Page 15 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“No, you have not. It is past time for Violet to move on, and I know that sounds harsh, but I have known her most of my life. I care for her very deeply, and moving on is the best she can do. This gives her the chance to remember who Hugh really is—not an ogre who abandoned her but a good man who did what he thought was right.”
“He really did,” Fiona says.
“I know, and he is being a gentleman, properly considerate of Violet’s feelings. Hugh is a good man.”
“He is. Thank you for seeing that.”
“I have always seen that. Just as I have always seen you, Fiona. His kindhearted and clever sister. I hope Archie appreciates what he has won.”
“You are very sweet. You are also very sweet to care about how Violet is feeling. You have always been good to her. You have looked after her when Archie…” Fiona trails off. “I know Archie cares very much for his sister,and he would do anything for her, but he can be… less than observant when it comes to how others are feeling.”
“He can be, and so I have always tried to help, which is why I am concerned about Violet. I will take extra care to watch where her brother does not. He does not deserve you, you know.” The words come teasingly, and Fiona laughs softly.
“You are sweet to say so, even if I disagree. Now, I shall take tea for Violet and sit with her until she is settled.”
“I will help you get it. And remember, Fiona, I am here for whatever you require.”
“That is very kind.”
They continue down the stairs. I hesitate at the top. It doesn’t feel right to join them and get a tea for myself. It might even be awkward, “discovering” the bride-to-be and best man together at night, even if there is a perfectly innocent explanation.
In the end, I go back to my room and try sleeping again. The second time is not the charm, and I toss and turn for the next hour. Then something outside makes a noise—just some distant animal—and I find myself at the window, listening with far too much interest.
Time to give up on sleep entirely and get out of this bedroom. I don’t know where I’m going, but I really need to go somewhere—anywhere—that isn’t this dark and damp attic.
On go the wrapper and slippers again. There’s a portable oil lamp on the bedroom table, and I take it, but I don’t light it yet. Enough moonlight pours through the windows to let me see where I’m going. And once I reach the next floor down, I start wishing for less light and more shadows to hide the ghastly decor.
It’s not the usual kind of ghastly Victorian decor, with its riot of clashing colors and patterns. I’ve gotten used to that, and if I’m honest, there’d always been part of me that delighted in the visual assault, the young Mallory who’d wantedallthe colors.
This isn’t an overstuffed Victorian manor. It’s a hunting lodge, and it’s the worst possible stereotype. The wallpaper and carpets are actually quite muted by the standards of the time, but that’s just to highlight the art. I’m being generous calling it art, especially when it comes to the endless dead critters lining the walls. Or, more specifically, the heads of dead critters.
Earlier today, I’d said I really hoped Cranston didn’t hunt the little roe deer. He most certainly does, and not just to provide venison steaks for dinner. He’s trophy-hunting them. The horned heads of the stags are displayed along with the hunter’s initials and the date, as if killing a deer the size of a dog wins the same bragging rights as bringing down a lion on safari.
There are also paintings, mostly of hunts, with dogs ripping into deer still alive and rolling their eyes in agony. Partway down the stairs, there’s a painting where the canines are ripping into each other, fighting over a kill. As I cross to the next set of stairs, I spot a painting that breaks free of the hunting-lodge motif to show a dog with an androgynously gowned toddler, which would be a lot more heartwarming if the child wasn’t lying on the ground with their eyes closed.
Is that child dead? I should laugh at the thought. Clearly they’re only resting, right? Nope. These are Victorians, and if this painting has a name, I suspect it’s “Loyal Dog Mourns His Best Friend” or some such, meant to make the viewer pause and wipe a tear for the grieving dog and its tiny dead master.
As we’d approached the house earlier, I’d temporarily mistaken the estate for a castle. Now that I’ve been inside, I couldn’t make that error. I’ve been in castles. They’re massive walled fortifications that sprawl over acres. This is just a very large house, and not even massive by historical standards.
Being a hunting lodge, it is mostly bedrooms. In fact, they fill three of the four levels. The servants’ quarters are in the attic. The next level is guest rooms, as is the level below it, and it feels a bit like being in Gray’s town house, endlessly tramping down stairs. Finally, I’m on the main level, which consists of a library, a dining room, a kitchen, one large sitting room, and two smaller sitting rooms. Yes, Victorians love their sitting rooms.
Can I get away with hiding out in the library and reading? It might be scandalous if I’m caught, but it’s past two, and everyone’s sound asleep. I’m not going to be caught if I shut the door before lighting my lantern. I might not even need to light it. I peer at the nearest window, and the moonlight seems to be coming from the direction the library faces. I can—
Something moves outside the window, and I fall back, biting off a gasp at what looks like some monstrous bird, flapping huge black wings. The creature quickly resolves itself into a person with a long black coat flappingin the wind. I inch toward the window until I make out light hair under a hat.
Cranston.
That’s the last person I want catching me poking around down here. I should retreat, but he’s heading in the opposite direction, going out toward the fields. Curiosity compels me closer.
The window is open, alleviating some of the stuffiness from the warm day. I can hear Cranston’s boots on the gravel drive. He strides up it and I withdraw, ready to scamper upstairs, but he reaches the house and stalks back the other way.
Pacing, it seems, and I remember those traps. Gray spoke to him, but I haven’t had a chance to hear what Cranston said about them, and now, seeing that angry patrolling, I start to wonder whether this is more than typical aristocratic arrogance, the outrage at having to deal with people on “your” land. Could it be paranoia? Those traps suggest as much, as does pacing like a guard dog at twoA.M.
“There you are,” Cranston says, and I jump, but he’s looking in the other direction. A figure emerges from the stand of trees.
“What the bloody hell are you doing out here?” Cranston snaps.
Sinclair’s voice drifts back, his tone light. “Planning my assault on your castle. I have joined the locals in their fight to see you evicted. If we win, they have promised me the house. I hope you do not mind. All is fair in love and the war for excellent hunting property.”