Page 74 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Isle of Skye, Scotland

“Has anyone seen my trunk?”

Catriona McCallister directed her question to the room at large as she hurried across the entrance hall of Castle Kilmore with a stack of books clutched to her chest. Although three of her lowland cousins were bustling about the room, no one could be bothered to answer her.

She spied something in the corner of the room—her favorite pair of boots!

She’d picked them up the previous summer in Portree.

They were ankle boots that the cobbler, Mr. MacKay, had made for a local boy.

Unfortunately, the boy had been going through one of those spells where he was growing so fast that by the time the boots were finished, they were already too small.

This had been bad news for Mr. MacKay, but good news for Catriona, who’d been able to pick them up for a song.

That pair of boys’ work boots was a thousand times sturdier than the flimsy ladies’ half-boots she’d been making do with.

Her mother had been furious. “Boys’ boots, Catriona? What’s next? Are ye going to start wearing trews?” She’d rubbed her forehead in despair. “How am I ever going to get you married off?”

Catriona had refused to give up the boots, and the dispute had eventually landed before her father. “I dinnae want to hear about it!” Peader McCallister had roared.

“She’s rendering herself more unmarriageable with each passing day,” her mother had protested.

“She’s already unmarriageable, Katherine!

” her father had snapped. “She’s four and twenty—already on the shelf—and she does naught all day but wander about digging in the mud.

” Taking up his fork and knife, he turned back to the fish pie on his plate.

“Ye’ve three other children ye can worry about marrying off.

Forget about this one and let a man eat his dinner in peace. ”

And so, Catriona got to keep the boots. As victories went, it was a hollow one. But she would take what she could get.

Her youngest brother, Callum, was coming down the stairs. “Have ye seen my trunk?” Catriona asked.

He gave her a baleful look. “We’re leaving in an hour. Dinnae tell me you havena started to pack.”

“I have packed,” Catriona protested, holding up her boots in one hand and the books in the other. “I had my trunk ready and waiting by the front door, but now it’s gone, and my things are all strewn about the—”

“Catriona McCallister!” Her mother’s sharp voice rang across the entrance hall. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sighing, Catriona started up the stairs toward the landing, where her mother waited with hands on her hips. “The meaning of what, Mother?”

“This!” Her mother gestured to the floor.

Catriona blanched as she saw the spade and brushes she used for her excavations scattered across the flagstones.

Her mother glared. “Yer aunt stepped on yer little gardening tools and almost broke her neck.”

“They’re not gardening tools!” Catriona protested. “They’re—”

“They’re in the way, is what they are. Why on earth did ye leave them in the middle of the stairs?”

“I didnae.” Catriona bent and began gathering her tools, struggling to hold them along with her books and boots. “They were packed in my trunk, which was sitting by the door. Now, my trunk is gone, and everything I packed is scattered all over the castle.”

Her mother’s expression did not soften. “A likely story, that.”

“’Tis true!” Catriona protested.

Her mother jabbed a finger into her shoulder. “Ye just make sure yer trunk is packed and ready to go in one hour. One hour, Catriona!”

Sighing, Catriona continued up the stairs. She found her plain, grey wool cloak draped over the newel post and her warm flannel petticoats in the corridor. Following the trail of her possessions, she finally came to her own bedchamber. The door was wide open.

Inside, she found her sister, Meaghan, along with her missing trunk. Catriona stormed into the room. “Just what do ye think ye’re doing?”

“Packing!” Meaghan snapped. Meaghan was three years younger than Catriona and her opposite in every way.

Whereas Catriona had painstakingly taught herself Latin, Greek, and Old English so she could read musty old books about history, Meaghan was fluent in French so she could read the latest fashion magazines.

While Catriona could scarcely be bothered to run a comb through her brown hair, Meaghan’s blonde locks were always impeccably curled.

Which truly baffled Catriona. The wind never stopped blowing on Skye. How, exactly, did her sister manage it?

Just then, Catriona’s pet raven, Morrigan, swooped in through a high window and flew down to greet her owner. “Ahoy, me hearties!” she cried, landing on Catriona’s shoulder.

Catriona smiled. She had acquired Morrigan at the age of nine, at a time when she had been obsessed with all things relating to pirates.

She had spent at least ten hours a day running barefoot across the moors shouting about bilge rats and pieces of eight.

It was no wonder those were the types of phrases the raven had picked up.

Not everyone in the room was happy to see Morrigan. “Get that beast away from me!” Meaghan cried, raising her hands in front of her face.

Rolling her eyes, Catriona pulled a hazelnut from her pocket and presented it to Morrigan. She stroked the bird’s back while she took the treat. “Ignore her, my darling.”

Meaghan’s pert nose was wrinkled. “Tell me you’re not taking that hideous creature with us to Paris.”

Catriona sighed. “Alas, I’m not. Morrigan would be miserable in Paris.”

It was true. A raven needed freedom to roam, and Morrigan spent more time outside the castle than in it. Understanding her pet’s needs, Catriona left a handful of windows open around the castle so Morrigan could come and go as she pleased.

In this way, Catriona envied her pet. Would that she had half as much freedom…

Morrigan nuzzled Catriona’s neck, then flew over to the open window. Spreading her wings, she launched herself from the sill and was gone.

Catriona returned her attention to her sister, who was still fussing with Catriona’s trunk. “Ye can stop that. I already packed.” Catriona scooped a practical dress of olive wool off the floor and tried to place it back in the trunk.

Meaghan slammed the lid shut. She rounded on Catriona, her blonde ringlets trembling with rage. “You don’t know how to pack a trunk! It’s a good thing I checked to see what you put in there. Can you imagine if you’d arrived in Paris with nothing to wear but these hideous, unfashionable—”

“I don’t care two figs if my dresses are fashionable!”

Meaghan lifted her chin, regarding Catriona down her nose. “Believe me, I know. You’re what the French call passé.”

This heated Catriona’s blood. Her sister had always taken after their lowlander mother, and after spending four years at an English boarding school, she had managed to eliminate even a trace of a Scottish accent from her speech. “And ye’re what the Scots call an òinseach!”

“Hmpf!” Meaghan turned back to the trunk, reaching for a red silk gown Catriona had never worn. “That’s a fine thing to say to your own sister!”

“And a fine thing it is ye’re doing,” Catriona shot back, her voice shaking, “throwing yer sister’s most prized possessions on the ground like they’re rubbish!”

“They are rubbish!” Snatching the olive wool dress from Catriona’s hands, she unfolded it with a snap of her wrists. “Just look at it—stained all around the hem and fraying at the cuffs. To say nothing of the fact that this style, if one can call it that, has never been in fashion.”

“I dinnae care about being in fashion!” Catriona protested. “I only want something practical for being outside. For protecting me from the weather—”

“Don’t you dare ruin this for me, Catriona! For the first time, I’m getting off this godforsaken island—”

“Godforsaken?” Catriona blinked at her sister. “’Tis yer home! I love this island—”

“Do you have any idea how embarrassed I will be if you turn up to a ball or dinner in this?” Meaghan blinked rapidly, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“I’m going to have a hard enough time as it is.

They’re already going to assume I’m the worst kind of provincial.

But if you turn up dressed like a peasant, the entire family will be shunned! ”

Catriona paused. Her sister had a point. “In that case, I simply won’t attend any balls or parties. It won’t be any great loss. You know I despise such affairs.”

Meaghan rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, it will be so much better for everyone to be gossiping about the mysterious missing McCallister sister. Are they hiding her away because she’s uncouth? Hideously ugly? Or is there a streak of madness running through the family?”

Catriona sighed. So far as she could tell, a love of gossip was one of those rare constants that united everyone, whether they were a duke or a dustman. There was no reason to expect that the French would be any different.

She had to admit that her sister had a point. For all that they hadn’t a thing in common, Catriona loved Meaghan and didn’t want to embarrass her.

For her sister’s sake, she could suffer through an event or two. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to pack one or two of those fancy gowns—”

Meaghan had already whirled to face the trunk once more. “You’ll need more than one or two.”

Catriona blanched when she saw how little room there was in her trunk. She leaned forward, stuffing her flannel petticoats inside. “Leave some room for my things. I won’t be attending nearly as many parties as you.”

Meaghan wrinkled her nose as Catriona laid her plain wool cloak atop a dress of pink satin. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to bring all those plain things. It’s not as if there’s any Viking treasure to search for in Paris.”

“Not Viking, perhaps. But Paris is an old city. I hear it has a fascinating network of catacombs running beneath it.”

“Catacombs?” Meaghan shuddered as she pressed a blue velvet spencer into the trunk.

“There’s also the Seine,” Catriona noted. “I wonder if it’s possible to go mudlarking, as I’ve heard you can in London.”

“Mudlarking?” Meaghan threw up her hands. “Oh, perfect. Because that won’t cause a scandal!”

Catriona sighed. She wasn’t even sure if it was possible to go mudlarking in the Seine.

She suspected it was too far inland to have much of a tide.

“Fine. I’ll let ye bring all these stupid silks.

But only if ye promise to pack me three sensible dresses, my books”—she pushed the pile she’d found by the front door forward—“and my portable writing desk.”

Meaghan regarded the trunk, which was already close to full. “I don’t think there will be room for your writing desk.”

“I must have my writing desk,” Catriona insisted. Her writing desk contained her most precious treasure—her letters from the man who called himself Xenophon.

That summer, a pair of naturalists, Nathaniel and Katherine Sterling, had visited Skye.

He was a professor at the University of Edinburgh, and his wife, who was a talented painter, was his research partner.

He wrote papers documenting the local flora and fauna, and she provided highly accurate illustrations to accompany his work.

They were particularly known for their work studying golden eagles on the Isle of Lewis.

Kate Sterling had been taken with the Viking artifacts Catriona had unearthed.

Not that Catriona was allowed to take credit for her discovery.

Her parents insisted that her archeological pursuits were unladylike and refused to allow her to claim credit for them.

What man would consent to marry a bluestocking who fancied herself an archaeologist, after all?

Catriona was tempted to protest that Kate Sterling was a bluestocking through and through, and she had managed to catch a husband.

Catriona couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy when she thought about the happy couple.

Professor Sterling clearly regarded his wife as both his partner and his intellectual equal.

He was delighted by her bluestocking tendencies.

But it was no use dreaming. Catriona would never find a man who felt that way about her.

Kate had asked if she might paint the artifacts, and Catriona’s father had granted his permission. Those paintings had wound up at the Society of Antiquaries in London, where they had caused a bit of a stir.

The secretary of the Society of Antiquaries had sent a letter to the castle, noting that one of their members had some questions for the person who had discovered the artifacts. Catriona had noticed the letter on her father’s desk.

“Are ye going to answer?” she had asked.

“No,” her father had said without looking up. “It’s not as if we want word getting out about yer habit of digging in the mud.”

Catriona knew she shouldn’t have done it.

But someone was actually interested in her discovery!

After fretting over it for three days, she had sneaked into her father’s study, stolen the letter, and sent a reply.

In order to avoid directly defying her parents, she had done so anonymously, signing herself as Nabonidus, an ancient Babylonian king who had conducted his own excavations and even created a museum, and was therefore regarded as the first archaeologist.

The curious antiquarian had responded, choosing to use Xenophon, a Greek historian who had written about the Peloponnesian War, as his nom de plume.

Xenophon was every bit as passionate about ancient history as Catriona, and they had struck up a delightful correspondence.

His weekly letters were a rare bright spot in her life.

She reread them constantly, and she couldn’t imagine how she would survive four months in Paris without them.

“All right.” Meaghan heaved a theatrical sigh. “It will mean you only have room for six ballgowns, but if you insist on being so mulishly stubborn, I suppose I’ll have to make do.”

Catriona was about to ask why in all of God’s green goodness anyone needed more than six ballgowns when their brother, Duff, poked his head through the doorway. “Come here. Ye’ve got to see this!”