The Lass Wore Black Read online

  She had nothing to complain about. He didn’t challenge her expenditures on herself, the house, or the children. If she needed more money than he had allocated for her, she had only to go to his solicitor.

  “I never minded all the other women,” she said. “But this one is different, isn’t she?”

  What a remarkable change had come over his wife. He regarded her steadily for a moment, wondering what would teach her the fastest and best learned lesson. To cut off her money? Doing so might harm his children, and he did love each and every one. Giving her a few lashes? Surely he could obtain a whip from the stables.

  He decided that he didn’t have the energy for corporal punishment. Perhaps the truth would be the hardest lesson of all.

  “You know my friend Morgan?” he asked her amiably.

  “The Earl of Denbleigh?”

  He nodded.

  “The man who got a divorce?” she asked. “Is that why you bring him up now? To warn me?”

  “I can do the same, Elizabeth.”

  She startled him by smiling. “She doesn’t want you, though, does she?”

  The next time he returned home, he would have to do something to punish her for that remark.

  “Where I’m going or what I’m doing is none of your concern, Elizabeth.”

  “Go after her, then, and I wish you good luck,” she said, leaving the room.

  Perhaps it was a good thing this new task of his would take some time. When he returned home, his temper would have cooled.

  The Scottish bitch, as his wife had so richly described her, was living in Edinburgh. After he dispensed with that matter, he’d school his wife in the proper way to address him.

  Catriona sat with the pastie in her hand, and because she’d taken one bite, she took another. Her stomach clenched. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Long enough that she was suddenly ravenously hungry. Another irritation to lay at the feet of that footman, odious and arrogant as he was.

  What had Aunt Dina been thinking to hire someone to coax her to eat?

  She moved to the ruined door, pressed it closed, and arranged a chair in front of it for good measure. Only then did she walk to the table and sit. Slowly, after a glance at the door, she removed her veil and ate some of her cold meal.

  She’d send Aunt Dina a note complaining about the new footman’s behavior, insisting that he be dismissed immediately.

  She required absolute privacy, and if Aunt Dina couldn’t give that to her . . . Her thoughts trailed off. Who could? Where could she go in all of Scotland, or England, for that matter? Anywhere she went, people would turn and stare at her. Unless she was heavily veiled, she’d send young children screaming for their nurses.

  She would not think such things.

  Moving to her secretary, she opened it and sat down. Her right hand shook as she withdrew a sheet of stationery. To properly write the note, she would need to light the lamp. If she lit the lamp, she’d see a sitting room with pale gold and white wallpaper, a damask-upholstered settee, a large table and adjoining chairs. A self-appointed prison she’d endured for a month.

  Would she be able to remain here for the rest of her life? If not, what other choice was there? She fingered the brown glass bottle in her pocket but did not retrieve it. Instead, with great care, she took the glove off her right hand. The left remained shielded from her sight. With bared fingers she rubbed the smooth mahogany, trailed them to the leather blotter and hesitated before touching the lamp a few inches to her left.

  Her heart beat in her ears, and her breath was painfully tight. Darkness was not a friend, but a less abusive enemy than daylight. Candles were an abomination, because they reminded her of laughter and kisses, baring her body in the flickering light, smiling in that certain way at a lover.

  The crystal lamp sat accusing her, the chimney hardly darkened by soot.

  Slowly, she put the glove back on, then stood, moving to the chair beside the window. The note to her aunt would have to wait until later.

  Besides, her left eye was bothering her, tearing too much. That was to be expected, she’d been told by learned men with somber expressions. They had kept their eyes carefully averted from her face as they addressed her.

  “Miss Cameron,” each of them had said at various times, “we’ve done the best we can.” Another of the physicians had nodded at her enthusiastically, the tip of his beard pointing at her like an arrow. “Indeed, you are a lucky young lady, miss.”

  When he left the room, closing the door behind him, his words had hung in the air like sodden gauze.

  She didn’t feel especially lucky.

  How strange, that she’d never thought of herself as separate limbs. She’d never been Catriona Cameron, of two hands, two feet, two legs, two arms, a torso and a head. She’d been herself, a combination of all of these.

  A woman who’d driven men to lust.

  Now, having eaten, reattached her veil and ensured that it was properly in place, she slowly opened the draperies, revealing an Edinburgh evening the color of ashes. Still, the view granted her some freedom. A moment later she opened the window and eased into the chair next to it, folding her hands on her lap.

  She’d always loved the sun, but Edinburgh had forbidden her more than a watery glimpse of it since returning from London. She’d always loved the bright days of spring, when she pinned the newest flowers in her hair. She’d always loved laughter and the appreciative looks of young men. More than once, in violation of propriety, she’d grabbed her skirts with both hands and run for the simple joy of it.

  The accident had stripped her youth from her and made her a cripple. No man would ever open his arms and sigh in welcome when she embraced him. No one would care that Catriona Cameron had once been a harlot.

  She raised the veil high enough so the chilled breeze could sweep up and caress her heated cheeks.

  Reaching into her right pocket, she withdrew the bottle, holding it tight between both hands.

  Another ritual in her new dark life.

  The icy wind made her shiver. She held the bottle, praying for courage to light the lamp, to face herself or take the laudanum.

  Chapter 4

  “Catriona Cameron?”

  His mother wrinkled her nose, an expression that meant she was trying to remember.

  While his father had grown increasingly bloated over the years, his jowls reminding Mark of an English bulldog, his mother had become more delicate, her apparent fragility masking a constitution as hearty as any he’d seen. She was never ill, and was impatient with sickness in others, a fact he’d discovered as a boy.

  More than once he’d gone to his studies with a fever, and on one memorable occasion, knew he had the measles before the family physician had diagnosed him.

  Even as a boy he’d been curious about medicine, an interest that was never encouraged. Instead, he was coached in the duties of being the heir to the heir of an earldom, no matter how far away that earldom seemed.

  His grandfather was as hale and hearty as his mother, though only marriage connected them, not blood. The Earl of Caithnern was thin to the point of gauntness, but religiously advocated his routine of eating and exercise.

  “If you’d have your patients eat as I do, my boy,” he said on every meeting, “they wouldn’t have any problems with corpulence. Have them walk while they’re at it.”

  Since his grandfather was seventy-two, perhaps he had the right prescription for longevity.

  The earl abstained from sweets, using William Banting’s diet as a plan for eating. He walked each morning and evening around the house he’d recently purchased outside of Edinburgh. He laughed a great deal, and he was rumored to have more than one mistress after his beloved wife of thirty years had died three years ago.

  He had never questioned his grandfather as to his mistresses, but he wouldn’t have been surprised. The old man enjoyed all the passions of life.

  “Oh, I remember now,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “The Ea
rl of Denbleigh’s sister-in-law. That’s the one.” She lifted a finger and pointed at him, as if he’d deliberately withheld that information.

  “As lovely a girl as you’ve ever seen. And her gowns? I understand the earl paid for an exquisite wardrobe as well.” She frowned. “Wasn’t there some scandal about her?”

  Gently placing his hand on her elbow, he led her away from where the orchestra was tuning their instruments. He hoped they played substantially better than they practiced.

  “There was an accident,” he said, hoping to stifle her curiosity about Catriona’s past.

  “What’s that?” She wrinkled her nose again. “I don’t remember hearing anything about an accident.”

  “It was in London, Mother,” he said.

  “Still, I should have heard.”

  He was curious why she hadn’t. His mother was very involved in Edinburgh society. Perhaps the Earl of Denbleigh still had some power to silence the gossips about Catriona. Or, perhaps simply disappearing from the social scene had something to do with it. His mother, however, always on the lookout for a suitable match for his two younger brothers, should have known if anyone did.

  He’d managed to dissuade her from matchmaking on his account by veiled hints about Anne Ferguson, a perfectly acceptable girl who’d charmed his mother and flattered his father. The former was easily done; the latter was a triumph.

  “There you are, Rhona,” his father said, marching toward them with a look of determination in his eyes. Everything Kenneth Thorburn, Lord Serridain, did was accompanied by that same look.

  His father’s face was florid, his eyes narrowed, his mouth pursed in a grim line. If anything, he seemed to have gained more weight in his midsection in the seven weeks since he’d seen him last.

  If his father didn’t calm himself, he’d collapse of a stroke, a premature death putting an end to his lifelong ambition of becoming the Earl of Caithnern.

  “We need to lead the procession,” his father said, barely sparing a glance for him.

  His mother patted her husband’s arm as if to calm him. The gesture, often repeated, never appeared to have any effect.

  A pity the man didn’t listen to anyone—not his father, the earl; and certainly not his son, a physician. Mark had given up trying to dispense medical advice when the only reaction was a dismissive gesture or a cutting remark.

  “Are you ready?”

  His mother smiled and nodded, moving toward the ballroom.

  “The Duke of Linster,” she said, glancing back at him. “He was rumored to be courting her.”

  Mark’s father frowned at him, as if he’d deliberately taken his mother’s attention away from the festivities for some selfish purpose. He only nodded, having had years to come to grips with his father’s antipathy.

  He had a great many faults, according to his father. He didn’t value his unique position of being in line to inherit an earldom. He didn’t appreciate the family reputation. Nor did he attempt to comport himself with dignity.

  As far as his curiosity, another besetting fault, he should leave that trait to other men, those who didn’t have a certain position in society to maintain. Instead, he seemed to enjoy getting his hands dirty, or even worse, trafficking with derelicts and the unfortunate unwashed.

  Poverty, according to Lord Serridain, was an affliction, one that was contagious.

  Once, he asked his father if he wanted him to be more like his brothers, inveterate gamblers and drunkards, neither of whom showed any desire to grow up and make a life for himself.

  His father had sent him a cold look and said, “Neither Jack nor Thomas has gone out of their way to humiliate me, Mark. You can do a great deal for the poor of Edinburgh without touching them.”

  Now he watched as his father and mother greeted their guests, his father inclining his head in a royal nod. His mother was more egalitarian, stopping from time to time to make a comment on a woman’s appearance or to share a word.

  The feeling of alienation was so familiar, he didn’t even note its presence. He didn’t belong here, and hadn’t, for a long time. Each time he made an appearance at his parents’ home, the gulf seemed to have widened between him and his father.

  “Are you concerned about one of your patients?”

  He turned to find Anne Ferguson at his elbow. His smile came naturally, both in appreciation of her appearance and the compassionate look in her warm brown eyes.

  “You were frowning,” she said, smiling up at him.

  Her brown hair was arranged in a complicated style, with little pink pearls entwined in it. Her dress was pale and pinkish, and he made a mental note to compliment her gown, something he often failed to do. Women liked that sort of thing, he’d been told.

  “My mind was on other things,” he admitted. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  Her cheeks turned rosy as she touched his arm in the same soothing gesture his mother had used earlier. Did women think men were fractious cats?

  “You look tired, Mark,” she said, her voice low so as not to be overheard. Calling him by his first name was an intimacy brought about from their long acquaintance. It also hinted at their future alliance, but so did her fluttering lashes.

  “It was a long day,” he conceded.

  “You have to rest more. What good would it do for all your patients if you allowed yourself to become ill?”

  “I’m not ill, Anne,” he said. “Nor am I that tired. It was simply a long day.”

  She looked surprised at his tone. He didn’t need to be managed, or treated as if he were five and had played too long with his tin soldiers.

  “What have I done?” she asked, dropping her hand and taking a step back.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  She was sensitive and he’d been curt. He picked up her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers in apology.

  Such a gesture in a crowded room was tantamount to a declaration. He realized it the instant she did. While she wore a radiant smile, he felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, as if he’d fallen from a great distance.

  She patted his arm. “Dear Mark.”

  Her next words would be something to the effect that her father approved of him, and how delighted her mother was that they danced so often together. He didn’t believe in precognition, only recognized the pattern of similar evenings.

  “I’ve made the final arrangements,” she said. “As well as sending out the invitations.”

  He stared at her. “For what?”

  Anne sighed. “I knew you would forget. The party we discussed. You are going to come and greet our guests with me.”

  He remembered now and nodded.

  “I’m sure it will be a wonderful entertainment,” he said.

  Before she could tell him any more about the party, he stepped away, bowing slightly and mumbling some excuse about having to attend to his grandfather.

  A cowardly escape, and as he left, glancing back at her, he realized she knew it as well.

  Catriona sat watching until, as the hours passed, the clock’s ticking grew monotonous and strangely reassuring. When all was quiet around her it felt as if only she were awake, a creature caught and held by midnight.

  Standing, she made her way to the bureau, pulled out a drawer and withdrew the heaviest of the veils she’d had made, replacing the shorter veil she wore during the day.

  This one covered her to her waist and was so impenetrable she could stand beneath a gas lamp and not be seen. Viewing the world through gauzelike lace was a difficulty she’d learned to accept.

  She’d been told, by a well-meaning fool in London, that she would forever walk with some difficulty. Her left leg had been deeply cut, the damage in the muscle causing her to limp. She was counseled to accept the disability as a price for her survival.

  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 hi
s 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.