TWENTY-FOUR
When we arrive in the town house, Isla waves for me to follow her. We go all the way up to the attic. She opens the locked door I’ve presumed is for storage.
I follow her inside to find a laboratory. Shelves of boxes and jars, each meticulously labeled. There’s a tiny desk, with papers and journals piled on top. Most of the room, however, is a long table, half of it consumed by a still.
“What do you see?” she asks, waving at the apparatus.
“You’re cooking up moonshine. Cool.” I catch her eye. “Joking. That’s what it looks like to me. A moonshine still from a hillbilly-feud movie set amidst the coal mines of Civil War–era Kentucky.”
“You do realize none of that makes sense to me.”
“Yep, that’s why it’s fun to say.” I walk over and touch one of the beakers. “It looks like a way of making alcohol. Don’t ask me how it works. I got a C in chemistry.”
“You studied chemistry?”
“Not by choice. It’s part of the high-school curriculum.” I pause. “High school is the North American term. I can’t remember what they call it over here. It’s the teen years, roughly thirteen to eighteen.”
“We have the High School on Calton Hill. Duncan attended. I have heard it was used as the model for similar schools in America. You attended such an institution? Your parents must have been quite well off.”
“They were, but everyone goes to high school. It’s mandatory. College and university are optional. Maybe half of us go to that.”
“Half ofeveryone?”
I shrug. “More among the middle and upper classes. It’s not free, unfortunately. Either your parents need to be able to afford it, or you need to take out loans, or you need to get a scholarship, academic or athletic. My parents paid for mine. I had a chance at a softball scholarship, but it was only partial and not for the school I wanted, so I turned it down.”
“What did you study?”
“Criminology major. Sociology minor.”
“Criminology? Is that what my brother does? Or is it the study of police techniques?”
“Neither really.” I pull out a stool and perch on it. “Criminology is the study of criminal behavior. Everything from identifying predictive patterns to understanding underlying causes.”
She’s watching me carefully, almost like lip reading, as if she’s struggling to process as fast I speak.
“Studying the causes of criminal behavior,” she says. “What would you say about your own situation then?”
“I’m presuming you mean Catriona, because I’ve never so much as swiped a chocolate bar.” I lean one elbow on the lab table. “I’m not an expert, and I didn’t know the real Catriona—just what I’ve heard of her.”
“Analyze her based on that then.”
“Ah, a pop quiz. Testing the parameters of my delusion. All right.” I settle better on the stool, getting comfortable. “Apparently, Catriona came from a decent family, meaning she didn’tneedto fall into a life of crime. I could speculate that she chose it, but that’d be presumptive without additional data. What was her home life like? Her early experiences? A middle-class family doesn’t mean a perfect life. If she was abused—physically or sexually—she may have fled and fallen into crime as a way to make a living. She didn’t give it up when she came to work for you. Is that because she enjoys it? She shows sociopathic tendencies, but you’d need a psychiatrist to diagnose that. She wasn’t spending her money. She was saving it. To escape life as a housemaid? Can’t say I blame her. Maybe it’s ambition combined with a lack of ability to empathize with others. She sees other people as only a means to an end.”
Isla stands there, watching me after I’ve finished.
“All of that is pure speculation,” I say. “Like I said, I don’t have enough data for more.”
When she still doesn’t speak, I say, “Tell me what parts of that don’t make sense in your world, and I can explain further.”
“No need,” she says. “The concepts I do not understand I can interpret in context. I still do not understand what has happened to you, but I cannot continue telling myself you are inventing falsehoods.”
I say nothing. I just sit and wait. Finally, she says, “I… I accept this. I may yet be proven wrong, but I accept it. Now we must determine the next course of action.”
We discuss it and, in the end, the “next course of action” is that I’ll remain a housemaid. Isla isn’t happy with that. I’m her social equal, and to have me scrubbing her floors makes her uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than it makes me.
For me, it’s not a class issue. I don’t “deserve” better by dint of my background or education. If I balk at scrubbing floors, it’s because I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am in my profession, and this is not a place I ever expected to return to. Yet if I had to, even in the modern world, Iwouldclean toilets… while busting my ass to get a job I preferred.
Right now, this position is a safety net. It’s sheer luck that I ended up in an eccentric household willing to overlook the idiosyncrasies of my speech and behavior. Do I go out into the world and attempt to get something like a shop-clerk position—only nominally better than being a maid—at the risk of being fired the first day because I don’t know my ha’pence from my thruppence?