Nan preached the power of positive thinking. Mom taught me that her mother’s words are wonderful advice that will only take you so far before you need to acknowledge that something is wrong and deal with it. I will be honest then. The disappointment of not getting home had crushed me, and I’d been pleased with myself for indulging in only a single evening of despair before brushing myself off and moving on. Yet this morning, it is my mother’s teachings that prove their truth, as I am forced to realize how much of my “chin up and carry on” was self-delusion fueled by a temporary spurt of willpower.
That willpower and that delusion evaporated when I found the pouch of money and lost my chance to make things right with Isla. She is onto me, and she will not drop this as easily as McCreadie did.
It doesn’t matter if this house belongs to Gray. It’s Isla’s childhood home, and only her sex kept her from inheriting it, and my gut tells me that Gray considers it as much hers at his. She is mistress of this manor, and she can kick my ass to the curb as easily as he can. Easier, I bet. The household is her domain, freeing Gray to run the family business and pursue his studies.
In short, without that locket, I am in deep shit, and as the morning progresses, I feel the weight of it. Every bit of traction I’ve gained has been ripped away. And here is the proof that I haven’t truly recovered from the disappointment of not crossing over: the concession that my despair has little to do with the locket situation and everything to do with feeling powerless in this world. The locket issue only brings that into sharper focus.
The disappointment starts from the moment I take Gray his tray, and he barely acknowledges my presence. I’d hoped he’d have work for me. Real work. I planned to ask, but he’s so wrapped up in writing that I can only drop off the tray and retreat.
I don’t get coffee that morning. I ask, as sweetly as possible, and Mrs. Wallace snaps that I’m getting above myself. I take tea … and the cup slips from my hands, and of course she sees that as me intentionally breaking it because I didn’t get coffee.
As for Isla, she leaves right after breakfast, which Alice serves her. I don’t get a chance to say hello or even gauge her mood. She could have said good morning to me if she wanted—the town house is hardly a fifty-room mansion—but she did not. That is telling.
I’m supposed to clean Gray’s bedroom as soon as he leaves for work. That day, though, it is past ten, and his door remains closed. I slip in to find him at his desk, fingers tapping the top. He’s obviously deep in thought, and I should take his tray and leave, but I feel like when I was a kid and my parents’ moods were off, and I just had to know whether it was because of something I’d done.
“May I bring you fresh coffee, sir? This has gone cold.”
He waves me off, and I pick up the untouched tray. I’m about to leave when he says, “Is there any jam?”
“Jam, sir?”
“Jam and bread. Tea with honey. I’m not focusing as well as I like, and that is usually the problem.”
“Low blood sugar. That’ll do it.”
He frowns over, and I realize my words won’t make sense to him. What catches his ear, I bet, is the word “blood.”
I say, “I mean that I often find that if I do not eat in the morning, I cannot concentrate as well.”
He seems to be half listening. I don’t take offense, considering that’s twice as much as he’s listened to me so far today.
“I will bring bread with lots of jam and tea with lots of honey.” I pause. “You do seem very busy, sir. If there’s anything I could do? Note-taking perhaps?”
He shakes his head. “I will not pull you from your duties today, Catriona.”
Pull away. Please.
The words are on the tip of my tongue. At first, I hold them back because the phrasing is too modern, but that pause gives me time to realize the truth of what he’s saying. If I don’t do my chores, who does? Mrs. Wallace? Alice? To ask for case work means pushing my maid duties onto the shoulders of others.
Damned ethical dilemmas.
Let’s try another angle.
“I finished the book you allowed me to read, sir. Thank you very much for that.”
“Oh?” That catches his attention. “Already?”
“It was very informative. Did you notice Song Ci mentions looking under fingernails for signs of bamboo splints, indicating torture? I have marked the page if you would like to show it to Detective McCreadie. In the meantime, perhaps there is another book I could read on forensic science?”
“You are welcome to any in the library, Catriona.”
Not quite what I was hoping for, but he really is distracted by whatever he’s doing, and the fact that he hasn’t shooed me out should prove that Isla hasn’t shared her suspicions.
“Thank you, sir. Again, if there’s anything I can do, I will ensure I still complete my chores and do not force anyone else to perform them.”
He hesitates, and my breath catches.
He runs his hand over his chin, dark with stubble. “I do not suppose you have remembered how to shave.”
As my hopes plummet, my brain spins. Could I manage it? That would make him happy and give us time to talk, give me time to prove I’m genuinely interested in his studies and would make an excellent replacement for James the lost assistant.
Except I have no idea how to use a straight razor and might slit his throat.
Damned ethical dilemmas.
He rubs at his stubble, and I can’t help noticing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, his ink-dappled fingers.
The letter. I have done so well forgetting that damned letter, and I really don’t need it creeping back now.
Yes, Gray’s a good-looking guy. Yes, he’s an interesting guy. But he’s my boss and hell, no. Scrub that letter from my brain, please.
“Catriona?”
I wrench my gaze away and manage a shallow curtsy. “Apologies, sir. I was thinking of how much I hate to refuse such a simple request, but I do fear that if I wield a razor, we may end up with an unexpected display of blood splatter to study.”
His laugh is so unexpected that I jump a little.
“I understand,” he says. “If you do recall how to use a razor, though, I would appreciate it. While I have no interest in expanding the household, that is the one downfall to a lack of male indoor staff.”
“I’ll try to recall the skill, sir.”
“Please do. Oh, and speaking of male staff, Simon is gathering the day’s papers for me. Please bring them to me immediately. I am most interested in what the press has to say regarding our killer.”
Our killer? That’s promising.
“Might I read them after you, sir? I am also interested.”
“Of course,” he says, and he returns to contemplating the mysteries of the blank wall before I’m even out the door.
FIFTEEN
I’m dusting in the drawing room when boots clomp in the hall. I’ve come to dread that sound, because it means someone just came in from outdoors, and they’re tracking mud across my clean floors. I can’t just say, “Screw it, I already washed those.” Nope, I need to grab a bucket and re-mop before Mrs. Wallace spots dirt.
All of this could be solved if they’d take off their damned boots or shoes at the door, like a proper Canadian. I remember the first time we visited American friends, and I realized they don’t even switch to indoor shoes. What kind of heathens traipse through the house in the same shoes they just wore outside, through mud and dog dirt and God knows what else?
At least I must credit the average non-Canadian with having the sense to remove obviously dirty footwear. Not so in Victorian Scotland, where guys walk in from tromping along a horseshit-laden road and track it all on my clean floors. Why? Because I’m here. I exist to clean it up.
“So they were not telling tales,” a male voice says in a thick country brogue. “You really did rise from the dead.”
I turn to see a young man. He’s in his late teens, with a mop of dark brown hair, sharp features, and a grin that lights up blue-gray eyes.
“Not even going to say hello, Cat?” he asks. “I suppose it takes more than a bump on the head to forget you’re angry with me.”
That’s when I notice the stack of newspapers in his hand.
“Simon,” I say, and try not to add a question mark.