Page 12 of Death at a Highland Wedding
Her brother answers, “Our father was the gamekeeper until Mr. Cranston decided to bring in some foreign fellow who worked at…” A dismissive wave. “Some castle on the Continent. The man does not know the first thing about Scottish game.”
“We should let you be on your way,” Lenore says. “We only wished to warn you of the traps. If you want to walk the grounds, I would suggest you stay on the roads or the right-of-way. His Lordship has not trapped those.”
“Yet,” her brother mutters.
They lift a hand in farewell and return to the strip of trees, the public path being presumably on the other side. I remember those from my times in the Highlands. In Britain, there are very old laws requiring that properties have a path through them that anyone can use. That path might lead you through a cow field, complete with bulls, but the law doesn’t say that the path needs to be safe. Just that the owner can’t legally prevent you from using it.
Once they’re gone, I sweep my skirts aside to bend by the trap, ignoring Gray’s noise of protest.
“I’m not going to touch it,” I say. “But this really does look like an old-fashioned bear trap. Setting these out for bears is bad enough. For people?”
“Unconscionable,” Gray says curtly. “I will speak to Archie. Whatever concerns he has about the locals, they do not warrant this.”
“You think they’re for poachers?”
Gray sniffs. “Likely. He is a new landowner, accustomed to the city. He came into his own wealth—through the opening of the whisky trade—and he seems to fashion himself some sort of country gentleman.” He pauses. “That is impolite of me.”
“Mmm, anyone who lays human traps on their lands doesn’t deserve civility.”
“I will speak to him and hope it is a misunderstanding. What he sees as poaching has long been the way of things in the country. The locals will hardly strip the land of game—they understand how to conserve it better than most gentry. The proper thing to do is to speak to them and come to an understanding.”
He looks over at that dilapidated shack. “Or that used to be the way of things. These days, it seems those with money wish to keep their land entirely for themselves, driving everyone else off it, as if they could possibly use all this land and its resources.” He looks at the trap and shakes his head. “I will speak to Archie.”
When we reach the house, I hear voices, and I slow, not sure I’m ready to be civil to Cranston after seeing that trap. But the voice I hear is McCreadie’s and the tone makes me smile. He’s obviously telling a story, relaxed andamong people he feels comfortable with. Then I draw closer to see him beside the garden, with a young woman practically hanging off his arm.
My hackles rise. But as soon as we approach, I can better see the young woman—pretty with honey-brown hair and laughing hazel eyes—and the resemblance to McCreadie is so obvious that I know this must be his sister. I also see Isla with them, equally relaxed and enjoying McCreadie’s story as she sips her lemonade.
“Duncan!” the young woman cries, dropping her brother’s arm as we approach.
Gray smiles with genuine affection. “Fiona, it is good to see you. Congratulations on your nuptials.”
She comes forward to greet us. “Is this Miss Mallory? Please tell me it is. I have beendyingto meet you. I have read all the stories of your adventures, and I must say I prefer the new ones, though the old ones were amusing.”
“With me always bending over to examine nonexistent evidence?” I say.
She laughs, and it’s a very pretty laugh. She’s twenty-one, but she seems so much younger. Young and sheltered, as she would be. Straight from her father’s guardianship to her husband’s. The thought of her marrying the jackass we met earlier…
None of my business. Though I do wonder whether, like Hugh and Violet, this is an arranged marriage and if so—
No, I’m not thinking of that. Again, none of my business.
“I am very jealous of your adventures,” Fiona says. “It all sounds so exciting. I do wish there was more science in the stories, though Hugh says that is not what most people read them for.”
“And now you have Duncan here to answer all your science questions.” McCreadie winks at Gray, as if telling him to prepare for an enthusiastic onslaught.
“What area of science are you interested in?” I ask.
Fiona’s expression freezes, the youthful joy in it extinguished before she plasters it back on. “All of it,” she says, “but it is purely an amateur’s interest. I… have not received any formal schooling in the sciences.”
“Nor have I,” I say. “But there are many ways to learn, for those who are interested.”
That genuine enthusiasm surges anew. “There is. I have books, and I have even snuck into a lecture or two, but do not tell Mama or Papa. Iwould love to hear more of the science behind your investigations, both Duncan’s and Mrs. Ballantyne’s.” She turns to Isla. “The chemistry is fascinating. I wish there was also more ofitin the stories.”
Isla smiles. “There is as much as there needs to be. I leave most of the investigating to my brother, though I will squeeze myself in if the case seems interesting.”
“I would squeeze myself into them all.” Fiona turns to Gray and me. “Remember, I am at your disposal should you ever need my specific talents. I am very adept at needlepoint and perfectly adequate on the pianoforte.”
She says it lightly, but the note of bitterness cuts through me. This isn’t Annis or Isla, encouraged to pursue whatever interests them, provided with all the resources and private tutors they needed. This is an average Victorian girl of their class, raised to be proficient in the womanly arts and no more.
