that she took a step back, wanting to flee from the vault. She had always been the most beautiful woman in a room. Not now, with James’s mother standing there silent and still, wearing her threadbare shawl over her shoulders as regally as an ermine-trimmed cape.
Then James appeared in front of her, staring up with a frown on his face.
“Are you the angel of death, come to take Christel?”
She was stunned into silence.
“No, James,” Mark said. “She’s a friend of mine. This is Miss Cameron.”
To her amazement, James performed a lovely bow. She wondered how long it had taken his mother to teach him that.
The fire evidently served as a source of warmth, illumination, and where cooking was done. A small pot sat on a tripod, the contents bubbling.
Mark knelt beside a cot where a little girl lay. Gently, he helped the child sit up, then used his stethoscope to listen to her lungs.
Christel had bright red hair just like her mother. Her face was ashen, however, and she looked painfully thin bundled up in the narrow bed.
The little girl placed her hand on Mark’s in a gesture of trust.
She’d felt the same for the physicians in London, at least at first.
They hadn’t brought her anything but lies, couched in pretty phrases and spiritual entreaty. God will decide, Miss Cameron . . . Only the good Lord knows . . . Providence will dictate.
Did Mark dole out that advice to his patients? She doubted it. He would be direct and unflinching. He, no doubt, would have told her the truth.
You are scarred for life, Catriona. The glass cut through your skin and the scarring will always be with you. There will be no change.
She could have tolerated the truth with a great deal more acceptance than she had the lies. Or could she? Perhaps the doctors had told her what they needed to, in order to calm her. Perhaps she’d been so hysterical, and so desperate, that she wouldn’t have accepted the truth.
Was she that shallow, that vain?
Edeen stepped closer to the cot, watching closely as Mark finished up his examination. He withdrew a bottle and handed it to the redhead, and she nodded several times.
The woman was poor, more destitute than anyone she’d ever met, but she’d not relinquished the responsibility of her two children. Why hadn’t Edeen parlayed her looks into better opportunities for herself and her children?
Just like she herself had planned? Was she the only one who put such a high price on appearance?
Mark and the children’s mother exchanged
a wordless look and she immediately felt like an outsider. Had he been her lover, too?
Standing there in a space that offered no privacy, no comfort, and no light, she felt a curious sensation resembling shame. Her future, even scarred, was a great deal brighter than the one offered this family.
The child couldn’t remain here. Didn’t Mark see that? Why hadn’t he demanded that she be taken from here immediately?
The situation reminded her too much of Inverness, and those black months following her parents’ death. Without Aunt Mary’s intervention, they probably wouldn’t have survived. No one had come forward to offer food or money for coal. She and Jean had no one but each other and their aunt, and this woman didn’t even have that.
“She can’t stay here,” she heard herself say.
The woman turned to look at her, her smile fading.
“If she’s ill, she can’t stay here,” she said. “This is no place for a sick child.”
“She’s my daughter,” the woman said. “I thank you for your interest, but this is our home.”
“This isn’t a home,” she said, looking around. “It’s a smoky pit. It’s a cave.”
Mark stared at her. “That will be all, Catriona,” he said in a cutting voice.
How had she ever thought he was a footman? How had she ever believed him a servant?
The trip back to the carriage was faster than the descent into the Hell of the vault. She didn’t speak and neither did Mark. Once in the carriage, she remained silent.
Only when their surroundings changed, becoming more amenable and less like Old Town, did she turn to look at him.
“Will the little girl live?”
“I hope so,” he said. “Christel’s looking better than she did last week.”
“That’s where you’ve been each morning?”
He nodded. “I try to visit Old Town first thing.”
“What will you tell them?”
He turned his head and regarded her.
“What will you tell my aunt and my sister?”
He propped up one arm on the window and didn’t move his gaze from her. She was disconcerted by his intense stare. He couldn’t see through the veil, she knew that well enough, but he had a way of looking at her as if he could peer past the lace and directly into her soul.
