Page 128 of Death at a Highland Wedding
So who would have paid the price? Violet for one. Not only would her illegitimate child become public knowledge, but she’d be faced with the horrifying reality of what Sinclair did to her all those times she fell asleep. For now, she only questions what happened. Hearing Lenore’s full story in court, she would know.
Lenore would have paid the price, too, outed as a young woman who had premarital sex. To Victorian society, anything else that happened after that was her own fault. Same goes for any other maids Sinclair targeted.
Even Fiona would come under scrutiny. People would whisper that, sure, she claims she didn’t sleep with Ezra Sinclair but that’s what she’d say, right? Sinclair was young and handsome and attentive, and she was a silly girl who would obviously have fallen for him.
McCreadie made the right choice, and in the end, he accepts that. We all do.
It’s been three days since McCreadie let Cranston walk away. We didn’t leave the estate. We couldn’t—not without raising eyebrows. After all, there was a wedding to attend.
Cranston wanted to postpone it. I think he wanted to give Fiona time to reconsider her choice, but Fiona didn’t need that. Like her brother, she’d made a decision and she was sticking to it. In the end, there was no way to postpone the nuptials, really. Like having us leave, it would only have aroused suspicion. So they’d waited a few extra days, in deference to the death of the best man, but that was all.
So we have a wedding. On a bright and sunny June day, in the gardens of the estate where we’ve spent the last week.
While the weather is lovely, the universe has given the bride and grooman even more significant gift. It’s cleared the specter of Müller hovering over them, and the possibility of Cranston’s rearrest. Yesterday, Constable Ross had been transporting Müller to a proper prison, when they’d been beset by masked men, who’d dragged the gamekeeper away.
Cranston wasn’t responsible—he hasn’t left the property nor sent any messages, being too engrossed in wedding preparations. Had Lenore’s family made sure Müller never made it to trial? Or was it the family of the missing maid, Dorothy, who’d turned up at her parents’ home in town? From what Müller told Cranston, Dorothy had been seduced by Sinclair, which means she was also certainly blackmailed by Müller. What matters is that Müller’s gone, and the case is closed.
Isla and I have finished dressing. After more than two years, she’s finally free of her mourning attire and able to dress as she wishes. Her gown is off-white, with lace trim and purple flowers. In my day, it’d be too close to white, but it’s perfectly acceptable in an era where brides have only begun to optionally wear that color, after Queen Victoria chose it for her own wedding. The cotton of Isla’s gown is ideal for a warm-weather event, while the lace and the tiered skirt make it elaborate enough for a wedding.
My own gown is also off-white, muslin, with blue stripes along the bodice and along the bottom of the skirt. My back still aches from bruising, but my dress had enough give for a slightly looser corset. Also, Gray may have given me something for the pain.
It took us so long to get ready that I’m certain the men will already be waiting impatiently, but we’re hurrying down the hall when McCreadie’s door opens. He walks out, and I give a little squeal. Then I quickly look around, being sure we’re alone. We are. Everyone else has gone outside.
“A kilt!” I say. “You’re wearing a kilt.” I feign mopping my eyes. “I have been here over a year, and I’d started to think this day would never come. A Scotsman in a kilt.”
McCreadie wags a finger at me. “Do not mock. It is a tradition for weddings.”
“Oh, I’m not mocking. Where I come from, women love guys in kilts. Totally hot.”
McCreadie looks at Isla. “She is mocking me, yes?”
“I… cannot tell,” Isla says.
“I’m really not. Guys with Scottish ancestry wear them to weddings just for the excuse. There are entire shops on the Royal Mile set up for tourists with even a drop of Scottish blood, who buy kilts for special occasions.” I waggle my brows. “And for their ladies in private.”
McCreadie’s cheeks flush.
I continue, “And that’s not even touching the entire subgenre of Highlander romances, where all the guys on the cover wear kilts. They’re also shirtless, but I know that’s too much to ask for Victorians, so I’ll accept the kilt, which looks really good.”
“Not ‘hot’?” Isla says.
“Er, I can’t say that to him. You can, though. Feel free to tell Hugh he looks totally hot, Isla.”
Her face goes as red as his.
A door opens behind us. I whirl, grinning as Gray steps out. Then I stop short. “You’re wearing trousers.”
He looks down and claps a hand to his heart. “Thank God. Imagine the scene if I had forgotten them.”
I wave at McCreadie. “Wedding? Kilt?”
“I do not wear kilts.”
McCreadie gives a low whistle. “Careful, Duncan. Mallory has just admitted to a fierce fondness for them.”
“I have,” I say. “And I am dreadfully disappointed. I am not certain I will recover.”
“Poor form, chap,” McCreadie murmurs. “Very poor form indeed.”
