A Rip Through Time(9)

Next come my morning “ablutions.” I think that’s the word, anyway. It sounds properly old-fashioned.

I have an old college friend who adores historical-romance novels, and I take every opportunity to remind her that those dashing dukes would have had yellow teeth and stunk of BO. Judging by Gray and his staff, that’s not true, and I don’t know whether Victorian hygiene levels are higher than I expected or they’re just higher in a doctor’s home.

Dental hygiene is not as dire as I feared. Catriona has a bristled brush in her toiletries and a powder that I use to brush with while hoping I haven’t mistaken its purpose and will drop dead of arsenic poisoning. Of course, having no idea what’s even in Victorian tooth powder, I might still drop dead of it, but at least my teeth will be clean.

I finish getting ready with a bristle hairbrush, soap, and clean water. It’d be even better if that water weren’t ice cold but at least it wakes me up.

I’m still washing my face when the downstairs clock strikes the quarter hour.

Shit!

I mean, drat. Er, no, pretty sure that isn’t historically accurate either. In fact, I have the very strong impression that demure young housemaids do not use profanity, at least not out loud.

I race into the hall, only to hear a squeak of surprise and turn to see Alice blinking at me. Okay, apparently demure young housemaids do not tear down halls either. I bend a quick curtsy in apology, and her eyes widen in shock.

Right, housemaids wouldn’t curtsy to other maids. That’s for the master and mistress of the house. Or is curtsying even a thing in 1869?

I wave to Alice, who lifts her fingers hesitantly.

Do people not wave in Victorian Scotland? Goddamn it, this isn’t going to be half as easy as I thought. It isn’t just modern speech and modern references I need to avoid. It’s modern gestures, modern customs, modern everything.

And the longer I fret about that, the later I’ll be for starting work. I suspect Mrs. Wallace wasn’t joking about missing breakfast. I only need to suffer through a day to two “in service” before I’ll have what I need to get home.

I take the stairs down four flights to the basement kitchen. It’s a small room, blazing hot and as clean as a surgery, with a horror movie’s worth of hanging knives. The smell—fresh bread, hot tea, roast ham—gets my stomach rumbling, and I hurry for the door into the “servants’ hall,” where we eat.

“Do you expect to be served your tea, Miss Catriona?”

That’s when I see the tray on the counter. A steaming teapot. Slices of fresh-baked bread, tiny silver and glass bowls of butter and pickled something. There’s also an empty plate for the ham and poached eggs cooking on the stove.

I head for the tray as my stomach growls in appreciation. I’ll say this much for nineteenth-century Scotland, the food has been better than I expected.

I’m reaching for the breakfast tray when Mrs. Wallace says, “I’m not done with that yet. Drink your tea and give me time to finish his eggs.”

His eggs.

This is Gray’s breakfast.

“Apologies, ma’am,” I say, and resist the urge to curtsy. “And where might my morning meal be?”

I follow her gaze to a cup of tea and a chunk of unbuttered fresh bread. I glance from her to the meager meal, hoping I’m misunderstanding.

Nope. Well, at least it’s not stale bread and water.

I devour the food, trying very hard not to wolf it down like a starving beast. Crossing a hundred and fifty years takes a lot out of a person, and that chunk of bread only whets my appetite.

Once it’s gone, I turn to Mrs. Wallace, feeling like Oliver Twist, holding out my plate.

“Please, ma’am, might I have another slice?”

“And let Dr. Gray’s breakfast go cold? You’ll get your meal after the master has had his.” I must look relieved, because she waves at my empty bread plate. “Did you think I’d stopped feeding you? I run a proper household. You’ll need a full belly if you’re going to get through your chores. The mistress comes home in two days, and you’ve been slacking, Miss Catriona.”

“I was unconscious.”

“Not since yesterday.” She scoops the poached eggs into tiny silver cups. “Now get your lazy self off and start working.”

I head toward what I hope is a room in need of cleaning.

She clears her throat. “Are you forgetting something?”

When I glance over, her gaze goes to the meal tray. I glance from it to her. “You want me to take this to Dr. Gray.”

“No, I’d like it to fly up to him on pixie wings, but as you’re the only one here, I suppose you’ll have to do.”

I fix on my most contrite look, lashes lowered. “Apologies, ma’am. I know I’m being a trial. My mind is still a wee bit fuzzy after my accident.”

“Oh, is that how you’re going to play this?” She raises her voice to a falsetto. “I’m a wee bit fuzzy, ma’am. If I could just have an extra day or two to rest…”

She shoves the tray into my hands. “Be glad you still have a position at all, after getting yourself into that mess.”

“Getting myself strangled?”

“You were skulking about the Old Town. What did you expect?”

The Old Town. If I remember correctly, in this era, that was the slums. So what was a housemaid from a prosperous household doing there?