FIFTEEN
I’m dusting in the drawing room when boots clomp in the hall. I’ve come to dread that sound, because it means someone just came in from outdoors, and they’re tracking mud across my clean floors. I can’t just say, “Screw it, I already washed those.” Nope, I need to grab a bucket and re-mop before Mrs. Wallace spots dirt.
All of this could be solved if they’d take off their damned boots or shoes at the door, like a proper Canadian. I remember the first time we visited American friends, and I realized they don’t even switch to indoor shoes. What kind of heathens traipse through the house in the same shoes they just wore outside, through mud and dog dirt and God knows what else?
At least I must credit the average non-Canadian with having the sense to remove obviously dirty footwear. Not so in Victorian Scotland, where guys walk in from tromping along a horseshit-laden road and track it all on my clean floors. Why? Because I’m here. I exist to clean it up.
“So they were not telling tales,” a male voice says in a thick country brogue. “You really did rise from the dead.”
I turn to see a young man. He’s in his late teens, with a mop of dark brown hair, sharp features, and a grin that lights up blue-gray eyes.
“Not even going to say hello, Cat?” he asks. “I suppose it takes more than a bump on the head to forget you’re angry with me.”
That’s when I notice the stack of newspapers in his hand.
“Simon,” I say, and try not to add a question mark.
“Well, I ought to be glad you didn’t forget my name.” He walks into the drawing room and slaps the stack of papers on a side table. “These are for Dr. Gray. See he gets them as quick as you can. And…” He casts a glance around and then lowers his voice. “I know you are displeased with me, Cat, and I wish it were otherwise. I miss your conversation.”
His grin sparks, and I try not to inch back.Dear lord, Catriona, how many boys were you dangling on your bonnet strings?
Simon sobers. “Yet as much as I miss you, Cat, I won’t be changing my mind. Colin Findlay is a good man, and I’ll not have you doing him wrong for a bit o’ fun and a few bob.”
“Police Constable Findlay?”
His brows rise. “You know another?”
“No, just…” I clear my throat. “Remind me why we are at odds over Constable Findlay.”
He arches one brow, and I tap my temple. “My memory, remember?”
“We are ‘at odds’ as you put it because the poor man is besotted, and you bat your eyes at him, so he’ll court you with pretty trinkets and baubles that you sell as quick as you can. It isn’t right.”
“Would it be more right if I gave him something in return for those trinkets and baubles?”
Simon’s face turns serious again as he meets my eye. “In truth, it would, Cat. At least then it would be an honest exchange. ’Tis a poor trick to play on a man who does not deserve it, and I’ll not change my mind on that. If you want to come visit me in the stables, you cannot be leading him on anymore.”
I stop myself before saying I’m no longer leading Findlay on. True, but nor do I want to be “visiting Simon in the stables.”
Then I rewind our conversation and pause. “You said I sell whatever gifts he gives me.”
“Do not pretend otherwise, Cat. You bragged about it a fortnight ago.”
“Yes, but where do I sell them?”
He frowns. “At a pawnshop.”
“Do you know which one? Have I ever said?”
“No, why—?” He gives a short laugh. “Ah, having lost some of your memories, you forget where to pawn your pretties. I cannot help you there.”
“Cannot? Or will not?”
“Both.” He slaps the stack of papers. “Take these up to Dr. Gray and leave poor Findlay be.”
I nod, and he shakes his head and tromps out, leaving dirt in his wake.
Okay, so I’m starting to get a picture of Catriona’s love life.