The Lass Wore Black (5 page)

When she hadn’t responded to that absurd statement, the physician left the room, no doubt disappointed that she hadn’t complimented him on his wisdom.

Had her own father talked to his patients in such a way? She doubted it. Her father had been kind but not given to false good cheer. He’d been compassionate and loving, and only once intensely cruel.

She pushed thoughts of her parents from her mind, went to the door and removed the chair. When she was satisfied that none of the staff was abroad and Aunt Dina had retired, she slowly left the room.

The gaslight at the end of the hall was at the lowest setting. The flame lent the air a yellowish hue as well as a noxious smell. If she asked Aunt Dina to extinguish the lamps, she’d have to give her a reason, which is why she kept silent. These nightly walks were private, and belonged only to her.

She slipped down the back stairs, halting at the landing.

Was the obnoxious footman somewhere around? She didn’t want another confrontation with him.

She rarely saw anyone when she left the house. Once or twice she’d narrowly missed Artis locking up for the night, but she knew the maid’s schedule now, and adjusted her own to it.

Number 17 Charlotte Square belonged to her brother-in-law, and was, she’d been told, among the most prestigious addresses in Edinburgh. Charlotte Square consisted of four long buildings facing each other like the sides of an ornate crown. In the middle was an expanse of mature trees and landscaped lawn. The building facades were ornamented like palaces, with Corinthian pillars, pedimented centerpieces, and steeply pitched roofs guarded by sphinxes.

Each town house was fronted by a black lacquer door, a wide series of steps, and topped by a fan window that let in the light on sunny days. Iron railings sat on either side of the steps, ending in graceful inverted trumpets. In front of each residence was a gas lamp on a fluted column, its square base mounted to the pavement.

If carriages passed this way at this late hour, they did so in reverent silence. Not for Charlotte Square the rowdiness or the drunkenness of other Edinburgh neighborhoods.

Occasionally, the residents of the square entertained, and when that occurred, she postponed her walk, unwilling to take the chance of being seen. Tonight there were no parties, no well-attended dinners, simply the gas lamps shining over frosted grass and trees that remained still and arthritic in the cold night air.

The square was draped in a blanket of cold and silence. A quiet winter night that echoed only her footsteps. The sky wasn’t truly black, but a strange gray, illuminated by the streetlamps. A snow sky, perhaps, with hints of more storms to come.

Two of the gas lamps had been extinguished by the wind. She walked, staying away from the remaining lamps when she could, keeping to the deep shadows around the trees.

At first she limped, but that was to be expected. She’d done nothing more today than sit in place or walk around her rooms. If the weather held, she would walk around the square four times, as usual. This midnight regimen gave her something to do and perhaps even extended her life by one more night.

When her mother died, she’d wanted to curl up in a ball and simply sleep the day away. Her sister, Jean, pelted her with sayings of a positive nature, until she had no choice but to rouse herself. Her sister always believed in good outcomes, even in the midst of dire circumstances.

Perhaps she ought to adopt Jean’s attitude. After all, her sister had acquired an earl for a husband.

What would Jean do in her situation?

Your beauty is not all you have to offer the world, Catriona.

She recalled what Jean had said a month earlier, on her arrival in Edinburgh. She hadn’t bothered to comment, because doing so might hurt her sister’s feelings.

Ever since she was a child, people had come up to her mother and said such wondrous things. “Oh, isn’t she a beautiful little girl!” “What bright color hair she has!” “What an exquisite face!” “She’ll melt the lads’ hearts, she will.”

How could Jean understand? Her sister had always been plain. People had never gasped aloud at her appearance in a doorway. Nor had men danced attendance on her, in hopes of winning a smile or more.

Yet marriage had somehow enhanced Jean’s looks. Her smile was always present and her eyes sparkled, no doubt because Jean was with child.

She was going to be an aunt, Catriona thought.

If they trained the child from birth, perhaps he or she might not scream at the sight of her.

Should she be grateful she’d survived? Why, to spend her days in seclusion? To be nothing more than the odd woman down the street, the one about whom they warned their children: “You’ll be good, Robbie, or the monster will get you.”

To go from Catriona Cameron, beautiful girl and daring temptress, to someone swathed in black, was a journey everyone seemed to think she should travel without difficulty. But the abyss between who she’d been and the person she was now was too large and empty. It left her flailing alone in the dark, just like now, a solitary figure looking for answers on a winter midnight.

M
ark instructed his driver to pull to the curb. The MacTavish home was out of his way, but the minute he saw the movement on the other side of the square, he knew why he’d returned. He sat in the darkness, watching the solitary parade of a shrouded female, all the while calling himself a fool.

Why was he so curious about Catriona? Because he remembered the girl he’d seen years ago? A girl with dancing blue eyes the shade of the Mediterranean Sea. A face as beautiful as any ever painted or sculpted, and hair so brightly blond it seemed to mimic the sun.

He’d known it was her, from her voice. A voice didn’t change all that much. Not even hers, overlaid with anger and sorrow.

Curiosity niggled at him and made him wonder how injured she’d been in the accident.

Why had she refused to see another physician? Earlier, he’d acquired the address of the London physician who’d treated her. He would write the man and discover what he could about her condition.

When she walked below the overhanging branches of a tree, he lost sight of her and waited for her to emerge on the other side. When she did, he felt oddly relieved. Her progress was slow. She evidently had some damage to her left leg, because she favored it when she walked. She also held her arm oddly, but it might be simply the swath of material around her.

Would she have agreed to see him as a physician if he’d told her the truth?

I knew your father.
A confession he should have made.
I visited him on more than one occasion. You never paid me any attention, which was just as well.
He might’ve become besotted, and there had been no time with his studies.

Perhaps that’s why he was here, after all, in gratitude to the man who’d spent time with him. From Catriona’s father, a popular physician in Inverness, he’d received encouragement and approbation, more than he ever received from his own father. There, that explanation sounded as reasonable as any. He felt as if he owed her father a debt, and treating his daughter would be one way of repaying him beyond the grave.

More likely it was simply his curiosity again and the memory of a shining smile and a quick, mischievous look. The woman was not the girl. But who was the woman?

He realized he wanted to know.

Chapter 5

A
s Catriona placed her breakfast tray back on the sideboard, she heard the sound of weeping.

“Stupid girl!”

A muffled scream held her immobile, both hands clenching the fabric of her skirt. She turned in that direction, hearing Artis’s low voice.

“Shut up now and do as I say.”

That command only generated more crying.

She frowned, took a few steps down the corridor, then stopped. Whatever was happening was no business of hers.

Artis suddenly appeared at the end of the corridor. Everyone else skittered out of her way. The maid stared straight at her then, as if able to see through her heavy veil.

“You done?” she asked, stomping toward her.

Artis had a face like a horse, long and narrow with a wide-bridged nose. Between her brows were twin frown lines, even though she was a young woman. Nothing in her flat brown gaze revealed appreciation, gratitude, or that she even liked what she saw.

Catriona reflected that if Artis was acting as housekeeper, Aunt Dina had evidently given her the power to do so. Yet it was entirely possible that Aunt Dina didn’t know that Artis was terrorizing the other maids.

And then there was the footman she’d hired. Look at his behavior.

Could someone be too kind? Dina was forever rescuing people, giving them opportunities they didn’t deserve. Had the footman been destined to a life of drunkenness? Had he beaten his wife? Was he a thief?

“Are you acting as housekeeper now?” she asked Artis. “Does Aunt Dina know you’re punishing the other maids?”

Artis didn’t answer, but her mouth turned up in one corner in an expression of contempt.

“I’ll be taking the tray,” she said, circling her. She grabbed it, and without another word walked down the corridor.

“I’m going to tell her.”

Artis stopped. Slowly, the maid turned and walked back to her, the tray in front of her like a weapon.

“Are you now?”

She nodded. Artis didn’t have the power to intimidate her. No one did.

“I’d not be doing that if I were you.”

“Leave the maids alone,” she said.

“Who are you to be telling me my business?”

Whatever happened with the maids was not her concern. The same was true of the footman, as long as he didn’t enter her rooms.

Why did she even care? Perhaps because she’d once been a maid herself. However, she’d never been defenseless or subjected to bullying.

The memory of what she’d done once to another girl had her face turn warm.

“You’ll leave them alone,” she said to Artis. “Else I’ll be reporting you to Dina. I’ll have you dismissed.”

Artis walked so close, the tray bumped her in the arm. Was the maid going to strike her?

“I think you should go back to your room and stay there, miss.”

All her life she’d charmed people. Artis was the first person who actively disliked her, and it was such a disconcerting experience that she almost backed down.

Doing so would give the maid the impression she’d won this skirmish.

Perhaps Artis had, because she turned and walked away, leaving her to return to her room, closing off the rest of the world when she shut the door.

M
ark stood at the doorway of the servant’s room on the third floor of Mrs. MacTavish’s house. The room was so small that if he extended his arms on either side, he’d be able to touch two walls. The bed, with its sagging mattress, looked barely long enough to fit the petite Mrs. MacTavish. He was certain that his feet would drape over the end if he ever chanced to sleep here.

The miniature window, set up high in the wall, barely allowed in the morning light. Of course, if he were a real footman, he wouldn’t be returning to his chamber for anything but sleep.

The air smelled strongly of starch. No doubt the residue from a previous occupant. Either that or the pillowcase and sheet were starched, which couldn’t mean a restful night’s sleep.

He was a fool to consider doing this.

The picture of Catriona walking alone at midnight disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t rationalize that image with the laughing girl in his memory.

If he was going to play a part in order to get closer to her, he needed the trappings of a servant, and this room was merely a prop. If he didn’t have quarters in Mrs. MacTavish’s home, the other servants would know something was amiss. Yet even though he wouldn’t be sleeping here, he couldn’t tolerate this space. He could barely breathe, and hadn’t yet stepped inside the room.

“This won’t do,” he said. “Haven’t you anything . . .” His words trailed off. What was he going to ask? Anything larger? Anything more spacious? Anything less stifling?

He turned to Dina MacTavish and said, “Do you have anything closer to your niece?”

“Closer?” she asked.

“You said yourself that your niece was not amenable to strangers. I merely wish to observe her comings and goings.”

“There’s a room over the carriage house,” she said. “My driver doesn’t use it, but has lodgings in town. It has a view of Catriona’s window. Will that suffice?”

“Is it larger than this room?”

She nodded.

“Then I’m sure it will be fine,” he said.

“I’ll see to it, Dr. Thorburn.”

“Another thing,” he said. “You shall have to call me Mark. After all, I’m your servant.”

Another nod.

“I’ll show up every afternoon,” he said. “I can at least monitor Catriona’s lunch and perhaps her dinner. In that way I might be able to gain her trust by seeing her each day.”

Mrs. MacTavish nodded. “I appreciate this more than I can tell you, Dr. Thorburn. Mark. To give up your practice so.”

“I haven’t given up my practice, Mrs. MacTavish. I’ve just abbreviated it by an hour or two each day. Of course, there are times when I’ll be gone, but you can always say that I’ve been sent on an errand.”