Page 41 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

FORTY-ONE

McCreadie made the only choice he could. I’d have made the same one, and I told him that later, as did Gray and Isla, when she heard the whole story. He will feel guilt. I will, too. Or maybe not guilt so much as discomfort.

I was raised to believe in the righteousness of the law, but that was the viewpoint of a child convinced that her mother only helped free the falsely accused. Of course my mother never claimed that, and as I got older, she answered honestly when I asked whether she’d ever helped someone she thought had committed the crime. That was how the law worked. If you were charged, the prosecution had to make its case beyond a reasonable doubt, and for every guilty person a defense lawyer kept out of prison, there were dozens of innocents they helped do the same.

I was a cop. I still am, in my soul. But that is never—ever—going to mean that I think our legal system isn’t fundamentally broken, and I don’t mean because guilty people go free. I don’t even necessarily mean because innocents go to prison. I mean the way we look at crime and punishment, and all the nuances the law does not see. Justice is blind, and that’s not always a good thing. In this time period, it is even blinder, with the specter of capital punishment looming.

Archie Cranston doesn’t deserve the hangman’s noose. He doesn’t deserve life in prison or deportation. He deserves the chance to explain his actions and make an appropriate restitution to society. Fine him with the money going to an orphanage. Sentence him to community service. Make sure he pays in a manner that befits the crime.

But that won’t happen. He’ll be sentenced to hang or rot in prison or be deported to Australia… or he’ll be set free. This is a world where women are considered property, even if Scottish law says otherwise. In defending the honor of women under his protection, Cranston defended his property. Either way, McCreadie agrees there’s a good chance the court would set him free.

So who would have paid the price? Violet for one. Not only would her illegitimate child become public knowledge, but she’d be faced with the horrifying reality of what Sinclair did to her all those times she fell asleep. For now, she only questions what happened. Hearing Lenore’s full story in court, she would know.

Lenore would have paid the price, too, outed as a young woman who had premarital sex. To Victorian society, anything else that happened after that was her own fault. Same goes for any other maids Sinclair targeted.

Even Fiona would come under scrutiny. People would whisper that, sure, she claims she didn’t sleep with Ezra Sinclair but that’s what she’d say, right? Sinclair was young and handsome and attentive, and she was a silly girl who would obviously have fallen for him.

McCreadie made the right choice, and in the end, he accepts that. We all do.

It’s been three days since McCreadie let Cranston walk away. We didn’t leave the estate. We couldn’t—not without raising eyebrows. After all, there was a wedding to attend.

Cranston wanted to postpone it. I think he wanted to give Fiona time to reconsider her choice, but Fiona didn’t need that. Like her brother, she’d made a decision and she was sticking to it. In the end, there was no way to postpone the nuptials, really. Like having us leave, it would only have aroused suspicion. So they’d waited a few extra days, in deference to the death of the best man, but that was all.

So we have a wedding. On a bright and sunny June day, in the gardens of the estate where we’ve spent the last week.

While the weather is lovely, the universe has given the bride and groom an even more significant gift. It’s cleared the specter of Müller hovering over them, and the possibility of Cranston’s rearrest. Yesterday, Constable Ross had been transporting Müller to a proper prison, when they’d been beset by masked men, who’d dragged the gamekeeper away.

Cranston wasn’t responsible—he hasn’t left the property nor sent any messages, being too engrossed in wedding preparations. Had Lenore’s family made sure Müller never made it to trial? Or was it the family of the missing maid, Dorothy, who’d turned up at her parents’ home in town? From what Müller told Cranston, Dorothy had been seduced by Sinclair, which means she was also certainly blackmailed by Müller. What matters is that Müller’s gone, and the case is closed.

Isla and I have finished dressing. After more than two years, she’s finally free of her mourning attire and able to dress as she wishes. Her gown is off-white, with lace trim and purple flowers. In my day, it’d be too close to white, but it’s perfectly acceptable in an era where brides have only begun to optionally wear that color, after Queen Victoria chose it for her own wedding. The cotton of Isla’s gown is ideal for a warm-weather event, while the lace and the tiered skirt make it elaborate enough for a wedding.

My own gown is also off-white, muslin, with blue stripes along the bodice and along the bottom of the skirt. My back still aches from bruising, but my dress had enough give for a slightly looser corset. Also, Gray may have given me something for the pain.

It took us so long to get ready that I’m certain the men will already be waiting impatiently, but we’re hurrying down the hall when McCreadie’s door opens. He walks out, and I give a little squeal. Then I quickly look around, being sure we’re alone. We are. Everyone else has gone outside.

“A kilt!” I say. “You’re wearing a kilt.” I feign mopping my eyes. “I have been here over a year, and I’d started to think this day would never come. A Scotsman in a kilt.”

McCreadie wags a finger at me. “Do not mock. It is a tradition for weddings.”

“Oh, I’m not mocking. Where I come from, women love guys in kilts. Totally hot.”

McCreadie looks at Isla. “She is mocking me, yes?”

“I… cannot tell,” Isla says.

“I’m really not. Guys with Scottish ancestry wear them to weddings just for the excuse. There are entire shops on the Royal Mile set up for tourists with even a drop of Scottish blood, who buy kilts for special occasions.” I waggle my brows. “And for their ladies in private.”

McCreadie’s cheeks flush.

I continue, “And that’s not even touching the entire subgenre of Highlander romances, where all the guys on the cover wear kilts. They’re also shirtless, but I know that’s too much to ask for Victorians, so I’ll accept the kilt, which looks really good.”

“Not ‘hot’?” Isla says.

“Er, I can’t say that to him. You can, though. Feel free to tell Hugh he looks totally hot, Isla.”

Her face goes as red as his.

A door opens behind us. I whirl, grinning as Gray steps out. Then I stop short. “You’re wearing trousers.”

He looks down and claps a hand to his heart. “Thank God. Imagine the scene if I had forgotten them.”

I wave at McCreadie. “Wedding? Kilt?”

“I do not wear kilts.”

McCreadie gives a low whistle. “Careful, Duncan. Mallory has just admitted to a fierce fondness for them.”

“I have,” I say. “And I am dreadfully disappointed. I am not certain I will recover.”

“Poor form, chap,” McCreadie murmurs. “Very poor form indeed.”

“I… feel as if I have missed something.”

“Never mind.” I take his arm. “We have a wedding to attend, and I shall let you escort me, even if you are not wearing a kilt.”

The ceremony is held in the gardens. The basics are familiar to me, with a few differences from modern weddings. There are maids and groomsmen, and a bride in her gown, a groom in his suit. Fiona has not opted for white, instead wearing the most gorgeous dress of light blue satin, with an elaborate bustle and equally elaborate flounces down the skirt, all trimmed with ivory lace. Her only jewelry is a sapphire necklace from Cranston and matching earrings from his parents. Both sets of parents walked the bride and groom in. At the front, the parents stood behind, the attendants to the side.

The service is simple, held in the shade of an oak. Isla explained earlier that church weddings are more common these days, but this is still acceptable. Ceremonies are often either morning or late afternoon. This is early afternoon, to take full advantage of the setting and the sunshine.

After the ceremony, we dine at tables in the gardens, eating a feast of chicken croquettes and lamb cutlets with strawberries and cream for dessert, alongside a wedding cake as elaborate as any from my own time.

Once the meal is complete, everyone begins doing their own thing, with musicians playing in one area, a croquet game set up in another, and Cranston presiding over what seems to be a whisky tasting that turns into a loud debate over some trade issue that I couldn’t understand even if I wanted to.

I start with Fiona, Violet, and Isla, but then Fiona and I get to talking about the wildcat kittens—the three-legged one can’t be returned to the wild, and Alice would like to take it home. Isla has already agreed; now Fiona must do the same. Of course she does, and we’re busy talking about how to care for the cat when Cranston whisks his bride off to a dance on the lawn. I turn to look around. Am I kinda hoping to see Gray there, ready to be cajoled into the dance? Of course I am, and of course he is not.

I don’t see Isla, Gray, or McCreadie. I wonder whether they’re avoiding the two sets of parents. I met them earlier, with Gray, and that was awkward enough. This must be hell for McCreadie.

I’ve wandered over to the punch bowl and taken a glass when a voice behind me says, “I was going to ask you to dance, but you seem otherwise occupied.”

I turn and smile up at Gray. “I could put this down.”

“Mmm, you may wish to drink it first, if it is heavily laced with brandy. I am not the best dancer.”

“That makes two of us.” I turn toward the lawn where Cranston and Fiona lead the dance. “I… don’t even know what that is.”

“A minuet, I believe.” He leans down and whispers, “I am not certain either. I know how to do a quadrille and a reel and the Viennese waltz, none of them well.”

“I can waltz. My nan taught me.”

“Then let us wait for that. Is your back well enough to dance?”

“It is after whatever you gave me.”

He smiles and takes a glass of punch. “We shall dance, then. In the meantime, have you seen my sister?”

“No, and I should speak to her. Fiona has agreed to let Alice take the kitten.”

“I last saw her walking around the house. Perhaps to the croquet game?”

We head out, sipping our punch and talking. We stay within sight of other guests. That damned propriety again. It’s even worse at a wedding, where sneaking off could be construed as being swept away by the romance of the day.

“I do not see her by the croquet game,” Gray muses. “Where could she have—?” He stops, and I follow his gaze to a stand of bushes. Protruding from the side is a flower-printed bustle that I’m ninety-five percent sure belongs to Isla.

“What is she doing there?” Gray glances at me. “Did she seem unsettled? The wedding a reminder of her own perhaps?”

“No, she was in a wonderful mood, even while getting ready, which is never her favorite thing. Today she took extra care and…” I trail off, as a thought hits at the same time I notice something else.

“She’s not alone over there,” I say.

“Hmm?” He leans to peer and then pulls back. “Oh.”

With the shade of the bush, it’s easy to see Isla’s pale gown, but her dark-suited companion almost disappears.

I grin at Gray. “When’s the last time you saw Hugh?”

He smiles back. “About the same time I last saw Isla.”

I glance toward the bush. Isla and McCreadie standing, obviously. I mean, all the power to them if they found a quiet place for something needing more discretion but if so, it’d be more than fifty feet from the croquet game.

When I start in that direction, Gray whispers, “What are you doing?”

I wave a hand. It should be obvious what I’m doing. Spying. I creep toward the bushes until I’m just close enough to see that McCreadie has his hand on Isla’s face and she’s leaning toward him in rapt, whispered, intimate conversation.

I turn to find Gray right beside me, and I grin, raising my hand for a high five… which of course he just stares at, blankly.

“Never mind,” I whisper, and hurry in the other direction before we’re seen. Then I stop around the corner of the house, where we can be seen but not heard.

“That was what I thought it was, right?” I say. “The start of more than ‘just friends’?”

Gray smiles. “It was.”

“And that’s good, right?”

“That is excellent.”

I bounce, barely able to restrain the urge to throw my arms around his neck in a celebratory hug, as if we have something to celebrate. We do, though. Maybe we can’t take responsibility for the match, but we can celebrate our joy at seeing it.

“Step one accomplished,” I say. “Now it’s on to a proper courtship and marriage and little Islas and Hughs and—” I stop. “Oh.”

I look up at Gray, and see in his expression he’s already realized what I have.

If Isla marries, I can’t keep living in the Robert Street town house with Gray. If I were the housemaid, it would be acceptable, but tongues would only wag more if I reverted to my former position.

“If they marry…” I say.

“Yes.” One word. Neither of us needs more.

I worry my lip. Part of me wants to say that maybe they won’t marry—or it’ll be a long courtship—but of course I hope they find all the happiness they deserve, as quickly as they can.

“We could work it out,” I say. “I could get an apartment.”

Except I don’t want an apartment. I want to stay where I am. Having Isla gone would be difficult, but being away from everyone ? Living on my own in some empty little room, without the patter of Alice’s footsteps, Jack’s easy laugh, Mrs. Wallace’s snaps and snipes, Simon outside, ready to chat, and Gray. Most of all Gray.

Gray’s voice drops. “I know you were angry with me for my suggestion, but this is one reason I made it, Mallory. Isla is out of mourning. Being here helped Hugh overcome what happened with Violet—it reminded him of why he did not marry her.”

“Because he loves Isla.”

Gray nods. “We will find another way. I understand that my suggestion was offensive to you. I blurted it without forethought, caught you off guard and upset you. I know you did not want an apology, but I still wish to give one. I also wish you to understand that there was no insult intended in my suggestion.”

“Is that what you said in your letter?”

He frowns.

“The letter Dorothy took,” I say. “The one you left me.”

He glances away, and his color seems to rise. “Ah. Yes. The letter. It was…” He clears his throat and then nods decisively. “Exactly that. I apologized and attempted to explain myself. Poorly done, of course, and it is best that you never saw it. We will seek other options.”

“If we did need to marry, would you wear a kilt to the wedding?”

He laughs softly. “Yes, I would wear a kilt for you.” He leans down. “But we are going to seek every possible alternative.”

“We have time. I don’t think Hugh and Isla are going to be sending out wedding invitations tomorrow.”

“Agreed. We do have time, and we will use it wisely.” He looks up over my shoulder. “In the meanwhile, I believe they are playing a waltz.”

I glance over. “Seems like it.”

“Well, then.” He extends his arm. “May I have this dance?”

I smile and take his arm. “You may.”