Page 5 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

FIVE

The garden walk is actually very lovely. McCreadie gives Violet her space, and she relaxes. It’s impossible not to relax around Fiona. She really is delightful. I get the sense there’s more sadness to her than meets the eye, but there’s also obviously more depth, and with depth comes sadness sometimes. She’s not an empty-headed girl, content with her role in life. She sees more and wants more and…

And she’s marrying Archie Cranston, a wealthy asshole who sets out bear traps for poachers.

Which doesn’t matter as much as it might seem. If this marriage is meant to merge the two families, it isn’t intended to be a love match. They will lead their separate lives and pursue their separate interests, and I will try very hard not to patronize Fiona McCreadie by pitying her.

She certainly doesn’t seem like a reluctant bride. Not an excited one, either. In fact, she seems far less like a bride than a guest enjoying a holiday with family and friends. But, again, none of my business.

We enjoy our walk in the gardens. Between Isla and Violet, they are able to identify most of the plants, even some of the rarer herbs. We take our time wandering the gardens before heading back to the house.

“Dinner ought to be ready by now,” Fiona says. “I wanted to wait until everyone had arrived, so I apologize for the lateness of the hour.”

“It has given us all time to relax and refresh after our journey,” Isla says.

We reach the house, and McCreadie holds the door as we enter. Fiona leads us through to a large sitting room. Cranston is on his feet, regaling Sinclair and another man with some story. As he spots us, his gaze passes right over his bride and lands on Gray.

“Gray!” he says, coming forward. “Impeccable timing, old chap. We were just talking about you.”

Gray slows, and the pit bull in me starts to growl.

“I told them how you solved the mystery of my missing stickpin,” Cranston says.

“That was Miss—” Gray begins.

“And James here—you remember James Frye, from school?—he said he seems to have misplaced his pocket watch. He had it in the coach, and now it is gone. You can find that for him, can’t you?”

Gray opens his mouth, but Cranston only claps him on the back. “Good chap. Now, who else has a mystery they need the famous detective to solve?”

“How about your missing manners,” a voice says archly, and I’m surprised to see it’s Violet.

To my surprise, Cranston actually seems to hesitate at that, and then offers his sister what looks like a nod of acknowledgment.

“Dinner is ready,” Fiona says. “Please follow me to the dining room, and make yourselves comfortable. The first course will be served promptly.”

If the walk through the gardens was surprisingly pleasant, dinner is unsurprisingly awful. Oh, the food is excellent. And I give Fiona full props for playing the perfect hostess, deftly but politely cutting off her groom when he gets out of hand. Except, even with help from his best man—Sinclair—they can only mitigate the worst of it.

I’ll admit to being baffled by Sinclair, increasingly so as the meal continues. He seems like a genuinely nice guy. He clearly recognizes that Cranston is an ass, which makes me wonder how the hell the two men are such good friends.

Cranston has chosen Gray as his primary target. He finds Gray’s detective work hilarious, as if it’s an amateur hobby. I suspect he also uses it to insult McCreadie. McCreadie is the professional detective, and yet Gray is the one Cranston zeroes in on, with endless suggestions of silly mysteries he can solve.

Even Cranston soon tires of the “fun” and turns to more normal conversation. If I’m interpreting correctly, the other guest—James Frye—was another classmate of the groom’s, along with Gray, McCreadie, and Sinclair. Frye is here with his wife, who is apparently too exhausted from the trip to join us for dinner. As Gray said, McCreadie’s parents will be staying elsewhere, and they have not yet arrived. Nor have Cranston’s parents.

For now, it’s just the younger generation, their pasts intertwined in ways that have me suspecting this is why Frye’s wife bowed out of dinner. When Cranston isn’t mocking Gray, he’s making inside jokes that I need to smile at awkwardly. Isla joins me in that. She knows everyone here, but she doesn’t know them well. Fortunately, the two of us are seated beside each other and when the conversation trips too far down memory lane, we talk together, with Fiona sometimes joining in.

When dinner ends, Isla invites me to a “turn about the gardens.” I have a feeling we’ll be making very good use of those gardens.

“It is past dark,” Cranston says when he overhears us talking.

“We will take a lantern,” Isla says, her tone gentle but firm.

“Might I join?” Fiona says. “I have a lantern we can—”

“Absolutely not,” Cranston says. “The grounds are far too dangerous for you ladies to be traipsing about in the dark.”

I want to make some sharp comment about the bear traps, but I keep my mouth shut. Let Gray handle that. I only say, smoothly, “We will take care, sir, and—”

“And no,” he says. “I am the host, and I have spoken. There will be no leaving the house past dark. Now, who is up for charades?”

I skip charades. So do Isla and Gray. McCreadie obviously felt obligated to join in, but the rest of us beg off after our long trip. Unfortunately, that means we really do need to retire, and Gray can’t join us in Isla’s room to chat. Isla and I stay up for a while, but soon she’s yawning, so I head up to my attic quarters to find Alice sound asleep.

While it has been a long day—starting at dawn and ending past midnight—I dozed on the coach ride and now I can’t sleep. At first, I’m chilly, so I pull out an extra blanket. Then I’m overheated, so I crack open the window next to me. Is that my stomach growling? I should have snuck food up for later. My throat feels parched. Why didn’t I bring up a glass of water? Do I need to use the chamber pot?

I’m not really hot or cold or hungry or thirsty or in need of the bathroom. I’m fussing, attributing my sleeplessness to everything except the two actual causes. One, I’m not tired. Two, I’m worrying about everyone else.

How torturous is this trip for McCreadie? Is Cranston really just poking at Gray, or is it outright bullying? Isla seems tense—is that just empathy for McCreadie or is she uncomfortable being among people she doesn’t know well? Is she uncomfortable being around Violet and the reminder of how McCreadie hurt her? Is Alice okay? I should have made sure she wasn’t having any problems with the other staff. What about Simon? I should have checked in on him at least once this evening.

I’m in that kind of mood where, once I start worrying about people I care for, that worry seeps out to those I just met. How awkward is this for Violet? She seems fragile, and being here with McCreadie must be hell, especially with her asshole brother around. And speaking of Cranston, is Fiona ready to be married to him? She’s so young, and I can tell myself she understands the way of things, but does she?

Yep, I’m fretting. It’s dark and quiet and I have nothing to do but churn through other people’s problems, as if they’re mysteries that I need to solve.

I know things have gone too far when I start peeking at that closed door with its warning signs. I’ve already investigated it. I know what’s in there. But in the cold dark of night, my mind starts playing tricks, whispering there could be something behind those stacks of linens.

Finally, I give up on sleeping. I know that’s the best thing. Get up and do something instead of lying there, letting my brain spin. But where do I go? I’m not at home. Alice is sleeping right beside me. I can’t light the lamp and read. I can’t wander the house either. While Gray considers me his guest, my attic bed says that, to everyone else, I’m a servant. I can’t curl up with a book in the library. I can’t even go out for a walk with those damned traps everywhere.

I catch a voice that sounds like McCreadie’s, and that has me rolling out of bed. He’s speaking to someone, and it sounds like Fiona, which would be perfect. No one would think it improper if I was up at night talking with McCreadie and his sister.

I pull on my wrapper over my nightgown. It’s a full wrapper, with a night corset underneath. Wearing that, I’m not exactly “dressed” but it’s considered appropriate enough to be seen in, covering everything that needs to be covered. Soled house slippers complete the outfit.

When I reach the stairs, though, the male voice comes clearer, and I realize it’s Sinclair, whispering with Fiona on the next level down. That gives me pause—and ignites a spark of concern. The two of them being up together would be improper, especially when he’ll be best man at her wedding in two days.

Then I hear what they’re saying.

“You are concerned about her,” Fiona whispers. “You may always speak to me about such things, Ezra. I am happy to help. I have heard her pacing, and I was concerned myself.”

“It is nerves,” Sinclair says. “Having her here with—” He clears his throat. “She will be fine.”

“Having her here with Hugh.” Fiona sighs. “I have made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Of course not. You want your brother at your wedding. That is natural.”

“I truly did not think it would be a problem,” Fiona says. “It has been nearly ten years and…” She sighs again. “I have made a dreadful mess and upset two people I care about very dearly.”

“No, you have not. It is past time for Violet to move on, and I know that sounds harsh, but I have known her most of my life. I care for her very deeply, and moving on is the best she can do. This gives her the chance to remember who Hugh really is—not an ogre who abandoned her but a good man who did what he thought was right.”

“He really did,” Fiona says.

“I know, and he is being a gentleman, properly considerate of Violet’s feelings. Hugh is a good man.”

“He is. Thank you for seeing that.”

“I have always seen that. Just as I have always seen you, Fiona. His kindhearted and clever sister. I hope Archie appreciates what he has won.”

“You are very sweet. You are also very sweet to care about how Violet is feeling. You have always been good to her. You have looked after her when Archie…” Fiona trails off. “I know Archie cares very much for his sister, and he would do anything for her, but he can be… less than observant when it comes to how others are feeling.”

“He can be, and so I have always tried to help, which is why I am concerned about Violet. I will take extra care to watch where her brother does not. He does not deserve you, you know.” The words come teasingly, and Fiona laughs softly.

“You are sweet to say so, even if I disagree. Now, I shall take tea for Violet and sit with her until she is settled.”

“I will help you get it. And remember, Fiona, I am here for whatever you require.”

“That is very kind.”

They continue down the stairs. I hesitate at the top. It doesn’t feel right to join them and get a tea for myself. It might even be awkward, “discovering” the bride-to-be and best man together at night, even if there is a perfectly innocent explanation.

In the end, I go back to my room and try sleeping again. The second time is not the charm, and I toss and turn for the next hour. Then something outside makes a noise—just some distant animal—and I find myself at the window, listening with far too much interest.

Time to give up on sleep entirely and get out of this bedroom. I don’t know where I’m going, but I really need to go somewhere—anywhere—that isn’t this dark and damp attic.

On go the wrapper and slippers again. There’s a portable oil lamp on the bedroom table, and I take it, but I don’t light it yet. Enough moonlight pours through the windows to let me see where I’m going. And once I reach the next floor down, I start wishing for less light and more shadows to hide the ghastly decor.

It’s not the usual kind of ghastly Victorian decor, with its riot of clashing colors and patterns. I’ve gotten used to that, and if I’m honest, there’d always been part of me that delighted in the visual assault, the young Mallory who’d wanted all the colors.

This isn’t an overstuffed Victorian manor. It’s a hunting lodge, and it’s the worst possible stereotype. The wallpaper and carpets are actually quite muted by the standards of the time, but that’s just to highlight the art. I’m being generous calling it art, especially when it comes to the endless dead critters lining the walls. Or, more specifically, the heads of dead critters.

Earlier today, I’d said I really hoped Cranston didn’t hunt the little roe deer. He most certainly does, and not just to provide venison steaks for dinner. He’s trophy-hunting them. The horned heads of the stags are displayed along with the hunter’s initials and the date, as if killing a deer the size of a dog wins the same bragging rights as bringing down a lion on safari.

There are also paintings, mostly of hunts, with dogs ripping into deer still alive and rolling their eyes in agony. Partway down the stairs, there’s a painting where the canines are ripping into each other, fighting over a kill. As I cross to the next set of stairs, I spot a painting that breaks free of the hunting-lodge motif to show a dog with an androgynously gowned toddler, which would be a lot more heartwarming if the child wasn’t lying on the ground with their eyes closed.

Is that child dead? I should laugh at the thought. Clearly they’re only resting, right? Nope. These are Victorians, and if this painting has a name, I suspect it’s “Loyal Dog Mourns His Best Friend” or some such, meant to make the viewer pause and wipe a tear for the grieving dog and its tiny dead master.

As we’d approached the house earlier, I’d temporarily mistaken the estate for a castle. Now that I’ve been inside, I couldn’t make that error. I’ve been in castles. They’re massive walled fortifications that sprawl over acres. This is just a very large house, and not even massive by historical standards.

Being a hunting lodge, it is mostly bedrooms. In fact, they fill three of the four levels. The servants’ quarters are in the attic. The next level is guest rooms, as is the level below it, and it feels a bit like being in Gray’s town house, endlessly tramping down stairs. Finally, I’m on the main level, which consists of a library, a dining room, a kitchen, one large sitting room, and two smaller sitting rooms. Yes, Victorians love their sitting rooms.

Can I get away with hiding out in the library and reading? It might be scandalous if I’m caught, but it’s past two, and everyone’s sound asleep. I’m not going to be caught if I shut the door before lighting my lantern. I might not even need to light it. I peer at the nearest window, and the moonlight seems to be coming from the direction the library faces. I can—

Something moves outside the window, and I fall back, biting off a gasp at what looks like some monstrous bird, flapping huge black wings. The creature quickly resolves itself into a person with a long black coat flapping in the wind. I inch toward the window until I make out light hair under a hat.

Cranston.

That’s the last person I want catching me poking around down here. I should retreat, but he’s heading in the opposite direction, going out toward the fields. Curiosity compels me closer.

The window is open, alleviating some of the stuffiness from the warm day. I can hear Cranston’s boots on the gravel drive. He strides up it and I withdraw, ready to scamper upstairs, but he reaches the house and stalks back the other way.

Pacing, it seems, and I remember those traps. Gray spoke to him, but I haven’t had a chance to hear what Cranston said about them, and now, seeing that angry patrolling, I start to wonder whether this is more than typical aristocratic arrogance, the outrage at having to deal with people on “your” land. Could it be paranoia? Those traps suggest as much, as does pacing like a guard dog at two A.M.

“There you are,” Cranston says, and I jump, but he’s looking in the other direction. A figure emerges from the stand of trees.

“What the bloody hell are you doing out here?” Cranston snaps.

Sinclair’s voice drifts back, his tone light. “Planning my assault on your castle. I have joined the locals in their fight to see you evicted. If we win, they have promised me the house. I hope you do not mind. All is fair in love and the war for excellent hunting property.”

Cranston snorts. “I know you adore your moonlit walks, but I told you to stick to the road.”

“I know the property, Archie. I have been here even more than you have. As for staying on the road, I intended to, but then I heard the wildcat yowling.”

“Is that what I heard? Damnable beast. It has developed a taste for eggs, and now it will not stop stealing them from the coop.”

“At least it is not eating the chickens.”

“Oh, I am sure it will.”

“Eventually one of those traps will rid you of it.”

“Do not start in on me about the traps.” Cranston stalks back toward the house. “They were Müller’s idea, and Duncan has already lectured me about them. Sanctimonious…” I don’t catch the next word, but it’s clearly not complimentary. “Remind me again why he is at my wedding?”

Sinclair falls in step beside him. “Because he is a good friend of your future brother-in-law, and your future bride wished him to come.”

Cranston grumbles under his breath. “The man is insufferable. Always has been. He has too high an opinion of himself and absolutely no sense of humor. I do not know what Hugh sees in him.”

“Hmm. A perfectly pleasant and good-natured fellow whose best chum is a horse’s ass. I have never heard of such a thing myself.”

Cranston makes what I presume is a rude gesture.

Sinclair laughs and then says, “There is nothing wrong with Duncan. You do not like him because you do not understand him. Science was never your strong suit, and you have little patience with serious fellows. If you have forgotten the lesson you learned in school, Archie, let me refresh your memory. Leave Duncan Gray alone. Cease poking and jabbing at him, or you will regret it. Also, steer clear of his little assistant. I have not determined the relationship there, but it is clear he will tolerate that far less than he tolerates you poking at him.”

“Do you think I have missed the way he tenses every time another man looks at her?” Cranston adjusts his long coat. “I am almost tempted to leer, just to annoy him. But I would not make the girl uncomfortable. Nor would I have any interest in her. First, I am about to be married. Second, she is a child.”

“The assistant or your bride?” Sinclair teases.

Cranston stops sharply enough to make Sinclair fall back. “They both are, and if you expect me to say differently, I will not. Gray’s chit is a child. My bride is a child.”

“Fiona is twenty-one. More than old enough to wed. No one thinks her a child.”

“Well, I do. She is clever and witty, but still barely more than a girl.”

Sinclair chuckles. “Remember that on your wedding night.”

Now Cranston spins, and his friend backs up fast, hands raised.

“I was joking, Archie,” Sinclair says.

“It is not a joke. It is a travesty, wedding a girl of twenty-one to a man of thirty-two. I understand it is commonly done, but I find it appalling. I will care for her, as she deserves to be cared for, and if she eventually comes to care for me in another way, that would be ideal, but for now, she is a child moving into my guardianship.”

I don’t hear Sinclair’s response. I’m too busy wondering whether I heard right. I’d decided I knew exactly what sort of man Archie Cranston is, and I feel as if I’m listening to his twin brother.

First, he said he wouldn’t leer at me to annoy Gray because that would make me uncomfortable. As for Fiona, when we hear of young women being married off to older men, I think we presume the men never have an issue with it. Who wouldn’t want a twenty-one-year-old bride? Well, maybe a mature man hoping for an equally mature wife. A man looking for a partner.

Fiona is more than old enough to wed and, in this era, Cranston is actually a “young” groom for her—better than a fifty-year-old widower. If Cranston sees a problem with the practice, then that is more enlightened a viewpoint than I would have imagined from the man I met.

When Sinclair speaks again, his voice is almost too low for me to hear. “I apologize, old chap. I was only teasing. You have not spoken much of the marriage, and I made the mistake of presuming all was well.”

“All is well,” Cranston says firmly.

“I know it cannot be easy. If only Hugh had married Violet, you would not need to wed Fiona.”

“I said it is fine. Fiona is lovely, and I will…” Cranston clears his throat. “Endeavor to be a good husband. For now, that means looking after her, which I will do. Mark my words. However our marriage plays out, she is under my protection, and I will see that no harm befalls her.”

“Good.” Sinclair slaps Cranston on the back. “There is a very fine chap hidden under that rough exterior, Archie.”

Cranston snorts. “Do not mistake it for weakness. It is late, and I am tired and maudlin. Let us get inside and have a whisky before we trundle you off to bed.”

I backtrack fast and hurry up the stairs, and I’m gone before the door opens.