Page 92 of Death at a Highland Wedding
Like Hugh. That made him suitable for Violet. Old money and blood tinged blue.
Isla continues, “The person I would ask is Annis.” Gray and Isla’s older sister married an earl, which was a big leap for a young woman of the middle class, even the wealthy end of it. Of course, that wealth is what won her the match.
“I could send her a message,” Isla says. “Would that help?”
I shake my head. “It’s really more a matter of curiosity. For now, I needto accept that marriage must have been out of the question, for some reason, and that’s why Violet and Ezra were meeting in secret.”
When I go quiet, she murmurs, “You do not like that answer, do you?”
No, I do not.
Isla and I finish breakfast to discover that Gray and I weren’t the only ones getting an early start. When Isla spoke to Fiona, she’d been heading out with Violet to take breakfast to Cranston. They return to tell us that Cranston has agreed to rehire Mr. Hall as gamekeeper. Thus ensues a flurry of activity, as McCreadie and I inform Mrs. Hall while asking her to summon her children from Dundee. She knows these two things are linked, but I think we manage to convey the request in a way that makes it clear we consider Lenore and Gavin witnesses, not suspects. Is that true? Mostly. Theyaresuspects, of course. Everyone is.
Mrs. Hall pens a letter, which then needs to be run to Dundee. That’s a job for a single rider and a horse. While we’ll need a coach to get Lenore and Gavin back home, it’ll be faster to send a rider and then hire a coach there. Finding the fastest rider-and-horse pair takes more work—it’s not Simon or Folly, which complicates the process—but soon the messenger is off with Mrs. Hall’s letter.
All this means I think I’ve managed to avoid Gray. So cleverly done… until he doesn’t appear at lunch, and I realize I’m not ducking him. He’s ducking me.
How do I feel about that? I can’t consider it. I have work to do with McCreadie, as we discuss all the leads and plot our next moves.
McCreadie agrees with Isla. The circumstances do suggest a romantic link between Sinclair and Violet. He doesn’t think there should have been any impediment to a proper courtship but agrees that her parents could have dug in their heels. He also adds in another possibility—that Violet and Sinclair were in the very earliest stages of a romance, and the fact that Sinclair was her brother’s best friend might have had them proceeding slowly. They also could have been waiting until after Cranston’s marriage, so they didn’t steal her brother’s thunder.
The next step is talking to Nora’s family. Because we’re setting this up as a condolence call, there’s no excuse for McCreadie to go. It’d only tip offConstable Ross. I can go, though. No one would expect Fiona to pay her respects without a female companion.
Mrs. Hall told us where to find the Glass home. We had to tell Mrs. Hall about the visit anyway, as we were taking a basket and needed food. If she saw anything strange in us decidingnowwas the time to pay a belated condolence call, she doesn’t comment. Maybe she just presumes Sinclair’s death led to Fiona discovering Nora’s death, and a condolence call is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time waiting for her fiancé to be freed.
As the coach reaches the village, I’m reminded that this is the period when people began abandoning the countryside for the cities. In Scotland, that process was accelerated by the Highland clearances, where people weren’t choosing to move to cities—they were forced to relocate. There are also the Irish famines of a few decades ago, driving people into Scotland and its larger city centers.
Cities represent opportunity. That means jobs, but it also means a wider canvas for daily life. I suppose it’s the same thing I saw in my own time, where small-town classmates declared they were never moving home. The jobs were in Vancouver. So were the clubs and shopping and dining and all the sports and arts they could want. Housing prices were the highest in Canada, but to them, it was worth it.
In this period, I don’t think many people are moving to the cities for sports and theater. They’re going for jobs and upward mobility. And they discover, like in modern-day Vancouver, that big-city living comes with a big-city price tag. Most of those industrial age newcomers end up in the slums, entire families squeezed into a place smaller than my first apartment.
In the country, there’s more room. That means, at least when it comes to housing, there’s a higher standard of living. I see that as Simon drives us through the village. Of course, not everyone is living in adorable cottages like the doctor and his wife. Most are more humble abodes. Then there are the places like the Glass home, a structure that’s little more than a shack, with a pen for a couple of sheep and a goat and a few chickens. There is a larger building in the rear, which will be the blacksmith shop. From the sounds of it, Nora’s father is hard at work.
As we make our way to the front door, people at a neighboring house come out to openly gape. Fiona nods graciously at them, and I follow herlead. When she raps at the door, a baby inside lets out a squall, and I wince—no one’s going to appreciate us waking a little one. Once the door opens, though, the woman standing there is already bouncing the baby on her hip, seeming unperturbed even as sweat rolls down her forehead, another child shrieks inside, and the smell of roasting dinner wafts out.
In my time, women feel that we’re expected to do it all, unlike our foremothers, who only had a household to maintain. Try running that household with endless squalling babies, no electricity, and no running water. We’ve always had it hard and the idea that, historically, women easily managed a household on their own is ridiculous. Even among the lower middle class, as soon as you can afford to hire a “girl” to help out, you do. Otherwise, you hope you have a daughter to enlist once she’s big enough to wield a broom or a bottle.
The woman’s gaze sweeps over Fiona—dressed in a visiting gown, with elbow-length sleeves and a fitted bodice, a bonnet, and gloves—and she dips in the faintest curtsy. “Good afternoon, m’lady. If it’s my husband you need for your horse, you can send your driver around back.”
“No, we wish to speak to you. Mrs. Glass, is it?”
The woman frowns. “Yes, miss.”
“I am Fiona McCreadie. My fiancé is Archibald Cranston, who recently purchased the estate outside town.”
The frown grows. “Do you need a blacksmith up at the house?”
“No, ma’am. I came because I only just learned of your daughter’s death earlier this spring. Mr. Cranston is unsure of his place in village life, and I understand he did not pay you a condolence call, so I wished to do so myself.”
The woman’s face lights up. “Oh, that is very kind of you, miss. Very kind. We did not expect anything of His Lordship.”
“Mr. Cranston.” Fiona smiles. “He is not a lord, but he is a good man who would have called if he had thought it appropriate.” She lifts the basket. “I brought this, but I see you have your hands full. Might I bring it in?”
Mrs. Glass pauses, panic filling her eyes as she looks over her shoulder, doubtless imagining this finely dressed young woman in her home.
Fiona continues, “I understand we have found you at a bad time. I could leave it and return later.”
“No, no. Come in. I’ll put on a pot for tea. Mary? Come take the baby.”
