A Rip Through Time(11)

“Less clatter would be appreciated, Catriona.”

I murmur an apology. There’s silence, and I think he’s gone back to work, but then he says, dryly, “I don’t believe you’re supposed to clean the hearth with your skirt.”

I look down. I’m wearing a uniform—a white apron over a dark blue dress. That apron is no longer white. Neither is the surrounding fabric. I could argue that he’s not one to judge—I already see ink spatter on his collar—but I suspect rejoinders are not permitted in this relationship.

I lean back on my heels. “I’m not quite myself, sir.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I take a deep breath and make a decision. A risky one.

“My memory seems to have been adversely affected by my illness, and I find myself struggling to recall mundane and ordinary tasks.”

He stares at me like I’m speaking Greek. I replay my words, but they seem fine. Suitably stilted and old-fashioned. Maybe it’s my accent? It’s thicker than his.

“I realize this is unseemly of me,” I say, “being a maid, but I must humbly request your forbearance.”

More brow wrinkling, now accompanied by what looks like suspicion.

I hurry on. “I’m not trying to weasel—I’m not asking to be excused from my tasks, sir. I understand my convalescence has been an inconvenience, upsetting the smooth operation of your household. I am simply admitting that I may require reminders, now and then, of my tasks, which I will complete forthwith.”

“Forthwith…” he repeats slowly.

Isn’t that the right word? It sounds right.

I continue, “Promptly and efficiently, with the diligence you expect of your staff.”

“I see.…” His look is bemusement bordering on bafflement. I’ve done something wrong. I just can’t tell what it is.

“Also,” I hurry on, “I beg your forbearance with any idiosyncrasies of character I might display. As I said, I do not feel myself. Which is no excuse for lackadaisical workmanship, of course.”

His look skewers me, as if I’m a body on the table, ready for dissection. Whatever his rough appearance, Dr. Gray is not a stupid man. Under that gaze, I swear I see his brain spinning faster than mine on my best days.

Here’s where I’m going wrong. Well, one of many ways I’m going wrong. I feel superior to these people. I’m from the twenty-first century. So much more enlightened than them. That’s bullshit, of course.

I have the advantages of the modern world. Thinking it makes me smarter is the polar opposite of “enlightened.” Like looking down on someone who doesn’t have a college degree because they couldn’t afford to go to college. Gray is a medical doctor with multiple degrees. He’s as educated as one can be in this world.

Tread carefully. Do not treat these people like primitive cave dwellers. Do not think you can easily fool them because you’re from the future.

Under that piercing gaze, all I can do is get myself back to work. Hide in my chores. Speak less. Work more.

I build the fire. It may not be the way he’s accustomed to, but it does the job. Heat blazes from it, and I tidy up the hearth and then start backing out of the room. He’s eating one-handedly from his tray as he scribbles.

I’ve almost made my escape when he says, “Catriona?”

I pause.

“It may be Sunday, but I still have to work today,” he says.

My gaze sweeps over the avalanche of papers and books carpeting his desk and spilling onto the floor.

“Oh,” I say. “Would you like me to tidy your workspace, sir?”

When his brow furrows, I’m about to replace “workspace” with something more period-appropriate, but the word he repeats is “Tidy?”

“Clean up,” I try. “Organize your papers and books so—”

“You do not touch my papers or books—” He stops himself and, with great effort it seems, arranges his features into something milder. “Yes, obviously, you are suffering from a mental fog, and I will allow the confusion. What I will not allow is any interference with my belongings, particularly my ‘workspace’ as you call it. It is already organized, thank you.”

“If you say so, sir,” I murmur.

His gaze shoots to me, suggesting my tone might have been a bit impudent.

I almost chuckle. “Impudent” is a word no one has ever applied to me. I suspect it’s used a lot here, though, particularly when dealing with uppity women.

I bite my cheek not to laugh. I could become an uppity woman. It’s tempting, in a life goal sort of way. It’d probably land my pretty ass on the sidewalk, though.

I expect that look in Gray’s eyes to darken. Instead, he actually relaxes and even lifts a shoulder in what might be a half shrug. “My research is important, Catriona, and it is organized to my satisfaction.”

That sounded vaguely civil.

Wait, did he say research? What sort of research does an undertaker, well, undertake? I glance toward the papers, tempted to inch closer. Then I remember my breakfast awaits, and I resume my retreat.

He clears his throat. “Catriona? I have an appointment today. With people who expect me to look presentable.”

“Ah.” I look around, crouch and pick up his missing sock from the floor. “You’ll need this, I take it.”