Eyes of the Cat

by Mimi Riser

  And that answered two more interesting but unrelated questions: Why the Scottish branch of his family viewed him as something of a dark horse, and why he had felt that she should be able to give up her own plans in order to be his wife.

  Because he’d once made the same sacrifice himself.

  Of course, it was easier for men. Females had to relinquish self-sovereignty to be wives, but husbands—whether they wore trousers or breechclouts—rarely had to give up too much for marriage. Although Alan had given up more than most, Tabitha supposed. It told her the one thing about him that she may never have guessed otherwise.

  He wasn’t a rake, after all. Comanche, Highlander, or something in-between, Alan MacAllister was that curious breed of human generally referred to as a Romantic.

  Whether he even realized it or not, himself, that was why he had galloped her out to the spring that first wild night. He just hadn’t been able to resist playing Lancelot rescuing Guinevere. And that was why he had rushed their wedding—it being so much more romantic to spontaneously swing a girl over the side of a castle rampart than it was to court her slow and staid. That was the reason for those satin sheets, for these fairytale frocks. This was where his tenderness came from.

  And this is why I can’t accept his declaration of love, Tabitha thought, feeling like her heart was being squeezed in a vise.

  Romantics always made declarations like that, didn’t they? They actually believed them, too—at least while they were declaring them. That was part of the moonlight and roses aura of romance. But, as her aunt had often said, roses always wilted eventually, and moonlight soon gave way to the harsh light of day, and…

  “And I can’t believe I’m standing here worrying about any of this now, when there’s a murder about to be committed, and the MacAllisters may loose their way of life because of it!” she spouted, the sound of her own voice helping her to push past the tightness in her chest.

  For that matter, she couldn’t believe she was standing here worrying whether the MacAllisters and their ancient traditions continued or not. It was just like Aunt Matilda had always cautioned her; emotions got in the way of clear thinking.

  “No, not clear thinking. Emotions get in the way of thinking, period,” she amended aloud, moving through the gathering shadows toward the desk. She didn’t expect the order to still be there. Angus would have taken that with him, but…

  “Ahh!” A small sigh of satisfaction pierced the air as Tabitha lifted the freshly used sheet of blotting paper and carried it to the dresser. The imprint of the words were in reverse, but by holding the paper up to the dresser’s large mirror, and squinting a bit because the setting sun filtering through the windows offered little light to read by, she could just make out what Alan had written.

  It was very like him, actually—short, to the point, few details, less explanation—and therefore no help whatsoever. Alan wasn’t the verbose, poet sort of romantic. He was the act now, talk later (if you were lucky) type. Other than the date at the top and Alan’s signature at the bottom, all the order stated was that Ian MacAllister, also known as Wild Horse, was granted a trial-by-combat for the crime of murder, to be carried out in the great hall in due accordance with MacAllister law.

  Marvelous.

  No naming of who would fight Ian in this combat, no mention of what weapons could or could not be used. It didn’t even state a specific hour for the contest, so she had no idea how much time she had to prevent it. Though preventing it was, at the moment, a somewhat rhetorical fancy, because she also had no idea how she was going to get out of the blasted bedroom.

  That was another question that had recently been answered. The question of what had happened to the key she had remembered being in the door three nights earlier. The key that had been there when she had gone out in search of food. The key that had not been there when she had returned unknowingly married (sort of). She now knew who had taken it.

  Angus. She knew because he had used it to lock her in when he’d left a short while before with Alan hanging over his grizzly bear back like a sack of seed potatoes ready for planting in the earth.

  And I do hope that’s not too appropriate an image, Tabitha thought. The pressure in her chest suddenly tightened like a clenched fist. Alan was only unconscious, wasn’t he? She had seen him breathing, hadn’t she, when she’d peeked from beneath the bedclothes?

  “Yes, of course I did! And if I don’t stop thinking things like that, I may just as well relight the lamp and drug myself into a stupor, because that’s all I’ll be good for,” she muttered on her way to peer out one of the room’s two windows.

  It was sheer insanity, she knew, for a person with her terror of heights, but she had this stomach-churning notion that she might be able to climb out by knotting the sheets together. There was only one distinct drawback to that plan—besides the drawback that she would probably have a heart attack if she attempted it. There was the problem of what to do with Rosa, who was still asleep and too young to either be lowered from windows or left alone. That was a question Tabitha didn’t have an answer for yet.

  In what turned out to be a more than fair compensation, however, when she reached the window she found the answer to a different question—one she’d almost forgotten about. It was a thin burnished metal answer barely four inches long, laying in the center of the deep window sill, and—considering the circumstances of its original disappearance—surrounded not too surprisingly by what looked like paw prints in the sill’s dust.

  It was the key that the cat had stolen from her when she’d been shut in the tower. And with only the tiniest bit of conniving, it fit the lock in the bedchamber door like Cinderella’s foot fit the glass slipper.

  Which was really no surprise, either, Tabitha realized on closer inspection of her find. What it was, specifically, was a skeleton key. It could probably open every door in the castle. Just as it had once sprung all the locks in Dr. Earnshaw’s Philadelphia laboratory that long-ago afternoon when she had spied it on his desk, and he had let her test it.

  That was the surprise, the fact that she had a childhood acquaintance with this crafty old piece of iron mongery. There was little doubt it was the same key. If nothing else, she could identify it by the oddly styled “E” etched on its handle. It stood for Earnshaw, didn’t it?

  No, that had been her original assumption, but it had been wrong. The E stood for Elizabeth, Tabitha corrected herself, as the skeleton key opened something besides the bedchamber door. Just holding it unlocked memories that had been shut away in the back of her mind for over a decade.

  “Elizabeth was my mother’s name,” Dr. Earnshaw had explained that muggy summer afternoon. “She died when I was still in dresses, I’m afraid. And ever after, until his own death not too many years later, my father wore this key on a chain around his neck.”

  “To remind him of her?”

  “No, child. The image he held of her in his mind and soul was too clear to need any outside embellishments. But this key had once helped save both their lives, and it was one of the few things that came with them when they left their homes to move east. My father said he wore it to keep it safe. But I suspect it was simply to remind himself that the unique bond he and my mother shared was worth everything they’d had to give up for each other.”

  It had seemed both a perplexing and slightly suspicious notion to Tabitha’s six-year-old proprieties. “What do you mean, Dr. Earnshaw? Did they really have to give up so much?” she had asked as he’d lifted her onto his lap.

  “Well now, I’m not sure,” he had begun in that special tone of voice that let her know there was a good story on the way. “Why don’t I tell you about them and let you judge that point for yourself? The heat’s made us too lazy for anything else today, and we still have nearly an hour before Matilda comes for you.”

  The story had taken most of an hour, too. And it had been a good one, full of heroes and villains and magical adventure, just like the ones in those fairytale books Aunt Matilda
never wanted her to read. The only problem was the heat had made her more than lazy that afternoon. It had made her downright drowsy. She had dozed off just at the most exciting part, and never did hear how the story ended. Not on any conscious level, at least.

  The little girl had awoken from her nap to the low buzz of Earnshaw’s and her aunt’s voices, but it had sounded as though they were arguing, so she’d taken the diplomatic route and kept her eyes and mouth closed. Adults always disagreed about the silliest things; it was better to steer clear, if one could. She may even have drifted back to sleep. That was what she had thought at the time, anyway. The conversation had made so little sense to her young ears, she had decided then that it was all a dream and had filed it away under things-not-to-think-about.

  Now, however, the file had been unlocked.

  Poised at the bedchamber door, the telltale key cold in her hand, and the memory of that day hot in her skull, Tabitha found herself listening to that argument again with an understanding that was almost electrifying in its impact. She could hear Dr. Earnshaw’s and her aunt’s voices as if they were standing there in the shadowy room with her…

  “Really, Zachary, we’ve been over this before. Tabitha is my responsibility, and I am raising her to be an independent person who sees life as it is. So I would appreciate it if you would stop regaling her with these stories of yours. I tell her one thing, then you fill her head with all this romantic nonsense. It’s confusing the child!”

  “Not half as much as you confuse me, Matilda. You didn’t always think romance was nonsense, you know.”

  “That may be true. But then, I never thought, either, that a man who had pledged himself to one woman would come back from war married to another. Which proves my point, doesn’t it? I don’t want Tabitha falling into the same trap I did.”

  “And I don’t want to hear anything about traps when you know full well who the trapped one was. I’ve told you how it was with Caroline and me.”

  “Yes, Zachary, that’s another of your romantic adventure tales, isn’t it? About how you were wounded and lost behind Confederate lines? And Caroline’s family shielded you and nursed you? Of course you never suspected their ulterior motives, did you? You never guessed that she had already been…shall we say, compromised by one Union officer, and they were looking for another one to pick up the slack, as it were.”

  “Matilda, they saved my life. I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t have to find yourself in such a ticklish spot to begin with! That’s what you didn’t have to do. I begged you not to go to that horrid war. I did everything—everything I could think of to keep you here. Good heavens, Zachary, most of the other men who were drafted paid for a substitute. Why did you have to be one of the few who wouldn’t?”

  “Because my father did not raise me to pay another man to fight my battles for me.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your personal honor was at stake. I remember that now. Excuse me for forgetting it a moment while I was selfishly contemplating my personal honor.”

  “Matilda—”

  “No, don’t say anything. I’m not making fun of you, Zachary, really I’m not. I admire you very much. I know you believe in what you do—especially at the time you’re doing it. In your own way, you are a truly noble man. It was noble of you to go to war when you didn’t have to. Noble to accept responsibility for another man’s child—”

  “Damn it, Matilda, I want to accept responsibility for my own child! Caroline and her son have been dead for over a year now. Can’t you forgive what happened and let me finally make things right between us?”

  “I’m sorry, Zachary, but I haven’t the vaguest notion what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh no? Who do you think this is asleep on my lap, then? Goldilocks, exhausted after her tryst with the three bears?”

  “Honestly! If you are referring to Tabitha, you’re being ridiculous. Tabitha is my niece, and you know it. I love her, naturally, but the only reason I’ve had the privilege of raising her is because my late brother appointed me his infant daughter’s guardian in his will. This child has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

  “Of course not. That’s why, even though she looks like you in all other respects, she just happens to have the same dark green eyes as my mother and myself.”

  “What does that prove? Odd coincidences occur all the time.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve a still odder one for you, Matilda. I did a little investigating recently in the coroner’s records at the courthouse. And I discovered that your brother’s wife—Tabitha’s mother, presumably—died of influenza nearly three months before Tabitha was born. How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t. I don’t have to explain anything to you, Zachary. You relinquished all claim to my explanations the day you married your blossoming southern belle—without even a thought, apparently, that you might have left me in a similarly flowering state… I still consider you a valued friend and colleague, though. And I am genuinely sorry Caroline and her little Beauregard died. I can imagine that it must be lonely for you now. But you really can’t expect Tabitha and me to take their places… You see? This is what happens when you allow yourself to become romantically entangled with someone. They always leave you, one way or another. That’s why I can’t be bothered with such nonsense anymore. I have better things to do with my life. And I shall make certain that Tabitha has better things to do with her life, as well. I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  “All right, Matilda, we’ll do it your way. You’re wrong about Caroline. I was far lonelier while she was alive than I am now. But you’re right about everything else—especially our friendship. For the sake of that and our professional relationship, I won’t mention this matter again. And I promise I’ll never make any claims on Tabitha. Your honor may not have been safe with me before, but it is now; you can rest easy on that… I realize you view me as an incurable romantic, and possibly I am. But romance takes a lot of different forms, you know. Most men in my position, I think, would feel that they loved the woman too much to ever be simply friends with her… But I love you so much, my dear, I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  …Of all the curious concepts to have roiling around in one’s skull at such a curiously momentous time, Tabitha thought, her brain feeling a bit too much like a squirrel chasing its own tail.

  Not that she was contemplating squirrels, exactly—even if she was tilting slightly toward the nutty side. She was remembering something she had once heard about another member of the wild kingdom. She was thinking about giraffes. Or a book about giraffes, anyway, and a little girl who had been asked to give an oral report on it.

  The girl had read the text, then stood up in front of her class and stated with great solemnity: “This book told me more about giraffes than I wanted to know.”

  That was what Tabitha was really thinking right then, that she had just been told a lot more than she’d ever wanted to know. She had received answers to questions that she hadn’t even realized existed. Questions and answers that she could have lived a very long, productive and satisfying life never knowing anything about.

  No, that wasn’t correct. It was always better to know the truth; she did honestly believe that. It was just that the timing was so off. She had more pressing things to deal with. The truth had picked an extremely awkward moment to poke its awkward head up out of its deep, dark, awkwardly placed hole. If it saw its shadow, would she have six more weeks of wintry confusion, she wondered a little maniacally?

  Now, that was nuts.

  And the nuts, of course, brought her full circle back to squirrels. And a sudden, dizzy awareness of why her thoughts were all going bushy tailed.

  “Oh my God!” she sputtered, lunging for the bedside table as the sickly sweet odor she had been inhaling finally became potent enough to penetrate the last logically functioning part of her brain. “Where are those scissors I had last night?”

  Still on the table, thank goodness. On the table ne
xt to the lamp. The not quite extinguished lamp with its still smoldering wick wafting drugged vapors into her face, as she bent over it and scorched her fingers knocking the hot chimney free from its base and onto the floor in a tinkling shatter of glass. A hasty twist of the lamp’s key, a hastier slash of the scissors, and the smoking part of the wick landed among the chimney shards to be ground into a soot spot under the toe of a trembling, slippered foot. A second foot joined in wobbly rhythm with the first, as Tabitha pivoted and stumbled toward the already unlocked door to pull it open and let in some cleaner air from the drafty corridor beyond.

  What blew in instead, however, was a tidy tartan frock covered by a grease spattered, white apron, and topped by a very startled, apple cheeked face.

  “Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady. Master Angus said you feelin’ puny like, and sent me tae make sure you was safe abed,” Enid MacAllister lied.

  At least, Tabitha assumed it was a lie, because the surprised maid had just removed a handkerchief from her nose and mouth, implying that she had been warned about the lamp fumes and, therefore, had to suspect something underhanded, regardless of what else Angus may have told her.

  “Y’dinna look a’tall well, m’lady,” Enid improvised, as Tabitha stood staring at her, trying to decide her next move.

  It might work, she was thinking. They were the same height, though the girl was a bit plump. But it was a loose fitting frock anyway, and the cap would be handy for hiding her short hair. It would certainly allow her to move about more discreetly. People rarely looked too closely at scullery maids.

  “Let me help you oota your gown and back oonder the covers, m’lady.”

  “Thank you,” Tabitha said politely, as Enid accomplished her kind offer. “And now I’ll help you out of yours!”