A Rip Through Time(42)

If I stumbled over a twenty in the market, I’d grin and buy myself a treat or two, rather than stash it away as a true windfall. Of course, how I’d treat twenty bucks back home as Mallory Atkinson is a lot different from how I’d treat it here as Catriona Mitchell. I seem to recall that twenty shillings equals a pound, making this stash worth more than a hundred times what Gray handed over as pocket money.

Twelve pounds. A small fortune for a housemaid. And it must be what remains of Isla’s locket and whatever else Catriona stole and pawned.

This might be her grand plan. Save up enough money to leave service. To go into business on her own. I’d respect that if she were doing something like selling flowers on her days off. But this is theft from people who do not deserve it, and I am furious.

I am furious and also helpless to do anything to fix it. This is what remains of Isla’s most prized piece of jewelry, and no alchemical magic will turn these coins back into a silver locket.



* * *



Yesterday, I bounced back from my despair over not getting home. I’ve been underplaying that despair, telling myself I didn’t actually expect “going to the same spot” would work. Also, it’s not as if I’m trapped in a Victorian poorhouse.

Nan preached the power of positive thinking. Mom taught me that her mother’s words are wonderful advice that will only take you so far before you need to acknowledge that something is wrong and deal with it. I will be honest then. The disappointment of not getting home had crushed me, and I’d been pleased with myself for indulging in only a single evening of despair before brushing myself off and moving on. Yet this morning, it is my mother’s teachings that prove their truth, as I am forced to realize how much of my “chin up and carry on” was self-delusion fueled by a temporary spurt of willpower.

That willpower and that delusion evaporated when I found the pouch of money and lost my chance to make things right with Isla. She is onto me, and she will not drop this as easily as McCreadie did.

It doesn’t matter if this house belongs to Gray. It’s Isla’s childhood home, and only her sex kept her from inheriting it, and my gut tells me that Gray considers it as much hers at his. She is mistress of this manor, and she can kick my ass to the curb as easily as he can. Easier, I bet. The household is her domain, freeing Gray to run the family business and pursue his studies.

In short, without that locket, I am in deep shit, and as the morning progresses, I feel the weight of it. Every bit of traction I’ve gained has been ripped away. And here is the proof that I haven’t truly recovered from the disappointment of not crossing over: the concession that my despair has little to do with the locket situation and everything to do with feeling powerless in this world. The locket issue only brings that into sharper focus.

The disappointment starts from the moment I take Gray his tray, and he barely acknowledges my presence. I’d hoped he’d have work for me. Real work. I planned to ask, but he’s so wrapped up in writing that I can only drop off the tray and retreat.

I don’t get coffee that morning. I ask, as sweetly as possible, and Mrs. Wallace snaps that I’m getting above myself. I take tea … and the cup slips from my hands, and of course she sees that as me intentionally breaking it because I didn’t get coffee.

As for Isla, she leaves right after breakfast, which Alice serves her. I don’t get a chance to say hello or even gauge her mood. She could have said good morning to me if she wanted—the town house is hardly a fifty-room mansion—but she did not. That is telling.

I’m supposed to clean Gray’s bedroom as soon as he leaves for work. That day, though, it is past ten, and his door remains closed. I slip in to find him at his desk, fingers tapping the top. He’s obviously deep in thought, and I should take his tray and leave, but I feel like when I was a kid and my parents’ moods were off, and I just had to know whether it was because of something I’d done.

“May I bring you fresh coffee, sir? This has gone cold.”

He waves me off, and I pick up the untouched tray. I’m about to leave when he says, “Is there any jam?”

“Jam, sir?”

“Jam and bread. Tea with honey. I’m not focusing as well as I like, and that is usually the problem.”

“Low blood sugar. That’ll do it.”

He frowns over, and I realize my words won’t make sense to him. What catches his ear, I bet, is the word “blood.”

I say, “I mean that I often find that if I do not eat in the morning, I cannot concentrate as well.”

He seems to be half listening. I don’t take offense, considering that’s twice as much as he’s listened to me so far today.

“I will bring bread with lots of jam and tea with lots of honey.” I pause. “You do seem very busy, sir. If there’s anything I could do? Note-taking perhaps?”

He shakes his head. “I will not pull you from your duties today, Catriona.”

Pull away. Please.

The words are on the tip of my tongue. At first, I hold them back because the phrasing is too modern, but that pause gives me time to realize the truth of what he’s saying. If I don’t do my chores, who does? Mrs. Wallace? Alice? To ask for case work means pushing my maid duties onto the shoulders of others.

Damned ethical dilemmas.

Let’s try another angle.