Page 8 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

EIGHT

We missed lunch with our kitten surgery. Isla assures us we dodged a bullet there—apparently Edith decided it was appropriate to start critiquing Fiona’s menu choices, under the guise of “advising” a new bride and future lady of the house… even though the target of her advice wasn’t even present. Violet and Cranston jointly put her in her place, and I kinda regret missing that part. But I am glad that Fiona also missed it, and I enjoy a quiet lunch with her and Gray on the back patio, as she peppers him with questions about his work.

The afternoon is supposed to be devoted to wedding preparation, but then someone brings a message that both the bride’s and groom’s parents are delayed. They’re traveling together, and their coach broke a wheel along the road, so they decided to call it a day and spend the night at an inn. Fiona frets about that, and McCreadie and Sinclair both reassure her as Cranston takes action, sending his coach to be doubly sure they can depart in the morning.

The afternoon passes both quickly and slowly, if that’s possible. Slowly in the sense that we don’t have much to do, but quickly in the sense that we aren’t trapped in the house playing charades and waiting for the bride’s and groom’s parents to arrive.

Edith doesn’t join us for dinner, and not even her husband seems disappointed by that. Afterward, we do that thing I’ve only ever seen in novels, where the men retire to one room and the “ladies” to another. In books, we’d be sipping port, which always sounded very posh until I actually tried it. I can barely hide my relief when Fiona produces a bottle of whisky instead.

In fact, she produces three bottles.

“I propose a sampling party,” she says. “There must be some advantage to marrying a man who has chosen whisky as his trade, and I declare this will be it. No port for us.” She pauses. “Unless anyone wants that, of course.”

We all demur, and she takes glasses from the side table and explains what we’re about to taste. I’ve learned a bit about the history of scotch. While there has always been whisky in Scotland, we’re in the era where it begins to be refined and industrialized, slowly spreading beyond Britain’s borders. In other words, Cranston has gotten into it at exactly the right time.

“I take it Mr. Cranston is doing well with his business,” I say, waving at the house.

“Well enough to be able to fashion himself a country gentleman,” Violet says. “Really, I can imagine a hundred better ways to spend his money, but apparently, a hunting lodge is his choice.” She glances at Fiona. “And that was sharp-tongued of me. I apologize.”

Fiona only laughs. “As his sister, you are permitted to be as sharp-tongued about Archie as you like. I certainly needle Hugh enough. As for the house…” She glances around. “I rather like it. It will be drafty in the fall, but I am not certain I would join him for hunting season even if it were warm.” She glances at a mounted deer head and shudders. “I will enjoy it in the spring and summer, though. Once we have resolved the matter of those ridiculous traps, of course.”

“Resolved the matter of the gamekeeper, you mean,” Violet says, sipping her whisky.

“Hmm. He is unpleasant, is he not? I have a list then.” Fiona clicks her glass down. “Get rid of the traps. Get rid of the gamekeeper. Convince Archie that a wildlife preserve would be far better than a hunting one.”

Violet smiles. “I suspect you will win easily on the first two, but I wish you luck with the last. Now, how about that housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Hall? I do not mind her at all. Mother always says that if a housekeeper keeps the home and staff in line, then the lady of the house does not need to. Mrs. Hall is polite and respectful, which is more than I expected, given my youth. Also given the fact that Archie fired her husband.”

“Mr. Hall was the former gamekeeper,” I say. “I heard that. I met their children heading home. Well, not exactly children. Teen—Young adults.”

“Oh! I have not met them. I must do that. I cannot believe Archie fired their father while keeping their mother in charge of his house. I despair of men sometimes. Even a decent person would be tempted to take small revenges. Extra starch in the sheets. Extra salt in the stew. Perhaps a dead rat, decaying under the floorboards beside his bed.”

Isla laughs. “I was with you until that last one, Fiona.”

I say, “The trick would be to leave the rat in exactly the right spot, so the person you are angry with only catches a whiff of it now and then.”

“You are all wicked,” Violet announces. “I would do none of those things.” She sips her whisky. “I would water down his whisky and then serve it to guests as if that is what he is bottling.”

After we all laugh, Isla says, more seriously, “As for Mrs. Hall, the sad truth is that if her husband has been let go then she cannot afford to do anything that might earn her the same fate.”

Fiona sobers. “Indeed. I had not thought of that. I hope that is not what Archie is thinking—that he does not need to worry about consequences because she cannot afford to deliver any.”

“He is not,” Violet says firmly. “My brother is not the sort to be cruel. He is also not the sort to consider such things, I fear. He decided having a European gamekeeper is fashionable and did not work through the ramifications.”

“Then that will be my job,” Fiona says. “I will see that Mr. Hall is hired back once this Müller fellow is let go. I believe Archie fails to understand the depth of the locals’ rancor and the reasons for it.”

“The clearances,” Isla murmurs.

She means the displacement of tenant farmers. While this was perfectly legal—the tenants didn’t own the land—it violated a very old principle that said clan members had the right to rent land on clan territory. The first round of clearances, in the mid-eighteenth century, had been mostly about profit. The second one, in the middle of this century, had been partly profit-driven but also partly due to overcrowding and famine, as landowners selectively evicted tenants.

Fiona nods. “People still remember being driven from land they had lived on for generations. They lost everything.”

“Including their culture,” I say, taking a quick drink of my whisky and murmuring, “Outlawing tartan, bagpipes, Gaelic. The death of Highland culture after Culloden.”

Fiona grows animated, pleased to find a receptive audience. “I have no idea how much that affected people here. I shall have to find out. But the scars run deep, and now a southerner built a house on land they hunted and told them they cannot even walk across it? That was not Archie, but he needs to understand he is making the situation worse, maintaining the former owner’s rules and bringing in foreign help.” She takes a deep breath. “Enough of that. I will handle it. Back to the sampling. Now this next bottle we shall sample is—”

“Then when is it the proper time to discuss this?” It’s James Frye’s voice, coming through the wall between us and the men. “Not while you were buying this place. Not while you were planning your wedding. Not while you are here for your nuptials. Not afterward either, I presume, as you will be occupied with taking your bride to France. By the time you are free to discuss this, Cranston, all my money will be gone. Or is that your intention?”

“You are free to withdraw your investment at any time.” Cranston’s voice is pure ice. “I will refund it in full. Down to the pence.”

“Keeping the profits?”

“Good God, man, make up your mind. One minute you accuse me of losing your investment, and the next you accuse me of keeping your profits. Which is it?”

“This house proves there are profits. Whether we investors ever see them is another matter. How exactly did you pay for this?”

“With my share of those profits.” Cranston seems to be speaking through clenched teeth now. “Plus my bride’s dowry, and yes, Fiona knows I used it for this and approved. As for the whisky business, I provided you with a statement last month, which showed that you have indeed made money.”

“Not enough, as I realize after seeing this house.”

“You mean not after Edith saw it,” Cranston shoots back.

“My wife has an excellent head for business.”

“No, she has an excellent head for causing mischief. For sowing seeds of discord. You have made money. You will make more. If you wish to withdraw your funds and profits, tell me, and I will send a letter to my notary tomorrow. Tonight if you insist. Now, if you wish to discuss this further, might I suggest we go outside. Our friends hardly need to witness our business squabble.”

“Indeed,” Violet murmurs. “This is rather awkward for us as well.” She turns to Fiona. “Please pay no heed to James. The business is doing well, and James will be repaid. This is Edith’s doing.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” Fiona says lightly. “Some people are simply not happy unless they are causing trouble. I have a friend or two like that.”

“Reminds me of my sister,” Isla says.

“Lady Leslie?” Fiona smiles. “I have heard a great deal about her. She sounds like a very interesting person.”

Isla and I snort in unison.

“She sounds like a very formidable person,” Violet says. “I would not wish to cross her.”

“True,” Fiona says. “However, I also would not turn down an invitation to one of her soirees. I hear they are perfectly delightful, with all the most scandalous people.” She leans toward Isla. “Yes, I am hinting for an invitation.”

Isla smiles. “Then you shall have one. I suspect she would find you very interesting as well.”

Fiona’s brows rise. “I am not sure that is a compliment.”

“She finds Mallory most interesting.”

“Ah.” Fiona reaches her glass to clink with mine. “Then it is indeed a compliment. Now, let us finish these and try the third, and then we will pretend to discuss the merits of each, while needing to sample them all again. Oh, and to liven up the conversation, have you ever heard the story of the women of Coigach and how they resisted the clearances? It was around 1852, I believe.”

Isla has heard the story apparently. Violet has not. I settle in, thinking I am about to hear some tale from the distant past… when I realize it was less than twenty years ago. A reminder that the clearances can be very recent history up here.

Fiona pours us all a third sample and then launches into the story.

By the time we’ve finished the tasting, we’re all a little tipsy. Maybe more than a little. But there’s a sense of silly fun about it that I haven’t had since barhopping in my university years.

Earlier, I’d reflected on how Fiona was a typical Victorian woman, more than most in my life. Maybe it should seem as if my opinion has changed. She clearly knows her own mind and, in some ways, she’s more mature than I was at that age, ready to take on the running of a house when I was barely able to keep up with my coursework. In the makeshift surgery with the kitten, she proved she was capable and intelligent despite a lack of rigid formal education. So does that make her different? “Not like other girls”? I don’t think so. I suspect she really is relatively typical for her age and generation. She knows what is expected of her and chafes against it but has found ways to make her life her own. As women always have.

Once Violet is away from the men, she reveals herself to be more than she seemed as well. She relaxes, and that makes all the difference. I’m reminded of my mother, who’d gone to an all-girls school for a few years, and she’d always said it had changed her. She’d felt freer, more confident, and there, she’d discovered her voice. That’s Violet, between the lack of men and the addition of scotch. Her tongue sharpens with incisive wit and she shows full confidence in her opinions, as her anxieties and self-consciousness ebb.

I could never have imagined the other Violet with McCreadie. Could I imagine this one with him? Yes, but only in the sense that it wouldn’t have been a completely awful match. Except it would have been, because if you’re in love with one person, it doesn’t matter who else you marry—it will be awful.

McCreadie belongs with Isla, and I will admit, my little matchmaking heart had pitter-pattered at the thought of them spending this week together. Weddings are great for breaking through repressed romances. But when your former fiancée—whom you jilted, presumably on account of this other woman—is also in attendance? Yeah, I’m not going to be finding ways to nudge McCreadie and Isla together on this trip.

Dinner had been at eight, which means that by the time we’ve spent a couple of hours drinking and talking, we’re ready to retire. Tomorrow, the bride’s and groom’s parents will arrive, and then serious wedding preparations will commence, with the ceremony the day after tomorrow. Then it’ll be done, and we’ll be on our way home, and I will be able to declare—I think—that as terrible as this trip had looked yesterday, it might actually not be so bad.

And, as if to reward me for my positive thinking, I’m walking down the hall when Gray is passing the other way—deep in conversation with Sinclair—and slips me a note. I need to stifle my grin at that, while I continue on as if I hadn’t even noticed him. Then I duck into the spot under the stairs and open the note.

If you anticipate trouble sleeping, meet me at midnight by the sundial, and we shall slip out for a clandestine visit to your coos.

I smile, read it again, and roll my eyes. Gray really needs to be more careful about things like this. I know that he doesn’t mean anything “clandestine” in that way—only that we aren’t supposed to be walking around the grounds. Someone reading it, though, and wanting to see scandal, would find it in that note. Even the part about visiting the “coos” could be seen as… Well, I don’t know what, but when people want to read something dirty into a word, they have no problem using their imaginations.

Between the whisky and my lack of sleep, I don’t anticipate trouble drifting off. But am I going to tell Gray that? Hell no. And since I can’t set an alarm, I’ll be staying awake. Why? Because I’d hate to miss a chance to see the cows, obviously.

No, I’ll be staying awake because I’d hate to miss the chance for a moonlit walk with Gray. I don’t expect anything “clandestine.” I’m honestly not sure what I’d do if the outing turned in that direction. It won’t, and so I’m safe. Disappointed? Sure. I no longer lie to myself about that.

I have feelings for Duncan Gray that go well beyond friendship, but it’s not the sort of situation where I’m only accepting friendship in hopes of it developing into more. I’ve had enough guys pull that bullshit with me in my time. I acknowledge that I have feelings that aren’t reciprocated, and I deal with that, which means I expect nothing from this walk except his company, and I will jump at the chance for that.

I spend a bit of time chatting with Alice in our room. She’s been doing fine. She’s the youngest of the servants, but she’s been hanging out alternately with Simon—in the stable with the other grooms—and one of the older maids who seems to have taken Alice under her wing.

Soon Alice is asleep, and I’m lying in bed, pretending that I plan to do the same while keeping my eyes open so I don’t drift off. I have my pocket watch clutched under my pillow, and when it hits eleven thirty, I’m up and changing.

I can’t just wear my wrapper to walk with Gray. I wear my petticoats instead of my crinoline, but I still have all the layers. I pull the corset stays just tight enough to get into my dress.

I started thirty minutes pre–meet time because it takes so damned long to get dressed, especially while trying to be quiet. It’s nearly five to midnight when I arrive downstairs. I peep in all the rooms as I pass. It’s not late enough to guarantee that everyone has gone to bed, but they seem to have. I poke my head in the cloakroom and then slip outside.

Gray waits by the sundial, as promised.

“Cranston is out and about,” I whisper as I join him.

His brows rise.

“His coat isn’t with the rest,” I say.

Gray curses under his breath. “I did not think to check that.”

“His is the only one missing. Of course, that only applies to the men—the women have their cloaks and shawls in their rooms. Cranston’s coat is very distinctive, though, and it’s definitely not there. It was when we went to bed. I checked then, too.”

“You were far more thorough than I,” he says. “I ought to have been more considerate of your reputation.”

It’s not my reputation I’m concerned about. I wish I knew a way to keep people from presuming Gray has hired a bed-buddy rather than an assistant. Of course, that’s particularly awkward when I kinda wish—

Okay, I absolutely do not wish that was why he hired me. I just mean that it insults Gray to presume that. Yes, fine, it probably insults me more—implying that’s my only use. But while he worries about my “reputation,” I neither have one nor need one. He has one and needs it.

I’ve considered workarounds. Like a fake boyfriend. I even spent some time working on a story. My beau would be a medical student that I met through Gray. He’s working in a London hospital right now, but we are betrothed and will wed someday. Once he has a job and is settled.

I broached the idea with Isla. She rolled her eyes and walked away. I take it that means it wouldn’t help. Which I suppose it wouldn’t. My fake fiancé would only become some poor besotted lad who thinks my relationship with Gray is platonic. Not only would Gray be sleeping with his assistant, but he’d be cuckolding this innocent young man. And, really, while I hate anyone thinking Gray only hired me for sex, at least half who believe that also commend him for it. Getting a pretty young thing to “help” with his work? The lucky dog.

“What do you want to do?” I ask as we move toward the shadows. “I’d still like that walk, but I really don’t want to bump into Cranston and have him needling you about it for the rest of our visit.”

Gray tilts his head, considering. “I believe, if I am being perfectly honest, that Archie would be relieved to discover you and I are having an affair. It would knock me off my high horse, as he would say.”

True, given what I overheard. But do I want to give Cranston fodder?

Fodder for what? Snide comments and jabs? He already does that to Gray. He’s not going to make crass comments in front of the ladies.

“Let’s just be careful,” I say. “I don’t care what he thinks, but I’d prefer to have a quiet walk without his particular brand of bullshit.”

Gray’s lips twitch. “So what brand of ‘bullshit’ do you want on your walk?”

“Yours, of course.”

“Which is…?”

I shrug. “Surprise me.”

“Your challenge is accepted.” He reaches down into the shadows under a hedge and takes out a basket. “This is my brand of nonsense. A moonlight picnic. Just the two of us out on the heather.”

Good thing it’s dark, because my cheeks definitely heat at that.

“And the coos?” I say.

“Tucked under their blankets, sound asleep in the barn.”

I peer up at him. “So the coos were a lie?”

He lifts the basket. “Onward. We have a picnic to enjoy.”