The Lass Wore Black Page 24

  “No,” she said. “Thank you, Artis.”

  The woman looked surprised. Had she failed to thank her in the past?

  Once alone, she lay her head back on the ornate mahogany carving of the settee. She wasn’t eager to return to her suite. The rooms that had been a haven for the last two months now seemed a prison.

  She stared down at the veil in her lap. What did it matter if she wore black or blue lace? Must she hide from the world? What difference did it make if everyone saw her?

  She didn’t want to be revolting to anyone, especially not to Mark. Wasn’t that a surprising admission? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him, remembering his touch on her skin?

  She’d been lonely, that’s all. She’d been accustomed to the touch of a man, nothing more complicated than that. Never mind that she hadn’t missed passion when she’d first come to Edinburgh or those months in London. Never mind that she could barely remember the face of her first lover, but she doubted she’d ever forget Mark.

  He’d been the only man she’d ever truly missed, the only one who made her want something more than passion, the only one who’d held her tenderly as she’d wept in his arms. Perhaps she wanted gentleness, understanding, and even laughter.

  Reason enough to banish him from her mind. Otherwise, she’d only invite despair, and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

  Chapter 29

  Catriona didn’t care how many times she was in a carriage, the experience was unsettling, especially at night. Edinburgh wasn’t as brightly lit as London. Nor was there a hint of fog. Traffic, however, was as bad.

  Aunt Dina didn’t seem to notice her anxiety, which was just as well. She wasn’t a patient any longer, and she was going to have to find some way to cope. Either that or walk everywhere she needed to go.

  The press of traffic ahead made them slow to a crawl. At this rate they’d never make it home.

  “There’s a party or some such,” Dina said, craning her neck to see. “What a lovely event to have in the midst of snow and ice.”

  How could Aunt Dina sound so cheerful after the afternoon they had? Hungry little urchins gathered around them, eager to take one of the cast-off shirts or dresses home to their parents. After the last of the clothing was distributed, Dina had produced a sweet. For a moment she thought there’d be a riot. But somehow Dina managed to have one candy stick for each of the children.

  She was tired, disheartened, and wished nothing more than the comfort of her suite of rooms. She didn’t want to see another sad-looking woman standing in a doorway or hear the raucous laughter of another drunk. Most of all, she didn’t want to see the naked yearning in the eyes of children who’d seen and learned too much in their tender years.

  How could they help each one of them?

  When she’d said as much to Dina, the older woman only smiled. “We can’t, my dear. But we can touch one life, and then another. We can bring some beauty and joy to some, if only for a moment.”

  Now, Dina was looking like a child herself, peering out the window.

  “Oh look, my dear. Isn’t that Dr. Thorburn?” She waved Catriona over to see. “I swear, the man is one of the most handsome creatures I’ve ever seen. Oh, to be younger,” she added.

  The last person she wanted to see was Mark, but she barely had a choice. Dina grabbed the front of her cloak and nearly hauled her across the seat.

  He was standing on the steps in front of a large building, each of the windows ablaze with light. The double doors were open, spilling enough illumination to see his attire of black coat and top hat. Beside him was an attractive older woman. As she watched, three other women gathered around him.

  “He doesn’t need me to look at him,” she said. “It seems as if he has all the attention he needs.”

  She sat back, refusing to look in his direction.

  “I would imagine he does most times, my dear. He’s handsome and intelligent. Plus, he has a wonderful way of carrying himself, don’t you think?”

  Was one of those women his lover? Or was he engaged to be married? Would one of those beautiful women be his wife?

  If she must survive on bannocks for the rest of her life, it would be better to forget the taste of plum pudding.

  Blessedly, traffic eased so they could pull ahead, and she was spared the sight of him.

  Mark stood on the steps, wishing himself anywhere but here. Anyplace would be preferable, even Old Town in the midst of an epidemic.

  His brother was getting married, a surprise in itself. What was not unexpected was this lavish entertainment—a sign of his father’s approval of the match. Anyone who was prominent in Edinburgh society had been invited, including his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s three sisters, women who now congregated around him as if he were a wounded boar and they hungry hunters.

  His mother laughed at some jest, an indication that he should have been paying more attention. Instead, he was considering the proportions of a new cough medicine that he’d like to give some of his patients in Old Town.

  His presence tonight had been mandatory in his father’s eyes, but he’d shown up for his mother’s sake. His grandfather enjoyed these occasions when his son paraded him around like a trophy he was about to win. The old man had caught his attention several times during the night, the twinkle in the earl’s eyes amusing him.

  Now, however, he was done with being amused or bored. His quota of smiling, nodding, and pretending to listen attentively had been reached.

  He could be home, working with Sarah to finish up his medications for the next week. Or he could be finalizing his patient notes. There was always correspondence to read and letters he needed to write. His days were full, and whenever one of these interminable social events occurred, it ate up time.

  The three women in front of him smiled up as one. He’d endured their company the entire night, and not one of them had anything more than vacuous comments to utter. Did he like the color pink? Wasn’t the snow pretty? Had he read the newest novel? Wasn’t the music pleasant? The only time one of them had said something remotely interesting about politics, the other two had given her a look that quelled any further speech.

  He missed Catriona.

  Granted, they’d never discussed politics, but he didn’t doubt she had an opinion about a great many things. Nor was she forever licking her lips or touching her temple, or spreading her fingers delicately across her bosom as if to make him look at her breasts.

  Once, she’d been as flighty and frivolous as these women. Had it been the accident that changed her? Or what happened before that, when her father killed her mother and was hanged for the act?

  Love shouldn’t be that selfish.

  “What are you thinking?” his mother asked. “You have the most off-putting frown on your face. You’ll give us all a fright, I swear.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve something on my mind.”

  His mother moved aside and he followed her.

  “Anne?”

  He shook his head. “No, not Anne.”

  She sighed. “Anne wasn’t for you,” she said. “Besides, it looks as if the girl has found another interest.”

  He didn’t care enough to ask, but his mother furnished the information regardless.

  “The son of a baron,” she said, lowering her voice even further. “He’s shorter than she, but much admired by her father.”

  “I wish her the best.”

  “I’m not entirely sure she feels the same for you.” She sighed. “Never mind. She wasn’t a good match. You need someone to make you forget medicine, if only for a while.”

  His carriage arrived and he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. He wasn’t about to tell her that someone had already done just that.

  He smiled, exchanged pleasantries, and bid farewell to the three women. Did they realize how forgettable each one was? He wasn’t certain he even remembered their names.

  To his surprise, his brother raced down the steps toward him.

  �
�I need to come and see you before the wedding,” Jack said, leading him toward the carriage.

  He turned his head to study his brother in the faint light. “The pox again?”

  “How judgmental you sound, brother,” Jack said. “Like Father. Tell me, are you going to withhold my allowance, too?”

  Perhaps marriage would settle Jack, but he doubted it. He was the product of his father’s influence. As long as he had the money to purchase women and whiskey, Jack wouldn’t aspire to being more than a twenty-seven-year-old child.

  To their father’s discredit, he’d not encouraged any of his sons to do something with themselves. In fact, especially in his case, the less work, the less ambition he had, the better.

  “I suggest you find yourself another physician,” he said.

  “That would be awkward. Who knows me better than my own brother?”

  “Which is why you should get your own physician.”

  “What a prude you’ve turned out to be, brother. I’m ashamed to call you my kin.”

  Since his brother reeked of whiskey, he wasn’t all that happy to claim him, either. He entered the carriage, settled into the seat, and looked out at his brother.

  “I’m serious, Jack. You’re not going to listen to any of my advice. I have enough patients who will to not waste time on you.”

  “Do you still get afraid in tight places, brother?” Jack asked, a sneer in his voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. Do you still drink to excess?”

  Jack slammed the carriage door, and Brody took off soon after.

  He raised his hand in farewell to his mother and the gaggle of women he’d no doubt see at every event from this moment forward.

  At times he felt like a changeling in his own family.

  I don’t belong anywhere. Hadn’t Catriona said something similar?

  Did she realize how alike they were?

  He would call on her tomorrow and end this.

  They’d done everything backward, hadn’t they? Some situations couldn’t be corrected, but as long as a man was alive, he could rectify certain mistakes.

  He’d begin to court her in earnest. He’d be a suitor for once in his life. He’d bring flowers and presents to her. What presents were acceptable? He’d ask Sarah, she would know. No, this courtship should remain between the two of them.

  She was going to be stubborn about it; he knew that much.

  So was he.

  Winter was the season of dying things. Yet perhaps winter needed to come occasionally, to rid life of the old, the unneeded, the out of date. Still, Catriona was tired of winter, both as a season and in her life.

  She hadn’t been walking for nearly a week, and her leg protested the absence of exercise. Perhaps she should walk longer than normal to make up for the lack. If her knee would allow her to continue.

  Wind whistled through the branches, clicking them together like finger bones. She stopped where she was, listening.

  She turned, looking out from the shelter of trees, clutching her arms beneath her cloak and gazing up at the cold cloudless night filled with stars.

  Loneliness seeped into her bones, settled there to ache. In this wild night, it felt as if she were the only one awake in New Town, while the castle on the hill frowned down at her in censure.

  She walked, shutting her mind to the pain. As she crossed the lawn, she saw the carriage on the other side of the square. Each time she passed, the driver looked away.

  Was he trying to conceal his identity?

  The fourth time, she slowed, daring herself. The carriage could simply be waiting for a visitor to one of the town houses on the block. Or it could be the same carriage she’d seen every day this week.

  She crossed the street, approaching the vehicle from the rear. Reaching up, she opened the carriage door.

  A man sat there, a small carriage lamp at his feet. He was bundled in a coat, his bowler hat pulled low over his ears, and even though he had a thick carriage robe over his lap, he looked remarkably chilled.

  “Are you watching me?” she asked.

  For a long moment the man didn’t say anything. He folded his notebook, tucking a small pencil into the side. When he was done, he nodded to her, for all the world as if they’d just been introduced.

  “Well?”

  “Perhaps I was, miss.”

  She hadn’t expected him to admit it. “Why?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, that I can’t say.”

  “Perhaps you’ll tell the authorities when I summon them,” she said.

  He waved a hand at her. “Now, there’s no need to do that. I’m just sitting here on a fine winter night, not bothering anyone.”

  “You’re bothering me. I don’t like being watched.”

  “Oh, I’m not exactly watching you, miss. You might say I’m watching after you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed heavily. “Very well, miss. I’ve been commissioned to ensure your safety, if you will.”

  “My safety? Who, exactly, commissioned you?”

  “That, I most assuredly must keep confidential.”

  “Tell Dr. Thorburn there is no reason to have me followed.”

  A pause, during which the man tried to hide his surprise.

  “The doctor appears to be certain there is, begging your pardon, miss.”

  She stepped back and slammed the coach door shut.

  It wasn’t enough that he’d come into her room. It wasn’t enough that he’d pretended to be a footman. It wasn’t enough that he’d watched her eat. Now he was intruding into her life again.

  How dare he set someone to follow her.

  A guest of wind nearly tore her veil free. She grabbed at it with both hands, intent on reaching her warm room.

  He must learn that he couldn’t meddle in her life. She didn’t need a protector, or if she did, she didn’t need him.

  The thought of their confrontation brought a smile to her lips.

  Should she be so excited about seeing him again?

  Chapter 30

  To Catriona’s great surprise, Dr. Mark Thorburn lived in a mansion.

  The house was within an old, established area in Old Town called Parliamentary Square. She knew enough about the city to know that a great many wealthy and important personages had homes in this area.

  The location was so different from what she expected that when Mr. Johnstone helped her from the carriage, she asked, “Are you certain this is Dr. Thorburn’s house?”

  “Oh yes, miss, this is the place right enough.”

  Boasting three floors, and nearly as wide as a block of Charlotte Square, the house was built of faded red brick. Two towers flanked the many chimneys on the roof. Each tower had a small window that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Although no doubt created for decoration only, the towers gave the house the appearance of a small castle.

  Even the entrance was impressive, wide stone steps bordered on either side by two pedestals on which sat crouching lions.

  Slowly, she mounted the steps, glancing back at the lions twice. The statues were weathered, as was the brick of the house, giving her the impression that this structure was similar in age to Edinburgh Castle, so close that it seemed directly overhead.

  After using the knocker—another lion—she stood at the front door and waited for someone to answer. No doubt a stiff-necked majordomo would appear and ask, in a supercilious voice, what she wanted.

  How foolish she was not to have brought her calling cards, or a chaperone for that matter.

  Should she ask Mr. Johnstone to wait with her?

  A park sat in front of the house, the remnants of last night’s snowfall melting beneath a bright afternoon sun. Did the park belong to the house? Or was it shared like the residents of Charlotte Square shared their green lawn?

  The door suddenly opened, and instead of a majordomo, a short, wizened woman looked up at her. Since she rarely towered over anyone, she couldn’t help but be surprised.

  Th
e woman had bright white hair wound into a coronet at the top of her head, and a face crisscrossed by so many wrinkles it appeared to be a map of Edinburgh. Her smile, however, was welcoming.

  “You’re the lass in black, I’m thinking,” the tiny woman said.

  “Lass in black?”

  “It’s what you’re being called.” She leaned forward and whispered, “But I must admit, I started it. I think it’s a lovely title, myself, don’t you?” She frowned. “But you’re wearing blue now, aren’t you?”

  She stood aside. “Come in, though. It’s a cold day, isn’t it? But still, there are touches of spring in the air.” She peered beyond to where Mr. Johnstone stood by the carriage. “You go on in; I’ll send your driver to the stables where they’ll offer him something warm to drink.”

  “We’re not staying long,” she began, but the little woman simply ignored her, grabbed her shawl, and trotted down the stairs.

  She entered Mark’s castle and stood speechless.

  Had the house once been used as a church? Or had the builders wanted to create the atmosphere of a cathedral?

  The ceiling soared above a winding stair, the buttresses creating shadows where statues lingered, looking down at the visitors. Cherubs held their wings close to their bodies, women smiled while holding the hems of their gossamer dresses. Men, dressed in togas, stood either holding a tablet or pointing an accusing finger.

  The statues, however, were not the only indication that this was a unique home. At the landing, where the staircase split in two, each side going in opposite directions, there was a massive, round stained-glass window. The winter sunlight bathed the space in crimson, emerald, and bright yellow.

  She’d heard people discussing Notre Dame in Paris. Had this window been designed with it in mind?

  The foyer smelled of beeswax and lemon, and there must be dishes of potpourri set in places she couldn’t see, because sandalwood perfumed the air.

  “You’ll be here to see Dr. Thorburn, of course,” the woman said, entering the house and closing the door behind her.