The Lass Wore Black (2 page)

Once, she’d had such high hopes for this time in London. But the truth was, she wasn’t all that enamored of the city. London stank. She’d been told it was due to the open cesspools or the sewers that ran to the Thames. At times the breeze carrying the river’s stench was overpowering. On a calm day soot would linger in the air, causing her nose to itch. That, or the ever present odor of horse manure, made any outing hideous.

But inside, too, she was subjected to the most ghastly odors. The corridors in even the most luxuriously appointed home smelled of unwashed servants and cooking. At a ball, the scent of a dozen perfumes was not enough to mask either body odor or bad teeth.

No, Edinburgh smelled a great deal better.

The window suddenly exploded.

The cloud of glass shards illuminated by the carriage lamp looked like yellow diamonds. She had barely registered the sight of them when a protective impulse made her throw up her arms to protect her face.

Too late, however, to save herself.

She felt each separate shard as it sliced into her skin. A surprised gasp of pain accompanied each, along with a surge of terror.

Millicent screamed. The coachman shouted in the distance. Wheels screeched against the cobbles, and horrifyingly, another window shattered.

As the carriage rocked, she blindly reached for the strap above the window. In a motion so slow it felt part of a dream, the carriage rolled, tossing her to the far side of the vehicle in a shower of glass and metal.

Her leg was twisted beneath her, and she pushed against Millicent in panic. The maid was silent, the girl’s composure a lesson. If Millicent could be brave, so could she.

Her face felt heavy, something cold and sharp cutting her. Warm liquid flowed into her eyes and she knew it was blood. She raised a trembling hand and found a large triangle of glass where her cheek should be.

Where was her face? Dear God, where was her face?

Blood was choking her, and she wiped it away from her mouth, her breath coming in heaving gasps.

Her gown, her lovely gown was ruined.

Her face was gone.

Chapter 2

January 1863

Edinburgh

D
ina MacTavish stood in the foyer of her Edinburgh town house, clasping her hands tightly before her. For the first time in a long time, she wished her husband were still alive. The man had been a wastrel, however, a horrid manager of money. Because of him, she was dependent on her sister’s child for subsistence.

Why was she even bothering to think of Harold? He wouldn’t have been any better at this situation than he was at providing for her. In fact, he would have layered his own impatience over her fear.

No, she should count on her own common sense. Praying wouldn’t hurt, either.

The man coming up the steps was her last resort. She had to believe that Mark Thorburn would be able to accomplish what no one else had been able to do.

How quickly life changed from an agreeable existence to one fraught with endless drama and doubt.

Of course, she’d had money troubles. Who didn’t have money troubles, unless they were as rich as Croesus, like her nephew, Morgan? Thank heavens no one wanted to quit imbibing whiskey, especially MacCraig whiskey, the basis for his fortune. More than once, she worried about that. Should she feel more guilty that her existence was dependent on the drunkenness of others?

Yet when she worked in Old Town, she never saw empty MacCraig bottles. No, MacCraig whiskey was expensive enough that it wasn’t responsible for the destruction of lives and families. At least, that’s what she told herself.

The young man coming to the door was nearly as wealthy as Morgan. Rumor had it that he’d inherited a great sum of money from his grandmother, a woman who’d doted on the boy.

Not quite a boy, though.

The housemaid opened the door, and she steeled herself.

Seven months had passed since she’d seen him last. What was he, thirty-two? A question that made her feel even older than when she’d awakened this morning.

With his antecedents, his family’s wealth, and his exceeding good looks, he was a package to turn any woman’s head—regardless of her age.

Mark Thorburn was tall, possessed of long legs and broad shoulders. His face was perhaps on the stern side, except for that mouth of his, that beautiful, and surprising mouth. Full and mobile, it was almost always curved in a pleasant half smile, as if he anticipated life would be agreeable. She knew that wasn’t correct. He’d seen the misery the world had to offer only too well.

His eyes, a dancing blue, could become serious all too quickly. She’d seen him level a look at a neglectful mother and lecture her about feeding her child.

His cheekbones were high, his face hinted at Roman ancestors, and his black hair fell down to brush against his brow. His eyebrows, another arresting feature, could alter his entire expression in a moment, make it questioning or communicate disbelief, depending on the look in those blue eyes.

His nose was long, but fit the rest of his face. That was the riddle when looking at Mark Thorburn. Separately, none of his features were remarkable, but put together and they created a more than acceptable mien. He was handsome without being pretty. Striking, perhaps, would be a better word. He commanded attention when he walked into a ballroom or into his surgery. Look what he’d done to her foyer. He’d taken it over.

Worse, when he removed his coat, it was to reveal formal attire. The black of his short-tailed coat was a stark contrast to the crimson silk vest and snowy ruffled bib of his shirt.

She stepped forward, unclenching her hands and extending both in a welcoming gesture.

“Dr. Thorburn,” she said. “I’ve taken you from something. I do apologize.”

“I’m due at a function this evening, Mrs. MacTavish,” he said, removing his hat and gloves and placing them on the sideboard. Only then did he reach out and grab her hands in his, the grip steady and reassuring.

For a second she wanted to be a younger woman. If she were his contemporary, she might have thrown herself in his arms and wept against his shoulder. Gentleman that he was, Dr. Thorburn would no doubt have set her gently away from him, sparing them both embarrassment over her histrionics.

“You wanted me to see your niece?” he said, effectively banishing any silly thoughts about throwing herself on his mercy.

She moved aside, leading the way to the front sitting room.

“She’s not actually my niece,” she said, taking her place on the settee and gesturing to an adjacent chair. “However, I’ve come to think of her as one. Or even my daughter, if I had been blessed enough to have children.”

My recalcitrant and troubled daughter.

That part, however, she kept to herself for the time being. If this meeting followed the tenor of the other ones, Mark Thorburn would find out just what kind of patient Catriona was soon enough.

She was running out of physicians. She’d consulted the most famous ones in Edinburgh and none of them had been willing to treat Catriona. If the girl hadn’t been so badly injured, she would’ve lost patience with her weeks ago. As it was, she could only offer Catriona her pity, along with a determination that matched the girl’s own.

Catriona would get her treatment, even if she objected every hour of every day. Yet that’s exactly what the girl was doing, and effectively.

Dr. Thorburn’s stubbornness might help him succeed where others had failed.

“Catriona was in an accident in London,” Dina said. “She was grievously wounded,” she added, staring into the distance. “My maid, Millicent, was killed in the accident.”

She looked over at him.

“For a few days I was not even certain that Catriona would survive. She had lost a great deal of blood, you see.” The explanation had taken longer and been framed in more delicate terms with the other physicians. She knew Mark, however, and had even served as his assistant on more than one occasion in Old Town. Besides, she was a contemporary of his mother’s. If he couldn’t deal with plain speaking from a woman, she’d selected the wrong candidate for this task.

“But she didn’t die,” he said, urging her along.

“No,” she said. “She didn’t die. We convalesced in London until Catriona was well enough to travel. The journey home was done in stages, in a conveyance suitably fitted to accommodate a patient.”

Once again, her nephew, Morgan, had provided the funds, if not the emotional energy, to bring Catriona back to Edinburgh. He’d been all set to take her home to Ballindair, where she would have been cared for by her sister, but Catriona abruptly and unexpectedly refused. Instead, she’d remained for a month in her suite of rooms upstairs, transforming them into a luxurious hermitage.

When Dina explained that to Mark, his mobile brow arched upward.

“I don’t think it’s out of the ordinary, Mrs. MacTavish, that she not want to see visitors while she is recuperating.”

“She has been recuperating for five months, Dr. Thorburn.”

The brow stayed in place. “In all that time, has she not had the care of a doctor?”

“In London, yes, but not since we returned to Edinburgh. In fact, the only person she has agreed to see is her sister, and Jean, being in the family way”—another indelicacy there—“will not be able to visit her for at least several months.”

“Yet something has happened to make you summon me,” he said.

She sat back and folded her hands on her lap. He was an intelligent young man.

“I’m concerned about her,” she admitted. “She doesn’t seem to be improving.”

“I’m not the only physician you’ve summoned, am I, Mrs. MacTavish?”

Yes, he was an intelligent young man.

“You are the sixth, Dr. Thorburn. Everyone else was summarily dismissed.”

In actuality, Catriona had threatened them with bodily harm.

He didn’t speak, didn’t question her, simply waited, a patience she would have admired if it hadn’t been directed toward her.

“She throws things,” she said after a suitable moment of silence.

“She’s spoiled, then.”

Dina shook her head. “Not spoiled. Troubled. She does come out of the room, but only at midnight. She takes the back stairs to the kitchen and out to the courtyard and walks the square. I’ve seen her myself.”

“I don’t know how you want me to help her,” he said.

“She was badly injured, Dr. Thorburn. Her face was cut by shattered glass. The physicians in London said there was nothing they could do.”

“She was scarred, then.”

She nodded. “Would you not look at her and see if there’s anything to be done?”

Somehow, she needed to give Catriona hope. Perhaps, then, the girl wouldn’t just sit at the window and stare out at the world like a prisoner trapped in her own body.

The tears came abruptly, but not entirely unexpectedly. Whenever she thought of Catriona, she became weepy.

“She was such a beautiful girl,” she said. “But she’ll never be beautiful again.” She composed herself, then frowned down at her clasped hands. “The first time I saw her face, I recoiled. To go from what she looked like to what she looks like now would be a difficult journey for anyone.”

“I cannot perform miracles, Mrs. MacTavish.”

His voice had altered, taken on a stern tone, as if she were one of those Old Town mothers guilty of drinking too much and neglecting her children.

She tapped her foot against the carpet.

“You have always struck me as an intense young man,” she said. “Someone who would not accept a barrier. You crawl over it, or walk around it, or perhaps you would even break through it.”

Still, he remained silent, that look in his eyes warning her that she had only a few minutes to convince him. Otherwise, he would claim the press of his social obligations and leave.

“Will you not at least try, Dr. Thorburn?”

“I have never had to convince a patient to allow me to treat them, Mrs. MacTavish.”

She nodded. “Ordinarily, I would agree with you. However, Catriona has always been extraordinarily stubborn. Both of the Cameron girls are, I daresay, each in her own way.”

“Catriona Cameron?”

She nodded. “No doubt you’ve heard of her. She was renowned for her beauty. Quite popular in London, as well. A duke was about to make an offer.” She sighed, bit back that thought and concentrated on the present. It was never good to weep over what could not be changed.

For a moment he sat there, frowning at the floor, his hands loosely joined between his open legs. He made her substantial chairs look tiny, as if he sat in a dollhouse of her making.

“Very well,” he said, and stood.

Surprised, she stood as well, looking up at him. “You’ll see her, then?”

“I will attempt to see her,” he said. “I can promise nothing, especially if five other doctors have tried and failed.”

“Oh, but you are not like the others, Dr. Thorburn,” she said. Less a compliment than the truth, but he waved off her comment impatiently.

A few moments later they were outside Catriona’s suite, a lovely set of rooms comprised of a sitting room, bedroom, and a small bathing chamber. Her nephew had ordered it refurbished for Catriona’s stay.