A Rip Through Time(36)

A woman’s voice answers with a warm lilt. “No, Duncan, you did not forget. You have done so often enough in the past that I learned to arrange my own transportation home. However, if you feel terribly guilty, you may pay the driver for me.”

A slap-slap, as if Gray’s patting his pockets.

The woman sighs dramatically. “Or I shall pay and you, little brother, may owe me. Now let me give you a hug.” A moment’s pause, as if they are embracing, “And now you may run back to whatever has currently seized your attention. Lovely to see you, Isla. Did you have a good trip? Yes, yes, we shall chat later, dear sister.”

I peek down the stairwell. I can see a woman’s pale hand patting Gray’s arm and then turning him around and giving him a light push toward the stairs.

“I do not mean to run,” Gray says. “It is only—”

“Something dreadfully important. I can see that. Off you go.”

As Gray steps away, Isla Ballantyne appears. Like her brother, she’s tall and sturdily built, but the resemblance ends there. She has an artfully woven crown of copper hair with curls trailing down. Milk-white skin with freckles. Bright blue eyes.

A handsome woman. That never seems like a compliment, but I mean it as one. “Pretty” implies a fleeting attractiveness. Catriona is very pretty, and I have no idea how much of that is true beauty and how much is simply youth. At sixteen, Isla Ballantyne would not have been the most attractive girl on the dance floor, but I have no doubt she will be at sixty.

Isla wears a gorgeous dress, dove-gray wool and dusky blue silk. The fitted bodice dips deeper on the waist than mine and it’s trimmed with enough bows to thrill a five-year-old, but they’re all discreet decorations that only enhance the dress. Her skirt is much wider than mine and perfectly belled, like the fashionably dressed women I saw in the New Town. Does that need more petticoats? I think I’ll stick to my less fashionable attire.

Gray murmurs a few words before Isla pats his arm again and shoos him off. Then he nearly swings right past me down the hall before stopping so abruptly his shoes squeak.

“I have need of you,” he says. “Accompany me.”

“You have need of Catriona?” Isla says, pulling off silk gloves after she’s paid the driver.

“Yes, she is assisting me in my work. I lost James.”

Another dramatic sigh from Isla. “I do hope you don’t mean that literally, Duncan.”

“Of course not. I mean he quit.”

“Dare I ask what you did to him?”

“I asked him to assist. That is what I hired him for, after all. Now he has left, and Catriona is temporarily aiding me instead.” He waves for me to hurry, as if I’m a dawdling child. “I will dictate, and you shall take notes.”

“Duncan?” Isla calls after us. “I hate to interfere, but I must point out that Catriona cannot write. Not yet, although I have hopes of teaching her.”

“She can. She does. Her handwriting is wretched. If you wish to teach her something, please make it penmanship.”

“Catriona?” She stares at me, one glove still half off. “You know your letters?”

I bow in what I hope is a proper curtsy. “I do, ma’am. I must apologize for keeping it from you, but I feared you might think I had airs above my station.”

“Airs above your…?” She arches a brow at Duncan. “This is Catriona, is it not?”

“I fear I am somewhat changed, ma’am,” I say. “Due to the concussion I received during my incident.”

“Concussion?”

“Er, my head was … concussed. I believe that is the word, though I have been doing some odd things with language lately, ma’am. Putting together the wrong words and coming up with new ones altogether.”

“All right,” Isla says slowly. “This started after you fell and struck your head?”

“I am not certain I fell. It is possible that I was struck in the head with a blunt object before I was strangled. The blow was hard enough to cause prolonged lack of consciousness.”

Her gaze shoots to her brother. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Duncan?”

“I sent you a telegram. Or I thought—” He pauses, frowns. Then he nods abruptly. “No, I recall writing it and giving it to Mrs. Wallace.”

“I will speak to Mrs. Wallace,” Isla says. “I understand she wanted me to have a relaxing holiday, but I do hope she didn’t withhold that message.”

The look that passes between them says Mrs. Wallace most certainly did withhold it. The lady of the house was on vacation, and the housekeeper wasn’t about to disturb her with news that might bring her home. Not when it was about a maid who didn’t deserve such consideration.

I clear my throat. “If you did not receive the telegram, ma’am, I am glad of it. I recovered, and your holiday was not disturbed. I only mention it to explain the lingering effects on my vocabulary and, apparently, my personality.”

“I see. Well, then, I am glad to hear Duncan has found a—”

“Duncan?” The front door opens, McCreadie popping his head in. He sees Isla, blinks, and hurries inside, striding to greet her with an embrace that I suspect, in this period, suggests a long-standing and close acquaintance.

“Isla, when did you arrive?” he says.