Page 30 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY

The short walk to the house might be the longest—and most treacherous—I’ve faced on this trip. Forget bear traps. I need to figure out how to slip in and act as if nothing’s wrong while avoiding Gray, because once I see him, any composure I’ve found will shatter.

I ease in through the rear door just as Isla is coming down the stairs.

“Excellent timing,” she says. “I hope you are ready for your second breakfast of the day, because I am famished and require company.” She slows, seeing my expression. “Mallory? What is wrong?”

Yep, my poker face sucks. I lean into it as I shrug. “Just the case. A lot on my mind.”

“Where is my brother?”

So much for my perfectly reasonable excuse. I pretend not to notice her tone, which suggests Gray is clearly responsible for my mood. “He was at the stable speaking to Simon. My stomach started growling so I came back. We didn’t get a chance to grab breakfast. But I got sidetracked by the kittens, so Duncan may already be back.”

“He is not. I saw Fiona on the way down and she said Mrs. Hall saw you both heading to the stable.”

“Ah, well, while we should wait for him so Mrs. Hall doesn’t need to serve us separately, I really need to speak to you in private. It’s about the case. Something Duncan couldn’t answer. Any chance of retiring to your room for breakfast?”

She doesn’t answer, and I feel her heavy gaze on me. I’m not fooling anyone. In the end, she decides—wisely—not to pursue it.

Breakfast is obviously ready and keeping warm, because we’re still settling in when a maid arrives and sets it out for us. What I have to say to Isla must be said in as much privacy as possible, which means we sadly can’t dine on the balcony again, where someone passing below could overhear us.

Once the maid is gone, I say, “It’s about Violet and Ezra.”

“Ah. You have information.” Isla leans forward. While there’s been zero indication that Violet realizes Isla might be partly responsible for McCreadie breaking off their engagement, it will ease Isla’s conscience to know Violet had moved on.

For the second time this morning, I tell the tale of what I discovered last night.

“There was a romantic entanglement,” Isla says. “I am certain of it.”

“So am I.”

“Poor Violet.” Her shoulders sag, and she mentally retreats for a moment, contemplating the implications of that. First Violet lost McCreadie. Now she loses Sinclair.

“Was that the question Duncan could not answer?” she says. “Whether you are correct in interpreting a relationship between them?”

“No, he agrees that it seems that way. My question is about the secrecy. Clearly no one knew they were courting. I suppose it’s possible they weren’t actually courting, in the strictest sense. They could have been having an affair, with no intention of marrying. But does that make sense?”

“With the scandal around Violet’s broken engagement, I cannot imagine she would risk an affair.”

“But does it make sense to not be aiming at marriage. Ezra was a bachelor, right?”

“Yes, at dinner the first night, James teased Ezra about being the last of their trio to wed, and it was clear he was not even courting.”

I take a bite of cheese before I speak again. Now that I’ve relaxed, my stomach really is rumbling. “So there’s no impediment to him marrying, and a marriage would rescue Violet’s reputation, wouldn’t it?”

Isla nods. “It is the best path open to her. I have thought of that, with some dismay. As terrible as my marriage was, I am now free. I may choose to marry or choose to remain unattached, and my reputation would be little affected either way. The best thing that could have happened to Violet would have been marrying a year or so after her broken engagement.”

“While Hugh let her go, someone else snatched her up, because she’s a prize.”

Her nose wrinkles. “I hate to hear women referred to as prizes, but yes, others would see it that way. While one buyer passed on the horse, it did not remain on the market long.”

“Ideally, then, she’d have married long ago. Is that the problem? Has she been single so long that Ezra’s reputation would suffer if he married her?”

“Hardly. Whenever he married her, his reputation would have risen with the match. She is beautiful, accomplished, and comes with a significant dowry. The problem lies not with Violet but with Ezra.”

“Because he’s an orphan?”

“He effectively has no family, which is a concern. But even if his parents lived, they would not provide the correct social status. He only attended the same school as Duncan, Hugh, and Archie because he was sponsored.”

“And now? He seems well-off enough. Or doesn’t that matter?”

“It should not matter.”

“But it does. He’s an unsuitable suitor.”

“Perhaps,” she says slowly, “but it is not as if she were courting the valet. One would think—given Violet’s age and lack of marital prospects—her parents would leap on Ezra as a son-in-law. They are fond of him, from what I hear. He has a good position—something in business. He would make an excellent husband. At the very least, there should have been no objection to him courting her to see where it led. But I will admit that I cannot answer that with certainty. The Cranstons are in an elevated social class, with the blood of nobility if not the titles.”

Like Hugh. That made him suitable for Violet. Old money and blood tinged blue.

Isla continues, “The person I would ask is Annis.” Gray and Isla’s older sister married an earl, which was a big leap for a young woman of the middle class, even the wealthy end of it. Of course, that wealth is what won her the match.

“I could send her a message,” Isla says. “Would that help?”

I shake my head. “It’s really more a matter of curiosity. For now, I need to accept that marriage must have been out of the question, for some reason, and that’s why Violet and Ezra were meeting in secret.”

When I go quiet, she murmurs, “You do not like that answer, do you?”

No, I do not.

Isla and I finish breakfast to discover that Gray and I weren’t the only ones getting an early start. When Isla spoke to Fiona, she’d been heading out with Violet to take breakfast to Cranston. They return to tell us that Cranston has agreed to rehire Mr. Hall as gamekeeper. Thus ensues a flurry of activity, as McCreadie and I inform Mrs. Hall while asking her to summon her children from Dundee. She knows these two things are linked, but I think we manage to convey the request in a way that makes it clear we consider Lenore and Gavin witnesses, not suspects. Is that true? Mostly. They are suspects, of course. Everyone is.

Mrs. Hall pens a letter, which then needs to be run to Dundee. That’s a job for a single rider and a horse. While we’ll need a coach to get Lenore and Gavin back home, it’ll be faster to send a rider and then hire a coach there. Finding the fastest rider-and-horse pair takes more work—it’s not Simon or Folly, which complicates the process—but soon the messenger is off with Mrs. Hall’s letter.

All this means I think I’ve managed to avoid Gray. So cleverly done… until he doesn’t appear at lunch, and I realize I’m not ducking him. He’s ducking me.

How do I feel about that? I can’t consider it. I have work to do with McCreadie, as we discuss all the leads and plot our next moves.

McCreadie agrees with Isla. The circumstances do suggest a romantic link between Sinclair and Violet. He doesn’t think there should have been any impediment to a proper courtship but agrees that her parents could have dug in their heels. He also adds in another possibility—that Violet and Sinclair were in the very earliest stages of a romance, and the fact that Sinclair was her brother’s best friend might have had them proceeding slowly. They also could have been waiting until after Cranston’s marriage, so they didn’t steal her brother’s thunder.

The next step is talking to Nora’s family. Because we’re setting this up as a condolence call, there’s no excuse for McCreadie to go. It’d only tip off Constable Ross. I can go, though. No one would expect Fiona to pay her respects without a female companion.

Mrs. Hall told us where to find the Glass home. We had to tell Mrs. Hall about the visit anyway, as we were taking a basket and needed food. If she saw anything strange in us deciding now was the time to pay a belated condolence call, she doesn’t comment. Maybe she just presumes Sinclair’s death led to Fiona discovering Nora’s death, and a condolence call is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time waiting for her fiancé to be freed.

As the coach reaches the village, I’m reminded that this is the period when people began abandoning the countryside for the cities. In Scotland, that process was accelerated by the Highland clearances, where people weren’t choosing to move to cities—they were forced to relocate. There are also the Irish famines of a few decades ago, driving people into Scotland and its larger city centers.

Cities represent opportunity. That means jobs, but it also means a wider canvas for daily life. I suppose it’s the same thing I saw in my own time, where small-town classmates declared they were never moving home. The jobs were in Vancouver. So were the clubs and shopping and dining and all the sports and arts they could want. Housing prices were the highest in Canada, but to them, it was worth it.

In this period, I don’t think many people are moving to the cities for sports and theater. They’re going for jobs and upward mobility. And they discover, like in modern-day Vancouver, that big-city living comes with a big-city price tag. Most of those industrial age newcomers end up in the slums, entire families squeezed into a place smaller than my first apartment.

In the country, there’s more room. That means, at least when it comes to housing, there’s a higher standard of living. I see that as Simon drives us through the village. Of course, not everyone is living in adorable cottages like the doctor and his wife. Most are more humble abodes. Then there are the places like the Glass home, a structure that’s little more than a shack, with a pen for a couple of sheep and a goat and a few chickens. There is a larger building in the rear, which will be the blacksmith shop. From the sounds of it, Nora’s father is hard at work.

As we make our way to the front door, people at a neighboring house come out to openly gape. Fiona nods graciously at them, and I follow her lead. When she raps at the door, a baby inside lets out a squall, and I wince—no one’s going to appreciate us waking a little one. Once the door opens, though, the woman standing there is already bouncing the baby on her hip, seeming unperturbed even as sweat rolls down her forehead, another child shrieks inside, and the smell of roasting dinner wafts out.

In my time, women feel that we’re expected to do it all, unlike our foremothers, who only had a household to maintain. Try running that household with endless squalling babies, no electricity, and no running water. We’ve always had it hard and the idea that, historically, women easily managed a household on their own is ridiculous. Even among the lower middle class, as soon as you can afford to hire a “girl” to help out, you do. Otherwise, you hope you have a daughter to enlist once she’s big enough to wield a broom or a bottle.

The woman’s gaze sweeps over Fiona—dressed in a visiting gown, with elbow-length sleeves and a fitted bodice, a bonnet, and gloves—and she dips in the faintest curtsy. “Good afternoon, m’lady. If it’s my husband you need for your horse, you can send your driver around back.”

“No, we wish to speak to you. Mrs. Glass, is it?”

The woman frowns. “Yes, miss.”

“I am Fiona McCreadie. My fiancé is Archibald Cranston, who recently purchased the estate outside town.”

The frown grows. “Do you need a blacksmith up at the house?”

“No, ma’am. I came because I only just learned of your daughter’s death earlier this spring. Mr. Cranston is unsure of his place in village life, and I understand he did not pay you a condolence call, so I wished to do so myself.”

The woman’s face lights up. “Oh, that is very kind of you, miss. Very kind. We did not expect anything of His Lordship.”

“Mr. Cranston.” Fiona smiles. “He is not a lord, but he is a good man who would have called if he had thought it appropriate.” She lifts the basket. “I brought this, but I see you have your hands full. Might I bring it in?”

Mrs. Glass pauses, panic filling her eyes as she looks over her shoulder, doubtless imagining this finely dressed young woman in her home.

Fiona continues, “I understand we have found you at a bad time. I could leave it and return later.”

“No, no. Come in. I’ll put on a pot for tea. Mary? Come take the baby.”

Mrs. Glass ushers us into a main room that’s small and shabby but also tidy and scrubbed clean. A girl of about fourteen appears to take the baby, and I see yet another child, a toddler who’d probably been the one shrieking.

“You have lovely children,” Fiona says.

Mrs. Glass beams. “Six of them. We’d lost not a single one as a babe. Such fine luck, I always thought.” Her smile falters. “But perhaps it was too much. The Lord saw that we had an unfair bounty and took our Nora to keep us humble.”

It’s an odd sentiment, and an odd way to think of a child’s death, but this is a time when six healthy children—none dying in infancy— would have been a bounty of good fortune. They might indeed see it as the hand of God setting things right.

“I am deeply sorry,” Fiona says as we settle in.

“As am I,” I say.

“Oh! Where are my manners?” Fiona sighs. “I will be a married woman within days, and I behave as if I am still paying social calls with my mother. This is my dear friend, Miss Mallory Mitchell.”

I greet the family, and then make faces at the toddler as his mother prepares tea. That gets Fiona laughing and it draws the other children nearer, pulled in by the sight of a well-dressed young woman making a spectacle of herself to amuse a child. Another girl, this one about seven, edges closer.

As Mrs. Glass and Fiona talk, I pull out my stock trick for children—I make coins disappear. Then I play the cups game, where I put a coin under one of two cups and move them around. In this case, not wanting to ask for cups, I use my hands. If the child gets it right, they keep the penny, which makes this game a real winner with Victorian children.

The game keeps the kids busy, but also wins some credit with their mother. Because when the small talk with Fiona is done, it’s my turn. That, however, doesn’t mean I can take over the conversation. Fiona and I discussed how to do this, and I give her the cue by whispering, loud enough to be heard, “You wished to mention Mr. Müller.”

“Oh, yes.” Fiona clears her throat, as if loath to bring it up. “Mr. Cranston wished me to let you know that Mr. Müller will not be employed with him much longer. He heard what happened with your Nora, and he wished me to convey his sincere apologies for that. There has been some misunderstanding regarding use of the estate grounds, and Mr. Cranston certainly did not expect his gamekeeper to be frightening off children.”

Mrs. Glass’s gaze dips. “That is most kind of you both. We had told Nora to stay away. The previous owner was clear that he did not wish anyone walking through. But Nora grew up using the grounds, and it was her favorite place to walk. We did not intend any insult to Mr. Cranston.”

“None was taken, and he hopes no insult to the village was incurred—he would not wish people to think him an ogre who would drive off children.”

“He truly was aghast to hear of it,” I add. “Am I correct that Mr. Müller ran her off, shouting at her?”

Mrs. Glass’s mouth presses in a firm line. “That he did. Shouting in his own tongue, which Nora could not understand. It greatly perplexed her.”

“And frightened her, I am sure,” I say.

Mrs. Glass’s expression lightens in a fond smile. “No, I would not say it frightened her. Our Nora had the heart of a lioness. Fearless as could be. She knew she was in trouble and ran straight home, but then she had a fine story to tell, how the man chased her, shouting curses in a foreign tongue.” She rolls her eyes. “ Curses. She did love a grand story.”

“Did she… think he was cursing her?”

Mrs. Glass laughs. “Nay, lass. She knew better, but I took her aside to be sure. While I do not raise my children with such superstitious nonsense, you can never tell what they hear outside these walls. She said she only added that to make it a better story. She understood the man was simply telling her to leave.”

“Did anyone else believe he had cursed her?” Fiona says. “If that were the case, we would speak to Mr. Müller and see what he said, to ease any concerns.”

“Dear me, no.” Mrs. Glass laughs again. “People here do like their superstitions, but it is mostly a bit of fun. Setting out cream for the fair folk and such. They knew the man did not truly curse anyone. It was a story for the children.” She straightens, looking startled. “You do not think that we believed her cursed, do you? That we blamed Mr. Cranston—or his gamekeeper—for her death?”

“I heard nothing of the sort,” Fiona says.

“I… did,” I say, feigning reluctance, while shooting Fiona a look as if to apologize for not telling her. Of course, we did tell Fiona about the note, but we wouldn’t want Mrs. Glass thinking this was the real reason for our visit.

I continue, “When Dr. Gray and I were in town yesterday, we received a note that might have suggested some responsibility. We did not wish to tell you, Fiona.” I look at Mrs. Glass. “Apologies, ma’am. We put no stock in it.”

“And you should not. A note you say?”

“Left in our coach.”

She shakes her head. “One of the children, then. I did not consider that they might take Nora’s storytelling for truth. I will be certain to set anyone straight if I hear talk of curses.”

We speak for a few more minutes, with Fiona soliciting advice on how the villagers might respond to a summer picnic at the estate.

Mrs. Glass does not point out that—with Fiona’s fiancé in prison, charged with murder—it might be a little premature to plan picnics. She’s given no indication that she knows about Cranston’s imprisonment. That doesn’t mean she’s necessarily unaware of it—only that she’s too polite to comment if Fiona is proceeding as if nothing has happened.

Before we leave, I take a small wrapped parcel from my pocket. I open it on the table, revealing the ring and embroidered hair ribbon we found in Müller’s cottage. Mrs. Glass only looks at them, as if puzzled.

“These were found on the grounds at the estate,” I say. “We believe they belonged to Nora.”

“Oh,” she says. “No, those are not Nora’s.”

When I hesitate, she calls Mary over and shows her, asking whether she’s ever seen them before.

“No, ma’am,” Mary says to me. “Those were not my sister’s.” She picks up the ring, frowning.

“You recognize that?” I say. “It could belong to another girl in the village.”

“It looks familiar,” Mary murmurs. “But I do not recall where I’ve seen it.”

“We will take them back then,” I say. “We do wish to return them to their rightful owner, so if you remember who that ring belongs to, Mary, please let us know.”

“We will,” her mother says.